Make You Mine. Niobia Bryant

There was no way he was going to call a grown man Boo, especially one who was so openly gay that Julius wondered if Dwayne was a cross-dresser in his spare time. Either way Julius didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to him was Dwayne’s skill with a camera and his ability to do the job as his assistant, and the man was excellent at both. Julius had no complaints. They were cool.

      Julius walked across the length of the converted warehouse he used as his office and studio. At his desk he picked up some proofs to sort through. Suddenly the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

      “I can’t wait to see the finished photos, Julius.”

      He turned his head to find Karina closing the chocolate leather curtain that blocked his office off from the rest of the lengthy studio. The up-and-coming supermodel looked willow and beautiful in a short silk kimono that did absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was nude beneath it. Funny how the sight of taut nipples pressing against the thin silk was more erotic to him than seeing her completely nude.

      With a warmth in his eyes that could rival a fire, Julius gave her a long, leisurely look that was filled with intent. “I just hope I do you justice.”

      Karina took a bold step toward him, lifting her hand to caress the ever-present stubble on his cheek. “I just hope I’m able to do you.”

      “Hey, Jules,” his assistant called through the curtain.

      “Dwayne,” he threatened at Dwayne’s use of the nickname Tamara gave him. He never once looked away from Karina as she sucked leisurely on her index finger in a decidedly provocative move.

      “Oops! ’Cuse me, Julius , telephone.”

      He just shook his head. “Hold that thought,” Julius told her.

      Karina laughed huskily, pulling her finger from her mouth to outline his full bottom lip. “That’s not all I’ll hold.”

      He leaned past her to pick up the cordless phone on his desk, the ringer of which had been shut off. “Julius Jones here.”

      “Hello there, Julius Jones. Tamara Lawson here.”

      “What’s up Tam-Tam?” he asked, keeping his eyes on Karina as she draped herself across the top of his neatly organized desk.

      “Favor.”

      “What?”

      “Double date. Kendrick, you, me and—”

      “Let me guess…Caress, right?” Julius drawled, as Karina began the foreplay without him.

      “Yes. Look, she got laid off and I thought a night out with some friends would lift her spirits. You game?”

      Julius pulled a chair over and sat down to watch Karina’s show, automatically straightening the crease of his black slacks.

      “Jules?”

      “Huh…what?” he asked, distracted as Karina played in the soft, moist folds of her feminine core.

      “Look, you owe me.”

      “Not tonight, Tamara,” he told her sternly. “Besides, I have to finish packing. You know I leave for Africa in the morning.”

      “As anal as you are?” Tamara mocked, with a laugh. “You’ve probably been packed since last week.”

      She was right. “Look, I just can’t tonight. Trust me on this.”

      “Jules.”

      “No, definitely not tonight,” he insisted, as Karina began to purr like a kitten being stroked.

      “Jules.”

      “Tamara, not—”

      “Julius,” she finished softly.

      He massaged his five o’clock shadow, which he kept neat and taped up with a weekly trip to his barber. He always rubbed his beard when he had a choice to make. A sure thing with Karina or a mercy date with Tamara’s unemployed friend.

      “Stop rubbing that sorry beard and say something, Jules.”

      He laughed softly at her astuteness. They’d been friends since college and she knew him well…too well. “This is one helluva favor you’re calling in. You…just…don’t…know.”

      Karina trembled and purred softly with her own climax, boldly looking him in his eyes as she did. Julius swallowed over a lump in his throat. “Oh, you owe me… big time.”

      Frustrated, Caress yanked the shirt over her head and threw it on the open sofa bed with the rest of her discarded garments. For the past thirty minutes she had struggled with what to wear. Not that she was trying to impress Mr. Julius Jones, photographer extraordinaire. She just liked to look her best at all times.

      Clad only in a denim skirt and her lace bra, Caress surveyed her slim wardrobe. Even when she was working she didn’t have much money to buy new clothes the way she wanted, but she tried to buy a few nice pieces that could be switched up.

      Caress turned and studied her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the closet door. She absolutely hated the odd shape of her body. She wished her breasts were more the size of cantaloupes than plums. Some might say more than a mouthful was a waste, but Caress could only laugh at that. She definitely wanted to graduate out of the itty-bitty-titty committee, especially with her wide hips, shapely legs, and full bottom. She caught all kinds of hell trying to buy a two-piece outfit when her top was a size medium and her bottom a large.

      Stepping closer to the mirror, Caress leaned in to study her face. A lot of people likened her to Jennifer Lopez, but she didn’t see the resemblance. Sure, they both had classic Latin features and long straight dark hair, but Caress was only half Latina while J. Lo was a full-blooded Puerto Rican. Caress’s skin tone was definitely darker, and her hair had to be permed to maintain its polished straightness, both testaments to the African-American part of her heritage.

      And it was a heritage she wanted to know more about.

      She let her eyes drift across the studio apartment to the picture frame holding all the history she had in the world. It was a shame.

      If not for the faded photograph of a Latin man and a Black woman stuck in her meager belongings when she was carried to Child Protective Services as a toddler, Caress wouldn’t even know she was mixed. Her mother died when she was two. With no other family available to take her in, she became a child of foster care. Unfortunately that’s all she knew of her lineage. Was her Latin side Cuban, Puerto Rican, Dominican, or maybe Mexican? Was her Black side Jamaican, African, or American?

      Questions and more questions.

      Growing up without a past does that for a person.

      Brushing off her sadness, Caress turned and reached into the pile of clothes on the bed for the long-sleeved V-neck shirt she discarded earlier. She pulled on the fitted top and then reached into her small closet for her black knee-length boots—it was a cool October night and the boots should be fine. “Not bad for thirty bucks,” Caress told herself, as she sat down on the sofa bed to pull them on. “Not bad at all.”

      The entire outfit, including the boots, came from K-Mart, and if she didn’t tell, no one would know it. Caress was glad for discount chains because she couldn’t afford much else.

      She decided to let her hair hang freely around her shoulders and put on only some peach-tinted lip gloss with a little blush. A few precious drops of her DKNY perfume and Caress was ready to rock and roll.

      Glancing at the clock, she saw that she had some time before Tamara and Kendrick were supposed to pick her up. She grabbed the newspaper and opened it to the classifieds. She circled those jobs she wanted to apply for; drew a square around the ones she would settle for; and placed a big X through the ads she wouldn’t even dare consider—like “DANCERS WANTED FOR BIG $$$$.”

      Caress snorted. “Hell, my breasts aren’t big enough anyway.”

      She