“I’m sick of your disrespectful ass! You keep tryna tempt a muhfucka,” he growled. “Maybe if I fuck that pussy ’til it’s raw, you’ll get me out of your system and leave me the fuck alone!”
“Yes, I want you to fuck me until my pussy is raw and bleeding,” Valentina cried out in unadulterated passion. The sound of her exotic voice affected Cruze like the slow-burning caress of a wet tongue flicking against his groin.
“Unh!” he groaned as a rush of desire swept through him with a dizzying force. He tried desperately to hold on to his sanity, but the dangerous beast inside was struggling to break free.
Infuriated by the effect she had on him, he grabbed her by the neck and choked her, uttering obscenities as he unknotted his towel and allowed it to drop to the floor.
Valentina’s eyes instantly darted downward at his protruding hardness. “Oh, your cock is perfection—a large and a marvelous dark beauty.”
“Shut the fuck up and open up your goddamn legs, bitch.” Something wild and uninhibited that he could barely contain, raged within him and Cruze yanked her down to the rug on the floor and entered her roughly in one swift plunge, intending to inflict pain. But her hot pussy opened up welcomingly, accepting his thick, elongated cock with ease.
As he thrust inside her, he grunted like an animal. The primitive sounds he made were foreign to his own ears. Sweat and heat poured off of him. His blood surged hotly in his veins, and his dick stretched deeper and deeper, tunneling into the hot slickness between Valentina’s velvety thighs.
This fucking bitch! Wet-ass pussy . . .
His dick was cocooned inside her tight, contracting walls, and Valentina ran her hands down his muscular back, and caressed his ripped arms. “Mmm . . . Oh God, yes! So g-good. Mmm. Fuck me, you magnificent stallion!”
“Yo, shut the fuck up!” Cruze growled, grabbing her legs and bending them back, holding them steady at the back of her knees, opening her wider to him as she grew wetter around him. Crazed with lust, Cruze fucked her like a wild beast, ravaging her cunt until it clutched wildly, weeping out in delight as the powerful, piston-like thrust sent heated chills through her body. Valentina clawed at the Persian rug, her eyes rolling wildly up in her head.
“Yeah, I see you ain’t talking shit now, muhfucka,” he hissed as he slammed into her so hard, her fake boobs bounced and jiggled. Eyes flaring open, Valentina’s climax grew as her nails grasped at Cruze’s sweat-slicked back, feeling the muscles flex; the rhythmic blows of his pelvis brushing relentlessly into her clit. Cruze grunted. “Sneaky-ass bitch! Is this what you wanted, huh? This hard-ass dick fucking the shit out of you?”
Valentina opened her mouth to speak, but no words came; just gurgling moans of pleasure. Her tongue knotted in the back of her throat. Valentina felt the ache inside her sizzle and spread like a wildfire. Oh God—yes! His dick was excruciatingly delicious; the exploding rush of pleasure caused her back to arch, and tears to spurt from her eyes. She’d never been fucked so damn good before, until now.
Cruze groaned. Sweat dripped from his face, slid down his chest, then dropped onto Valentina’s bobbing breasts. He was getting there, and he let out a harsh moan as the familiar blast of heat ignited in his balls. He accelerated his strokes.
“Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes . . . give it to me,” Valentina purred. “Fill me up with your seed; fill my pussy with your beautiful black babies.” Her words struck a chord and Cruze exploded, bellowing in lust and anguish, his mind slipping from the present.
“Chancellor was yours,” Ramona had tearfully confided after the children’s double funeral.
Misunderstanding her meaning, Cruze had tried to comfort her by saying, “Yes, Chance was my little man. My godson will always be in my heart. Niyah, too.”
“No, Cruze. I can’t keep the secret any longer.” She cupped his face and forced him to look into her eyes. “Chancellor was your son.”
Still not believing what he’d heard, Cruze frowned, realization blooming in her words. “What? Chance was my what?”
Ramona swallowed, fresh tears filling her eyes. “Chance was your son, Cruze.”
Cruze gazed at her wild-eyed and frantic. “And you never fuckin’ told me?!”
Looking terrified, Ramona shook her head. Before she could say another word, Cruze wrapped both of his big hands around her throat, and shook her. “I should kill you, you fuckin’ bitch! Why didn’t you tell me that Chance was my son?” Frothing at the mouth, he tried to choke the life out of her.
“Ahh!” Valentina screamed. “Let me go! Get off of me! I’m not into that kind of kinky shit.” Valentina gasped as she tried to break free of Cruze’s vise-like grip. Desperate, she clawed his face and his hands.
Brought back to reality, Cruze suddenly released Valentina’s throat. With confusion in his eyes, he looked at his hands as if they were unrecognizable weapons. He looked from his hands to Valentina’s troubled face. “Get out,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“What?” Valentina asked.
“Get. Your. Shit. And. Get. The. Fuck. Out,” he said, enunciating each word clearly. Valentina gave him an incredulous look. “What the fuck? I said fuckin’ bounce, yo! Now!”
Shocked by the sudden change in his demeanor, Valentina gasped, brown eyes flashing up at him with a mixture of fury and hurt. How dare he speak to her in that manner! Impatiently, Cruze took three long strides and grabbed her arm with one hand and snatched up her coat with the other. Valentina tried to wrench her arm from his grip to no avail, cursing him in her native tongue as he hauled her to the door, opened it, and tossed her and her trench coat out into the hall. He slammed the door.
Then he sank down into a chair and closed his eyes—groaning in sorrow and regret, unable to stop the flashes of horrible memories: Ramona’s devastating confession. That bloody night of carnage. The son he’d been denied, lying in bed with a bullethole between his eyes.
The dreadful scenes played over and over again like a sickening loop in his mind, causing his head to pound. Heart aching, Cruze threw his head back . . .
And cried out in agony.
Twelve
Thank God it’s Friday!
Arabia couldn’t wait to luxuriate. It’d been a long, grueling week of one meeting after another with account executives and her advertising firm’s creative team by the time she slid into the cabin of her car, her body melting into the buttery-soft leather seat. She’d been given the Maybach as a gift from Theodore over a year ago, and had only driven it a few times. But since his death, she’d felt compelled to drive it more. She honestly missed him, sort of—in her own strange way.
A slight smile eased over her lips as her mind drifted back to the day he’d given her the extravagant luxury car. Christmas eve. That night, she’d almost collapsed from the shock of being led down to the parking garage with her eyes closed, then opening them to find herself standing in front of the three-hundred-something-thousand-dollar luxury car; a big red bow tied in front of its grille.
Clit pulsing—with key in hand, and a kiss on her lips, her cunt moistened at the imagery of having her legs up over his shoulders and her ass cheeks fucked down into the plush leather. Heat and desire and the excitement of having been given such an expensive gift surged through her body, causing her to reach for him, grabbing him by the nape of his neck and pulling him to her. A hand beneath her ass, he pulled her into him and their mouths met in a rush, a melding of lips, a burst of raw need; one moan after another.
Within moments, the two lovers were in the rear cabin—windows fogged, naked, lost in the throes of passion, christening the leather seats. She’d sucked his cock and given him some backseat pussy right there in the parking garage as a thank-you.
Arabia found herself warming at the memory.
Theodore’s hard, veined dick flashed in her mind as she started her engine and it purred to life. He had always loved being swallowed—dic
k, balls, and every last drop of his nut. And he loved—oh God, yes, how he loved—snacking on her snatch.
Arabia gripped the steering wheel, a sly smile covering her lips, remembering the last time he’d slipped his tongue between her folds and inside her, finding her so warm, so wet. God—rest his soul—he’d surely be missed.
She caught her reflection in her rearview mirror just as she shifted the car into gear and sped off. She couldn’t wait to get home. All she wanted to do was slip out of her heels and clothes, pour herself a glass of Chardonnay, then slink her body into a steamy bath and read a few pages from the novel she’d been reading. Some new author, Body of Work, had captured her with her raw writing style and Arabia wanted to get home to crack open her book to see what dirty little sexcapade would be going on next. Whoever the anonymous erotica author was, Arabia was convinced—she was a certified freak.
And she loved a nasty freak.
Too damn bad I don’t have one of my own. She shook her head. Wellson had only scratched at the surface of her cunt’s greedy need while he was in town. And she was thankful he’d manage to keep an erection, as needed, the two days they’d been together.
Well, in truth—she knew his dick would stay almost painfully hard, and he’d be able to fuck her nonstop. Unbeknownst to him, she’d taken L-arginine, Saw palmetto, Yohimbe, and some other male enhancement capsules and ground them in her blender, stirring the powdery substance in all of his drinks, starting with his morning glass of orange juice, then ending with his nightly tumbler of scotch. She’d even gone as far as purchasing a bottle of OxySurge—some male enhancement serum she’d read about—and used it as a lube to give him a nice, slow hand job. His dick had swollen to a delicious erection. Powerful. And he’d piped her down like a horny twenty-year-old.
Still. It hadn’t been enough. She’d asked him to choke her, and he’d cringed. She’d begged him to fuck her from the back and slide a finger in her ass, and he’d squawked at that. Sure he’d pounded her pussy, fucked her like a wild man, beat her pussy down like it’d stolen something from him, the entire two days they shared. But he’d still left more to be desired, more to be craved.
Nevertheless, Wellson had been shocked by the intensity of his erections. He hadn’t complained. And she hadn’t considered the consequences of mixing so many supplements together. But when his heart pounded in his chest and he’d broken out in a sweat, his vision blurring, his pulse racing erratically, Arabia feared the worst. That he was dying. Panic surged through her. Dear Lord. The last thing she wanted was another 9-1-1 call with another lover found naked and dead in her presence . . . from sex.
She definitely didn’t need, or want, another body on her conscience, or another lover’s funeral to attend. Then again—she shook her head—she wouldn’t have gone. No. Not after what’d occurred the last time, when she’d shown up at Teddy’s.
She cringed. Crazy bitch. She reached for the stereo system, and waited. Moments later, KEM’s “You’re On My Mind” oozed out of the speakers. She allowed his voice and the melody to take her there. Yesss. She snapped her fingers and bobbed her head as she zigzagged her way through the bustling city traffic.
“Yessss, baby . . . I ain’t too proud to beg,” she sang aloud. She suddenly felt like dancing. Felt like swinging her hips, pussy popping, and booty shaking. She laughed at the thought. She hadn’t been out dancing in a real club—wow—in years.
“Yessss, dammit! Come get this loving . . .” She shook her hair, and found herself swirling her hips into the leather of her seat as she drove. Hell, maybe she should go out, let her hair down a little. Even snatch up some stray dick along the way. She could always go for a good fucking. She felt herself growing moist at the possibility. She reached between her legs and patted her kitty. “You ready for another feeding, boo?” she spoke to it as if it would speak back.
And it did. Clenching.
She chuckled. It wanted her to ride down on a cock like a porn star, stretching it in pleasure. And, maybe, she would. By the time Miguel’s “How Many Drinks” started playing, she was seriously toying with the idea of turning up tonight. She blinked back the feeling of sleep coming down on her. Then stifled a yawn, and remembered what she really needed most—a quiet night at home with a good bottle of white wine, reading and relaxing. And, if her sexual urges overwhelmed her, then she’d open her toy chest—and fuck her own self to sleep.
She yawned again as she made her way to Tribeca—one of the most expensive ZIP codes in the downtown section of the city—to the cobblestone streets and the comforts of her spacious loft in a converted sugar warehouse. Some considered Tribeca the new Upper Eastside. But, for her, it was simply home. She’d been living in Manhattan ever since she’d graduated from Spelman, almost fifteen years ago. And she couldn’t imagine her life anywhere else. Ever.
The music on her stereo faded and a call rang through. She smiled, glancing at the name flashing across the screen. Eric. He was another one of her fiancés. Six-one, dark-skinned with a swimmer’s build. She’d met the forty-eight-year-old architect in Chicago, while they both waited for a connecting flight to Kentucky. During their three-hour flight delay at O’Hare Airport, they’d talked and laughed. Then, over drinks at Chicago Cubs Bar & Grill—while they waited for their flight, he surprisingly confessed to being married, but wanting to spend time with her while they were both in Louisville, staying at the same hotel.
Feeling naughty, she’d bitten her lip and taken a moment to consider the invitation before she boldly leaned into his ear and whispered, “If I say yes, you’ll have to spend most of your time inside this pussy.”
Flashing a seductive grin, nothing more had to be said. The entire time in Kentucky, every moment of his free time was spent with her—fucking her. And he’d sexed her good—not great, but good enough for her pussy to stay wet, and for her to want to fuck him again, and again, and again.
Now, here they were, almost four years later, and—not only was she engaged to him, she was still fucking him knowing damn well he was still a married man.
She pressed a button on her steering wheel, and answered on the third ring. “Hey.”
“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low and enticing.
“Hey yourself, sexy man,” she cooed.
“I miss you, baby.”
Arabia smiled. “I miss you, too.” Although they texted and talked regularly, she hadn’t seen him in over a month because of shit she really cared nothing about—his work, the kids, and his ailing wife. Still, she wasn’t sure how much truth lied in her words. Did she really miss him? Not really. Hell, she rarely lusted him these days.
But he was good to her. And that’s all that really mattered to her.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he said warmly.
“Mmm. Is that so?”
“Yeah. You’re all that’s been on my mind lately. I need you so bad, baby.”
Oh, how sweet.
She moaned low in her throat. “Mmm. How bad do you need me?”
“Enough to want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. You’re my whole world, baby.”
Her smile widened. “Aww, baby, you say the most sweetest things.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him he was her world too, because he wasn’t. He was only a thin slice of it, a portion of her life that could be replaced at any given moment. “You mean so much to me,” she offered instead. It was the best she could do.
“I know I do, baby, which is why I’ve finally made a decision.”
“Oh?” Arabia said, curiosity spiking in her. “And what decision is that?”
“I’m leaving her.”
Arabia almost lost control of the steering wheel, swerving into the other lane, not believing what she heard. “Excuse me?” she shrieked. “You’re leaving who?”
There had to be some mistake. Her ears had to be playing some kind of nasty trick on her
. She blinked, still not quite able to believe her ears. He couldn’t possibly be leaving her—as in his wife. No, no. There had to be some other her he was referring to.
“Gwen. My wife,” he said softly. “It’s time.”
She slammed on her brakes, almost running a red light. She blinked again. What the hell kind of fuckery is going on here? “Time for what exactly?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly, so tight her hands were starting to go numb.
Over the last year-and-a-half, he’d been talking of supposedly leaving his wife of twenty years, saying he’d grown tired of her, that they’d grown apart. She was thirteen years his senior, and he felt like they were both traveling in different directions. But Arabia had heard that line before from all the others in her life over the years. Not that she had ever asked him, or anyone else, to leave his wife. After all, she wasn’t like most sidepieces who eventually wanted more from the men they shared with their wives or girlfriends, whining and begging and nagging them to death for more than what he might be willing to give them. No, she was nothing like those silly bitches. She knew her position, and enjoyed being in her role as just that—the other woman.
Now this fucker was trying to throw a wrench her way. The gall of him! Bastard! She’d told him—hell, encouraged him—on more than one occasion when he’d first started talking of leaving his wife, to stay right where he was, where he belonged—with her old, tired, dry-pussy ass.
She’d told him in so many words that leaving the arthritic bitch was foolish. She wanted him to stay until she dropped dead, or at least until she succumbed to some tragic illness and became an invalid. At the rate her arthritis was eating at her bones, she was well on her way to becoming a cripple. All he needed to do was bide his time.
She’d never believed he’d really leave her. But—now, after hearing this shit, she guessed she was wrong. He’d been serious all along. She felt her stomach knot. What the hell was he leaving her for? He couldn’t be that stupid to think or believe she’d ever trust his cheating ass. Could he? Most men didn’t ever leave their homes; they only wanted something extra on the side.
Sexual Healing Page 11