Read Online Love in a Carry-On Bag by Sadeqa Johnson - Free Book Online
Authors: Sadeqa Johnson
Ads: Link
running Erica followed him in, carrying two plush towels.
“Thanks, baby,” Warren slapped her on the ass.
“Don’t start nothing,” she pulled back the shower curtain and gestured for him to go first. Warren made room so that she could stand closest to the showerhead. The water was very warm, instantly steaming her skin. Erica soaped the cloth and handed it to him. His lips were on the small of her neck.
“You are so hot,” he breathed. “Damn, my woman is fine,” he rubbed his pelvis against her booty.
“Hmm,” she let her head fall back. Warren moved the sudsy cloth up and down her back and then around to her breasts and midsection.
“You ain’t trying to go to the club tonight,” she backed against him while wetting a second cloth. Lathering it with liquid soap she turned to face Warren and moved the cloth from his ears to his shoulders and then brushed both thighs. When she let her hand rest on his manhood, pleasure flashed across his face.
“We’re going,” he kissed her deeply. “Just stealing an appetizer to hold me over.” He tongued her ear.
“Okay then, trumpet boy. Dip your head,” she removed his hands from her waist and switched places so that he was in front closest to the water.
Erica shampooed and rinsed his hair, making sure all of the suds were off their bodies and down the drain before she shut off the water. Wrapping him in a towel, she led him into the bedroom where she oiled his skin, paying close attention to his feet.
“You need a pedicure.”
“I have you,” he said when she was finished.
“Whatever,” she switched her hips, purposefully giving him something to smile about as she went to her closet to search for something to wear.
Warren tore his eyes away from her long enough to rummage through his tote, though the outfit choice for him tonight was obvious.
Most musicians have superstitions, quirks and rituals that they perform before taking the stage. Warren’s drummer always wore mismatched socks. His pianist: gold bracelets on each wrist with his baseball cap twisted backwards. Warren dressed in black from head to toe and rubbed a drop of frankincense on his throat and on the crown of his head. The dark clothing was his invention; the frankincense his late mother’s .
Warren’s mother Alma had grown up in the swamps of Louisiana. She believed in voodoo, church and essential oils, and was always rubbing Warren and his older sister down in something. Peppermint was used for upset stomachs, clove for teething babies, lemon increased circulation, and lavender helped with a good night’s sleep.
As a classically trained pianist, his mother shared with him her love of music. Warren was taught piano at four, banged on the drums at seven, settling on the finger pattern of the trumpet by ten. Weekly music lessons gave way to recitals, all unattended by his father, who refused to acknowledge Warren’s musical gift.
“My son won’t end up a needle-pushing junkie. Warren’s getting a good job,” he’d say. And that was how Warren came to earn his Masters in computer engineering. But what his father didn’t understand was that Warren’s music was more than a hobby. Playing his instrument was like a choice between living and dying slowly.
With just a sprinkle of frankincense in his palm, Warren could already feel the balsamic oil seep into his skin. Erica walked over to him as he tied his shoes on the sofa. She had decided on wearing a red sweater dress. Her beauty sucked up the oxygen in the room.
“Pretty.”
“Handsome,” she winked, holding out her wrist with a bracelet she wanted him to fasten.
Warren loved jamming because it separated the men from the boys. At any given time there could be as many as ten, twelve musicians on stage with four playing the same instrument. The choice was either play or be played and Warren never fell victim to the latter, especially at Smalls, a well-known jazz club in the West Village where the top musicians in the
“Thanks, baby,” Warren slapped her on the ass.
“Don’t start nothing,” she pulled back the shower curtain and gestured for him to go first. Warren made room so that she could stand closest to the showerhead. The water was very warm, instantly steaming her skin. Erica soaped the cloth and handed it to him. His lips were on the small of her neck.
“You are so hot,” he breathed. “Damn, my woman is fine,” he rubbed his pelvis against her booty.
“Hmm,” she let her head fall back. Warren moved the sudsy cloth up and down her back and then around to her breasts and midsection.
“You ain’t trying to go to the club tonight,” she backed against him while wetting a second cloth. Lathering it with liquid soap she turned to face Warren and moved the cloth from his ears to his shoulders and then brushed both thighs. When she let her hand rest on his manhood, pleasure flashed across his face.
“We’re going,” he kissed her deeply. “Just stealing an appetizer to hold me over.” He tongued her ear.
“Okay then, trumpet boy. Dip your head,” she removed his hands from her waist and switched places so that he was in front closest to the water.
Erica shampooed and rinsed his hair, making sure all of the suds were off their bodies and down the drain before she shut off the water. Wrapping him in a towel, she led him into the bedroom where she oiled his skin, paying close attention to his feet.
“You need a pedicure.”
“I have you,” he said when she was finished.
“Whatever,” she switched her hips, purposefully giving him something to smile about as she went to her closet to search for something to wear.
Warren tore his eyes away from her long enough to rummage through his tote, though the outfit choice for him tonight was obvious.
Most musicians have superstitions, quirks and rituals that they perform before taking the stage. Warren’s drummer always wore mismatched socks. His pianist: gold bracelets on each wrist with his baseball cap twisted backwards. Warren dressed in black from head to toe and rubbed a drop of frankincense on his throat and on the crown of his head. The dark clothing was his invention; the frankincense his late mother’s .
Warren’s mother Alma had grown up in the swamps of Louisiana. She believed in voodoo, church and essential oils, and was always rubbing Warren and his older sister down in something. Peppermint was used for upset stomachs, clove for teething babies, lemon increased circulation, and lavender helped with a good night’s sleep.
As a classically trained pianist, his mother shared with him her love of music. Warren was taught piano at four, banged on the drums at seven, settling on the finger pattern of the trumpet by ten. Weekly music lessons gave way to recitals, all unattended by his father, who refused to acknowledge Warren’s musical gift.
“My son won’t end up a needle-pushing junkie. Warren’s getting a good job,” he’d say. And that was how Warren came to earn his Masters in computer engineering. But what his father didn’t understand was that Warren’s music was more than a hobby. Playing his instrument was like a choice between living and dying slowly.
With just a sprinkle of frankincense in his palm, Warren could already feel the balsamic oil seep into his skin. Erica walked over to him as he tied his shoes on the sofa. She had decided on wearing a red sweater dress. Her beauty sucked up the oxygen in the room.
“Pretty.”
“Handsome,” she winked, holding out her wrist with a bracelet she wanted him to fasten.
Warren loved jamming because it separated the men from the boys. At any given time there could be as many as ten, twelve musicians on stage with four playing the same instrument. The choice was either play or be played and Warren never fell victim to the latter, especially at Smalls, a well-known jazz club in the West Village where the top musicians in the
Similar Books
