Baltimore, Maryland

Friday, May 4, 2001

Zuma swung her legs from the silver sports car and leaned back to grab her purse from the passenger seat. Standing, she smoothed the short skirt of her suit and bent to reach for her suit jacket lying in the back. Slipping her lean arms into the expensively tailored jacket, she headed for the garage elevator. As the doors slid open on the ground level, she began walking purposefully toward the tall glass building of Shearing Wireless Technology.

She leaned into one of the double glass doors at the entrance and barely glanced at the balding, old security guard watching her exposed legs with admiration from behind the security desk. Once at the elevator, she impatiently pressed the upward arrow and brushed non-existent lint from her lapel as she waited. With a ding, the doors slid open and, after a soft woosh, the elevator began its assent to the upper levels of the Shearing building where Zuma and the other directors, vice presidents and C-level officers of the wireless giant worked. She stepped from the elevator, turned left, and strode toward heavy doors with "Marketing" engraved into the wood.

"Betty, hold all my calls for the next ten minutes and bring me a bottle of water," she said curtly to the woman sitting behind the reception desk.

Crossing the expansive floor of cubicles, Zuma entered her corner office at the end of the hall and paused to admire the view. A year ago, she'd been sitting in one of the windowless offices on the other side of the floor as one of many marketing managers. Now, she gazed absently out of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the traffic stopping and starting on the busy street below. She needed to focus on the company's new product launch, but it was hard to focus on anything with the possibility of a merger looming. She absently stroked a lock of honey-colored hair as she considered her future.

Shearing Wireless Technology and Ladd Tech Corporation, two of the largest producers of wireless technologies, were talking merger. It seemed to be a trend in telecommunications: Bell Atlantic and Vodaphone, MCI and Worldcomm. It was nothing new, but now it was personal. Zuma's position as marketing director of segmentation was not as secure as it once was. If the two companies merged, they'd never keep all of the marketing people from both powerhouses. It would either be her or her counterpart from Ladd, and if it were the latter, she'd be in the market for a new job. With a mortgage, a car note, and no one to split the bills, there was only one option-Zuma Harris's name would have to remain outside the door of this office.

"Here's your water," Betty said, startling Zuma with her quiet entrance. "The conference call for two o'clock has been pushed to three by product development, and you have new messages on voicemail." Betty stated everything matter-of-factly and hesitated a beat, waiting for Zuma to comment.

"Three o'clock?" Zuma asked harshly, more to herself than Betty. "No good. I have a four o'clock with the Pdata team," she said, whirling around to pick up the phone on her desk.

Cutting her eyes with dislike at Zuma's back, Betty turned and walked out of the office.

Zuma began speaking into the phone's receiver. "Jim," she said by way of a greeting.

"Development pushed the conference call back to three o'clock, and I have a four o'clock with Pdata. I'll start the call and stay on until three forty-five. After that you've got the ball. And you better not drop it."

She listened briefly while the marketing manager made a few comments, then ended the call, typing an adjustment in her PDA. Zuma knew her direct reports didn't like her, but she wasn't there to make friends. Making friends with subordinates didn't get her the director's corner office-socializing with the right executive-level big wigs did.

As she screwed the top off of the water bottle, her cell phone sang a melody in her purse. After a sip, she stood to retrieve the little bag. The phone continued to sing as she pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Zuma Harris," she answered sharply, without looking at the caller ID.

"Hey, baby," came a deep, baritone voice.

Zuma took another sip of water and rolled her eyes slowly upward as she prayed for patience. "Malcolm. What did I do to deserve this pleasure so early in the morning?"

Normally, the sexy voice of a chocolate tower of muscles would excite Zuma. Today, however, she was completely focused on remaining the only African American female executive at this company or the next one.

Malcolm's voice broke into her focused thoughts. "I thought I'd give you a ring before my client meeting."

"Hm, that's nice, but I'm about to get on a conference call, and I need a few minutes to prepare," she said, flipping through a stack of files on the corner of her desk.

"No problem. I'll see you tonight at about seven then, cool?"

Distractedly, Zumba agreed. "Um hm. Sounds good. See you then." She quickly flipped the phone shut, forgetting about Malcolm and anything else outside of the company's walls. Opening a drawer, she grabbed the resident bottle of Aleve and popped two in her mouth before taking another quick sip of water. It was going to be a long Friday.

***

The minutes and hours ticked by and, eventually, the meetings and conference calls were done. Zuma sat back in her office chair and looked at the same view that had started her day. With a weary sigh, she stood to pull on her suit jacket and began re-stacking her files. As she was putting the papers she would need to review over the weekend in a leather briefcase, the phone rang.

Shit, where's Betty? Why isn't she taking this call? she wondered, glancing at the clock. Zuma saw it was already six thirty, and most of the people on the floor had left to enjoy what was left of Friday. Grudgingly, she picked up the receiver.

"Zuma Harris," she said, in her usual clipped manner.

"Hi, Zuma. Glad I caught you."

Zuma immediately recognized the voice and found herself gripping the receiver harder than necessary.

"Hi, Margie. I was just about to walk out the door." Zuma felt her pulse quicken as she waited to hear what the director of human resources could want at this hour.

"We have a new marketing intern coming next week, and I thought it would be great if you'd be her mentor. I'll be out of the office at a conference next week and wanted to let you know, so you wouldn't be caught off guard on Monday."

Slowly, the breath Zuma had been subconsciously holding released, and her heartbeat returned to normal. These days, a call from human resources was a serious cause for concern.

"Sure, no problem," Zuma replied, with fake enthusiasm.

After exchanging a few more office pleasantries, Zuma hung up the phone and considered the call. The intern must be black, Zuma thought. They wouldn't assign her to me if she wasn't. Before the phone could ring again, Zuma grabbed her bags, hit the light switch on the wall, and walked briskly out of the door.

After an hour of fighting Friday downtown traffic, she pulled into a crowded parking lot full of happy-hour patrons. The noise level in Decibels Bar and Bistro rose as Zuma walked into the private lounge area reserved for VIP guests. She quickly dismissed the hostess when she spied Malcolm sipping a beer in a corner booth.

Malcolm saw her petite figure in the tight suit before she saw him. He shifted in the booth as he appraised her sexy stride coming toward him. Her legs were shapely, and the four-inch heels she wore made him shift again. Damn, she's fine, he thought. As she bent to give him a soft peck on the cheek, her golden hair brushed his face, and he glimpsed the curve of her breasts. When she unbuttoned her suit jacket and slipped her five foot four caramel frame into the booth next to him, he welcomed the opportunity to move and make room for his growing excitement.

Everything about Zuma was sexy to Malcolm. She was professional, paid and, most importantly, fine as hell. Looking at her large breasts beneath the curved neckline of her silk shell, he had a flashback to their date last Friday. Zuma had taken him to her house, and they'd spent an hour sexing on the floor of her living room. It had been their first date after meeting at a networking event two days before. After the Friday night sexcapade, he was surprised when she didn't call him the next day. Or the day after that. Most women he got harassed the shit out of him, desperately blowing up his cell. By Wednesday, though, Zuma still hadn't called, and he realized he was aching to connect with her again. Eventually, he'd gone against his own man code and dialed the cell number she'd slipped him at the networking social. When Zuma finally answered, she barely allowed him to speak. She'd cut him off mid-sentence and abruptly asked, "How about this Friday night?" He was shocked at her quick, brief response but hungrily agreed to meet her at Decibel's.

Now, here they were, and he forgot about his frustration at having to chase her as he surreptitiously glanced at her nipples pressing against the silk of her blouse.

"Hey, sexy," he said, using the tone that usually made women do anything he asked of them. And things he didn't.

His deep voice and full lips did cause a little stirring in her midsection, but she wasn't one for dumb small talk or manipulation, unless she was the one manipulating. She contemplated ordering a glass of wine but realized she had no desire to converse with Malcolm. She only wanted him for one thing.

Giving him her profile, she said, "I'm ready to go. Are you coming?" Without waiting for his reply, she brushed against his arm as she stood and straightened her clothes. She watched him groping in his jacket pocket for money to pay for the beer. Pleased, she turned and strode as purposefully out of the room as she had come in.

When they arrived at her house, Zuma went up to her bedroom to change while Malcolm removed his Armani suit jacket and slung it over the arm of the leather sofa. He sank into the deep cushions of the chair, removed his shoes, and grabbed the remote for the big screen television. Out of habit, he punched in the numbers for ESPN and watched NBA stats scroll across the screen, absently loosening the tie from around his thick neck. He smiled at a highlight of one of his alma mater's players on the screen. It hadn't been that long ago that he was a college football starting lineman, being highlighted regularly on ESPN. His body was still thick and hard from the regular workouts with some of his clients. As a sports agent, he wanted his clients to feel that he was more than their agent-he was their friend. Working out with rising NFL and NBA stars kept him in shape and in business.

Deep into ESPN, Malcolm didn't notice Zuma walk quietly into the room until her sheer, white cover-up suddenly reflected in the screen of the television. Before he could turn around, she had slipped one of her hands around his muscular neck to undo the top buttons of his oxford shirt. He felt her hot breath on the back of his bald head as she removed his tie to unbutton the remainder of his shirt. Instantly aroused, he tried to pull her around the sofa, but she was quick and pulled his shirt out of his pants with a jerk, removing her arms from his grasp with the motion. He rose as she appeared before him. Malcolm parted his lips to speak, but Zuma placed her index finger lightly on his mouth, coolly telling him to remain silent. She liked to set the scene and, when men talked, they tended to ruin the mood.

She slowly unhooked his belt and unbuttoned his slacks, keeping her eyes on the growing bulge beneath her fingers. Pulling down the zipper, she eased his pants over the firm muscles of his butt and let his dick free to stand at attention. Liquid heat began to spread between her legs as she stroked the silky fabric covering his hard shaft.

Malcolm stepped out of the pants, staring at the dark outline of her nipples and the shadow of a landing strip below the belt of the sheer cover-up. Just as he was about to reach out for her, Zuma turned to lead him up the curved staircase. Passing the living room, Malcolm glanced at the spot where she'd fucked him on the thickly carpeted floor a week before.

In the darkened bedroom, he could just make out the outline of a large bed covered with accent pillows. But Zuma passed the bed and continued walking through a small dressing room. Malcolm watched, mesmerized, as her butt cheeks alternately rolled up and down, causing the white fabric to crease and wave with her steps.

The moonlight shining through the skylight was the only illumination in the bathroom. It reflected off the mirrors covering two of the walls and gave a surreal glow to the oversized room. There was a large jacuzzi tub next to a glass-enclosed standing shower along the far wall of cool marble. Zuma walked sexily to the shower, removing her robe and letting it fall to the floor. The moonlight glistened off her back and shimmied over the curves of her bottom. Stepping into the shower, she turned on the multiple heads at varying levels, then stepped back to take Malcolm's hand.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," she whispered.

Malcolm felt his excitement increase at the directive. He watched Zuma roll the firm nipple of one breast between her fingers as she licked her lips and looked directly into his eyes. With the forefinger of her other hand, she toyed with the landing strip of hair between her thighs. Two other fingers joined it and began to stroke farther and farther into the darkness.

Malcolm's hardness poked into his stomach as he stumbled over himself trying to remove his socks. The buttons on the sleeve of his shirt wouldn't release, and he couldn't get out of his silk boxers fast enough. He recognized how uncool he was behaving, but, for some reason, he couldn't pull himself together.

Zuma continued the slow manipulation of her own body, enjoying Malcolm's frustration and increasing her own arousal. Slowly, she backed toward the shower. Malcolm tried to regain his cool, but all he wanted was to ram his pulsing dick inside of her. Subconsciously, he started to stroke the mushroomed head of his erection as he moved toward her.

Zuma opened the glass door to the shower and stepped down two steps to stand under the hot sprays coming from all directions. Water dripped from her breasts and elbows as she tipped her head back and smoothed the dampening hair from her face.

Malcolm walked up to her and let his hardness slap solidly on her flat stomach. She opened her hazel eyes and looked directly into his dark ones as she grabbed his dick, made slick by the warm water. Releasing it long enough to squeeze aromatic shower gel into her palm, she rubbed her hands together and slowly massaged his thick, veined erection. She felt her arousal growing as rivulets of water ran over and around the dark muscles of Malcolm's shoulders, arms, and chest.

Slowly, she turned around, forcing him to bend at the knees so she could place his dick between her legs and stroke him with her hands while moving her hips forward and back. They both watched his dark hardness moving in and out of her slender fingers. Malcolm held a high, full breast in each of his hands and stroked her nipples. He felt like he was going to explode, but he knew she was in control, and it wouldn't do any good to try to change the rhythm of things.

Zuma forgot who she was with, and she didn't care. All she wanted was to bring herself to orgasm. She turned around and grabbed his smooth head with both hands, pulling his face down to her breasts.

Sitting on the stone seat along the shower wall, Malcolm began flicking her nipples with the tip of his tongue while he kneaded her ass with both hands. Moving one hand farther down her backside, he placed his middle finger deep between her legs and felt the warm, slick sensation. A tremor went through his body when Zuma began moaning and grabbed his hand to guide it, rhythmically, in and out of her heat. Looking at her face in the shadows, he saw drops of water fall from the lashes of her closed eyes onto her parted lips, and he knew he couldn't wait any longer. Normally, he would slip on a condom from his pants pocket, but all rational sense had fled in the intensity of the rising steam.

He stood, picking her up with him, and thrust deeply into the hot, slippery opening. She wrapped her legs around him and held on to his thick neck while she leaned back into the sprays of water. His lips found one hard nipple and sucked as they rode each other fast and hard.

Eventually Zuma commanded, "Put me down."

He reluctantly pulled out and put her down, but when she turned around and positioned herself on the low step in front of the steamed glass door and spread her legs wide, he was ready. Coming up behind her, he stuck his throbbing erection into the tight hole of her ass. She braced herself on the door, letting him thrust forcefully. After a few minutes, he picked her up and sat back on the stone seat. Straddling his lap backwards, Zuma held onto his knees as she pumped her slim hips up and down. She looked down to watch his dark shaft moving in and out of her while he stared at the cheeks of her ass spread wide over him. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. He was biting intently on his bottom lip, and the hot passion in his eyes increased her own enjoyment.

Knowing she was close to the end, she abruptly stood, turned around, and straddled him. He stood, too, as she wrapped her legs around him. Their breathing and movements joined into one rhythm. Even their moans were harmoniously in tune. The tattoo emblazoned on his shoulder and chest glowed in the moonlight and flexed with his thrusts.

Malcolm came so violently that he slipped and fell, hard, on the stone seat, bringing a panting Zuma down with him. Breathing heavily in the steam, he felt his groin throbbing and knew he couldn't move. All he could hear was their breathing and the sound of water spilling down the drain. He closed his eyes, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal.

Beside him, he felt Zuma rise. He opened his eyes and watched her pull a pink shower puff from a marble shelf in the shower and begin to soap it. As though he weren't there, she scrubbed herself clean and rinsed off. Stepping up and out of the shower onto the bath mat, she reached for her body towel and wrapped herself, drying her arms and neck.

"Let me know when you're leaving so I can lock the door," Zuma tossed over her shoulder, as she left the sweating bathroom.

Malcolm was used to kicking a chick out of his bed or quickly washing up and leaving a conquest. But a woman kicking him out was foreign to him, and his ego made the emotions of surprise and anger fight for space in his brain. Who the fuck does she think she is?

With questions clouding his head, he stepped out of the shower and quickly dried off with the extra towel hanging on the rack. He grabbed his damp clothes off the floor and awkwardly dressed himself as he stomped through the darkened rooms. With silk boxers sticking to his thighs, he tripped over furniture he couldn't see and stifled a yelp when he stubbed his toe on the edge of something hard in the dark. His anger was simmering by the time he made his way down the stairs and found his discarded pants on the floor.

He spied Zuma through the sliding glass doors, sitting on the deck in a short terry robe, talking casually on a cordless phone. She laughed, high and tinkly, as she ran a hand through her wet hair. Bitch, he thought, grabbing his jacket and stomping through the foyer.

Zuma glanced backward when she heard the door slam and stopped pretending to talk on the phone. She walked into the house, locked the doors, and set the alarm before going into the study. She sighed as she sat behind a modest wooden desk and glanced at the small clock in the corner.

Only 9:30 p.m.

Her eyes wandered to the picture of her parents hugging and smiling on the corner of the neat desk. Sighing again, she closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, wistfully thinking. Her parents always seemed so happy together. She wondered how they were adjusting to the year-round heat of Fort Lauderdale. It had only been a couple of years since they'd retired and packed up their tiny house in North Carolina.

North Carolina. What happened to the little girl she used to be, spoiled by her parents and adored by everyone in their small town? At thirty-three, she wasn't a little girl anymore, and she hadn't been one in a long time. Zuma was totally focused on her career and proud of what she'd accomplished, but it was times like this, when she was alone and had forced another man out of her space and mind, that she thought about the early years when she was a foolish girl from a country town. The years that forced her parents to scrimp and save to transfer her from embarrassment and rumors to a new life-a false life with a new identity.

Slowly opening her eyes, she tugged lightly on the desk's top drawer and pulled out a thin, worn checkbook. Writing her parents' names on the payable line, she finished filling out the check and folded it in a blank sheet of copy paper like she did every month. Forever trying to repay what she felt she never could.

Walking from the study, Zuma sealed the envelope and placed a single stamp in the upper right hand corner before dropping it on the kitchen counter by her purse. She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the study to review her notes from work.

Author's Note: Thanks for taking the time to read this! Let me know what you think, and stay tuned!