Sexual Healing

by Allison Hobbs

  But—holy hell—sitting next to him was far worse than she imagined had she’d chosen to sit across from him. Breathing him in was too intense, too intoxicating, too dizzying. And it made it difficult for her to think straight.

  This kind of shit never happened to her. Not Arabia Knight. Not the sultry queen of seduction. But this man . . . this tall, dark, and goddamn deliciously sinful hunk of man did something to her that she couldn’t quite put into words—not yet at least.

  And—no, she didn’t like it one damn bit.

  Cruze hid a smirk behind his napkin as he dabbed at his mouth. He had been eyeing her from his periphery since they’d arrived for dinner. She hadn’t wanted to sit across from him, but to the right of him instead. He’d found it odd, but okay—whatever. Several times, she slid her pretty pink tongue over her top lip, then pulled her bottom lip in. She twirled a strand of her hair, and shifted in her seat. He didn’t know why he found the simple act sexy, but he did.

  And several times he had to discreetly slide a hand down into his lap and press the heel of his palm against his hard dick. Fuck dinner. Why hadn’t he asked her for a night of fucking in the backseat of his whip instead?

  His throbbing dick would have thanked him for it.

  Arabia reached for her glass again, and took a long sip of her wine, before shifting in her seat to angle her body so that she was almost facing him.

  Was she nervous?

  Did he make her nervous?

  Nah. Not after the way she threw that pussy at him. There was no way in hell she was uneasy about shit. So Cruze shook the notion from his head. Still, he couldn’t believe that she was here in the flesh. The freaky broad who’d consumed his fantasies for the last few weeks. He wasn’t pussy whipped by any means. Yet, here he was sitting beside this broad, lust simmering in his eyes, with a hard-ass dick. Eyeing her made his balls flood with need.

  He pressed his legs together. What the fuck is going on here? He hadn’t asked her out to fuck—well, maybe he did, but that was beside the point. The point was, if she offered him some pussy, he’d gladly beat her guts up again—no questions asked. Then send her stuck-up ass on her way.

  Shit.

  Who was he fooling?

  What was supposed to satiate his sexual appetite that night had only made him hungrier; he wanted more. He wanted her to suck his dick, use a lot of spit. Then bend over and let him lose himself inside her heat again. Without words, she had spoken to a part of his soul that night. Had gripped and begged and clutched and opened to him like no other woman, which is why he wanted to have dinner with her tonight. He needed to get a handle on who this broad was. And figure out what was it about her that had him ready to fuck the shit out of her again, repeatedly and in excess.

  He sighed inwardly as his cock thickened.

  Shit.

  “What is it about this broad?” he asked himself again.

  Yeah, okay. There was definitely lust; lots of hot, greedy need. The throbbing in his loins was proof of that. Still, he was a man in control. Always. Of everything. And, yet, here he was feeling his restraint slowly slipping out of his grasp, wanting to give into his hard dick, and his sexual urges, like he’d almost done earlier in his office with Tanji.

  Fuck.

  It was bad enough that memories of he and Arabia’s nasty encounter in the club was still playing inside his head as they ate. In his mind he kept seeing the sway of her hips, her smooth milk-chocolate thighs, that juicy ass and . . .

  That lil’ red dress!

  He kept hearing her screaming with abandon over the sound of the music, the bass pouring out of the club’s speakers, vibrating through their bodies as her cunt clutched him.

  He kept feeling his dick buried inside her—and how tight and hot and wet her pussy had been while he’d fucked her, while they both plummeted over the edge. He’d fucked her hard. And she’d fucked him back harder. He’d fucked her fast. And she’d fucked him back faster. Wetly. Greedily. And they’d done this on a dance floor, surrounded by partygoers who had been none the wiser.

  He groaned inwardly.

  Everything about that night was etched in his brain. He’d done some wild shit in his life. But fucking a broad on a dance floor?

  Nah, that was the first. She was the first.

  She was bold. Nasty. And goddamn sexy as fuck!

  Inadvertently, he licked his lips.

  And Arabia almost swallowed her tongue watching the reddish tip of his tongue sexily glide over his top lip. A hot ache grew inside her as she imagined his tongue sliding over her pussy. She quickly cleared her throat, and shook the imagery from her mind. She had to get ahold of herself.

  “So tell me, Mr. Fontaine,” she decided to ask, pushing her half-eaten plate back and slicing into his salacious thoughts. “Do you make it a habit of screwing random women in your office?” she bluntly asked, surprised that she’d gone there with him.

  The corners of Cruze’s mouth quirked into a half-smile.

  He raised his brow and eyed her, his left dimple flashing ever so sexy. “Well, Ms. Knight, how ’bout you tell me. Do you make it a habit of letting muhfuckas you don’t know fuck you in dance clubs?” he countered coolly.

  Oops. She hadn’t expected that.

  Touché.

  Arabia smiled indulgently at him, matching his stare with one of her own, a glint of mischief in her eyes as she leaned into him. “Mr. Cruze Fontaine,” she said huskily. “I fuck who I want. When I want. Where I want. And I fucked you because my pussy told me to.”

  Well damn.

  Surprisingly turned on by her candor, Cruze laughed—not that he found her funny, but she was refreshing. And it was the first time in a long time that a woman had actually made him laugh; one that didn’t feel forced. And, shockingly, he felt . . .relaxed. So relaxed in fact that he’d turned off his cell—something he never did.

  For several long seconds, Cruze studied her, and everything about her was threatening to make him unravel. And he wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. But, God, if he didn’t want to fuck her pretty little mouth. He wanted to fuck it hard, so hard that his heavy balls would slap her chin. He’d fuck her so hard until he fucked all of her teeth loose. And then he’d keep fucking that sweet mouth until her gums went raw.

  Shit.

  That stunt Tanji had tried to pull down at the center earlier in the day still had him feeling some type of way. Disgusted; yet, still very horny for some wet head.

  “Oh, word?” he said, rubbing his chin. “And what is that sweet kitty telling you to do now?”

  A slow, flirty smile eased over Arabia’s lips. “Right now it’s warning me to seal up the gates, and flee for the hills.”

  Cruze couldn’t help but laugh again, reaching for his drink. “Yeah, a’ight. That’s what your mouth says,” he teased back. “But I bet your body is saying something else.” He licked his lips, then took a sip of his cognac. The rich, bold elixir warmed his chest. All he needed now was a blunt and some pussy, and his night would be complete.

  Arabia shifted in her chair, pressing her legs shut. Could he smell her arousal? Could he feel the heated need radiating from her skin?

  God, what a horny whore she was.

  She cleared her throat. “Anyway,” she continued, choosing to ignore his last remark. “I bet you were a momma’s boy growing up.” That came from out of nowhere, causing Cruze to cringe inwardly.

  Growing up, he despised being called that. A momma’s boy; even if he had been one. His friends would tease him because his mother kept such a tight leash on him, doing what she could to keep him close to home—where she could keep an eye on him. And he’d end up getting into fistfights with his peers over them calling him that.

  He scowled. “Why you say that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know; just a feeling. Are the two of you close?”

 
Cruze shifted in his seat. A faraway gaze entered his eyes when he looked at Arabia, and she’d noticed it the minute she asked the question.

  “Nah,” he offered. “Not anymore.”

  Arabia gave him a questioning look.

  And before he knew it, he told her, “She’s dead. She died from cancer.”

  Arabia gasped, more startled by the ache in her chest than the news of his mother’s death. She’d heard it in his voice, pain. And she wanted to comfort him. What the hell? “Oh, no. I’m so sorry,” she said in a soothing tone that made Cruze’s body relax some. “How old were you when she died?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “What about your father?” she asked, genuinely interested in knowing more. “Are you close with him? Do you have any siblings or are you the only child?”

  Cruze’s body stiffened. And coldness crept into his gaze. See, now this broad was starting to do the most. Give a bitch an inch and she started wanting to write your whole damn biography. What the fuck? He had already told her more than he’d expected. He didn’t really like talking about his personal life. It was private. Shit he kept locked in a tiny box in the back of his brain and in the bottom of his heart. Shit that wasn’t any of her damn nosey-ass business, or anyone else’s.

  And this was why he didn’t take bitches out. They asked too many damn questions. But he had asked her out. And there was something about the way she was looking at him—all wide-eyed and curious and . . . interested—that made him slightly uncomfortable.

  Damn, muhfucka, relax. She’s only tryna make conversation. Not investigate ya ass or set ya paranoid ass up. That’s what muhfuckas do on a date, nigga. They talk. Have conversation.

  Cruze leaned back in his chair, and blew out a sigh. “Nah. I’m an only child.”

  Arabia cocked her head to the side, studying him, a question in her eyes the moment he caught her gaze. The fact that he hadn’t said anything about his father didn’t go unnoticed, and she took that as her cue to leave it alone. She’d leave whatever deep, dark secrets he had for someone else to uncover.

  “A’ight, so enough about me, Ms. Arabia Knight,” Cruze said. “Your turn.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Well, what would you like to know?”

  “Are you the only child?”

  She shook her head. “No. I have three sisters. They’re all married with children. I’m the youngest.”

  Cruze nodded. “Oh, a’ight. So you don’t have a man?”

  “No,” she said. Well, technically, she didn’t have one—not one of her own, anyway. She had someone else’s. But that bit of news wasn’t anything for him to know. “And I’m not looking for one,” she added a beat later.

  Cruze smirked. Broads stayed talking that “I’m not looking for a man shit” until they got the dick-down, then they were begging to get wifed up.

  “Oh a’ight,” he said. “I heard that. So what’s good with your parents? They still alive?” Her gaze went beyond his for a moment before she allowed it to flit back to his face.

  “My dad died . . .”—more like was murdered—“when I was ten.”

  “Damn. Sorry to hear that.”

  Arabia smiled faintly. “Thanks.” She took a breath and shook her head. “It crushed me when he passed,” she said solemnly. She rarely ever spoke about her father, or his death. And suddenly out of nowhere, she felt tears glittering her eyes, and felt herself getting choked up. She reached for her wineglass and took a deep swallow.

  “So you were a Daddy’s girl, I bet,” Cruze said.

  Arabia nodded and smiled at the thought. “Yeah, I was. My father doted on me. He loved me to the core. And spoiled me rotten. My sisters always said I was his favorite.” She smiled, remembering. “Whenever he looked at me, he made me feel as if I were the most beautiful girl in the world. I felt loved by him. I was special. And he made me feel it. Every waking moment.” She took her linen napkin and dabbed along the corner of her eye where a damp trail of tears had formed. “Ooh, forgive me,” she muttered. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

  Cruze nodded knowingly. “I understand.” And he did all too well. That pain she felt was the same pain he felt. Losing the most important person in your life. “What about ya moms?”

  Arabia rolled her eyes. “Please. For a lack of having anything nice to say, let’s just say she’s living her life.”

  Cruze chuckled. “Oh, a’ight. I’ll take that to mean the two of you don’t get along?”

  “To say the least,” she said dryly. “But enough about her. I’m not trying to ruin my evening or the rest of my appetite talking about her.” She took another sip of her drink, then eyed him. “I have another question that’s completely off topic.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Umm. And what’s that?”

  “Well, I’ve been staring at your lips almost half the night,” she said boldly. “They’re beautiful, by the way.”

  Cruze blushed. “Thanks. So what’s the question?”

  “Do you eat pussy?” she bluntly asked, her voice above a whisper. She’d been dying to know all night. Had been conjuring up images of riding down on his face since they’d arrived at the restaurant. And now she needed to know.

  Cruze threw his head back and laughed, more from the shock of her being so brazen than anything else. He was still chuckling when he made a face, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. I’m good on that.”

  Arabia blinked. “Well, do you kiss?”

  Again, he shook his head. “Nah. Why?”

  Arabia’s eyes flashed with sympathy. Poor thing, she thought. No wonder his spirit seems so damn heavy. He needed some pussy on his tongue.

  She shifted in her chair—crossing her legs at her ankles, her cunt clenching furiously at that knowing. Who the hell didn’t eat pussy? And what kind of woman accepted it?

  In her world, she could forgive a man for not kissing. But one who didn’t put his face and tongue all up in that special place couldn’t be. It was unforgiveable—an abominable act of sexual neglect. Cunnilingus was a requirement, period. If a man expected to have steady access to her pussy, he had better be ready to dance his tongue over her clit, then slide it into her slit.

  Bottom line, she despised selfish lovers. So there was no reason for her to be sitting beside him toying with the idea of sliding off her chair, then slinking under the table and sucking his dick. Absolutely not.

  Still, there was something about him that intrigued her.

  And she had to admit. The dick had been . . .good. No. Damn good—thank you very much. That night at the club had been the kind of raunchy fucking she’d needed. He’d stamped and stretched her pussy inside out with every thick inch of his cock, from the tip to the base, to his heavy balls slapping the back of her slit. He’d served her up right. She licked her lips.

  If she closed her eyes tight enough, she could still see him straining with pleasure as he slid in and out of her body, her cunt greedily sucking at his cock. The way he’d growled and lost control, fucking her hard and fast, his body convulsing violently with the force of his orgasm, biting into her shoulder like some wild beast, was still etched in the forefront of her memory.

  Her mouth curved wickedly.

  Mmm—sweet Jesus, yes—lewd decadence, that’s what that night had been.

  Arabia reached for her wineglass. And their eyes met. She took a sip of her wine, peering over the rim of her goblet at him. Little did she know, that night at the club was seared into his brain as well, but he had no intentions of letting her know that he couldn’t stop thinking about that sweet, tight pussy; or that his dick was harder than steel at the thought of being trapped inside her wet, clutching sex again.

  Her pussy ached. She was done with dinner and talk.

  Arabia needed something hot and dirty, before she caught her train back to New York.

  She reached for her purse. Pulled out a c
ondom.

  Then discreetly slid it over to Cruze as she leaned into his ear and whispered, “Meet me in the bathroom for dessert.”

  Twenty-Two

  Cruze gazed at the condom. First a crowded dance floor and now she wanted to fuck in a public restroom. This raunchy bitch! Obviously, Arabia was accustomed to dumb niggas indulging her twisted desires, and Cruze resented being ordered to perform like a goddamn circus act. But he’d promised Bret he’d fix the situation and so he languidly rose from the chair.

  Eyes narrowed, he moved toward the restroom. If Arabia wanted to treat him like some kind of disposable sex toy, then he had something for that ass. His spirit ominous and heavy, he wasn’t surprised that his dick responded to his mood by growing more rigid with every step.

  When he entered the bathroom, Arabia was gazing in the mirror, no doubt enjoying her impeccable image. In her reflection, he saw her expression change from smug self-assurance to a look of panic when she noticed his clenched jaw and felt the danger of his dark mood.

  Before she could utter a word, Cruze snatched her by the wrist, trapping it inside his powerful grip.

  “Let go! Why’re you acting like an asshole,” Arabia spat. She was helpless to wrench free as he forcibly tugged her toward a stall and then shoved her inside.

  “Is this what you want?” Cruze growled, pressing her dainty hand against his turgid erection. “Huh, you want some dick?”

  Arabia gasped sharply as his hard shaft pulsed hotly against her palm. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to slap the shit out of Cruze or rip open his fly. What the hell was his problem? After receiving the freaky offer of unexpected pussy for dessert, the average man would have felt immensely grateful. But not this motherfucker. He came bursting into the bathroom, looking half-crazed and grabbing on her like an uncouth barbarian.

  She thought about escaping the confines of the stall by kicking him in the nuts with her pointy-toed Giuseppes and then running. But when he unzipped his pants and whipped out a throbbing, dark chocolate hard-on that was so perfectly sculpted with a slight curve, bulbous head, and pulsing veins, she gave a sharp gasp and gawked at his dick in lustful admiration.