Marcel furrows his brow and smiles simultaneously when I ask him more about his origins.

“Well, my family is coming from Shuckazooloo. You know Shuckazooloo?” 

I shake my head no while I pick at remnants of food on my plate. 

“Fierce warriors,” is his curt explanation. I sense the insinuation of muddled pride. “I was born in Botswana,” he slows the delivery of his words and nods at me as he says it, “and I come to Nairobi for school.”

It finally clicks the shuckazooloo is not one single word. “Ohhh... Shaka. Ruler of the Zulu kingdom. Yes. I do know of him.”

He nods slow and grins wide, impressed. “So you are a smart lady too.”

“And your diamond eyes,” I ask, pulling the conversation back to its tracks. “Where did they come from?”

“Ah, well, that is mystery. My mother and my father and their mothers and their fathers all have eyes as dark as their skin.”

I stay silent, sipping my wine while I explore the freshwater pools in his eyes.

“Maybe one of my warrior ancestors found a nice mzungu lady to love.”

I smile at him through the rim of my glass.

“Why are you in Kenya?” he asks me. 

“Ah, well,” I say—affectionately mimicking his intonation—placing my glass back down on the table. “That’s also a bit of a mystery. A long story.”

He is eying me now, waiting for me to tell him this story.

“But I think maybe that will have to wait until next time.”

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest, chuckling as he shakes his head at me. “As I said. Very smart lady.”

I’ll deal with this in the morning, I think as I clear our plates from the table and put them next to the sink. 

Marcel had offered to take me out for supper, like the gentleman that he is, but I had insisted on something more intimate. I didn’t want to run the risk of doing anything inappropriate in a public space with this man (i.e. I very much wanted the opportunity to do something inappropriate with this devastatingly handsome man.) Inviting him into my modest little apartment for a home-cooked meal seemed the best way to accomplish this.

Of course, the argument could be made that I am being foolish right now, making myself unnecessarily vulnerable in a foreign environment where women may experience different or heightened risks than what I'm used to. 

And to that I say, “To hell with your opinions.” I’m feeling reckless tonight. And I’ll be damned if I don’t find out just where this path of so-called recklessness is going to lead me. The fact that this stranger has no idea who I am or where I come from (and vice versa) only adds to the appeal.

“Would you like some more wine?” I toss over my shoulder at him. 

But before I can turn around to confirm his response, I feel Marcel’s hand rest heavy on my hip. I bite down on my bottom lip and lean my shoulders back into his chest, melting into him, accepting his welcomed advance. Nothing need be explicitly stated today; it was obvious we were on the same wavelength of understanding from the moment he walked in the door. The strength of his lungs breathing into my back now pushes the air right out of mine, forcing it all down and out to a thick pool at my feet, steadying me here. His other hand brushes my hair to one side, exposing the soft pink flesh of my neck. He stoops to hover his plump lips over the tiniest patch of my skin, coaxing a full body shiver from somewhere at the base of my spine.

I arch my ass up into him as I reach behind, feeling around for the back of his neck, the soft bristle of his ebony, close-cut hair before turning to welcome his first kiss. His lips are soft and dry, while his curious strawberry tongue is sweet and warm. We rock and sway, bound at the lips. My arms clasp behind his neck while his hands are anchored on the slope of my hips.

It’s as if his kiss has awakened me—or something in me—from a deep, cursed slumber. The passion rises further every time our lips reconnect. 

I am awake, and I am hungry.

We begin to tear at each other's clothes, ripping them from our bodies piece by piece until we stand facing each other in the kitchen, chests heaving with need, in nothing but our sweat and our underwear.

Marcel takes the first step towards me, running his fingers along the outer seam of my arm until he finds my hand to pull me in close. I feel him swell through his boxer briefs into the soft space just above the band of my underwear. With the care of the surgeon and the strength of the warrior, he kisses me deeply and unclasps my bra between his thumb and forefinger. He tosses the garment to the floor; I relish the warmth that meets my breasts when I press into the flesh lining the sturdy cage of his torso.

His tongue is dancing with mine when his hand slips between my thighs. I assume he can feel the extent of my wetness through the material; he smiles into my mouth. I’m growing more and more desperate for this carnal communion.

Marcel reads my mind before I have to ask. I follow the rivulets between the muscles wrapping his ribs as he bends to reach for his pants on the ground. “I wasn’t sure… if yours would be big enough.” He says it matter of factly, with a hint of shyness, drawing a condom from his back pocket.

With him upright again, I move in close and cup the straining bulge the crook of his groin. “How thoughtful of you,” I say with a wicked grin. Nothing like a little respect to really get a girl going.

I wiggle the band of his boxers down, tantalizing myself with how slowly I move, until his proud erection springs forth.

He was right. My condoms would not have been sufficient. 

As he fully removes his underwear, I do the same. Despite having just eaten, I’m actually salivating now, standing here before this appetizing specimen of a human being. He arches at the center, his spine concave, to slide the condom onto his shaft and he holds himself there a moment, like his fierce ancestors may have once held stabbing spears.

I lean back into the counter and wait for him to strike. The anticipation building in the silence is deafening. 

I need this. I need him. I need him to break me open to make me full.

Marcel looks up at me from under the weight of his stern brow line. His dazzling sapphire gaze further provokes the wild beast in me. I can’t tell which is stronger—the desire to be tamed by him, or to run feral and free.

Momentarily forgetting the notion of intercourse, he lunges for me and takes me in his arms, kissing me deep. Gentle warrior hands roam my body and slip under my thighs to hoist me up. I wrap my legs around his waist like I’m clung to the trunk of a great tree until he rests me on the counter ledge. 

We slide in together like we are built for each other. 

He stretches me wide and deep in ways I assumed were possible but never truly felt until this very moment. I sense that he worries he may split me the wrong way; he is exceedingly careful at every junction. 

“Is it okay?” he asks more than once.

Every time, I reply, “Yes.”

With one leg hooked up on his shoulder, the other drops towards the ground. We watch together as he moves in and out of me. The beautiful contrast of our complexions meet in the middle. His sturdy thumb rubs over my clit following the rhythm of our thrust and he grunts; I growl; every time he reaches my limits. He bows his head into my shoulder, nibbling the crook of my neck, kissing up to my ear, whispering secret nothings for me to decipher later if I can manage to remember them.

Deep, hard, and diligent, he dives into me. I stretch around him, creating new space. Thrusting, stroking, rubbing… Our foreheads kiss and I taste the extent of his exertion on his breath. The pressure of the counter pushing up into my sacrum. With both of my feet planted into the ledge on my either side, I take over now, scrubbing feverish circles into my clit while he presses on. His hands are still on my hips for guidance and stability as they rise with the incessant swelling wave, ready to come crashing down inside me.

He growls; I roar.

My eyes flash white behind my eyelids when I squint them shut. Heat drips down my face as the wave inside drips out around the edges of his cock, onto the counter, down to the floor at his feet.

With my arms and hips trembling, he lifts me from the ledge and lowers me with ease, away from the puddle he’s drawn from me. I lay spread eagle with my back flush with the cool floor. But he doesn’t let me rest just yet. His tongue replaces my fingers, while his fingers replace his cock. He rides the fallout waves of my first orgasm to force me up to the next. I grab at both sides of his head, wailing as he juices another climax, nearly equal in strength, from me with his warm, wet tongue and educated fingers. My inner walls clamp down around his—two? three?—fingers, desperate for more. 

I need him inside me at least one more time before I come down from this high. 

I flip myself over to all fours, presenting my ass to him. Marcel is still hard; I moan spontaneously as he slides slow and sultry into my insatiable hole. So slowly, as if every inch of him needs to wait for a new contraction in order to pull him deeper. When he reaches the end, he presses and holds. I squirm, writhe, buck against him, but he holds my hips firm. 

Marcel finds a new vigor in his thrust. I push back hard to meet him every time. Squatting behind me, over me, I feel the glisten of his forehead sweat between my shoulder blades. He reaches around to stroke my clit again, but I swat his hand away. 

“No, it’s too much,” I pant. 

He grabs my wrist and forces it to the ground. “It’s okay,” he assures me. And despite my initial protest, he draws slower, wetter, more delicate circles with his other hand until I realize that he has somehow moved me past any hypersensitivity to find a place of more calming agony. I revel in the delicious pain of the strain and the unexpected ease of letting go. 

Marcel grows even more rigid inside me. I catch a glint of his diamonds sparkling in the reflection of the stove door in front of me. He notices me watching him and his string-of-pearls smile stretches wide across his face. Hungry and generous and fierce and understanding, he pulls at the reins of my hair. I crane my neck back into the darkness of his grip, howling freely to the full moons in the eyes of my most enigmatic lover.

More by Queen Jayne:

The Birthday Bash
Chicago Rare
Comings and Goings
Compliance Risk
Condemned Desire
Conservation Area
Curry On, My Haywardson
Devotee
Diamonds and Pearls
The Edge of Glory
Expressions of Grief
For Dommestic Use Only
Hey, Babe.
Just Dessert
Lucky Shot
Marked
Summer Heat
Strangers on a Train
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