by Cairo
He knew what she meant. His smile faded and he stared intently into her eyes. She saw the muscle in his jaw twitch.
“The truth, MarSell,” she insisted. “How has it been for you without Marika?”
He sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Then took a deep breath. He hadn’t been willing to talk about this—Marika’s death—with anyone. Not even his boy, Carlos.
He took a deep breath, and pushed out, “It’s been hell, baby.”
She gave him a look filled with compassion. She couldn’t identify with losing a life partner, but she knew the pain of losing someone you loved. She’d felt that crushing pain right after her mother had died. But that was totally different. Her mother hadn’t been murdered. Her death hadn’t been tragic.
Marika’s was.
Marcel felt his chest tighten. “Some days are better than most now,” he continued. “But overall, I’m making it.”
Nairobia nodded. “It gets better, no?”
He stared at her, his eyes glistening, then shrugged one shoulder. “Does it?”
Nairobia reached over and grabbed his hand. She shook her head. “No. Not for a long while does the pain start to not feel so numbing.”
He swallowed. “I don’t think it ever leaves you,” he said solemnly. “I’ll probably end up carrying mine to my grave.”
She cringed. “No, MarSell, my darling. You can’t let it.”
He cast his eyes downward, then turned his head, and stared off somewhere far. “I don’t know how to.” His voice came out low and hoarse. “It’s all I have left.”
She reached over and placed her finger under his chin, and turned his head to look at her. “No, my love. Look at me.” Reluctantly, his eyes met hers. “You have so much more.”
Nairobia stared into his gaze, and saw something in him she hadn’t seen before. Vulnerability. Sadness. He was still haunted by that night. The night Marika was murdered over the airwaves, the entire nightmare unfolding over the radio before hundreds of thousands of listeners. Never in a million years would Marcel have thought one sexual encounter would turn deadly.
But it had. Thanks to that Ramona bitch. She had fucked his whole world up, all because she couldn’t have him to herself. He knew without a doubt he had good dick. That he was a phenomenal lover. And before marrying Marika he’d had his share of crazies stalking him for the dick. Wanting him to wife them up. But he’d always found a way to shake them off. But Ramona had been relentless. And the craziest of them all.
“I want you to tell the whole world out there listening about our night together… Tell them how your wife fucked me in my ass while I rode your dick. Tell them how this bitch ate my pussy while I sucked all over your long, black…tell your listeners how you and this bitch took turns fucking me and how much I loved it… No man has ever made me come the way you did, MarSell. Your dick is so big…And you ate my pussy better than any man I’ve ever been with…I have never had tongue make my whole body shake…”
And then…somewhere in between the pleading and begging…it was over.
A shot was fired.
Fear slashed through Marcel’s heart as he leapt from his seat, cupping his hands tightly over his headphones.
The gun went off twice more. Then there was a deadly, crippling silence over the airwaves.
Marika was dead.
He still hadn’t fully forgiven himself for it. He still blamed himself for her death. Yet, he wanted desperately to get back to living, to move on with his life. But it wasn’t easy.
Nairobia saw Marcel’s eyes brimming with tears. Tears he fought to keep at bay, and they pulled at her heartstrings. He hadn’t talked about that night, or about the loneliness he’d felt thereafter, with anyone.
“Marcel, my darling,” she said, her heart filled with compassion and warmth. “You have to forgive yourself. No matter what you think you did, or didn’t do, you have to let go of it. Holding on to guilt will only eat away at you.”
“It already has,” he said, inhaling a sharp breath. His tears fell. Fuck. He hadn’t wanted her to see him getting emotional. Shit. He squeezed his lids shut, pinching inside the corners of his eyes.
Seeing him pained hurt her. She wanted to be there for him. But wasn’t sure if she knew how to be. She wasn’t the emotional kind of woman. She couldn’t be being in the adult film industry for as long as she had. She had to pretend to be detached. And over the years, she’d become an empty vessel filled with hard cock.
Nairobia leaned over in her seat and wrapped her arms around his neck. She hadn’t expected anything more than him hugging her back, but, to her surprise, he burrowed his face in her neck and wept. She hugged him tightly.
At that moment, something came over her. She wanted to ease his pain.
So she did what any respectable, caring woman in her position would do. She slowly slid to the car floor—inching between his hard thighs, her hands gliding up over hard muscle—and nuzzled her way upward until her jaw rubbed up and down over his crotch, until she felt him grow beneath her.
She glanced up and looked at him through dark lashes. His eyes became wet volcanoes as he looked down at her; his gaze suddenly flaring hot as she lowered his zipper, then pulled open his belt. He didn’t try to stop her. Maybe he should. But he didn’t want to.
And Nairobia didn’t want him to, either.
She wanted to do this—pleasure him—for him.
Just this one time, give without getting.
She reached into his silk boxer briefs and dragged his cock out over his pants—smooth, warm chocolate flesh, beautifully thick and ready.
A droplet of pre-cum shimmered on the very tip, and Nairobia’s mouth watered as she licked over the slit as one would their favorite ice cream cone. Blades of carnal hit sliced through Marcel’s body as Nairobia moaned over his cock, her wet mouth loving over its crown.
His head lolled back.
She eyed him through her lashes, then tightened her soft lips over the swollen head, and flicked over and around it. Marcel hissed. “Aah, shit. Sucer la bite, bébé.” Suck that dick, baby.
One hand gripped her hair, urging her, prodding her, to open wider for him. Slowly, he moved his hips, forcing his hot, heavy, enormously thick cock further into her mouth. Nairobia flattened her tongue and extended her sweet offering to him as he filled her mouth with more of him.
She would not let him stretch her neck, no. Not today. She would allow the head to hit the back of her throat and push past her tonsils—into her upper throat, but that was all she would allow him to have. She would take nine inches of him and use her skilled hands to slowly stroke the remaining four inches of him.
She’d suck him until his cock lodged in her throat and robbed her of her breath, then she’d pull out over the length of him, leaving behind trails of spit while stroking her hands up over where her mouth had been, so that her lips could suckle his head again, before spreading over and sucking his large, chocolate, cream-filled balls into her mouth.
Nairobia closed her eyes and sucked Marcel as she focused on delivering him the most exquisite pleasure with her mouth. He shuddered and fisted her hair, and she let out a long, erotic moan over the length of him, sending him further toward the edge of release. Nairobia glided her two thumbs up and down the underside of his wet dick as she drew her mouth away, licking over his head again, before she sucked his head into her mouth again. Marcel’s ragged breathing and the slow grind of his hips told her that she was taking him there, bringing him toward an orgasm as she worked his head between her tongue and the slick roof of her hot mouth. She suckled him there for what seemed like an eternity.
Marcel emitted a low growl of satisfaction, then muttered words in French, and Nairobia grew wet in response, dampening the red silk thong she’d worn. The harder she sucked him, the harder he became. The pleasure slowly building became overwhelming.
Marcel had needed this.
Like he needed air.
And Nairobia was giving it to him. Without
being asked. Without being prompted. She’d felt his pain, and had wanted to bring him pleasure, to comfort him—lovingly, with her mouth, lips, and tongue. He groaned in deep appreciation as his cock stretched her mouth wider.
“Nairobia, baby…mmm…yeah…like that…give it to me wet…”
The sound of her name in between his manly moans made her pussy burn hotter. The longer she sucked him, the wetter her mouth, the wetter her pussy, became. Her outer cunt lips slickened, causing the air around them to thicken sweetly with her musk.
Breathing in, Marcel groaned. “Oh fuck.” Her scent was driving him mad.
Nairobia licked over the crease of Marcel’s balls, then dipped her tongue along the center of his ass, then slid it back up the underside of his cock, while her hand cupped over the head of his dick, and milked it, her thumb flicking over his slit.
“Aah, motherfuck, baby…ta bouche…aah…yeah, bébé…est…donc…aaah…humide et juteuse…”
Nairobia smiled over Marcel’s cock. Yes, her mouth was wet and juicy. And so was her cunt. So, so very wet.
“Nairobia, baby…aah, shit,” he whispered, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Aaah, baby, I’m getting ready to nut for you. Aaah, yeah…uhh…you want this big load, baby…”
Fist pounding either side of the bench, thick, muscular neck stretched back, Marcel groaned low, then growled as his orgasm spread through him like a wildfire.
Nairobia moaned as she sucked, cupping his balls and slowly massaging them, kneading them, tugging them. She wanted to give Marcel release. Wanted the taste of him. She bobbed her head faster, stroked his shaft harder, and squeezed him rhythmically until he exploded inside her mouth, fierce and wild—his heated seeds hitting the back of her throat.
Nairobia sucked with more vigor, momentarily draining him of his pain. She sucked him until he went soft in her mouth, then eased up to meet his hazy gaze and covered his mouth with hers, until their tongues swam and mingled in the heat of his sweet milk.
NINE
Three days later, a crowd of paparazzi was on the ready along the velvet rope outside an extravagant club in Las Vegas. A private party was being hosted in Nairobia’s honor for the launch of her new fragrance Sweet Desires.
Hair in a messy updo, the fashionably late beauty hit the red carpet—which was awash with models, actors, and reality TV stars—causing a frenzy of flashbulbs to pop, pop, pop as she stepped out of her limo wearing what looked like a strip of gauze around her breasts and hips with a pair of pencil-thin heels. Perfection at its best, she was a paparazzo’s dream.
Her hips led the way as she gracefully sauntered up the red carpet, strategically stopping every so often—hand on hip, blowing a kiss, or looking over her shoulder to pose for a zealous photographer or two. She’d thought to bring a date, but then—at the last moment—decided she didn’t need to be on the arm of any eye candy tonight.
Josiah could simply wait in her suite for her return.
“Nairobia! Nairobia! Over here, darling!”
“Oh, Nairobia, dahling! You look simply delicious! Love your outfit!”
“Nairobia! Over here! Congrats on the release of your new fragrance! Love the samples!”
Wearing a naughty smile, Nairobia struck a suggestive pose.
More cameras clicked.
All the paparazzi were shouting for her, wanting her to turn in their direction, hoping she’d give the gossip hounds something lewd and dirty to salivate over.
She simply waved for the cameras.
“How does it feel to be immortalized?” one of the paps yapped, speaking of the life-like wax figure dozens or so celebrity friends watched Nairobia unveil of herself not less than twenty-four hours ago in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum at the Venetian Resort, making her the second personality from the adult entertainment world to be enshrined in wax. Jenna Jameson having been the first.
It’d been an auspicious occasion, for sure. And Nairobia was still floating on clouds of joy to be esteemed in such a way. Her attraction would be displayed next to Jenna Jameson’s—the porn industry’s international superstar—and Playboy Publishing founder Hugh Hefner’s wax figures.
She was deeply honored. The gesture was humbling, to say the least.
But tonight was Nairobia’s launch party for her new fragrance Sweet Pleasure and she didn’t want anything overshadowing that. Not even talk of her fabulous life-sized wax figure.
“It feels heavenly, my love,” Nairobia cooed, gliding down the red carpet as though it were a runway.
Once inside the club, music vibrated the walls and a cascade of flashing lights nearly blinded Nairobia as she sashayed her way through a throng of partygoers and ardent admirers. Drinks flowed in abundance. The club was packed to capacity with women wearing shimmering miniscule dresses and men blessed with bodies that appeared straight off the cover of Men’s Health and GQ, while scantily clad models walked around with bottles of Nairobia’s sexy and sensual perfume—packed with floral notes, vanilla and jasmine petals—on shiny silver trays, along with the night’s specialty drink, Sweet Pleasure.
It was a beautiful sight to behold.
Nairobia plucked a drink off the tray of a passing cocktail waitress, wearing a G-string and glittery pasties. She took a slow sip and winded her hips to a Drake song. She smiled at the cages that hung from the ceiling with body-painted dancers. The scene reminded her of her own club. The bass thumped and the dancing crowd gyrated in time with the frenetic beat of the music.
Red lights splashed over the crowd, and the giant tiles of the dance floor were lit from beneath. Ice sculptures sat on pedestals around the room. But in the center of the club’s dance floor was a larger-than-life ice sculpture of a naked Nairobia holding a bottle of her perfume.
On the second level, a gigantic penis adorned with two humongous balls carved out of dark chocolate erupted in the center of the VIP section, spilling rivulets of mouthwatering milk chocolate lava from its dickhead. Nairobia licked her lips at the sight, imagining herself undressing and sliding her body down into the basin of warm chocolate. She decided she wanted one for The Pleasure Zone.
Every second person who sauntered past her, stopped for either hugs and air-kisses—and the occasional, “Let’s do lunch,” or simply to congratulate her, or to take photos with the statuesque diva. Graciously, she smiled and posed for the cameras.
Eventually, Nairobia hit the dance floor and allowed the music to take over. She shimmied and gyrated her pelvis, teasing the crowd, even dancing provocatively with a few admirers—bumping and grinding into them, feeling their cocks grow painfully hard. Men took turns cutting in, trying to get their thrills for the night, and Nairobia welcomed their roaming hands and warm kisses—on her cheek, of course. Then she graciously moved on to the next.
Across the room she spotted a deliciously dark man standing there, amusement sparkling in his eyes, watching her. His masculine face illuminated every time the lights flashed, and Nairobia noticed how breathtaking he was.
He licked his lips. Nairobia wasn’t sure if the sensual gesture was directed at her or not, but she battered her thick lashes over her hypnotizing gray eyes and gave him a mischievous smile—anyway, before slowly pivoting on her “fuck-me” heels, giving him her ass to stare at.
Two hours into the festivities—after all the kisses and good wishes, Nairobia stood by the chocolate penis sliding a finger into the basin, then sucking her chocolate-coated finger into her mouth. Her nipples peaked. She felt eyes on her, so she knelt and licked on one of the gigantic balls, giving onlookers something to fantasize about, before sinking her teeth in and biting out a chunk of chocolate.
Cameras flashed at the erotic sight.
Seconds later, Kelly Rowland’s “Motivation” started playing. Nairobia stood and noticed the same man from across the room walking through the crowd toward her, carrying a magnum of Dom Pérignon in his hand. He was the color of rich, black silt. Donned in all white, around his thick neck hung a diamond cross on a th
ick platinum chain. He was six feet two inches of chiseled magnificence and Nairobia’s gaze stayed fixed on him as he approached her.
Her pussy clenched, and she wondered what’d taken him so long to come to her.
She eyed him sexily as he leaned in her ear and said over the music, “Dance with me, beautiful.” It wasn’t a question, but a command that blanketed over her senses. And she felt a rush of desire flow through her veins as his deep sexy voice brushed her skin. Oh yes. He had a scrumptious bedroom voice and was definitely motivation to get slutty.
She looked up into his big dark eyes and smiled. His eyes sparkled like two black diamonds. Nairobia immediately noticed he had beautiful smooth skin and long, thick lashes. She took in the rest of his face. He had an immaculate goatee framed around a set of full chocolate lips and a head full of thick curly hair.
And then…
He smiled, a crooked but sexy one. And Nairobia felt herself swoon—just a little, when he flashed her a set of perfectly straight, white teeth and deep dimples. Big hands, big feet, a nice smile, a nice ass, and dimples were a few of her weaknesses when it came to men. And this intoxicating mystery man managed to have it all.
His eyes scanned hers curiously, waiting. “Well. You game?”
He grabbed her hand, and he led her to the dance floor, not waiting for an answer. Nairobia smiled as he slid his hand down her lower back and pulled her into him. “Nice party.”
Nairobia smiled. “Thank you.” She worked her arms up in the air over her head and pulled the diamond pins from her hair, undoing her French twist. Her hair toppled down past her shoulders as she seductively twirled her body. She dipped low, then worked her way back up.
A thick arm went around her waist and Nairobia felt the Mystery Man press himself into her ass. He leaned into her ear, and said, “I know your perfume is sweet, but what about you, baby? How sweet are you?”
His warm breath made her shiver. She could smell the liquor on his breath, and felt herself getting lightheaded. Maybe it was from his cologne, or the three cocktails she’d sipped on, or the fact that he had her pressed into his hard-body, but Nairobia felt suddenly drunk.