“All right? That’s it? Oh, you’re not impressed, huh? Well, let me show you the bedroom.”

Leading me to the back, we entered his room. Black granite-tiled floors sparkled beneath the mirrored ceiling. A gold-covered chaise, draped with a chenille throw and leopard print pillows, sat by the bed. A platinum champagne bucket had also been placed by the bed, which faced a built-in, fifty-inch plasma screen. Over the headboard hung more naked abstract art. It was laid.

In the bathroom, a seven-foot sunken Jacuzzi tub was lined with candles and incense. Next to that, a beveled glass-covered shower, and across from the tub, you guessed it, naked abstract art. He was leaving nothing to the imagination.

Reaching down into the Jacuzzi, he began filling the tub. The water flowed like a waterfall, and like a waterfall, I too was flowing. But there was no way I was getting into that Jacuzzi. That big, spacious, hot-water-filled Jacuzzi. No way. Absolutely not. Out of the question. No sex, no sex, no sex.

Sensing my hesitation, he slowly began undressing, raising his sweater over his head. My God, I had forgotten how sexy he was. His body had more ripples than the Atlantic. Damn, he was fine. Then slowly, he eased out of his jeans. By now I had enough water in my own jeans to fill the entire Jacuzzi myself. Slowly his jeans went past his rippled thighs, past his knees, one leg out. I began twitching with anticipation. Then the other leg was off and finally he stood only in his boxer-briefs. The elastic was barely able to withstand the pressure from within. Then slowly, they lowered. I almost collapsed with dizziness. The earth moved with each step he took toward me.

He reached for my top, lifting it slowly over my head. No sex. Unzipping my skirt lower and lower. No sex. Soon after, my panties dropped and we both stood naked, looking at the tub. No sex, no sex, no…Oh, to hell with Sam, I was getting some tonight! And regardless of how I was going to feel in the morning, I wanted him just as much as he wanted me. He was again a diversion and again, I was his layover. Not a booty call but a booty fly by.

As we sank into the tub, I made sure my hairline stayed dry. The steam was bad enough, but water would surely make my European-looking hair revert back to its tribal African roots. I didn’t want to go in looking like Halle Berry and come out looking like Kizzy Kinte.