arched her back slightly and moved her pelvis forward. He gently slid two fingers inside his wife and slowly circled them around and around, enjoying the heat of her silkiness. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth. “You taste so sweet, and you’re so wet. Feels like you might want something else.”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Aminah moaned.
Fame lifted Aminah up off the floor and gently placed her in the middle of their bed. He grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and Anita Baker’s sultry voice sang seductively from the ceiling.
Fame undressed and gently slid inside Aminah. She felt like smooth velvet. They made love for three hours straight. Aminah and Fame slept long and hard, Aminah’s head tucked right under her husband’s chin. The sensation of Fame’s warm, steady breath caressing her face was as soothing to her as a relaxing Vichy shower.
It was customary for Fame to buy Aminah an extravagant gift or take her away on a nice little jaunt when their marriage was on shaky ground or when he’d been busted. He strategically distracted her, or at the very least temporarily preoccupied her, with something memorable.
First thing Monday morning, Fame e-mailed his assistant to put in a call to their Louis Vuitton contact and have something exclusive and pink sent to his wife. That afternoon a messenger arrived at the front gate of their home in Jamaica Estates, Queens. The housekeeper, WillieMae, signed for the package addressed to BABY GIRL . Aminah opened the box and found a $14,000 Louis Vuitton stingray art-deco pouch in Galuchat that wouldn’t be available until next March. Aminah smiled and subconsciously tucked that “blind item” into the recesses of her brain somewhere.
Chapter 6
“Your skin is like burnished bronze…and your hair is like soft wool. You are exquisite.”
“D on’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, baby ,” Sean sang loudly and off-key while dust-mopping the upstairs hallway of the Rogers brownstone—the hallway of the black Madonnas. It was lined with various mother-and-child renditions—a pastel water-color by Brenda Joysmith on one wall, an oil-on-canvas by the Harlem-housed painter, TAFA, next to it, and two sepia-toned photographs of Aminah and her children on the opposite wall. One photo was of Aminah cradling a six-week-old Alia, the other was of her snuggling a three-month-old Amir. At the end of the hallway was a Woodrow Nash stoneware Madonna sculpture. Sean could clean only to music. He found it difficult to focus on his Saturday-morning task otherwise.
“Sing it, baby!” Lang yelled out from the bathroom as she vigorously shook mounds of Bon Ami into her dolphin-footed white porcelain tub. A much smaller amount of the cleansing powder was required, but Lang got an inexplicable rush from creating the thick swirls of paste, only to rinse them away with scorching hot water, making her tub sparkle brighter than all the toothy veneers on the celebrity red carpet.
Six days had gone by since Lang had last spoken to Aminah. Next Sunday was her turn to treat for their Session and brunch, but she wasn’t exactly certain if they were even still on. She really missed Aminah, but between Sean and work and Dante, it felt as if every second of her time had been tapped. Still, Lang was surprised that Aminah hadn’t at least checked to see if she’d made it home after speeding off in such a huff. Lang had picked up the phone several times during the week, intending to call Aminah, but she just kept putting it off.
Lang methodically sprayed and squeegeed the shower door, meticulously wiped down the mirror and tiles—streak-free, of course—conscientiously disinfected the commode, faucets, knobs and door handles, and enthusiastically scrubbed the dark brown tile floor on her hands and knees. It took her exactly fifty-six minutes to tidy up the bathroom to her liking.
Cleaning was a religious act for Lang. Though she practiced it daily, Saturday was her designated
“Mmmm-hmmm,” Aminah moaned.
Fame lifted Aminah up off the floor and gently placed her in the middle of their bed. He grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and Anita Baker’s sultry voice sang seductively from the ceiling.
Fame undressed and gently slid inside Aminah. She felt like smooth velvet. They made love for three hours straight. Aminah and Fame slept long and hard, Aminah’s head tucked right under her husband’s chin. The sensation of Fame’s warm, steady breath caressing her face was as soothing to her as a relaxing Vichy shower.
It was customary for Fame to buy Aminah an extravagant gift or take her away on a nice little jaunt when their marriage was on shaky ground or when he’d been busted. He strategically distracted her, or at the very least temporarily preoccupied her, with something memorable.
First thing Monday morning, Fame e-mailed his assistant to put in a call to their Louis Vuitton contact and have something exclusive and pink sent to his wife. That afternoon a messenger arrived at the front gate of their home in Jamaica Estates, Queens. The housekeeper, WillieMae, signed for the package addressed to BABY GIRL . Aminah opened the box and found a $14,000 Louis Vuitton stingray art-deco pouch in Galuchat that wouldn’t be available until next March. Aminah smiled and subconsciously tucked that “blind item” into the recesses of her brain somewhere.
Chapter 6
“Your skin is like burnished bronze…and your hair is like soft wool. You are exquisite.”
“D on’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, baby ,” Sean sang loudly and off-key while dust-mopping the upstairs hallway of the Rogers brownstone—the hallway of the black Madonnas. It was lined with various mother-and-child renditions—a pastel water-color by Brenda Joysmith on one wall, an oil-on-canvas by the Harlem-housed painter, TAFA, next to it, and two sepia-toned photographs of Aminah and her children on the opposite wall. One photo was of Aminah cradling a six-week-old Alia, the other was of her snuggling a three-month-old Amir. At the end of the hallway was a Woodrow Nash stoneware Madonna sculpture. Sean could clean only to music. He found it difficult to focus on his Saturday-morning task otherwise.
“Sing it, baby!” Lang yelled out from the bathroom as she vigorously shook mounds of Bon Ami into her dolphin-footed white porcelain tub. A much smaller amount of the cleansing powder was required, but Lang got an inexplicable rush from creating the thick swirls of paste, only to rinse them away with scorching hot water, making her tub sparkle brighter than all the toothy veneers on the celebrity red carpet.
Six days had gone by since Lang had last spoken to Aminah. Next Sunday was her turn to treat for their Session and brunch, but she wasn’t exactly certain if they were even still on. She really missed Aminah, but between Sean and work and Dante, it felt as if every second of her time had been tapped. Still, Lang was surprised that Aminah hadn’t at least checked to see if she’d made it home after speeding off in such a huff. Lang had picked up the phone several times during the week, intending to call Aminah, but she just kept putting it off.
Lang methodically sprayed and squeegeed the shower door, meticulously wiped down the mirror and tiles—streak-free, of course—conscientiously disinfected the commode, faucets, knobs and door handles, and enthusiastically scrubbed the dark brown tile floor on her hands and knees. It took her exactly fifty-six minutes to tidy up the bathroom to her liking.
Cleaning was a religious act for Lang. Though she practiced it daily, Saturday was her designated
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