Your First Taste of Sweet Nectar

Chapter 1

Ellis “Love” Stone

“Those lips are even juicier in person.”

“Is that right?”

“Damn, and that voice sounds even better up close and personal.”

“I take it you’re a fan of Seductive Sessions with Ellis Love, huh?”

Most would say I draw people in with my voice, and once they meet me, I keep them wanting with my looks. Women often stop and stare like I’m an art fixture in a museum. I’ve been told I look like a young Rick Fox in his prime. Maybe it’s our Afro-Bahamian roots, the athletic build, or the hair—whatever it is, attention finds me.

“You damn right. You’ve talked me through many orgasms—solo and with company,” the way it rolled off her sexy ass lips had me looking her up and down. She was a ‘90s vibe for sure. Most people fly comfy; not her. Blue textured midi dress hugging a coke-bottle frame, white lace-up heels kissing toned calves and a fresh French pedicure.

“There are kids on this plane, miss!” a lady in Business class shrilled a few rows back.

“And you’re telling me this why? Sit your ass in Business class while we talk in first class,” my admirer shot back.

“Well then, keep your nasty little fantasy to yourself. We’re here to fly, not listen to porn. Your seat should be back by the bathroom with your filthy mouth,” the woman fired, engines humming under the argument.

“Excuse me, ladies. Please keep it down,” a flight attendant cut in.

I was headed to New Orleans to fill in for my mentor, Ross Collins—the man who opened radio’s back door for me. That city birthed my career; it’d been years since I’d been back. With Seductive Sessions blowing up in New York and the DMV, I stayed moving. Showing up for Ross was automatic. He’d always done it for me.

“What the fu—”

“Aye! Hold up. None of this is worth a delay. Sweetheart, take a seat. We can talk on the way to New Orleans.”

I slid from my window to the aisle to defuse the sparks. I glanced at the Miss Trunchbull look-alike and hoped she’d let it die. This wasn’t Matilda, and it damn sure wasn’t 1988 at Crunchem Hall. I didn’t want a show; I live enough of those.

“You think I can sit here? My seat’s right behind you,” my admirer asked the White guy next to me.

“You sure can.” He moved quickly, but not without one last hungry look at her.

“Now, where were we?” She licked her lips like the seductress she was and sat down.

We buckled up. Blood jumped toward my dick like it got the memo first. Electricity simmered between us. I’m used to attention, but this felt different—not just lust. Something in her gaze said she understood me past the polished voice.

I couldn’t shake the sense she’d been clocking me long before we spoke—intense, almost obsessive, yet enticing. It wasn’t just her face. It was the way she studied me, like she could see beyond the voice everyone thinks they know. Something about her attention felt… familiar, too—like a song I hadn’t heard in years but still knew the hook.

“I didn’t get your name.”

“Sade Ivy, but everybody calls me Ivy.” Her small, manicured hand extended. She held on a beat too long, hazel eyes smiling with perfect teeth. I almost didn’t want to let go. Her touch… did something.

“Nice to meet you, Ivy. Ready for this three-hour flight?”

I shook off the image of Ivy riding me, tits in my mouth, as we ascended. Her fingers grazed my thigh again.

Best behavior?

Dead on arrival.

“Are you kidding me? I get to sit next to the vocal deep stroker, and you smell stupid good. That cologne is giving me orgasm vibes.”

A faint sweetness floated around her—vanilla and something citrus. A note I couldn’t place. It tugged at a memory I didn’t want to pull.

Her eyes dropped to my print fighting for parole. So did her hand. A slow stroke—up, down—then her fingers at my waistband.

“Excuse me. Here’s a blanket if you get cold. Or… for other things,” the Delta flight attendant smirked, gliding away.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got all flight to make that big ass dick cum. Ten inches or better, huh? If I do my job, I’ll be able to confirm with my mouth.” Ivy flicked the blanket over both our laps.

“You got my attention. Just make sure it’s worth the no-fly list. And no singing too loud on the mic.” Her eyes said she didn’t care who heard.

I weighed federal consequences against the ache pulsing in my lap. Right then, lust had better lawyers.

“We ask that you please fasten your seatbelts…” The pilot launched into the script. The plane rolled, lifted. Ivy gripped my hand in takeoff terror; she squeezed in a rhythm that felt familiar. When the clouds swallowed us, she slid her hand back between my legs.

“You okay over there?” she breathed.

“Put some spit on it, Ms. Ivy.”

No second ask needed. She freed me, spit-slicked her palm, and went back under the blanket.

“That’s better, Mr. Love?” she whispered, then nibbled my earlobe. The way she said “Mr. Love”—the exact cadence someone I know used when joking on my radio ego—made something in my chest hitch. I muted it with a long breath.

“You’re stroking the hell outta me,” I groaned. My left hand found her thick thigh. “I can’t be the only one enjoying this. Lemme feel.”

“I want you to lick every drop off your fingers.” She opened her knees, hitching the dress just enough.

Freshly shaved. Warm. Soaked. “Sssh,” she gasped—the same soft hush Elise used when she didn’t want to wake the neighbors back in our first apartment. Memory flashed; I shoved it away and circled her bud, slow, patient. Her juices coated my knuckles as she kept rhythm on me.

“Oh, shit,” I grunted.

I looked to the left, headphones were on, our neighbors out cold. We were in a quiet war under a navy blanket. I added a finger; she clenched around me.

“I’m… a…bout to… cum.” Her eyes locked on mine.

She let go of me to ride my hand, unbuckling just enough, legs higher but not reckless. The wet, gushy music under the hum of the engines sent me over the edge of common sense.

“You taste as good as I expected.” I drew my fingers to my mouth, and sucked her sweetness clean.

She went right back to work—more spit, a firmer grip. “Your turn.” Then she replaced her hand with her mouth.

“Oh—wow. Oh, shit…”

I clamped a palm over my mouth. Headphones across the aisle didn’t twitch.

Under the blanket, her head bobbed. Warm. Wet. Wild. I wanted to drag her to the bathroom and risk it all.

“Here you go.”

I yanked the blanket off her head. I wanted to see her take it. I lifted my hips, palmed her hair, and stroked until there was nothing left.

“That’s what the fuck I’m talking ‘bout.” My chest struggled for air.

“I hope this means I’m getting some dick, too?” she said, wiping her lips, smug and glowing.

“I can’t catch a federal case. And your pussy looks too good for an airplane bathroom. Put your number in. Once I get settled, I’ll have you riding me for real.”

The business trip turned into a freak fest. I wasn’t mad. She saved her number as GTD. I may not be Tommy Strawn—but I knew how to Get Them Draws. I cleaned up with the napkin from my soda, zoned out until landing. Ivy acted like nothing happened. Divine. We promised to link and went our separate ways.