by Cairo
Still…
A woman needed to keep a man guessing. She needed to be bold and daring. Needed to know how to have a life outside of having a man. She needed to know how to live life on the edge…just a little. Throw caution to the wind and give into her desires, responsibly, of course. But not be so accessible to a man—all the time.
Make him wait. Just a little. Give him something to yearn, something to dream about. Women needed to know how to say, “Come hither” or “Here I am, my love” in her dress, in her eyes, in her body language, without ever opening her mouth.
There was an art to throwing oneself at a man without seeming…thirsty.
In Nairobia’s opinion, thirsty women were unattractive and depressive, which was probably why she had no females in her inner circle that she could honestly call a friend. Acquaintances? Why of course. She had plenty of those.
But a true girlfriend in every sense of the word, she did not exist in Nairobia’s world. She found most women backstabbing, conniving, and petty. Rich or poor, women could be messy. And Nairobia had no time for drama and mess. Period.
And any woman smiling in her face usually had an ulterior motive, especially one whose smile didn’t quite shine in her eyes. Like the one plastered over Lenora Samuels’ lips. She was the head of one of the world’s top literary agencies in the publishing world—LS Literary Agency—and, yet, she always came across as fake. Like now, as she sat across from Nairobia—at a cute Afro-Asian restaurant in Harlem, sipping her cocktail, while trying to convince Nairobia to allow her to shop her next book, Sweet Pleasures.
Nairobia stared at her, blinking every so often. Lenora Samuels was two screws short of crazy if she thought she would be foolish enough to let her represent her literary interests. Her last two books had both landed on the New York Times bestseller list and earned starred reviews from critics from around the globe, as well as selling over three million copies to date. Nairobia would never help fatten her bank accounts.
“Nairobia, my darling, I think we’d make a fabulous team,” Lenora pitched, swiping her bangs from her eyes with a manicured finger. “There’s no one else in the literary industry who’ll have your best interests at heart more than I, my darling.” Lenora flashed another smile. “I’m a relentless beast who gets lucrative results, my darling.”
Nairobia matched her smile with one of her own, forced and fake. But she said nothing. Sure, Lenora was one of the best in the literary world, but she wasn’t the best. She was gossipy. And despite all of her friendly overtures, Nairobia had taken an immediate dislike to her.
“I know—” Lenora started again.
Nairobia’s cell phone rang. She ignored it.
“You were saying?” Nairobia said, more out of courtesy than anything else, because the fact of the matter was, she didn’t give a damn.
“Well, Nai—”
It rang again. Nairobia pulled it out of her bag and glanced at the screen.
It was Josiah.
Lenora hiked up one eyebrow. “Do you need to take that?” She sounded annoyed that her pitch to sign on as her agent was being interrupted.
Nairobia tossed her phone back into her bag. “No, no. I’m fine. Continue.”
“Well, like I was saying. I know a darling editor over at M&M Publishing who would simply stain her undies to sink her teeth into your manuscript. I’m telling you, my darling, she’d love to have you onboard.”
Nairobia bristled. M&M Publishing had been Marcel’s wife’s publishing house before she’d…
Nairobia shook her head, and said, “Let’s be clear, darling. I already have an agent who I adore immensely. Besides, poaching contracts away from another agent is underhanded and tasteless. It’s unethical, no?” Nairobia tilted her head, and raised her brow for effect. She didn’t wait for her response. “I, my darling, would never entertain doing business with a thieving agent.”
Lenora blinked in surprise, swinging her weave. “Thieving? Poaching? Ha! I beg your pardon. I do no such thing. I’ve not climbed the ladder of success by stealing, my darling. I’ve climbed up the ladder and smashed open the ceiling of opportunity by taking what I want. I make things happen. I make careers, lovey. And I can snatch them away.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that. My name rings bells.”
Nairobia rolled her eyes. “Lenora, darling, bell ringing or not, you’re ruthless and delusional.” She pulled out the diamond-tipped pins that held her hair into a sleek chignon, then shook it free, tossing her own mane over her shoulder. “What you’re trying to do is steal another agent’s client. Call it what you will. But, if you’re trying to pilfer another agent’s contracts, you’ll try to steal my coins. And, I, my darling, have the resources, the connections, and the coins to ruin you if you dared.” Nairobia snapped her fingers, mimicking Lenora. “Snap. Just like that. And, trust me. My bells ring louder.”
Lenora picked up her glass and took a slow sip. The corner of her mouth lifted. “Now, now, let’s play nice, Nairobia, darling. No need to get catty. There’s no reason why two successful, beautiful black women, like yourself and I, can’t—”
Nairobia laughed, cutting her off. “No, no, no. Let’s not toss skin color into the ring, Lenora, dear. And let’s not sit here and try to eat the elephant in the room. Last I heard, you’d said I wasn’t a real black woman. Whatever that meant.”
Nairobia had gotten that tidbit out of the mouth of an editor who’d sworn her to secrecy. Hearing that type of ignorance from other black women sliced under Nairobia’s skin. Granted she was half-black. But she identified with her West African ancestry openheartedly. Because of her exotic looks, she often found it oddly amusing how, at first glance, people assumed she was Moroccan or Egyptian—or from some other Middle Eastern country. It amazed and saddened her to no end that so many people did not know Egypt was a part of North Africa—and not some “other” Middle Eastern country.
She was African. And Dutch. But she lived her life as an ethnic woman. Black. And she despised other women who thought themselves the expert on what being a real black woman meant. Light-skinned or not, she had more African blood running through her veins than half the women who’d ever dared challenge her blackness.
Lenora gasped, sending her a look of horror. Then went utterly still. “I said no such thing.”
Nairobia put a hand up to stop her. “Lies. Your mouth spews nothing but the froth of half-truths. You live and breathe in lies, darling. Every time you open that big cock gobbler of yours.”
Lenora placed a hand to her chest, feigning insult. “I’m appalled.”
Nairobia gave her a look. “Don’t be, Lenora. If being a half-white and half-black woman who embraces both of her heritages doesn’t make me a real black woman, then so be it. But know this. I’m a real woman in every sense of the word. There’s nothing fake about me. No Botox, no silicone, no acrylics, no weaves, nothing. Can you say the same?”
Nairobia tilted her head. Her phone buzzed, and she ignored it.
“See now. There’s no need for hostility, dear,” Lenora said calmly. “I invited you out today so that we could break bread and, perhaps, unite as one. Now let’s get down to slicing the meat from the bone. I like you, Nairobia. Always have. You’re talented. Feisty.” She took another sip from her drink. Licked her lips. Then sipped again. “And…”
Nairobia looked over to her right and saw a few cameras flash in her direction. She was certain said photos would be all over social media in a matter of seconds. She brought her attention back in the direction of Lenora, and said, “And I have no intent on climbing in bed with a barracuda, my darling,” Nairobia added, locking her gaze on Lenora. A slow smile worked over her mouth as she reached over and placed a hand over Lenora’s. “Not unless said barracuda licked kut.” Of course Nairobia detested her. But she’d love nothing more than smearing her cunt cream all over the cougar’s stiff, cosmetically enhanced face.
Lenora’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon? Lick what?”
“Don�
�t play coy,” Nairobia chided, swiping the tip of her tongue over her glossed lips. She squeezed Lenora’s hand. “You like wet, juicy cunt, no? Would you not like to suck my clit into your mouth?”
Lenora looked mortified as she chanced a peek over at the table to the left of them, where a handsome, middle-aged white man with sparkling blue eyes—who looked large and virile—sat with his much younger Asian companion. The couple seemed too caught up in their own conversation to care one way or the other about the goings-on at her table. Relieved, she dragged her attention back to Nairobia.
“I beg your pardon. I will not stand for this sort of talk. In public of all places.”
“Then shall we have it in private?” she asked, casting her a saucy smile. “I’ve heard of your lascivious ways, Lenora. You might have the face of a goat. But I’ve heard you have the tongue of a lizard. And rumor has it you’ve taken several young lovers—male and female—over the years, no?”
Lenora gasped. “You shut your filthy lies,” she hissed. “I will not have you slander my good name.” She gulped down her drink.
Nairobia’s lips tipped upward, satisfaction glinting in her eyes. “Lies, Lenora, darling. Lies. You want something from me. I want something from you. You want a piece of my luscious royalties. And I want you to lick my kut. My cunt swells with desire for you, Lenora, darling. Come. Let me ride your face. And drown you in my juices. I’m always so wet for you every time I see you.”
It was a lie, of course. But Nairobia loved making men and women squirm. She slid her foot out of her Manolo and eased her foot up between Lenora’s legs. “Tell me, darling. Are your panties wet for me? Does your kut cry out to be filled with my fingers?”
Lenora choked on her drink, fluid shooting out from her mouth and nostrils. She coughed and slammed a hand to her chest. Satisfaction gleamed in Nairobia’s eyes as she sat back in her seat, letting go of her hand and watching the old bat choke. Nairobia eyed her as she snatched up her linen napkin and covered her mouth and nose.
Nairobia bit back a laugh as she slipped back into her heel, then stood and opened her Judith Leiber clutch. She pulled out a shiny black embossed card that resembled that of a credit card and said, “You need a night of hot, sweaty decadence, my darling. Let me help you unclog your loins.” She tossed Lenora the card. “The climax is on me.”
Shell-shocked, Lenora sagged in her chair and watched the sultry sway of Nairobia’s hips as she sauntered her way out of the restaurant, carefree and flamboyantly sexy, as more cameras flashed, leaving her with the bill.
And her hands curled into two tight fists beneath the tablecloth.
That slutty bitch!
TWENTY-THREE
Stepping out into the afternoon sun, Nairobia’s cell phone rang. She fished it out of her bag and picked it up immediately, thinking it might be one of the three interviewees she was scheduled to screen for membership into The Pleasure Zone. She figured one of the three would be calling her to cancel their appointment. Wouldn’t have been the first time someone got cold feet and wasn’t ready for the heat. So she almost expected it.
She frowned when she saw Marcel’s name as the incoming call. Why would he be calling her…now? Had she not already been generous with her time? Had she not allowed him to stir her loins and caress her clit with his fingers and tongue? Had she not allowed him to stroke himself into her juicy mouth with his cock? Had she not allowed him to fuck her deliciously numb?
So what could he possibly want with her now?
More of her—they always wanted more.
“I wanna see you again,” he said the minute she answered. “Have dinner with me. Tonight.”
Nairobia’s brow furrowed. What in the world was he up to? “As in a date?” she shrieked. God, she hoped not. She didn’t date. Never. Ever. She met for cocktails. Met for dinner. And met for a night of salaciousness. Dating was not in her DNA.
She sighed inwardly. “Or is this some sly way for you to have your way with me again?”
Marcel laughed. “Damn, baby. Would it be so wrong if I said I wanted both?”
She reached her shiny black Rolls-Royce and her driver tipped his hat as he opened the rear door. She slipped inside, then said as the driver shut the door behind her, “No, my darling, you’d be foolish to think I’d give you another night of stretching my kut out. It was a delicious treat, but—”
“I can still taste you,” he interrupted, husky and hot. Nairobia shivered from the memory of melting on his tongue. She could see him licking his lips, his eyes glimmering in heat. She could still feel his tongue sliding over her pussy lips. Oh how delectable he looked between her thighs.
Nairobia’s driver pulled away from the curb, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She caught his thick-lashed gaze and, subconsciously, licked her lips, causing him to quickly avert his eyes. Nairobia smiled. She liked him. Samson. She’d even considered being his Delilah, just for a night. Fuck him hot and dirty in the backseat of this car, or her Bentley. Oh, how she’d be his whore, his prostitute, for the night.
He walked like a man packing heat between those strong, long legs of his, signaling to all those watching that he was a man who knew how to use it, too.
Nairobia didn’t doubt it.
“Je veux plus chatte, baby,” Marcel spoke in French, pulling her from her lusty thoughts. Nairobia could almost feel the heat of his breath as he whispered those words—“I want some more pussy”—into her ear.
“You naughty man, you,” she cooed. “My kut is on holiday van al die grote lul.” (from all that big dick). “So no more pussy for you.”
Marcel laughed. “Was it not good?”
Mmm. Yes. Nairobia swallowed back the memory. She didn’t need the recollections heating her blood. She looked up at the rearview mirror and captured the eye of her driver again. It was then she caught the desire in his dark brown orbs, and knew she held the power to unleashing his hidden yearnings. She decided she’d extend him an invitation into The Pleasure Zone for a night of wickedness.
Nairobia slid him a seductive wink, then said to Marcel, “It was the sweetest torture, MarSell, my darling,” she admitted, remembering the feel of his lush, sensual mouth on her clit. “But I will not surrender to it, to you. Or to the delicious memory.”
Marcel laughed lightly. “So is that a yes or a no?”
“To what?” Nairobia asked coyly.
“To dinner. To drinks. To me having you in my bed tonight.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to say no flat out. But whom was she kidding? Lust fanned out between the two of them like a roaring fire. She’d felt it in his touch and in his tongue strokes. And had seen it in his eyes, full of heat and power.
Still…
That did not mean she had to give in to his want, his desires.
And she wouldn’t.
“It’s a maybe,” she said, smiling despite herself. “But not tonight.”
“Okay, then. Tomorrow night?”
“Sorry, my darling. My calendar doesn’t permit for deep fucking tomorrow night, either. I’ll call you when it does,” she said firmly.
No wasn’t a word Marcel embraced. So maybe was promising. But it still wasn’t good enough. He was a man who got what he wanted, when he wanted it. And he wanted Nairobia. He wasn’t an obsessive man—but, for some reason, he found himself fixating over her. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman, since his college days back at Howard University. The day he’d laid eyes on Marika.
Marika had been his soulmate, his everything. But when she was murdered, every part of his soul had died along with her. He felt empty. Dead inside.
But his night—and morning—with Nairobia had stirred, no awakened, something inside of him. Hell. That was a lie. Something shifted in him that morning in his Rolls when he’d exposed himself emotionally and Nairobia had slipped between his legs and sucked his dick. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But it was there. He’d felt it when they kissed several nights ago. And he’d felt it, this sur
ge of electricity, even stronger the second he slid his dick in her. It wasn’t love. Yet, it was deeper than lust.
Nairobia was bold and wild and full of passion. He wanted another round with her. Wanted to suck her toes. Tongue her ass. And taste every delicious inch of her. All day, he’d sat in his office, at his desk, distracted, his dick brick-hard.
The source of his preoccupation: Her.
Her body.
Her lips.
Her touch.
Her mouth.
Her cunt.
Goddamn. That sweet pussy was divine.
And he wanted more.
Nairobia glanced at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist. It was nearly three o’clock. She motioned for her driver to speed it up. Her first interview was in another half hour and she dared not be late. She prided herself on being prompt for business. She wasn’t a believer of making someone wait…not in business.
Pleasure was a whole other story.
Sometimes it had to simmer. Slowly build up.
“Where are you?” Marcel asked, his voice dipping dangerously low.
“En route to the club. Why?”
“Swing by my office so I can suck the walls out that juicy pussy.”
“No,” she said firmly.
“Nairobia,” he murmured. She closed her eyes as he purred out her name in a way that made her cunt clench. “Don’t make me beg, baby.”
“Beg, my love. I love a man who grovels,” she teased.
“I wanna coat your walls with my nut, baby, then lick that beautiful pussy and all between your thighs clean.” Marcel loved creampies. He enjoyed the taste of himself inside of a woman. And he wanted nothing more than to clean Nairobia’s pussy out with his tongue, licking out her juices along with his own warm semen.
Instant arousal swept through Nairobia. She loved a man who loved cunnilingus. There was something so incredibly erotic, insanely provocative, about watching a man, licking, feasting, sucking, sliding his tongue inside her pussy and all over her plump, juicy folds and distended clit.