Page 84 of The Don

“Keep touching yourself,” I whisper against her pussy and move my tongue over her lips.

She adds a second finger, circling that hard bud with a bit more pressure.

I use only the tip of my tongue to tease her lips. I kiss her opening, then shift my own hips into the mattress. The covers aren’t warm and wet like her pussy, but I can wait. I miss the taste of her. The sound of her gentle sighs. The high-pitched moans. Her shaking thighs vibrating around my head while she comes. Pushing inside of her after that, when her pussy is dripping wet from my mouth and her orgasms, will be even sweeter.

Her fingers slide through my hair.

I need more.

I shove my hands under her ass and shove her pussy up against my face.

“Fuck,” she cries out, moving her fingers against her clit faster now.

I use the flat of my tongue to take deep strokes, sliding between her lips, pressing into her opening, and licking down into the crack of her ass.

Her body jerks, and a small spray of her arousal splashes against my cheek.

I move my mouth back to her pussy, licking and sucking more of her from her opening.

She lets go of her clit and grabs the bedsheet.

I lick her like an ice cream and then fasten my entire mouth over her cunt.

She screams and shudders.

I focus on her clit, sucking her bud until the soft tremors are violently strong and her legs give way, and she collapses onto the bed. Now, I can use my fingers, working three into her from the start. She’s wet enough. She’s horny enough. I don’t want to wait.

The next orgasm seems to go on forever. Until my mouth and chin are covered in her come, her thighs are wrapped around my face, her hands are holding my head against her pussy, and I’m fucking my hips into the mattress, close to coming along with her.

But I want to be inside her, and I back away. She whines in protest, but she’s too weak to stop me.

I wipe my mouth with my hand and use it to stroke my dick. I won’t last long, but I’ll make her come on my shaft at least one more time. I can promise both of us that, at least.

I slip inside of her slow and steady. My back aches with the pressure, the need to slam into her again and again, as many times as we both can stand.

“Please,” she groans, reaching for me. She grabs my shoulders and pulls me on top of her. She wraps her legs around my waist, desperate for the full weight of my body. She licks at my lips, tasting herself on my tongue as I crush my mouth against hers.

“Now I’m happy,” I say, groaning as I start to move out of her then push inside again. “Now, I’m home.”

EPILOGUE

TWO YEARS LATER

Qadir

“Pops,you gotta stop ordering all this damn fig jam. It don’t sell,” I call from my perch on the floor.

“Itshouldsell. It ain’t my fault these white people coming in here don’t have no damn taste.”

I dropped by the import food shop my father owns to help him and my younger brother, Josh, stock the shelves with the new inventory. At my father’s belligerent response, all I can do is sigh and roll my eyes in Josh’s direction. We go through this every damn time. Josh shakes his head quickly, but not enough to draw dad’s attention.

We live in the middle of a solidly lower middle-class Black neighborhood in Philadelphia, and a lot of our neighbors are hanging onto their homes and property values with all their might. My family isnotlower middle-class, though. We’re not even upper middle-class.

I mean, we put on like we are, and dad raised us not to flash our money, but I learned early that my financial life was nothing like my friends’. I’ve never once gone to bed hungry. I don’t know the fear that can infect a home when someone loses their job and next month’s mortgage payment is up in the air. I’ve never huddled near the kitchen when my mom was cooking dinner because the rest of the house was ice-cold. Actually, my mom is as much a fleeting memory in my life as my brothers’ mothers as well, but that don’t have much to do with class. We always had our dad, though. And it’s hard to miss someone who never wanted to stick around anyway.

So, even though he makes stocking the shop a whole goddamn ordeal because he has a habit of ordering things for our Italian import shop that hethinkspeople should buy but not necessarily what our customers want, I still show up every week to help. Besides, we got to keep our cover strong.

If our family sometimes stands out in our neighborhood, our shop, Gastronomia Italiana, is even more of an anomaly. We only sell imported Italian foods that no one else in the state can access. Dad’s connections and exclusive suppliers are so good that we deal with most of the Italian restaurants in Pennsylvania; the ones who want the best ingredients from Italy and don’t care why a small import shop owned by a Black man is the only place to get what they need.