The Sweetest Taboo: A Novel - Softcover

Risqué is the pseudonym of bestselling author Tu-Shonda Whitaker. Her works include Red Light Special, Smooth Operator, and The Sweetest Taboo. She received the Ella Baker and WEB Dubois International Award for fiction writing. She lives in New Jersey with her husband and their two daughters.

The Sweetest Taboo 
Chapter 1  

Yuri
 
Sade’s Love Deluxe played smoothly in the background as Yuri pressed the rim of her champagne filled flute to her “Oh Baby” MAC-covered lips, leaving the imprint of a kiss behind. Caught in a daydream, she stroked the left side of her shoulder-length hair and toyed with the idea of making love to Britt. Hit it and quit it. Fulfill her big-dick-Rastafarian fantasy, then return to her fictitious role of the Christian Stepford wife. After all, she knew jonesin’ for Britt’s dick was on the losing end of the game.
 
Nevertheless, she still let Britt flirt and feel her ass in Port of Spain as they sang and winded onstage. She’d sung a soca duet with him, though she really didn’t want to since she was American, but he convinced her that it was okay. Britt said that once people took in her thick thighs, voluptuous ass and the way heaven rang from her throat, they would be too caught up in the music to wonder which part of the world she was from. And she believed him, so she flew to Trinidad, got onstage, let her voice flow and the crowd went wild, confirming for her that no one would ever believe she was a Brooklyn-born “Yankee gurl” with a high-school diploma and a Medical Records degree.
 
“I told you not to take yo’ fat ass, didn’t I?” Jeff spat. “I don’t know what the f*** is yo’ problem, Yuri!” For a brief moment she’d forgotten her husband was on speakerphone singing his nightly praises into the intercom. “You just a fat f***in’ pain in the ass sometimes. I swear, what the hell are you really doing there? Huh? It ain’t like you can sing that great, Yuri! If you wanna sing so bad, why don’t you join the church choir instead of gyratin’ yourself on some stage! Do something positive for once. I really don’t understand how I survived tolerating you this long!”
 
Yuri could hear Jeff ’s son in the background. “Daddy,” Jeff Jr. said, “can we call my mommy?”
“Wait one minute,” Jeff responded in a much kinder tone. “I need to deal with your stepmother first.” He turned his attention back to the phone. “Actually, we gon’ skip all this ra-ra and you just gon’ bring yo’ fat f***in’ ass home. You hear me, Yuri?!”
 
“Uhmmm hmmm.” She stood on the balcony, watching the fete down below.
 
“Well, then good, now what you gon’ do?”
 
“I’ma take my fat ass downstairs and go handle some business.” And she hung up. When the phone rang two seconds later, she didn’t answer; instead she took off her tri colored gold wedding band and left it spinning on the hotel’s nightstand, next to the complimentary Bible and the free notepad.
 
From the moment Yuri stepped onto the lanai the party was jumping. Flags were flying, music was blasting, drinks were floating and people were everywhere. Without hesitation Yuri began to dance. She could bet her last dollar that Jeff had called her back at least ten times to give her the same sappy-ass apology, which usually followed his tirades and consisted of “I love you” and “I miss you.” All of which she’d grown tired of hearing around the same time she got sick of faking orgasms.
 
Unable to stop staring as Yuri danced, Britt sipped his beer and leaned against the bar. Two rows of neon lights, which hung over his shoulders, illuminated the perfect shape of her apple ass.
 
Yuri danced, spun around and then spotted Britt. Despite her best efforts, a wide smile spread across her face. Everything about Britt raised perfection to another level. His long and beautiful dreads, which usually hung midway down his back, were now wrapped in a sexy bun and covered with a traditional red-yellow-and-green Rastafarian mesh head wrap. The veins on the sides of his thick chocolate neck ran into his broad shoulders, leading directly to his well-defined six-pack, which Yuri could see the details of clearly through his knit wife-beater.
 
Britt stared at Yuri for as long as he could stand. He prayed that his hard dick would stay calm until just the right moment. Then the DJ played a live recording of the duet they’d sung earlier. And that’s when it clicked. That was the moment.
 
Britt walked over to Yuri with a cold beer in one hand, and placed the other around her waist. “You know, I’ve been watching you,” he whispered in her ear
 
“I noticed that.” She laughed, nervously running her fingers through the silky curls that framed her face. Her skin was the color of light and sweet coffee, her eyes were brown sugar, and her dimples sparkled like diamonds when she smiled. She bore a striking resemblance to Chilli from the group TLC, taking after her Native American father; however, her attitude, culture and brick-house hips came from her voluptuous black mother.
 
As Britt’s cool breath hit against the side of her face, her erotic pearl swelled and her pussy ached. “Every time I turned to look at something,” Yuri said as her stomach flipped into knots, “you were in my way.”
 
“I was trying to be in your way,” he said rubbing his cold beer against her right cheek. Drops of water ran down the side of her neck, finding refuge between her breasts
 
Yuri bit hard on her bottom lip. She hadn’t been this nervous since she accepted her husband’s marriage proposal. Unsure if Britt was drunk or not, she took a deep breath and stuttered, “A-A-Are-you oh-kay?”
 
“I warned him . . .” Britt sang in a low tone in her ear, “not to sleep at night, ’cause a dirty ole Rasta like me . . . would take his wife. . . .”
 
“You’ve drunk a little too much,” she laughed.
 
“I can handle my liquor,” he said as he placed a series of soft bites down the side of her neck. “Now I need to know how to handle you. Would you be better on top or the bottom?”