50 Shades of Drake 5 and 6

Chapter Ninety-Seven

    We are living in a day and age when the surface details are more important than the heart of the matter. Rather than focus on the love story behind an epic union, we'd rather pay attention to the dress being worn, or the tweets that the exes had to say once news of the wedding hits the public airwaves. Instead of encouraging young love, or black love, or any love, we'd rather focus on whether or not the bank accounts of each person in the relationship are balanced. If not that, then we're speculating as to whether or not one or both of the young lovers is trying to take advantage of the other. Truly cynical times. Truly sad times.

    And if I just fell in line with what the rest of society does, then I could feed into that. I could focus on what everyone has to say, instead of focusing on the very real that I share with this very real man. I could focus on the people who want to bring up his past with Rihanna, could focus on the Drake fans who are disappointed because he's marrying me and not her...or I could focus on those fans who predict that Aubrey and I will divorce one day so that he and Rihanna can end up together...

    I could focus on every other little detail and allow it to distract myself from what really matters, which is the love and experiences we've shared together. But I know better than that. I know better than to allow silly online speculation to cloud my happiness. And I know better than to put anything before the love that I feel for this man. These are just some of the thoughts that go through the mind of soon-to-be Mrs. Destiny Graham.

    Welcome to DestinysBrainChild.com.

    Destiny leaned back in her chair, twirling a pen between her fingers. Then her eyes slid from the text on her computer desktop to the clock displayed at the taskbar posted at the bottom of her screen. She lowered the pen to the desk and slowly rose from her chair, donning a navy blue button-down dress with a flared skirt and navy blue and white pumps. Carlos thinks I'm basic, she thought, moving around to the front of the desk. He thinks that I'm just some thoughtless submissive who lets Aubrey treat me any kind of way. Leaning back against the front of the desk, she lifted one hand to the collar of her dress so that she could start unbuttoning.

    The sound of a door slamming closed reached her ears.

    I guess it's my fault that one of my best friends thinks that I'm just some meek little sheep that ducks her head down and follows orders. Her hand deftly slid the buttons through their holes, baring a widening sliver of flesh. I don't confide in him as much as I should. Aubrey and I are no longer under contract, but I'm still not quite comfortable divulging information like this, not even to my best friends. Granted, that could be in part because Carlos is so extra. If he's as extra as he is now, I can't even imagine how extra he'd be if he really knew everything that happened under this roof. Once the buttons were undone, she slid the dress off of her shoulders a bit, but braced her hands on the desk to help keep the garment on her frame.

    Footsteps could be heard, but they weren't headed in her direction. They sounded on the staircase, and then subtle creaks sounded above her head. He was upstairs, in the bedroom. This small bit of information made her crack a smile.

    Good boy, she thought, turning her head to the side. Patiently, she waited for him. It was thrillingly excruciating, that wait. When it went silent, she perked up a little, waiting for that next telltale creak. Waiting for the sound of the shower, and then waiting for the sound of distant falling water to cease. Her eyes were hungry to see him standing in the doorway. Amazing, how you could hold so much power in your hands, and yet someone could still hold power over you. Being a dominant was such a paradox. It was knowing when to display your power and when to reign it in and allow your submissive to flex their own power. It was knowing that you held power only because your submissive willingly relinquished theirs to you. It was a beautiful balance of give and take, of trust and empowerment.

    It didn't take long for those footsteps to return to the stairs and then a moment later, his muscled frame filled the doorway. Beard perfectly trimmed; he must have stopped by his barber's after work. It looked more tame than it had that morning when he'd left. A black tank top barely held his flexing muscles in check. He clenched and unclenched his hands while her gaze traveled to the gray sweatpants that he was wearing. And Lord, could this man fill out a pair of gray sweatpants in a way that no man could other. Only one other man had come close: Idris Elba. All others paled in comparison to the sight that lay before her eyes.

    She stared at him so hard that she felt her eyes go dry, and felt an incessant need to blink. But to blink would mean having to take her eyes off of him - that's how real the thirst was. He was hers, and would be for the rest of their lives, and thirst was still present in her interaction with him.

    What made the moment even more intense, was his own reluctance to blink. His eyes scaled down the length of her, hovering on her nearly exposed breasts. His gaze combed down the sliver of skin that her open dress revealed. And while he stood there looking, he began to fill out the pants even better than he had just seconds ago.

    This was a man.

    "Have you forgotten your next instruction?" she questioned, tilting her head to the side.

    His eyes lingered on her panties, then slowly raised upward to her face. Instead of answering, he gave a slow shake of his head.

    "Then impress me, and show me what you're supposed to do next," she told him.

    His eyes lowered back down to her panties as he strode into the office, each step purposeful. Calculated. He could be a submissive and still vibrate with dignity. Power. Just because he was submitting to her didn't make him any less powerful, and that was evident in his stride. He stopped when he reached her, then swiftly kneeled at her feet, his pose strikingly similar to that of Renaissance era sculptures. He ducked his head down, finally tearing his eyes off of her.

She reached down and smoothed a hand over the top of his head. "Look up at me," she ordered.

He did as he was told.

"Don't take your eyes off of me." With one hand, she guided his face to the front of her panties.

He continued to meet her gaze while pressing his mouth to the front of her black, lacy boy shorts. He pressed his lips flat against her, then opened his mouth and slid his tongue out. His tongue pressed against the lacy fabric, moistening it to the point of oversaturation.

At the feel of his wet tongue, her nether region also suffered a bit of oversaturation. It wasn't just his tongue. The look he was giving her was causing her to melt. It was a struggle, trying to maintain control when his eyes had dirty, filthy lust all over them.

His eyes promised to lick her inside out, and promised to fill her up in ways she'd never even imagined. His eyes promised to make her beg him to be her Dominant again. His eyes promised her a lot of things. The little groans he made against her panties also weren't helping much. Her legs trembled. The phrase "I'm shook" took on a whole new meaning when he dragged his tongue across the front of her panties, pretending like the dainty garment wasn't even there.

She gripped his head in both of her hands and shoved his face further between her thighs, tilting her head back. Basic? she thought, relishing the feel of his tongue pushing past the edge of her panties. Never that.