“My apologies, Ms. Knight,” a seemingly embarrassed Bret said as he shut Cruze’s door and swiftly led her down the hall back to the comforts of his own office. He could only imagine what she thought, and that alone made his temper boil.
He’d had what he wanted to believe to be a very productive morning with Arabia. During their forty-five-minute meeting, she’d impressed him. Not only with her beauty, but with her impeccable credentials and portfolio of big-name clients whom she’d worked with. He thought they were on their way to a mutually agreeable collaborative partnership.
They’d agreed to meet again in another week or so after she’d gone back to her office in New York and consulted with her creative team on developing the right concept for his ad campaign.
And now this shit.
What the fuck had Cruze been thinking letting one of his youths’ moms suck his dick in one of his offices, in his goddamn building? If that were the type of shit Cruze was into, then he would sorrowfully have to let him go. He wasn’t running some downtown slurp shop. And he damned sure hadn’t opened HYPE for it to be turned into some den of iniquity.
Bret sighed inwardly. Who the hell was he kidding? Cruze had become in such a short period of time an asset to HYPE. But he would have to learn better dick control, or be out on his ass. He didn’t give a fuck how much money or supplies he donated. This was business. And he didn’t want his organization’s name tarnished by some horny-ass mofo.
“Sorry you had to see that . . .” he continued on, but Arabia’s mind had already wandered off. Her feet were moving, but she was nowhere in the moment. She honestly couldn’t feel her legs, nor the immaculately polished floor beneath her feet. But, in her mind’s eye, she’d run back to the man with the zipper down, and hard dick.
Cruze?
Hmm. So that’s who her mystery man was. Now she had a name to attach to the face the next time she slid her hands between her legs and fingered her pussy. His face, his body . . . the feel of his dick had already been stamped into her brain.
Now—mmm—the name would be, too.
Cruze.
Arabia suddenly felt hot and flustered and surprisingly wet. Beneath her fitted chocolate-brown skirt, her juices were slowly seeping into her panties. Beneath the pink blouse she’d chosen to wear, her nipples were as hard as pebbles as a dozen questions swirled around in her head.
Had he just finished getting his dick sucked?
Had that trick swallowed him?
Were they lovers?
Or was she some random gutter bitch he dragged in from off the streets?
Mmmph. It was obvious that Mr. Deep Dimples didn’t have any exacting standards when it came to whom he allowed to suck his dick.
Oh what she wouldn’t have done to have walked in and caught his dick already stuffed inside her filthy, dick-sucking mouth, instead of catching what could have been either the beginning or the ending of a deliciously dirty act.
She swallowed.
“I assure you, Ms. Knight,” Bret prattled on, “what you just saw isn’t what HYPE is about. In fact, it goes against the principles of what I’ve built the center on.”
Arabia gave him a sideways glance, her breasts bouncing, her ass swaying back and forth as she walked in step with Bret’s long-legged stride. Hmm-mm, if you say so. She cleared her voice and, with her cunt clutching, said, “Well, Mr. Hollis. I would surely hope not. I mean . . .” She paused, trying to shake the image from her head.
Him.
Here of all places.
She couldn’t believe it.
And to think she was livid with Ashley for calling her late last night to tell her she wouldn’t be able to meet with Mr. Hollis today because her beloved pit bull, Peaches, had taken ill and the furry critter had to be rushed to the vet.
“Fuck Peaches,” Arabia had wanted to say when she’d heard the excuse given as to why she wasn’t able to be on the Amtrak train to Philadelphia, and how her morning would have to be disrupted to conduct a meeting that she couldn’t. Arabia had been seething. How could Ashley choose her pet—that ugly bitch—over a prospective client?
But, now, she was glad she’d come instead. Arabia pursed her lips, making a mental note to take Ashley out to lunch sometime this week, and buy her doggy a bone—as a thank you, of course.
Had Ashley come instead—
“You were saying, Ms. Knight?” Bret questioned, slicing into her thoughts as he held open the door to his office, and motioned her inside. He shut the door behind them.
Arabia touched the column of her neck. “Well, I was saying. What your staff does behind closed doors is surely none of my business, but if what I walked in on a few moments ago is common practice of how your staff engages with members of the community, then I don’t think my advertising agency is the right fit for you. I—”
“Ms. Knight,” Bret cut in, stepping around her and moving to sit on the other side of his desk. “Under no instance do I condone what you’ve witnessed. Your agency is exactly what HYPE needs to get to the next level. Again, I apologize.”
“Apology not necessary,” Arabia said. But another night with that sexy-ass motherfucker and his big, horny dick back there is. “But after what I saw, I’m really not sure if this will work. Perhaps I can refer you to—”
“No, no. Absolutely not,” he quickly said. “The only ad agency I’m interested in is yours. Period.” Bret gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. “Please. Sit.” He remained standing, sliding a hand into his pocket. He eyed Arabia as she sat, then followed suit. Arabia crossed her legs, clasping her hands over her knee. His gaze landed on her smooth legs, before he lifted his eyes to meet hers. He swallowed back a knot of building lust. Damn, she was one hot dish of sexy trouble. If he weren’t a happily married man, he’d happily offer her a ride on his thickening cock. He pressed his legs shut, and cleared his throat. “Ms. Knight, I can guarantee what you saw will not happen again. Ever.”
Arabia gave him a doubtful look. “Well, tell me, Mr. Hollis. How many times has something like this occurred? If we’re talking about branding HYPE, then a sex scandal is the last thing you’ll want to be entangled in when it comes time to solicit for donors. I should warn you, now.” She tilted her head, and eyed him sharply. “If I decide that my agency will work with you on your marketing and ad campaigning, then you’ll need to rein your staff in. I don’t like surprises.”
Well, um, not unless said surprise was attached to a deliciously dark, deep-dimpled man. Then surprise on.
“There’ll be none,” he assured her as he glanced at the embossed business card she’d left on his desk. “I will address this with—”
There was a knock on the door, and in walked the freak of the hour in the tall, dark flesh. “Can I come in?” he asked, peeking his head through the door.
The sound of his voice sent heated shivers through Arabia’s body. She hadn’t even bothered to glance over her shoulder in fear he’d see the desire that still lingered on her face. So she purposefully kept her back to him, as he welcomed himself into the office without an invitation.
Fuck. Bret shot him a scathing look, and Cruze felt himself recoil inside. Still, he met his stare boldly. Though he felt like shit—of all fucking days to let his dick get the best of him, it had to be today—he wasn’t one to cower to any man. It was a mistake. One he’d never make again. Still, he hoped Bret wouldn’t toss him out on his ass when it was all said and done. Hell, he wouldn’t blame him if he did after what he’d been witness to, even if nothing had happened; the shit still looked suspect.
He could tell Bret was pissed—rightfully so. Shit, he was pissed himself. Fucking bitches! They were nothing but trouble. He needed a blunt. Bad.
“Ms. Knight,” Bret said, trying to rein in the bite of temper in his voice. “I believe you’ve unofficially met HYPE’s newest coach, and one of the enrichment center’s
most giving donors. Cruze Fontaine.”
Cruze walked further into the room, and Arabia swallowed, then slowly stood to face him, her eyes sparkling with fascination. He let out his breath in a long exhale when she turned toward him. Motherfuck. She was finer than he’d remembered from that night. His mind was spinning so damn fast, reeling between embarrassment and an inexplicable desire to have her again. For a second he was back at the club—his hard shaft gliding in and out of her body, her wet pussy sliding back and forth over his dick.
Yes. She stood confident and poised, but inside, she was a trembling mess. She felt her fingers twitch with the desire to touch him, press her body into his, but she managed to find her professional footing and stepped forward with an outstretched hand, and an inviting smile.
“Arabia Knight,” she introduced herself, keeping her gaze fixed on his.
Damn, her name was Arabia. It sounded sexy to him the way she’d said it. Exotic. And now he was standing here with the beginnings of fresh arousal pooling from the head of his dick. Why the fuck hadn’t he pulled out his shirt? Or worn those burgundy boxer briefs he’d decided against at the last minute? Now he’d have to hope like hell she didn’t notice the bulge slowly stretching down his leg.
He kept his expression casual, struggling to keep from licking his lips at the swell of her breasts, the slightest hint of smooth flesh peeking from her blouse. Pretty in pink she was. All conservative and demure and sophisticated and innocent-looking, not the hot, sultry temptress he’d just fucked weeks before. So fucking hot and wild.
He clasped her hand, his attention full on her face, and for a moment, Arabia thought for sure she’d drown in the pool of lust swimming in his eyes. “Cruze Fontaine.” His deep voice was thick with heat. The subtle scent of his expensive cologne wafted up her nostrils, and Arabia felt the room spin as she breathed him in. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, trying to ignore the way the tiny hairs on his arms stood up, the result of the electricity now swirling between them. He wondered if she felt it, too.
For a moment, she said nothing, but Cruze saw the inquisitive gleam in her eyes, along with the way her head tilted and her succulent lips slightly parted, as if she were contemplating what to say or do next.
Oh, yes—she felt it. And she could tell in the way his pulse beat a tad too quickly in his neck, and in the way his dreamy eyes were dilated that he felt what she was feeling, too. She wasn’t a fool. She’d felt that same spark—the sizzling heat—between them the moment they’d laid eyes on each other that night at the club. She’d felt it the moment she felt the distance between them close as he came to her, standing too close behind her, making her pussy quiver. He’d made her pussy wet long before he’d spoken a word to her.
She’d felt it surging through her the moment she’d felt his arm curl around her waist and he’d pulled her closer so he could feel her chest rising and falling, the curves of her back pressing against his body as the fat, juicy ass of hers fitted into his groin.
And—oh what a perfect fit it had been. Arabia swallowed back a thick lump of desire, pushing back the decadent memory.
“The pleasure’s all mine,” she finally offered all prim and proper and professional-like as he engulfed her delicate hand in his.
Bret cleared his throat, and Cruze took that as a sign that said Nigga, fix this shit.
“Listen,” he said, still holding onto her hand. It was so soft and warm and he wondered how good it would feel wrapped around his dick. Shit, nigga. Get a grip. “I apologize for you walking in on that back there in my office. It was . . .”
“Sucking your dick,” Arabia heard herself say in her head. But, instead, she gave him an amused look, sliding her hand from his. “Compromising,” she said teasingly.
Cruze gave a sheepish grin, almost at a loss for words. He shifted his weight, not liking the way this sexy-ass woman was all of a sudden unnerving him. He was a smooth dude, a magnet for pussy, for fuck’s sake. He turned broads out, not lose words or train of thought.
“She was, uh, well . . .” Shit, shit, shit.
“No need to explain,” she said, letting him off the hook. She glanced at her diamond-encrusted watch, then over at Bret. “Mr. Hollis. I’d better get going. It was a pleasure.” She reached for her designer briefcase tote lying on the chair.
Cruze frowned. Wait. Was she leaving so soon? Where the fuck was she going? He thought she’d wanted to ask him a few questions as well. He glanced over at Bret as he stood, and walked around his desk to extend his hand to Arabia.
“Thanks for coming down to discuss HYPE’s goals,” Bret said.
“My pleasure,” she replied cordially. Then she smiled. “I’ll be in touch.” Arabia brought her attention to Cruze. “Mr. Fontaine—”
“Please. Call me Cruze,” he said, flashing her a dimpled-smile. When his eyes once again reached hers, she had to choke back a gasp at the fire flickering in his pupils. Heat flashed through her, and she felt as if she’d melt right there on the spot if she didn’t make a mad dash for the door and lock herself inside her rental. Not now.
Right now.
“Well, Cruze. Nice meeting you.”
“Oh, let me walk you out,” Bret offered.
“Oh, no. Please. Stay. I’ll be fine. I’ll leave the two of you alone . . . to talk,” she said pointedly. And with that she was sauntering toward the door, her heart pounding so fast she could feel its beat in the pit of her pussy.
She managed to keep her back straight as she walked, feeling heat searing up the back of her body as Cruze kept his gaze on her, taking in the way her fitted skirt curved over her hips and grazed at her knees. Her plump ass was like two fluffy biscuits he found himself wanting to bite into. He swallowed. He wasn’t one ever at a loss for words, but he found himself standing here frozen as a hot coil of desire twisted through him, making his balls ache.
Bret cleared his throat again, shooting another scathing look over at Cruze. Then this time, he mouthed through clenched teeth, “Fix this shit. Now.”
Cruze gave him a knowing glance, then turned to catch her. But she was already gone, melted away from his view. He stepped out into the hallway and, as he came up behind her, he said, “Yo, Arabia.”
A shiver raced up her spine as she peeked over her shoulder, her brown eyes glinting surprise. She stopped and looked up at him through long-lashed eyes as he approached her. He was right in front of her, so close she could feel the air between them thicken. The hunger on his face was unmistakable, and Arabia’s breath caught in her chest.
“Yes?” she coolly replied.
“Forgive my forwardness. But have dinner with me tonight.”
She tried to control her breathing. She stepped back from him, her back practically brushing against the bar of the huge glass door.
If he noticed her reaction, he didn’t let on. She tilted her head, and he could see that she was toying with the idea. “And why would I do that?”
Cruze stepped in closer, closing the distance between them, making sure she saw the heat brimming in his eyes.
“It’s simple,” he said smoothly. “I’m all you’ve been thinking about.” It wasn’t a question. It was an assertion. He could smell her heated juices wafting from beneath her skirt, her sweet cunt taunting his senses.
Arabia blinked. This was utterly ridiculous lusting over a man this way. His gaze made fire pulse through her veins. But she had no damn intentions of giving him the satisfaction of knowing that. And—before she could open her mouth to deny the yearning between her legs, his mouth curved, revealing those delicious dimples.
“And you’re delusional,” she said, her gaze fixed on his.
He laughed. “So is that a yes?”
“Mr. Fontaine,” she said as she pushed back on the door’s handle. “It’s a ‘you’re not ready for a woman like me.’ Have a good day.”
And leavi
ng that little bit of mystery dangling between the two of them, she stepped out into the sun; her smile slow and easy and full of heated challenge.
Twenty-One
This chocolaty motherfucker sitting in front of her was an egotistical asshole, a smug son-of-a-bitch. Sexy bastard! It was evident in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself—his confidence bordering dangerously close to arrogance—that he was the kind of man who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. She was sure no wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. And clearly he wasn’t the kind of man who had to look far for pussy. He was probably used to women falling for his GQ looks, that deep-dimpled smile of his, and his never-ending charm. Hell, she mused, he probably had a slew of wet-pussy hoes catcalling and mewling outside his door, trying to claw their way into his sheets.
So why the hell had she accepted his invitation to dinner?
Well . . . because deep down—even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it, yet—she wanted to be clawing at his bed sheets as well. Hell, she’d hang upside down from a chandelier and do the damn Tootsie Roll if it meant having her cunt stretching and creaming all over his cock one more time. One more time—yes, that’s all she needed.
That’s all she required.
Her stomach tightened.
She wasn’t sure why the idea of him giving a string of horny bitches his long, hard dick bothered her. It shouldn’t. But it did. It made her envious. And she didn’t like it one damn bit.
So Arabia reached for her drink, then sipped and eyed him from out of the corner of her eye. She licked moisture from her lips as she set her drink back on the table.
She’d opted for a seat next to him, instead of across from him because, at the time, she didn’t think she’d have enough strength to get through a full meal having to look him in those dreamy eyes without creaming in her panties.
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