Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  He sighed. “We already discussed this. I told you I was telling her.”

  Held tilted, hand on hip, she scowled. “No we didn’t discuss anything, Eric. I told you we should talk about it before you did such a silly thing.”

  “Silly?” he scoffed. “What’s so silly about wanting to be with the woman I love?”

  Arabia blinked. Love? The only thing this asshole loved was access to stress-free pussy. He didn’t love her. Hell, he didn’t even know her. Because had he known her, he would have known that she would never commit to a cheating-ass man. Ever.

  “It’s me and you now, baby,” he said smoothly. “Now we can finally have the life we’ve dreamed of having.”

  Her stomach lurched. She’d already been down this road twice with two previous lovers, and she’d broken it off with the both of them right on the spot. Now it looked like she’d have to do the same thing again. End it. She paced the sidewalk. How dare he try to ruin her goddamn night with this shit!

  Arabia shook her head in disbelief. “And what kind of life do you think we’d have now that you’ve left Gwen. And now that she knows there’s another woman you’re leaving her for, do you actually think this is going to unfold smoothly? No, boo-boo. She’s going to make your life a living hell. Drag you for everything you’re worth. Tell me, Eric. What kind of life is that, huh?”

  “Baby, she can have the house, and half my pension if that’ll make her feel better. As long as I have you—that’s all I need, baby; I can rebuild. I don’t care about any of that.”

  Well, I care about it. She sighed. This man was clueless. And there was simply no time like the present to be done with him. Her heart panged in her chest. This was so disappointing. And here she thought she’d be able to get at least another year or more with him.

  She glanced down the sidewalk. “Look, Eric. I don’t think this is going to work,” she said bluntly.

  “Excuse me?” he said, baffled. “You don’t think what isn’t going to work? Us?”

  Arabia stopped pacing, and glanced at the line in front of her, then at the time. It was already going on eleven. She needed to get inside to get her drop and pop on before the place got too packed. Besides, she needed a damn drink, and a hard body to grind up on.

  “Yes. Us.”

  “And why not? I left my wife to be with you.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. You left her because that’s what you wanted to do. You did that with no regard for what I might have wanted. I need me a man who is going to stay with his wife, not leave her. What kind of life do you think we’d really have with me knowing you cheated on her to be with me? Leaving her gives me no guarantees that you wouldn’t turn around and cheat on me too. Sorry, boo. I’ve never been a woman to be cheated on. And I’m not about to sign up for that now. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.”

  “Say what? Are you fucking out of your mind!” he yelled in her ear. He was irate. “Bitch, I fucking gave up everything to be with you!” Arabia pulled the phone away from her ear, surprised by his sudden outburst. Eric was shouting so loud she envisioned his veins popping out of his neck. In all the time they’d been screwing, he’d never once raised his voice to her, let alone called her out her name. “Why didn’t you open your fucking mouth and tell me this shit before I fucking told my wife about you?”

  She pushed out a frustrated breath. “Well, had you waited like I told you to, you would have known. And we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

  “I don’t believe this shit! You’ve just fucked up everything.”

  Arabia frowned. “No, Eric. You fucked up everything by leaving your damn wife. You had a good thing. And now you’ve lost it. Go crawl back to your baldheaded wife and tell her you made a mistake. Beg her forgiveness. I’m sure she’ll take your lying, cheating ass back.”

  “You fucking bitch! Gold-digging whore!”

  “I’ve been called worse. Have a good life, Eric.”

  “I want my fucking ring back,” he spat.

  Arabia laughed. “Good luck with that.”

  Stupid-ass men, she thought ending the call, then turning her cell off before tossing it back into her purse. She couldn’t believe this. She’d gone from having three lovers to one in less than a few weeks. Whatever. Good bye. Good riddance.

  At this moment, she had her sights on having a good damn night. Tomorrow she’d worry about whatever would come. But, for now, it was time to let her hair down, and—hopefully, her red thong.

  Arabia brought her attention back to the front of the club. Just outside the doorway was a dark-skinned bouncer—tall, bald, and bulky—who stood in front of a roped-off area, dressed in all black and wearing an earpiece that keyed him into all the activity going on inside the club.

  It didn’t take long before he caught sight of her and clearly saw what everyone else did. A woman bold enough to take what she wanted. A woman able to get any man she wanted without saying a word. Her body and presence said it all.

  He gave her a head nod, and motioned her to him.

  Arabia smiled, then glanced down the sidewalk, her eyes slowly traveling down the length of the ridiculously long line. A mix of beautiful—and, well, not so beautiful—people waited to get inside. Some of the females were glammed up in their most sultry outfits, donned in good heels and jewels, and hair that probably cost a small fortune. Others—wearing pixie-cut and bobbed wigs, multicolored weaves, and obnoxiously long ponytails—stood there in their clunky platform heels and peep-toe pumps, looking like they were waiting to audition for the circus in their cheetah, leopard, and other animal prints—from leggings and cat suits to skintight dresses, they simple looked a hot mess from Arabia’s assessment.

  Still, some of the women in the line were stunning. Some alone, probably on the prowl—like her, using the club as a hunting ground for some drunk, horny dick. Others were there with their arms securely looped through the arm of a date, or perhaps a lover. Territorially. Staking their claims to their men—or someone else’s.

  Yes, yes, yes. The men.

  Handsome, buffed, hard-bodied men with either fresh-shaved faces or well-manicured beards with spinning waves, dreads, or low-top fades—all donned in expensive hard-bottomed shoes and designer digs. Gold and platinum chains hung from thick necks with diamond medallions sweeping across muscled chests.

  There were also the ones in the suits and ties and Florsheim loafers and tie-ups, looking stiff and terribly out of place, there for the stray pussy that would probably cost them multiple rounds of drinks to even sniff.

  And then there were the ones barely over twenty-one in their khaki pants and thin pullover V-necks and pierced ears, looking preppy and rich, out to get white-boy drunk with hopes of scoring some late-night pussy.

  Arabia slid her tongue over her red-painted lips and tossed her hair. Dramatic she knew, but necessary. She hadn’t even been out there for more than a second and she already felt the eyes on her. But it was okay. She welcomed the stares, as she always did; even the glares from the hating-ass, jealous hoes. They had cause to be alarmed.

  The night air, cool and light, licked over her skin causing her nipples to tighten. The bouncer regarded her intently, his smoldering dark orbs raking over her, before fastening his gaze on her breasts, on the imprint of her nipples, on their puckered ridges, through her dress.

  With the toss of her hair, Arabia tucked her clutch beneath her arm and sauntered toward him, one heeled foot in front of the other, her pelvis thrusting with each step. Subconsciously, the bouncer licked his lips and swept his gaze over her body again as she made her way to the door.

  Eyes zoomed in on her, and those women at the front of the line sneered, practically gnashing their teeth, as the bouncer leaned in and whispered something in her ear before he reached down and unlatched the red velvet rope that was strung between two metal poles, welcoming her in.


  “You hot, baby,” the broad-shouldered bouncer said, his eyes appraising her in pure male appreciation as he motioned her by.

  Arabia smiled. Yeah, them bitches still standing in that long-ass line didn’t hold a candle to her kind of hotness, and they hated her for it.

  Oh, yes. She was hot. Hot like fire. She was a woman who knew how to make a man’s dick roar to life by just the lick of her lips, or the sway of her hips. A woman who tugged at a man’s libido and inspired him to want to fuck her on the spot, fast and hard until he burned in wet heat and sin. And she knew it. She was a temptress on a mission. She was on the hunt for a scandalous night filled with dancing, hard dick, and dirty deeds.

  So they had all better beware.

  Because, tonight . . . somebody was going up in flames.

  Sixteen

  Young Dro’s “Fuck Dat Bitch” blared through the speakers, and Arabia didn’t understand a damn word being said—except for fuck that bitch. Ooh, she was so out of her element. She sighed. With a name like Club Seduction, she had expected the club’s dance selections to be a bit sultrier, more tasteful. Not this ratchet shit. But so far that’s all her ears were being assaulted by. She felt a headache slowly edging its way to the center of her forehead. Nevertheless, the song had a nice beat, and Arabia—despite pressure building in her head—found herself bouncing her ass and swaying her hips as she made her way through the club toward the bar, pondering how many drinks it would take before she settled into her surroundings and didn’t look like she didn’t belong.

  Strobe lights flashed across the space. The bass thumped. Drinks flowed. And the mirrored bar stretched from one wall to another and was lit up with red lights.

  Arabia eased her way through a group of loudmouthed twenty-something-year- olds, their pants riding low on their hips, each holding a bottle of Hennessy in their grips. She eyed them on the sly in all their flashy jewels and mouths filled with gold. They were young drug dealers, she surmised.

  Every now and again, she hungered for some thug dick—for a hard fucking, but there was nothing a drug dealer could ever do for a woman like her. Dismissing their hungry stares, she leaned in over the bar—feeling the young men’s gazes caressing the back of her thighs and the rim of her ass cheeks peeking from beneath the hem of her dress. She murmured her order to the bartender. He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling in appreciation at the beautiful sight before him. Arabia took him in, and smiled back. He was handsome, not overly fine, with chiseled features.

  She slowly slid her tongue over her lips, causing the bartender’s skin to heat. He winked at her, then began making her drink—Fireball and a splash of orange juice. Tonight wouldn’t be a martini night, or one of her frou-frou girly drinks. No, she needed something with a little kick to it, but nothing that would have her staggering or knocked on her ass.

  She cringed when the DJ played a Bobby Shmurda song. Nigga this, nigga that . . . she blinked. What in the hell? She wanted to clap her hands over her ears. She couldn’t believe anyone on any sophisticated level would dare play this, let alone ever dance to it. But the dance floor was packed, and the crowd danced hard, chanting out the lyrics.

  Arabia twisted her lips in disgust.

  Girl, get over yourself! she scolded herself. You’re here hunting for dick, not to give out a damn music award.

  As she waited for the bartender to return with her drink, she glanced around the two-level club, and experienced a sudden awakening as Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen” eased out of the speakers. It all made sense to her now. That’s what she was surrounded by. Trap Queens and Trap Keepers. But she’d stomach through the ratchetness even if it killed her. She had no intentions of being derailed—shitty music or not. She’d simply get her drink on, then make the dance floor her personal playground.

  She looked up at the second floor of the club and realized she was down on the wrong level. All the beautiful people, the classy type, were up on the second floor. Not down here with the—

  “On the house, baby,” the bartender said over the music when he returned with her drink. Arabia brought her attention back to the bar. She smiled, and thanked him, then quickly pulled a twenty from her clutch and handed it to him as tip for his thoughtfulness.

  He winked again and smiled a thank you of his own, before heading down the bar to attend to another customer. Arabia pulled her drink to her sumptuous lips and took a long hard swallow. Instantly, the cinnamon whiskey began to heat through her veins and she felt her body relaxing.

  Mmm—yes.

  It was exactly what she needed, a little jungle juice to loosen her hips. She took another sip, then licked at her lips. Drink in hand, she headed for her next destination. The second floor.

  VIP was where she needed to be.

  • • •

  As soon as she came into view, Cruze blinked, then leaned forward in his seat overlooking the VIP section’s dance floor, pushing the half-Asian, half-black female, with the pouty lips and perky tits—who’d been rambling on incessantly—off his lap, almost knocking her to the floor. The bitch wasn’t talking about shit anyway. And he’d lost interest in the bubblehead the minute she’d opened her mouth. All she did was wrinkle the front of his thousand-dollar pants.

  She hissed out a curse as she caught her balance, careful not to spill the drink in her hand. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” She shot him an icy glare. “Fucking asshole.” Cruze shooed her away, never giving her a second glance. She was blocking his view.

  She stomped off, pissed that he’d dismissed her. He simply shook his head.

  Dumb bitch.

  Cruze eased up in his seat, and locked his gaze on her, a slow fire burning in his eyes. First glance, and he knew she wasn’t from the Philly area. It was in her attitude, in her body language. Hands down, he knew without a doubt, she had to be from somewhere up north.

  The seductive sway of her hips had every motherfucker in VIP looking down onto the dance floor at her, transfixed on her every move. Even those dancing with other females seemed to struggle to keep their eyes off of her.

  Three Fireballs in, and Arabia was feeling good to the point that the Philly-style Trap music being played no longer bothered her. She simply shimmied her body, swayed, and pumped her pelvis, dipped her knees, and—every so often, swung her hair.

  Cruze watched as she shook her head, or waved a finger, at cats trying to get up on her. She’d spin out of their grasp, then back away, putting a hand up for them to keep their distance from her. He couldn’t help but shake his head. She was a tease, but not in a slutty way, and he found himself being drawn to her, caught up in a drowning sensation of need that came from someplace he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t come to the club to pick up broads, or even take one home, for that matter. But, now, the idea didn’t seem too far from a possibility. For the first time tonight, Cruze felt his body jump-starting and his dick coming to life.

  He stood up as she slowly twirled around in a sensual circle. He leaned almost over the rail for a better view. Fuck. He could see the edges of her ass cheeks jiggling seductively, practically calling out to him. He pulled in his bottom lip.

  Arabia’s eyes shut, then fluttered open as she found herself getting lost in the music.

  DJ Khaled’s “Gold Slugs” played and Arabia threw her head back and looked up through her lashes. Their eyes locked. And, instantly, she felt her body heat. His masculine face illuminated when the strobe lights flashed, hitting the defined angles of his model-fine face. She swallowed. Then blinked. Oh, yes—she’d found her mark for the night. Her lashes fluttered shut and, then, she slyly licked her lips.

  The seductive gesture caused Cruze to swallow. Not many women had the ability to bring him to full arousal without ever touching his dick, first. But somehow this temptress had accomplished that in a matter of moments.

  Meek Mill’s “All Eyes On You” began playing and Arabia threw a hand in the ai
r and rocked her hips, and rolled her belly as if she were a snake charmer, as if she knew all eyes were indeed on her. She pretended to be oblivious to the effect she was having on her captive audience on the floor around her, and in VIP.

  “Yo, man,” Marquan said, stepping up next to Cruze and tapping him on the arm. “You see that?”

  Cruze simply nodded. Of course he saw her. How could he not see her?

  For a moment, he imagined he was seeing things. But when he blinked again, it was clear that he wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating.

  “She bad as fuck,” Marquan slurred, slicing into Cruze’s visions of the sexy vixen being down on her knees, and him slipping the head of his dick between those pillow-soft lips of hers, then sliding his shaft into that plush-looking mouth of hers until he was hitting the back of her juicy throat. He found himself imagining him parting her thighs, and her being wet inside, very wet, and hot; her pussy a slick glove of tight heat.

  A slow fission of heat slowly spiked in his spine. She thrust her pelvis, almost deliberately at him—or at least that was what he thought he saw, what he wanted to believe—and his body flooded with primal urges. She was hella sexy. And, yeah, he wanted to fuck her—he wanted to fuck her sexy-ass brains out.

  Shit . . .what the fuck?

  He was bugging. Hard.

  He hadn’t lusted after a broad in years. Not since his days of hugging the block, not since his first love—the woman who’d turned him out, and betrayed his trust, and—eventually, had broken his heart.

  Not wanting to think about old shit—not tonight, not now, not ever—he drained his drink, and another appeared before him on a napkin. He tossed the waitress only a cursory glance, before fixing his gaze back to the dance floor.

  The DJ eased on Bryson Tiller’s “Don’t” and Arabia rolled her hips and licked her lips again, her eyes catching his, and Cruze’s dick twitched. He wanted some sloppy top. Yeah, a dick suck was exactly what he could use right about now.