Fifty Shades of Jungle Fever by L. V. Lewis Read Free Book Online Page B

what appears to have been a deep, drugged sleep. It’s dark in the room, as if it’s nighttime, but there’s a dim light escaping from under two of three doors I can pick out around the humongous room. This has to be the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in, and the sheets smell like heaven. In fact, they feel that way, too. I’d hazard to guess they are somewhere around a couple thousand thread count, considering their softness. I feel like fucking Cleopatra sleeping on what I assume is Egyptian cotton. Damn! I could get used to this.
    If this were my bed I’d be sleeping on my thin overwashed 500 thread count sheets under the quilt my paternal grandmother made. Where the fuck am I, really? I reach my hands above my head and touch a plush cushioned headboard. Definitely not my own bed.
    My brain rewinds to the events of last night. Fuck! I hit Darnelle in the face because I thought she slipped me a Mickey. Byron tried to carry me out of the club to God knows where, when Tristan stopped him. The one mixed drink and two bottles of Cristal I helped consume either sneaked up on me big time, or somebody honestly did drug my ass. I fumble toward the bedside table and turn on a lamp. Well, good goddamn, I’m either at Tristan’s house or a luxury hotel because Byron’s never had anything this luxurious. I am dressed in a silk nightgown. Nothing else. Oh shit! Who undressed me?
    There’s a glass pitcher full of ice, water, and paper thin slices of fruit, and one drinking glass turned down on a linen doily covering two Tylenol. Did Tristan do this, or did he make poor Darryl do it? My money is on Mr. Control. I sit up, thankful for the water, because my mouth feels like cotton, and I feel the remnants of a headache. I take the Tylenol with another long drink of water.
    I hear a soft knock on the door.
    “Come in,” I say speaking around the amphibian that has climbed into my throat and rendered it froggy from disuse.
    Tristan saunters into the room, wearing full fencing gear sans the mask, as if he owns the place.
    Wait, if this is his house, he does own the place. My Triple-G takes a finger and draws a circle around her ear intimating that I’m Looney Toons.
    Who knew a man in that get-up could be so damned sexy? His blond hair is dark from perspiration, his tan a delicious contrast to the fencing whites.
    My Fairy Hoochie Mama wakes up, sits on the side of her miniature bed, takes the sleep mask off her eyes, and crosses and recrosses her legs like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Hello Tiger, she mouths to Tristan, and then growls. I close my eyes, and open them again—hoping that when I do both my Triple-G and Fairy Hoochie Mama will have calmed the fuck down.
    “Good morning, Keisha. How’s your head?”
    “Other than the fact it feels like I loaned it to someone who abused it rather savagely while I was sleeping, fine.” I am compelled to use my sometimes dormant, proper English vocabulary I learned in high school and college with Tristan .
    He touches a button on a panel against the far wall, a whirring motor engages, and I can now tell it’s daylight behind the drapes. Damn, what I wouldn’t give to have automated light-blocking blinds in our duplex.
    With a nod toward his state of dress, I say, “Did you win your match?”
    “Yes, I trounced Nathan,” he says.
    “So you had the high ground?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “You know, like in Star Wars when Obi Wan had the higher ground and was able to defeat Anakin Skywalker also known as Darth Vadar.”
    He laughs. “ The high ground is more advantageous in most military tactics. So , you like sci-fi action movies, Ms. Beale?”
    “Movies, period. Almost as much as I like music.” Why do I succumb to blabber infection every time I’m around him?
    “Good to know.”
    He approaches the bed, and I scoot back against the headboard involuntarily. I want to bring my knees up and trap them with my arms, but I remember I’m only wearing a short silk