I was running from the devil as fast as I could. My hair raced in the opposite direction; my feet floated like raging currents of an ocean. Desperate, petrified, jittery, strapped—something familiar snatched me back.
“Isaiah.” She loved calling my name with the sweetest voice I’ve ever known. Rendering me helpless, her femininity stifled my flow and tackled me to the ground. I knew from the moment we met, something just wasn’t right, yet I allowed my loins to act in place of my brain.
Her beauty struck me every time I laid eyes upon her; pimp slaps to my face, karate kicks to my heart. She presented herself as every woman, every woman indeed.
Justine’s eyelashes fluttered the sweet song of seduction. Her lips pouted the hymn of fornication. And the rest of her wanted me to partake of the forbidden fruit. Movies, dinner, nightcaps, intercourse—her marathon tested my stamina. I never had a chance. Our bodies intertwined as one recreating the effects of a Twizzler stick. She moaned my name, I groaned hers.
Justine grabbed my head in the heat of passion and marked her territory with scratches on my back. I winced a little, but didn’t want to disturb the groove. She’s my one and only. The woman I wanted to marry one day, the woman I wanted to carry my seed.
Her silhouette stirred up my desire, enticed my heart, and teased my thirst. Her beautiful hazel eyes lured me in. Excuse me—her beautiful hazel contacts lured me in. She presented me with every quality I asked for in a mate; perfection should have been her name.
I met this woman at a restaurant while I was having a Boys Night Out with my fellas. She was wearing an orange halter-top-tie-thing with a pair of jeans that accentuated her booming system. Her toes, oh her toes ... I’m a sucker for pedicures. Justine’s hair was in an up do that swung in opposite directions when she walked. Her strikingly smooth, ebony skin tone should have been featured in the latest issue of Jet magazine. She should have been a Beauty of the Week—captivating smile, alluring fragrance, reputable intelligence, and justifiable conceitedness.
The single candle lit above our heads represented the year we had been together. The pictures on the wall displayed our loyalty to one another … or at least they should have.
I peered up remembering what my best friend told me, and suddenly my desire for her left. The feeling of insecurity injected a glacier into my heart, but I still loved her. She had my soul and I prayed that I had hers, yet envisioning her with another man killed my appetite.
I rolled over to my side of the bed, yanking the sheets up to my chest.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked, placing a petite palm on my left shoulder.
I turned around to answer, almost wanting to ask her if it were true. The thoughts were driving me crazy, but I had to know. I had to know if the woman I had been idolizing for the past year was creeping behind my back. I parted my lips to answer, but my thoughts shattered as something grabbed my attention to the Holy Bible sitting off in the corner of the room. Sinking lower into the crevices of the pillow-top mattress, I deepened in my regret. The flickering flame reflecting from the scented candle atop my cherry wood dresser shed light in the midst of my dark transgression.
“Baby, is there something wrong?” Justine repeated, this time nudging my chin in her direction. As I gazed into her mesmerizing eyes, I was jolted right back into her trance.
She had me. I was on lock down. I tried to fight my way out, but she always managed to wrestle me to the mat. One, two, three … this time the championship was her victory—I lost. I think I lost a lot more than I had bargained for.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish