The Pleasure Zone

by Cairo

  And, yet…

  He was still alone.

  He leaned forward, and covered his face in his hands. This shit was so fucked up. “Why’d that bitch have to kill you, baby?” he whispered into his palms.

  He felt so fucking helpless without her. Yet, he somehow found hope in his memories of her. He couldn’t tell anyone that she spoke to him, not only in his dreams but while he drove, while he showered, while he sat alone at home or in his office. Marika came to him. Sat and talked with him. He could see her clear as day. Smiling at him. Weeping for him. Praying for him. She was everywhere, watching over him. He felt her presence. Could still feel her touch. And smell her in the air.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him.

  He didn’t know.

  All he knew was, Marika had come to him and had told him that Nairobia was the one. She’d given him her blessing. But had warned him to be patient with her.

  Sadly, time was ticking away.

  And his patience was running out.

  He’d give her two more days, that’s it. Then she’d need to make up her mind.

  Him.

  Or nothing at all.

  FORTY-THREE

  Nairobia found herself straining for release. She was coiled tighter than a hymen. And she needed to break free.

  From the club.

  From Marcel.

  Even Josiah—whom she adored, was getting on her last nerve.

  She felt like she was being strangled. And she didn’t like it one bit.

  Oh, don’t be mistaken. She loved The Pleasure Zone and all of its debauchery, and hedonistic energy. It was truly a den of iniquity. And she loved owning it. But what she didn’t love was the work that went along with it. It was becoming mind-numbing, and mundane. She hadn’t opened the private club to be chained to a desk, managing it. No. That was not what she’d envisioned for herself when she opened the extravagant club. To work long hours. To be holed up in an office, save from being bent over her desk with a hard cock seesawing in her cunt. Other than that, that was absolutely not the plan she’d had in mind.

  Yet, here she was—still, poring over vendor invoices and sorting through an assortment of member profiles. Suffocating. Shutting her club down was not an option. Ever. She still had not found anyone to manage her club—not that she’d been looking aggressively, but she still needed someone.

  Something had to give. Soon.

  She sighed—heavily.

  She was not an optional kind of woman. She was not ever the white-picket fence type of woman, but somehow she felt like that’s what Marcel was trying to make her into. Not that he’d said it. It was what he didn’t say.

  He was commitment oriented. He loved the idea of being married and waking up to someone every day for the rest of his life. She was—well, she was allergic to the idea of being committed to one person. She didn’t know what that felt like, since she’d never dated anyone. Sure she’d been seen with men. Even rumored, over the years, to have been in several torrid affairs with many celebrities, and a few world leaders.

  No. She’d fucked them, probably. But having affairs?

  Absolutely not.

  Well, unless you wanted to consider what she’d shared with Josiah an affair. She saw him, as with all the others, including Lamar—whose cock she’d ridden the night before—as sex objects. Boy toys. Fuck buddies. Pleasure seekers.

  They all desired something from her. And she’d given it freely, because she had wanted it herself.

  Pleasure.

  Unadulterated bliss.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  And she was the happiest when she was in the throes of sweet, searing pleasure, or seeing others become engulfed in it.

  Lamar pushed open her door and knocked as he walked in, cutting into her reverie. “Hey, these were dropped off for you…”

  She looked up at him, and saw a very large, long white box under his arm as he stepped into her office. “Where do you want ’em?”

  She pointed over toward the sofa. “Over there,” she said, sounding distracted. “Please.”

  Lamar looked at her. “Yo, e’erything aiight?”

  She inhaled sharply, then exhaled. “Everything’s fine, my love. Thanks.”

  “Oh, aiight. If you say so.”

  She forced a smile. “I do.”

  He frowned. She wasn’t looking at him lusty-eyed, wasn’t being her flirty-self. He knew something was up, but he wasn’t going to pry. He knew when to fall back, and mind his business.

  “Please close the door shut, on your way out.”

  He glanced over at her again. “No doubt. I got you.”

  She waited for him to walk out, and shut the door, then pushed back from her seat and walked over toward the sofa. She pulled apart the red ribbon tied around the box, then slowly lifted the lid. She gasped. There were three-dozen red roses inside with a card.

  They were absolutely beautiful.

  Nairobia picked up the card and read it:

  Beautiful flowers, for a beautiful woman. I can’t say I’m in love. But each rose represents the love that flows through my veins and fills my heart. All you need to do, baby, is let me share all that I am, with you.

  Marcel

  P.S., I’m waiting to hear from you. Please don’t keep me waiting.

  Nairobia stared at the card several moments longer, and reread it twice before setting it in the box. She picked up a single rose and brought it to her nose. Her heat thudded in her chest as she inhaled.

  She thought she had it all figured out. But now she felt herself second-guessing herself, questioning her wants, her needs, her own desires.

  This was not good. It wasn’t her. And she felt herself slowly coming apart. She was starting to feel like her freedom was slowly being taken from her and she was beginning to feel like a caged bird. Trapped.

  She didn’t like it. And she didn’t know how much more of it she’d be able to take, before she’d finally come undone. She was starting to lose control—of herself, her life, everything. She felt it. And it frightened her.

  Her whole life had been about control. Her control. Her power. Every part of her existence, she’d controlled, she’d been responsible for staying empowered.

  Nothing, or no one else had ever been able to take that from her.

  And now a man—not just any man, but the man of most women’s dreams—was trying to disrupt the very order she’d spent her entire life maintaining.

  Her cell rang. She lifted it from her desk, and stared at the screen.

  Speaking of her looming demise.

  It was Marcel.

  Again.

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t do this with you,” she muttered to herself. “Not now, MarSell.”

  She let the call roll into voicemail.

  It had been three weeks since she’d told him she needed time. Time was relative, no? So she hadn’t been specific in defining the length of time she actually needed. Truth was, she tried not to think about it. But everywhere she turned, he was there.

  In the news, on the radio…in her thoughts, on her voicemail, all over her skin, she couldn’t get away from him.

  But she needed to.

  She had to.

  God, help her if she didn’t.

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Hello, Miss Jansen?”

  “Yes, Stewart? Hello.”

  “Hi. Mister Kennedy is here to see you. Shall I send him up?”

  Nairobia blinked. Pulled the phone from her ear, and stared at it. Why hadn’t he called her first? Well, he had. She hadn’t been taking his calls.

  Still, what business did he have to come to her home unannounced?

  The gall.

  She placed the receiver back to her ear, and sighed. “Yes. Send him up.”

  This was as good a time as any. She glanced over at her packed bags.

  She had a lot to sort through. She needed to get away. To regroup, and recharge.

  Only for a while, maybe a few
weeks or so.

  She couldn’t be away for too long. She had businesses to manage. Then there was The Pleasure Zone that she still needed to look after. Business was thriving in such a short time, and it had her thinking of opening one in Europe, perhaps over in Belgium, or France.

  First, she still needed to find someone able to manage the one here, before she pursued the opening of another club. But it would happen.

  Nairobia was a woman who made things happen.

  For now, The Pleasure Zone wouldn’t be taking on any new memberships until she returned from her travels. She knew she was being foolish, whisking off like this.

  But, damn it all to hell.

  This was about her. It always was about her. Her wants, her needs, her desires.

  And, right now, she wanted and needed and desired to be…

  Her breath caught as the doors to her apartment slid open and Marcel strode in, pausing midstep when he caught sight of her opened travel trunk in the center of the floor. He glanced over at her other bags. Marcel burrowed his brows, then looked at her. “Going somewhere?”

  Before she could answer, her cell started ringing. Lamar’s name appeared on the screen. Holding Marcel’s gaze, she answered, “Yes.” Then spoke into the phone. “Hello.”

  “Yo, you sure you don’t need me to go with you?” She’d told everyone at the club that she’d be on travel for a few weeks. That she’d still be reachable by cell if anything arose that couldn’t be managed without her. Otherwise, it’d have to wait until she returned.

  Josiah had wanted to go with her. And she was tempted. But she restrained herself. Told him she needed him here.

  “No,” she said as she watched Marcel watching her. “I’ll send for you if anything changes.”

  “Aiight, then. You be safe out there. I got you, aiight?”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiled, and her cunt tingled as memories of him slumped over on her bed resurfaced. Oh, how last night had been a delicious goodnight, goodbye fuck. She’d told him it would be his last night of pleasure with her. And, finally, he’d delivered—one sumptuous hour of deep-stroking-curved-dick-slinging pleasure that had them both clawing at the sheets.

  And he’d come like he’d never done before. She wasn’t sure what he’d been on, but whatever it was, he’d finally redeemed himself.

  Now it was time to move on. Nairobia had done her part.

  Fulfilled his fantasy of fucking a porn star…her.

  Pleasure.

  “Yo, take special care of ya’self, aiight?”

  “I will. Zie je snel, mijn lieveling.” See you soon, my darling.

  He had no clue what she’d said, but he had a lopsided grin on his face when she ended the call..

  A muscle ticked in his Marcel’s jaw as he counted the bags neatly lined along the wall.

  Six.

  Where was she going with six goddamn bags?

  He wouldn’t have to ask. He already knew the answer.

  She was running from him.

  “Where you going?” he asked, walking further into the apartment.

  “On travel.”

  He raised a brow. “And you weren’t going to call, or see me before you left?”

  She shifted her gaze.

  He scowled. “Damn. So fuck me, right?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not fuck you. I adore fucking you. That is part of the problem, my love. It is why I simply need a moment of me time. Away from you.”

  He gave her a perplexed look. “I don’t see the problem. You dig me. I dig you.” He stalked over to her, and pulled her into a possessive hug. He kissed her on the forehead. “You love this dick. And I love giving it to you, baby. So what’s the problem? Explain it to me.”

  Nairobia sighed, looking up at him. She couldn’t stop looking at him, his very sexy, toe-curling self. She’d been with a countless number of sexy, beautiful men; but no one as free-spirited or as unnerving as Marcel. Every part of him is succulent. Tempting. Highly addictive.

  He was a dangerous drug. One Nairobia had no intentions of becoming hooked on.

  “You are the problem, MarSell,” she said softly, her voice in almost a painful whisper. “You.” She reached for his hand. “Come, sit.” She pulled him over toward the sofa, then sat. She on one end of the sofa, he on the other end, Marcel already felt the divide between them. She was pulling away from him.

  Maybe he’d pushed too hard.

  Fuck.

  Marika had warned him to take it slow with her. He thought that that was what he’d been doing. Taking it sllloooowww. Excruciatingly slow. Any slower, the clock would stop ticking and he’d be dead.

  He took a steadying breath. “So what exactly are you saying here, baby. Tell me something. Because right now I’m at a loss.” He scooted over closer to her, closing the space between them. Still not satisfied, he inched closer.

  There.

  Now she was only an arm’s length away.

  Nairobia’s pulse quickened. She shifted.

  “I’m not ready for what you want.”

  Marcel reached over and tugged her into the crook of his arm. “Come here, baby.” She didn’t resist him as his strong, dominant arm encircled her. He held her for a moment, allowing the heat between them to radiate.

  Then he said, “How do you know that? You haven’t even given it, us, a try. At least sample the ride, before you throw in the key.”

  She swallowed. Then inhaled. She smelled him in the air. He smelled of soap and a hint of something with a woodsy, very masculine scent.

  “Maybe you can’t see it yet. Maybe you don’t want to see it. But we’re meant for each other, baby. I can’t stop you from running, but eventually, you’re going to have to find a way to stop hiding from the truth.”

  She looked up at him. “And what truth is that, MarSell?”

  He circled her waist with his arm. “That you know what I know. That we belong together, baby.”

  She swallowed, broke free of him, and stood to her feet. “Why are you trying to convince me to be something I can never be? Why, MarSell?” She paced, then turned to face him. “Tell me. Why are you trying to change me, when you know I am not the type of woman to be chained to a man?”

  Marcel blinked. He felt himself precariously close to dropping to his knees, begging—for what he didn’t actually know. But goddamn it! That’s what he felt like doing. He was willing to strip himself—emotionally, mentally—bare before her.

  What the fuck was going on here?

  If she didn’t want him, fuck it. No foul, no harm. He’d get over it; over her.

  Right?

  Wrong. He didn’t want to get over it. He didn’t want to walk away from something that could be beautiful. And real. Why the fuck couldn’t she see that he wanted her exactly the way she was? That she was lovable exactly how she was.

  That she was…

  Perfect.

  For him.

  He felt his heart pounding in his ears. “Hold up, baby. I’m not trying to change you, or convince you of anything. I’m not that kinda man, to try to change a woman. All I’m saying is, you’ve come into my life, and given me purpose to love again.”

  Nairobia swallowed again. Love was not in her life plan. It had never been.

  Marcel held out his arm, wanting to feel closer to her. He gave her a faint smile when she slid down next to him, burrowing into his side so he could wrap his arm around her again. He did. And he could feel her melting into him as he anchored her against him.

  Nairobia felt overwhelmed. Everything about Marcel was so intense, so damn…demanding. He wanted her. But did she want him?

  She honestly didn’t know.

  She thought she did. No-strings-attached wanted. That Marcel was simply an occasional good fuck when her cunt craved the stretch of a jumbo-sized cock.

  But Marcel had disrupted the balance in that. He’d changed the rules without her permission. He pushed his way into her life without the decency of a proper request.r />
  Did she want this? Did she want him?

  At one point—hell, before he stepped over the threshold, the answer would have been absolute—a definitive no. But now she was uncertain. She’d allowed Marcel to get inside her head planting seeds of hope and promise; hope that would somehow come up short, and a string of promises that would surely be broken.

  How could they not be?

  Here was a man still stuck between the past and the present, trying to stubbornly wedge his way into her future. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t, give into the illusion that there’d be some happily-ever-after.

  She didn’t believe in fairy tales.

  And she wasn’t the type of woman who wept and sniveled over the loss of a man when things went terribly awry.

  And Nairobia didn’t do uncertainty. And she didn’t indulge in fear.

  Yet, at this very moment, she felt uncertain, and deathly afraid.

  He dared her to dream. Dared her to let a man—him—into her heart. And she didn’t know what to do with that. Being single gave her that autonomy to live her life, on her terms, by her rules, no one else’s. She never wanted to be under the thumb of a man. Never wanted to be defined by a man. But relationships had a way of stifling one’s independence, had a way of stripping them of their identity. No, no. She wouldn’t stand for that. She didn’t want to ever lose herself…to anyone.

  She’d never been in a relationship. Never had to be accountable to anyone, except herself. And she’d been fine with that.

  She still was.

  Wasn’t she?

  She pulled away from him—again, and stood. She paced. She was so confused. She didn’t do confusion. And, yet, she’d didn’t know if she were coming or going. Something she was never known for. But Marcel was, he was…

  Damn him.

  He was making her weak.

  And she despised weak women.

  Marcel rose to his feet.

  She eyed him, and he gave a pained look that seared her soul. She averted her eyes from his gaze. Why was he doing this to her?

  He crossed over to her in less than two steps and cupped her face in his hands, pressing his forehead against hers.

  “God, you’re so beautiful,” he breathed out. “Why can’t you let me in?” He looked at her, deep in her eyes. “I’m not a perfect man, Nairobia. But I’m a good one. And I’m loyal, baby.” He tenderly kissed the side of her mouth, then his mouth moved over hers, his tongue teasing over her lips, before pushing its way into her parted mouth. He kissed her deeply, with a hot need that burned through her body.