15: ONYX

"Another gin on the rocks, please," I ask, holding my glass out to the bartender.

"You keep hitting those too hard, and you'll need someone to carry you back to your room," a voice to my left says.

I turn slowly and take in the whiskey brown eyes, the full, bold red lips, and the thick, long, brown hair. Pretty nut-brown skin on display by way of long legs peeks from a short, black lacy dress. Long legs end in four-inch stilettos.

She's discarded the professional appearance and work attire that she's been sporting since we've been in Vegas for a look that's far sexier and more seductive.

"How do you know how many I've had?"

"I was watching you sitting at this bar for the last couple of hours while I had dinner with a few of the team members."

"You stalking me?"

"No, I just happened to spot you in here. When I went to the restroom after about forty-five minutes, I noticed that you were still sitting here. When they were leaving to go to the casinos, I spotted you still here. I ordered my drink at the other end of the bar to see if you'd even notice that I was there, but you didn't. Looks like you're struggling tonight," she says, toying with the umbrella in her drink.

"Struggling?"

"Onyx, you seem to be struggling with a personal issue."

"Really?"

"I know a man who's excellent at what he does, pulls people in with his magnetism, leads them to do great things, yet has a distance to him and a sorrow that lurks in his eyes. I know the man that you were, and I knew when things were off with you. Something's off with you tonight."

"What makes you think that?"

"The blatantly expensive cigars and drinks you splurged on for the team two nights in a row, last night and the night before."

"I wanted my team to enjoy some of the finer things that life affords me. I don't see the crime in that."

"There's no crime. You just were never a flashy person, and I don't get the sense that you're like that now. It seems that you're just on some random ‘I-don't-give-a-fuck-about-nothing' shit. I was just hoping that while we were here, you would let go of your cares and worries and have fun when you weren't working hard as hell."

I turn to the bartender who hands me another glass of gin. I take it down and turn back to Sharla.

"I'm having as much fun as anyone, Sharla."

"Clearly not at the moment. We're in Sin City where you should be having the time of your life. Leave your problems behind and live a little. Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," she says in a sultry tone. "Instead, you're drowning your sorrows in a glass of gin and not interacting with your team at all."

Her Southern accent is thick and sexy. The attitude dripping from her is appealing and tempting.

"What's it to you?"

Shrugging, she says, "It's everything to me. I see a very handsome, intelligent, and charming man sitting at a bar alone drinking his cares away. I'm tired of the casinos, and I'm bored. So why not have a little fun by stirring up trouble with a married man?"

She says the last two words with a bit of disdain as she points at my ringless, left ring finger.

"Forgot it on the nightstand up in my room."

"Sure," she says disbelievingly.

"You always pick with married men?"

"Only ones that don't seem to be happy and aren't wearing their ring. From what I see, you're not married. Any interested woman walking into this bar would draw the same conclusion. So, am I wrong for sitting here with you trying to lure you into a little fun before someone else snags you?"

"Your name should be changed from Sharla to Trouble with a capital ‘T.'"

"Hmm," she giggles. "You know the difference between me and most other women is that all the letters in the word trouble are capital when describing me."

She winks and hops off the stool, reaching a hand to me.

"What?"

"This is my song, and I want to dance."

"I don't."

"You need to. You need something to lift your spirits. Something to make you laugh. So, when you return home to her tomorrow, you're not a Donald Downer."

I've never shared with Sharla how Meadow questioned if I was having an affair with her the one and only time they met. I will never let on to this woman that my wife was jealous of her at one time. After that fight, I thought we'd made up and would work ourselves back to us.

It didn't happen.

I turn back to my empty glass and ponder ordering another drink. Sharla's right. I've had one too many, and the last thing that I need is to make a spectacle of myself in front of my team if any of them should wander into this bar in our hotel.

"You can always dance it off, and you'll feel much better," she coaxes.

I push the glass away, climb off the barstool, and take her hand.

She pulls me onto the dance floor to dance to an old song, Work It by Missy Elliott.

Surprisingly, she has moves that are in sync with the beat. Tonight, this is a different Sharla than the one that I've known. Maybe I'm a different Onyx too. She works her body in time to the beat, but what she doesn't realize, or maybe she does, is that she's working me, too.

My dick jerks alive at the sensuous way that she rolls her hips and wiggles her ass. My heart beats a little too strong and fast when she brushes my pants one too many times.

I'm ready to sit down after the third song ends, and it transitions to another one.

"Just this one last dance, please and then I'll let you go."

"I really should be going," I say.

"Yes, but..."

"But?" I prompt.

"You'll be a little more sober by the time that you work up a sweat on this dance floor."

"Look, I'll be fine," I reply.

"Come on, just one more," she pleads.

"Is this for your benefit or mine?"

"Yours."

"Why's that?"

"Consider me your guardian angel," she says with a wink.

I give in and continue dancing with her, but my mind pays attention to the lyrics.

"What's the name of this song?" I ask.

"One Kiss by Calvin Harris and Dua Lipa. She's one of my favorite artists," she says with a wink.

"This is the last one," I say as I move in time to the music with her.

Halfway through the song, I notice that her movements slow down and although she's not moving as fast as the beat is, she somehow is still in sync with the music. Her arms reach up and loop around my neck, and those beautiful, large brown eyes pin me into place.

She's got me wrapped under some damn spell, and I'm lost in her movements and her gaze. I almost don't want to break away. It's easier to stay in this space and this moment with her as though my real life doesn't exist.

Adult Sharla is three times what she was when I met her in high school. She's sassy, challenging, and fun. She's everything that Meadow is no longer.

Fuck! Meadow.

Damnit!

It feels good to be free and not have to check-in.

Not tonight, anyway. Tomorrow's a new day.

Sharla smirks at me, and I can't help but lean closer as her lips move in a whispered motion.

"What?" I ask, leaning in to hear her over the music.

"I said nothing."

"You did. I saw your lips move."

"Maybe you wanted me to say something?"

"What kind of games are you playing?" I ask, going still.

She leans back and looks up at me again.

"What was it that you wanted to say?"

She bites her bottom lip, and her eyebrows dip down. "I wanted to say, don't get fucking scared now. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I promise that I don't kiss and tell, and not a word of this will get out."

My heart races, and my chest heaves with an exaggerated breath. I lean in once again, not caring where I'm at or who I am. I don't bother to glance around to see if anyone's watching.

I taste those sinful, seductive, and tempestuous lips, and they're every bit as sweet and delicious as I remembered. They're thick and plump like little pillows. I suck the top one and then the bottom one before she opens her mouth and licks my lips.

Flicking my tongue out, I capture hers, and she opens wider, inviting me to explore the kiss, to go deeper. When I finally break it off, my hunger and curiosity aren't slaked at all. If anything, they have just been ignited.

***

"Fuck me harder!" she screams.

I push harder into her.

"Harder! What the fuck are you so scared of?" Sharla challenges me.

Her fingers wrap in my curls and pull them tight, and I feel her nails scrape my scalp.

I'm deep inside of her, and her feet are pressed against the headboard. She's so damn flexible, and I love how wide open she is for me. She's not complaining that I'm gutting her insides or that she'll be sore in the morning.

She loves rough sex as much as I love giving it to her. In fact, she's encouraging me whenever I hesitate.

"That's it, baby. Yes, deeper. Deeper! Owww," she moans, clenching all around me.

Her hands pull free from my hair and caress my face.

"Come here," she whispers.

I lean closer, and I swear her lower body is parallel to her upper body. I take her lips into mine again, and she bites my bottom one.

When I pull back, she's caressing her tits.

"Suck it," she says in a fake pout.

I roll back a tiny bit and take one of her tits into my mouth, sucking it and rolling my tongue back and forth over her nipple. When I bite it, she grips the back of my head and holds me in place. For a moment, I struggle to catch my breath, but not for long.

Her hips arch up, coaxing me to keep moving now that I've gone still momentarily. I rock into her, increasing my pace until the rocking turns into a bump which turns into hard, forceful thrusts.

She welcomes it as she spreads her legs wider still, with her hands planted at the backs of her thighs.

I pull back for a moment and then pull out of her.

"Turn around," I say, no longer wanting to look into her face.

I don't want to remember what we're doing after tonight. When I see her at work again, she needs to be just another employee.

Not my ex, and not my lover.

I need to forget how I kept licking the mole on the left corner of her mouth and how her thick eyebrows rise high when I drive deep inside of her. Eyebrows that are extremely hairy and which Meadow would have plucked. I don't want to recall the way her tiny nostrils flare with each hard thrust that I give her.

No, I can't keep looking into her face when she's like this because it might become etched in my mind like reality as though tonight wasn't just a drunken, fucked up mistake that I've made.

Not that I believe in those because I know that drinking only gives you the courage or the stupidity to do all the dumb shit you wanted to do anyway. As if I didn't come out tonight looking for what I'm doing now, or looking for this opportunity with her and her alone.

She turns over and pushes her ass into the air. Just as I prepare to slide into her again, she places her hand on her ass and looks at me over her shoulder.

"Wait."

"For what?"

"Would you grab your pants, please?"

"For what?"

"Just grab them," she coaxes.

I do as she says and hand them to her as she reaches for them. I watch as she pulls the belt free from its loops, tosses my pants on the floor, and then hands the belt to me.

"What?"

"Whip my ass."

"What?"

"You heard me. I said spank my ass."

"I don't want to do that shit."

"You should. Watch how fast I cream for you," she purrs.

I look at the belt in my hand and then at the smooth, brown skin that I know will mar easily.

"Come on. What the fuck are you waiting for?" she asks and then flexes her pussy lips at me.

Shit! My junk jerks to attention at the sight of her fat vulva pulsing.

I slap her across the ass with my belt.

"Mm-mm. Harder. Make me feel it."

Unsure, I slap her just a little harder.

"Harder! Harder like how you fuck me," she purrs.

I hit her harder, and she moans, and her pussy flexes again. Shit!

I hit her yet again, and she drops down lower, lifts her ass higher, and flexes her pussy. She's crazy as shit, but who am I to judge?

I hit her several more times, and then I watch as the promise she made earlier manifests. She's literally creaming, and the sight of it drives me wild.

Grabbing her hips, I pull her to me again and thrust deep inside of her with one plunge, loving the way her swollen lips embrace me. This time, my pace is rapid and frantic like that of a madman.

I have no idea how much longer I'm going to last, but shit, if I'm risking it all tonight, I might as well make it worth it. The sound of my meat slapping against her, and our skin slipping across each other in a sweaty, sticky mess is a turn-on.

I jab and jab inside of her until she begins to dry up. Only then do I allow myself the release that I so desperately need. Before I can finish, she pulls away from me and pushes me over onto my back.

My feet are planted on the floor, and my back rests on the mattress. She slides off the bed, pushes my legs open and plants herself between them. Kneeling, she takes the head of my dick and laps at it.

Slowly, she pulls me into her mouth with her powerful jaw action.

"Fuck," I groan.

She works those jaw muscles, sucking me deeper within, and then she works my cock over, alternating her hands with her mouth. When she's not sucking my dick, she's licking and sucking my balls, but her hands and mouth stay busy.

If I'd been drunk earlier, I'm not now. She's sobered my ass up in a way that I couldn't anticipate. It feels so damn good, though. Damn good to curb all my responsibilities tonight. My business. My wife. My life. They're all hazy memories right now.

When I explode into her mouth a few minutes later, and she drinks me down, those things aren't even a fucking memory. They don't exist.