Smooth Operator Read online

  PRAISE FOR RISQUÉ

  Red Light Special

  “So realistic that you better have either a lover nearby or a cold shower to jump into … Risqué has successfully made her mark in the erotica genre.”

  —Urban Reviews

  “The new queen of erotica has entered the building. You’ll need a tall glass of water and an industrial-strength fan to cool you off while reading this steamy page-turner!”

  —DE’NESHA DIAMOND, co-author of Desperate Hoodwives

  The Sweetest Taboo

  “With the passion of Zane and the gut-wrenching emotion of Noire, Risqué takes the erotic-fiction scene by storm.”

  —DANIELLE SANTIAGO, author of Little Ghetto Girl

  “A sexy drama that will have you lusting for more.”

  —ANNA J., author of The Aftermath

  “Nothing is off-limits in Risqué’s tantalizing and intensely stimulating debut novel. Prepare to be entertained, enthralled, and scandalized!”

  —CRYSTAL LACEY WINSLOW, author of The Criss Cross

  “Rough, raw, and riveting! Passionate, fiery prose blazes across every page. Risqué captivates the reader from the very beginning and never lets go.”

  —ALLISON HOBBS, author of A Bona Fide Gold Digger

  “With so much to tell and feel, this knock-out, drag-down erotica love story will have you dripping by the last page … one of the best erotica novels this year. Move over Zane; there’s a new sheriff in town … The Sweetest Taboo is racy, crazy, sexy, and exhilarating. Grab a copy and be prepared to stay up all night!”

  —A Place of Our Own (APOOO) Book Club

  ALSO BY RISQUÉ

  Red Light Special

  The Sweetest Taboo

  Smooth Operator is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A One World Trade Paperback Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Risqué

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by One World Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  ONE WORLD is a registered trademark and the One World colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Risqué.

  Smooth operator : a novel / Risqué.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52312-9

  1. Single mothers—Fiction. 2. African Americans—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.I736S66 2010

  813′.6—dc22 2010032069

  www.oneworldbooks.net

  Title-page photograph: © iStockphoto

  v3.1

  To my husband, Kevin,

  who I finally convinced that people

  would believe that this is fiction

  and not our life!

  “You’ve been misled;

  money is not the root of

  all evil. Pussy is.”

  —RISQUÉ

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  California

  New York

  I never intended California

  New York

  New York

  California

  California

  New York

  New York

  New York

  To be … New York

  New York

  California

  California

  New York

  California

  New York

  California

  New York

  New York

  New York

  New York

  California

  New York

  New York

  New York

  California

  California

  This chick … New York

  New York

  New York

  California

  Zurich, Switzerland

  California

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  California

  The platinum moon over Holmby Hills, California, left streaks across the marble floor as Payton stepped through the French doorway of her husband’s home office. Her Angel perfume announced her entrance and seduced him to close his eyes; anxiously awaiting her arrival. He sat facing his computer, his back to the doorway, and the smoke from his Cuban cigar danced a tango toward the vaulted ceiling.

  The Mary Jane Girls’ “Candy Man” played in the background as Payton began her cat walk. Once behind him she gently ran the tip of her tongue over the muscular curves of his broad shoulders; and that’s when it clicked; the song playing on the radio was apropos because he was definitely candy. At six foot two, he bore the physique of a lifer pushing hundred-pound weights, with sensually forbidden yet highly desired rips and bulging muscles. His skin was the color of a smooth and sweet Sugar Daddy, complimented by the milk chocolate eyes of a Zulu king: strong, regal, and serious. He wore a low and sexy well-lined Caesar, and framing his succulent lips was a delicious shadow-box beard.

  He was polished and powerful. Articulate yet able to bring it to whomever, whenever. Confident but not arrogant. He was bilingual but Hood was his native dialect. He was perfect but always willing to expound upon his perfection. And all of this is why Payton loved him—or maybe not.

  Her feelings for him were more erotic; no, more adoring. But then … perhaps her feelings were actually quite simple: she felt as if she owned him, that he belonged to her in every way imaginable—from the spinning waves in his hair to his large feet that lived up to the myth. All belonged to her.

  Payton felt she’d raised him, though she wasn’t his mother—she was definitely his wife. And she wasn’t a cougar—they were both thirty. However, Payton deserved the credit for finding him five years ago, when he drove a UPS truck and delivered packages to her corporate offices. She was the one who’d asked him out to dinner, compelled by the way his eyes smiled when he looked at her.

  Though she could’ve had any man, she chose to save him from the trenches of Crenshaw and deliver him into the golden-gated community of Holmby Hills, California, because she wanted him—not because she had to have him. After all, she was not only swanky rich but was wickedly beautiful: a slender size six, five eleven with perfect posture and a Naomi Campbell saunter. She had eyes like brown marbles and skin the deep amber of the evening sun.

  He’d become one of the talented tenth because of who she was: a strong black woman who pushed him to become the man among men. For all intents and purposes, he should’ve worn her last name. After all, Payton was the one who’d come from great stock, not him; his father was a mystery, and his mother died of a heroin overdose. His sister had too many babies, and his brother drove somebody’s garbage truck. Needless to say, he didn’t have a name until Payton gave him one. “Mr. Lyfe Phillip Carrington,” Payton said, tracing his shoulders with the tip of her index finger, “I was thinking that a good boy like you deserves to have his fantasy fulfilled.”

  Lyfe opened his eyes and slowly turned in his burgundy leather wing chair. He stared at his wife, who stood before him in a cupless, glow-in-the-dark latex suit, with a slit that ran from her wet and warm pussy lips to her luscious ass. And on her feet were six-inch, extremely spiked heels that made her look as if she were walking on nails.

  Lyfe attempted to contain himself, but he couldn’t. His cock was so hard that he had to unzip his pants and allow his ten-inch endowment more room to expand. He stood up to drink Payton in full view.
<
br />   She licked her lips and ran her hands from the latex hood that covered her hair to her breasts, where she toyed with her hard nipples. “You sit back down, baby,” she said, and he complied. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Payton placed one of her legs at the side of Lyfe’s thigh, revealing her swollen and dripping pussy lips. “I want you to sit here,” she eased his cigar from between his lips and mashed it in the ashtray, “and watch this.” She turned her head to the side and called over her shoulder, “Come to Mama.”

  An unknown and completely naked voluptuous woman stepped across the threshold, glowing in neon yellow body paint. Her E-cup breasts swayed as she placed her hands on her hips and headed over to them. She stopped at Payton and kissed her. “Now serve your purpose,” Payton whispered. The woman then slid between Lyfe and Payton and kneeled. She dipped her glowing hands into Lyfe’s already unzipped pants, removed his cock and began licking her way around the curved tip and taking him into her mouth, until she had deep throated all of his inches.

  For a fleeting moment Lyfe wondered why Payton was really doing this, but as soon as the glowing woman placed a tongue vibrator in her mouth and electric sensations forced his body into a trance, he was no longer conscious enough to care.

  Payton stroked the woman’s long and silky auburn hair. “You’re doing well, honey. A good job. Damn,” Payton moaned, “you’re sucking that dick real good. You know it’s candy in there. Get that candy, baby, and find out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll pop.”

  Lyfe couldn’t figure out if he needed to scream or to pinch his arm and see if this was a wet dream, because hands down this had to be the chick who invented sucking dick; he had never, ever, ever had brain like this. “Shit …” he moaned, entangling his fingers with Payton’s as they both ran their hands through the woman’s hair.

  Payton looked in Lyfe’s face and knew he was about to cum. “The candy is for me, baby.” She tapped the glowing woman on the shoulder. “I just wanted you to get the candy to the center.” Payton kneeled before Lyfe as the glowing woman moved behind her and ran her wet and heated tongue through Payton’s sticky butterscotch and around her clit.

  Payton moaned as she blew Lyfe’s throne, seducing his cream candy out the tip. She could feel the glowing woman’s tongue licking her pussy and pushing into her wet valley like a dick. All Payton could do was scream and moan, and moan and scream as the woman ate her pussy with extreme intensity, even as Lyfe’s cum filled Payton’s mouth.

  Once Payton was satisfied, Lyfe rose from the chair and she lay in missionary position on the floor, allowing his member to expand her walls and force her body into complete submission. He stroked Payton with all of his might, tossing one of her legs to the side of his neck, causing her to scream his name in octaves.

  The glowing woman kissed Payton from her bottom lip down the neck of her latex suit to her nipples, where she coddled her tongue around them. After sucking her breasts as if she were waiting for milk to come she lifted her body into the airplane position where she was breasts to breasts with Payton, tossed her legs over Lyfe’s shoulders, and pointed her sweet and silky pearl directly in Lyfe’s face.

  For a moment Lyfe didn’t know whether he was coming or going. He was working his dick one minute and his tongue the next until he was finally able to maintain a balance, between licking and stroking, stroking and licking, until they were all cumming, creaming, and screaming in delight.

  This went on until the wee hours of the morning, from both women gracing Lyfe with the best neck he’d ever had, where one sucked his dick and the other tea-bagged him—to the glowing woman riding him while Payton sat on his face and he feasted from her garden.

  Once they were all done, Lyfe went to their master suite and fell asleep while Payton saw to it that the glowing woman left as easily as she’d come.

  Afterward Payton slipped into the bed beside Lyfe and admired him, like one does fine art. She was happy to have him, her own personal reincarnation of Adonis, or better, Zeus—because as she traced the outline of Lyfe’s muscular pecs down to his deliciousness, which had grown hard again, she knew that he had to be a gracious gift from the god of all gods.

  New York

  Flickering lights crowned the twenty-four-hour bodega’s sign and illuminated the rusted fire escape outside of Arri’s Brooklyn bedroom window. Vanity 6’s “Nasty Girl” flowed from the CD player on the nightstand and into the cool winter’s breeze, mixing in with the orchestra of nonstop traffic. The bass line of the eighties throwback set the mood and steadied Arri’s focus. She peered through the eyes of her vintage Mardi Gras mask and into her gentleman’s face and said, “I hear you’ve been a bad boy.”

  He didn’t respond. He was too busy watching her beautiful D-size breasts that sat upon her chest like tasty melons with ripe chocolate peaks, thirsting to be sucked, licked, and played with. Arri’s curvaceous hips swayed like an ocean’s wave as she flicked the red leather whip in her hand against the hardwood floor and repeated herself. “I hear you’ve been a bad boy,” she said sternly.

  He still gave no response; his eyes were too busy molesting her size twelve hips and wondering how he would save himself from becoming addicted once her thick hips rode the dick and creamed all over it. He studied how her thong rested between her luscious ass cheeks, the same place where his tongue longed to be. His eyes moved down her voluptuous thighs to her French manicured feet, covered by pencil-heel knee-high boots.

  The clicking of her boots sounded like wind chimes as she flicked the whip again and said one last time, “I hear you’ve been a bad boy!” She peered into his eyes.

  “I have,” he said, entranced by the way her hair fell over her shoulders in coils of ebony curls that hung to the small of her back.

  “I want you to punish me,” he said, unzipping his pants and stroking his rock-solid cock.

  “And what punishment do you deserve?” Arri demanded to know.

  “Submerge my face; open your pussy lips and torture my tongue as it travels through the rivers and streams of unending, heated, and silky cream. Then you should kill me. Force me to drown in your overflowing sea of vanilla.”

  Arri placed her right foot on the edge of the bed and pulled at the sides of her thong. “You don’t have to take your panties off.” He stopped her. “Just move ’em to the side.”

  Arri gave a sinister laugh. Who the hell was this slave to tell the Goddess what to do? After all, he had no will. So, to remind him who had the power, she untied the strings on the sides of her thong and let it fall to the floor, completely revealing the slither of pubic hair that ran down the center of her vagina. She turned her ass—shaped like a perfect set of twin bubbles—toward him, slowly bent over, and revealed all that lay between her succulent cheeks.

  He wrapped his massive hands aggressively around the shaft of his dick, squeezing, and holding it tight, highlighting the precum that shone like the morning sun on its swollen head.

  She turned back to face him. “You are to obey my commands,” Arri said evenly, as she opened her silky mine, massaged the diamond glaze from inside and over the tiny gold hoop that hung from her clitoris.

  He moaned in sweet agony and Arri knew his dick was due to explode. He bit his bottom lip, practically drawing blood. Afterward he eased his hungry tongue from between his full lips, and though his eyes were closed he could clearly see her hard clit coming toward him.

  Arri slid her finger over her silky pearl and felt his tongue run a marathon up and down her lava mountain, working its way through her milky sea as if it were a water snake caressing the cherries of her forbidden shores, forcing chills up her spine, and taking her body to the banks of, “Damn, baby!” “Eat it up!”

  Arri’s legs trembled as together they forced her clit to become the hardest it’s ever been and then suddenly she panted, short of breath, and just as he’d asked for (and as he deserved), she drowned him in her sea of thick and sticky vanilla.

  H
e wasn’t dead long. After all, this type of reincarnation was a quick bitch, leaving Arri with no choice but to ride and suck the life out of the dick. “Are you going to behave from now on?” She flicked the whip diagonally across the bed.

  “Yes.” He licked his wet lips. “So does my punishment end?”

  Arri paused and stuck her index finger suggestively in the corner of her mouth; her Cherries in the snow lipstick coated her fingertip. “Apologize,” she said, “for questioning me.”

  “My apologies.”

  “Not accepted. Now grant my wish to see that big dick.”

  He removed his hands from his shaft. “What are you going to do to it?”

  “I’ma suck it and then I’ma fuck it, the way I want to.” She eased one inch at a time into her mouth, licking each vein and bulging ridge like a maze of rock candy. The slurping sounds drove him wild, forcing him to scream, “Goddamn, I need you to ride me!”

  “I will ride it,” she said coldly, “when I’m done making it cum.” She continued making music with her mouth and within a matter of minutes the liquid evidence of his pleasure skeeted out.

  Arri knew the dick would take a few moments to recharge, so instead of waiting she grabbed hold of the cold metal retractable pole in her bedroom, wrapped her legs around it, and embraced it like an Alvin Ailey dancer—poised and freakishly graceful. Arri clapped her ass and simultaneously climbed to the top of the pole. Once at the top she spread her legs into a spilt, slid down, and eased toward the floor; landing perfectly on the fully recharged and awaiting dick. Her pussy creamed like warm butter as she rotated her hips on the dick.

  Arri knew there was no way he wouldn’t be pussy-whipped when she’d completed her mission. “You will learn,” she swerved her hips, “how to behave, or this big juicy dick will continue to be served with my punishment!”

  “But you already know I’ma fuckup,” he moaned.