Princess In Paradise
White Russians
We meet at a spot right off Ledbetter, which my homies and I dubbed The Old Stomping Grounds. Please don’t ask me how or why. It’s a secluded spot in the woods where you could pull a car or two and park. It’s our hood’s version of Lover’s Lane.
Charlotte arrives at noon. I’m already there waiting. The weather is not a typical Small Town Friendly Saturday afternoon in that there’s a light drizzle, and it hardly ever rains here.
Even Mother Nature shed a few tears because of our loss. It’s a couple of weeks before Spring Break, so it’s warm out. My Love exits the car; she is a breath of fresh air; her beaming smile immediately melts my frozen, lifeless heart. I’m standing behind my first car. She approaches.
“Baby, I’m so sorry, you still have next year.” She says, offering a cute, kissable pout.
Charlotte enters my personal space and hugs my waist. I don’t speak but take my right hand and move some of her golden locks behind her ear, bend slightly, and give her my mouth.
She smells like a freshly picked boutique of violets. Our tongues find a beautiful rhythm. Her saliva is like a shot of adrenaline. I go to her neck, licking and biting. She gasps. And squeezes me tighter.
