Arabia blinked. Ooh, this cocky motherfucker! “Yeah, I came for the dick.” She tilted her head. “And you called for some more of this pussy. But we both see how that turned out.” She slipped her feet back into her heels, then turned and faced him. “If you don’t like anyone invading your personal space after they get you off, cool. Say that. But you don’t go manhandling them.”
Now Cruze felt like shit. And this thing—whatever it was, was starting to turn into an unnecessary beef. He wasn’t built for a bunch of arguing, or back and forth, especially from some random pussy. She was acting like she was his girl and he wasn’t feeling it.
Bottom line, he didn’t play that touchy-feely shit after sex. Unless they were fucking, there was no need for any wandering hands on his body.
He sighed. Yeah, it was definitely time for her ass to bounce.
Fuck. Maybe he’d given her the wrong impression by letting her linger around after he’d popped his nut. But he hadn’t wanted to be a total ass.
Still . . .
Looking at her smooth, silky thighs, his mind wandered lasciviously to the idea of having them wrapped around his waist and him pummeling his dick inside her juicy, wet cunt.
Cruze sat up in bed and eyed her as she began snatching up her bra. Shit. His gaze settled on her bouncy breasts and, and . . . those mouthwatering, thick, chocolate drop nipples. He had to fight the urge to hop up and throw her down on the bed and pop each succulent nipple into his mouth.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Shit. He needed a blunt. Now.
She caught his gaze and slung the sheet at him, baring her sexiness in all its glory. He swallowed, reaching for the sheet and covering his growing erection.
“I’m not sure what type of women you’re used to having in your bed,” she continued as she fastened her bra, “but I’m not . . .”
She paused, but Cruze was still eyeing her, though his icy expression had already melted and had become replaced with bemusement, as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her.
Truthfully, he didn’t.
But the one thing he did know was, she was a freak who needed a hard dick in her life—to be fucked often. Hell, maybe, daily for all he knew. She was thirsty. Dick hungry. Greedy.
And it fucking turned him on.
Still, females like her were only good for a night of sucking dick and wild sex, nothing more. Hell, she’d sucked him off and swallowed his nut, licked around his balls, before finally licking her lips like she’d just finished eating a chocolate-dipped ice cream cone less than ten minutes ago. How many other muhfuckas’ nuts had she gobbled up? Not that he judged, but he typically kept females like her strictly in the freak zone.
Still, his eyes went liquid with a strange mix of lust and heat, his dick pulsing to a level of hardness he couldn’t comprehend. He grabbed the pillow she’d lain on and placed it over his now rock-hard dick.
He couldn’t understand why he was so inexorably drawn to her. She was nothing more than a mere stranger. A random broad he’d fucked in a nightclub—no name exchanges, just music, body heat, and an unexplainable connection. Then he’d fucked her again—in a bathroom stall, no less.
Just the sight of her made his skin heat. But he wasn’t about to let his dick or his desires cloud his judgment.
Cruze reached over and retrieved a half-smoked blunt lying in an ashtray on his nightstand. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a lighter.
“You’re not what?” he pushed, trying his damnedest not to drool at the sight of her heart-shaped ass as she bent over to snatch up her lace panties.
“I’m not the one to be manhandled unless I want to be. And you grabbing me like that was uncalled for.” She shimmied into her crotch-less panties.
He swallowed a thick knot of lust. “You’re right. My bad.” He lit the blunt, and inhaled, filling his lungs with weed smoke, trying to distract himself from looking at her, her ass, them hips. He shook his head, blowing a white billowy cloud of smoke up into the air.
Arabia glared. “Are you serious? You’re going to smoke that nasty thing now?”
Cruze shrugged, taking another deep pull. “Pssft. My crib, ma.”
Smug sonofabitch!
And to think she’d left her purse with her pepper spray in his living room. She’d do his eyes up real good, burn out his retinas for being so damn fine and cocky and goddamn desirable.
He kept his eyes on her as he held smoke in his lungs. The shit burned along with the ache in his groin.
Arabia rolled her eyes, quickly picking up her multi-print dress that had been tossed on the other side of the room. Shit. She held the dress up and shook it. Then cursed under her breath. Her dressed was a wrinkled mess. Now what?
There was no way she’d be caught dead walking the streets looking like some displaced vagrant.
“Do you have an iron?” she asked curtly. But the way he sat there all bare-chested and badass and cocky, made the pit of her pussy churn in desire.
Cruze smirked. Fuck you ‘n’ ya wrinkled-ass dress . . . dick-teasing ass. “Nah,” he coolly said, eyes now half-lidded from the weed.
Arabia huffed, twisting her hair up in a bun. “Well, I need something to put on, if you don’t mind.”
Cruze raised a brow and stared at her. Oh sure. His closet was stuffed with bitches’ clothes for days like this. Get real. “Not my problem. You better put on that wrinkled shit ‘n’ take ya ass on,” he heard himself saying in his head.
He inhaled more weed into his lungs. Eyed her as she paced around his room, her ass swaying in them skimpy-ass, lace panties. She felt his hot eyes on her, roaming all over her, his gaze searing over her skin.
Let her go, let her stay? Fuck her six ways to Sunday, or send her on her way?
Fuck it. The more he tried to suppress it, the more acutely aware he became of its presence, filling the air around them.
The heat.
The sexual chemistry.
“Yo, fuck all that,” he said, low and husky, giving into to his animalistic need. He slung the pillow he’d had his hard dick pressed under off his lap, then pulled back the comforter. “Come back to bed.”
Arabia blinked. Tilted her head. Then feigned indignation. “And why exactly would I want to do that after the way you tried to manhandle me?”
He reached over and extinguished what was left of his blunt in the ashtray, then climbed out of bed and stalked over to her, his dick hard and thick. “When I manhandle you, ma, you’ll know it. So let’s both stop playing this silly-ass game, and get down to what we both know we want.”
Hand on her hip. “And what is it you think I want?”
“Some hard dick, and a good fucking.” His eyes, the way he looked at her, promised just that.
Arabia’s mouth went dry. Her pussy wet. Before she could process what he was doing, he pulled her roughly into his arms, and hurled her against his body. She tried to put her hands up to push him back, to keep him at bay, but as soon as she made contact with his chiseled chest, more heat, more fire, radiated through her entire body.
“Get your—”
The words were cut off with a gasp when Cruze hoisted her up over his shoulder. Stalked back over toward the bed. Then threw her down on it.
Arrogant. Cocky. Big-dicked bastard.
And then . . . mmm . . . oh God . . . the head of his dick was there, hovering ever so lightly over her clit, then sliding over her slit . . . oh, no God . . . yes . . . then nudging at her slick opening.
Every nerve ending in her body jolted, and she gasped again as his gaze burned into her as he said, “Now tell me you don’t want this dick.”
Twenty-Seven
She hadn’t planned on seeing him again. Ever. She’d gotten what she’d wanted from him, so there was no further need to be in his presence again. But, several days later, when Cruze ca
lled out of the blue—his deep, sexy voice sliding over her senses and her skin, something inside of her tingled and she’d quickly forgotten her proclamation that she was officially staying away from his egotistical ass.
Oh, God, this was bad. He was bad.
But how the hell could something so bad feel oh so good?
Everything that looks good and feels good isn’t always good for you.
She had to keep reminding herself of that.
Yet, here she sat.
Across from him at Miss Tootsie’s in downtown Philly, a South Street multileveled restaurant bar and lounge that was praised for its golden fried chicken and gravy-smothered turkey chops. Neither of which Arabia ate. But she’d ordered the tilapia and a side of mac ‘n’ cheese that was flooded with butter and cheese and sinful goodness that she was afraid to eat it all for fear of becoming addicted. In just a few bites, she could already feel the pounds packing on to her hips and clogging her arteries. So she took tiny, dainty bites, then pushed the rest aside.
Cruze looked up from his plate and eyed her. “Is everything a’ight? How’s your food?”
She stared down at her plate, realizing that the fish was half-eaten and she honestly had no recollection of eating what was gone.
“It’s surprisingly really good,” she said.
“See,” he said. “Told you.”
“Yes, you did. But it’s still a bit too rich in cholesterol and calories for my blood.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “What, you watching your waist?”
“My waist, my hips, my ass . . .”
Cruze chuckled. “Well, how about this. You indulge yourself one day, and let me be the one to watch all that”—he leaned to the side, eyeing her hips—“for you. It’ll be my pleasure. Because from where I’m sitting, I’m diggin’ the view.”
Arabia’s cheeks heated, and she blushed. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He shook his head. “Nah. Only to the ones I like.”
She waved him on. “Uh-huh. And I bet you have a harem of women at your beck and call.”
Cruze laughed. “Nah, nah. I’m not even on it like that.”
She gave him the side-eye, and he laughed again.
“Nah, I’m dead-ass.”
She playfully rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, Mr. Fontaine. Whatever you say.”
He fixed his eyes on her. Damn, she was damn near flawless. “So, what’s good with you? Why you single?”
She shifted in her seat, and reached for her drink. “Maybe I haven’t found the right one to change that.” Not that she’d been looking for the right one. She preferred Mr. Right Now. But sitting across from him, feeling the strong chemistry between them, she wondered if he could be the one.
She quickly shook the silly notion from her head. She mentally scolded herself. Girl, you know damn well this fine motherfucker isn’t your type.
He wasn’t old enough.
He wasn’t married.
He wasn’t refined.
He wasn’t . . .
Her mental rambling was cut short when their server came back to their table, flouncing her ass and bouncing her breasts, grinning all up in Cruze’s face. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, staring at Cruze like he was the only one in the room. How dare she ignore her like she was some hot trash?
Rude bitch.
What if she was his woman? She wasn’t. But—shit—that was besides the point. This bitch didn’t know that. “No, you can’t get him anything else,” Arabia snapped, not hiding her irritation, giving the trick a hard stare.
The server slowly turned her attention to Arabia, tilting her head. “Then what would you like?” she asked with an attitude of her own.
Oh this tramp must really want me to put this six-inch heel in her forehead.
“I’d like for you to run along,” Arabia said icily. “Come back when you’re summoned.” Because right now, bitch, your tip is looking real slim. Arabia flashed her a tight smile, then shooed her away from the table. “Please and thank you.”
The server sneered and shot Arabia a dirty look, then stomped off, her ass bouncing and shaking hard and nasty.
Cruze shook his head, and laughed. “Damn, ma. Why you go in on her like that? She was only doing her job.”
“No, she was only being messy. She saw me sitting here with you.”
He flashed his dimples. “What, you jealous?”
She gave him an incredulous look. “Jealous? Boy, bye. Hardly. Like I said, she was being obnoxiously rude. And I didn’t appreciate it. What if you were my man?”
He grinned. “Do you want me to be?”
Arabia gave him a blank look. “Be what?”
“Your man.”
She swallowed. Suddenly, the room felt smaller, hotter. “You know what I mean. She came over here like you were all she saw. Flirting with you, like I wasn’t even sitting here. That’s very rude and disrespectful.”
Cruze nodded. “True. But she didn’t mean any harm by it.”
She tilted her head and stared at him. Men. “Okay, whatever you say.”
He grinned. “But you still didn’t answer the question.”
“What question?” she asked coyly.
“Yeah, a’ight. Don’t play.”
“Annnnnnway,” she said, shifting the conversation in a completely different direction. “Is Philly where you’re from? You sound like you’re from New York somewhere.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I am. Brooklyn.”
Arabia smiled knowingly. “I thought so.”
“And what about you? Where you from?”
She twirled a lock of her hair. “Originally from Jersey. Grew up in Bergen County.”
“Oh, word? Where at?”
“Alpine,” she said blandly.
“Oh, a’ight, a’ight. I see your work,” Cruze said, impressed at hearing the mention of one of America’s most expensive ZIP codes. “That’s nothing but money out there. Your peoples must have some long paper to afford living out there.”
Arabia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t like anyone knowing she’d lived a privileged life. They automatically assumed she was spoiled. Stuck-up.
Well, okay—she was spoiled. Still . . .
She shrugged. “I guess. I spent most of my school years at boarding schools.”
“Damn. How was that?”
“Lonely,” she wanted to say, but she settled for, “Different.”
Two years after her father . . . died, she was shipped off to a school in Switzerland. Her mother had wanted her out of her hair once she’d remarried. Claimed she was sending her thousands of miles away to help broaden her horizons. The bitch was a liar. She’d shipped her across the Atlantic Ocean because she hated her. Period. Two years later, she was allowed to attend the Emma Willard School—an all-girls’ private school in Troy, New York. Had it not been for her sisters begging their mother to bring Arabia back to the States, she’d have spent her entire time over in Europe isolated from her family.
Cruze regarded her thoughtfully. “And you went to college?”
Arabia nodded. “Yeah, Spelman. All of my sisters did, as did my mother, and grandmother. So . . .”
“It was your legacy,” Cruze said.
“More like a curse,” she muttered. Cruze gave her a questioning look, so she reluctantly went on. “It was hell having to stand in the shadows of my sisters, and be held to standards that only my mother got to approve of.” She blew out a long breath. “I was expected to be a certain way. Pledge a certain sorority. Be groomed for the perfect mate.”
“Damn. I can’t imagine having that kind of pressure on me.”
“I rebelled.” She laughed. “I’m the black sheep of the family. The wild child.”
He laughed. “I like you wild.”
Arabia swallowed. “So how many baby mommas do you have?” she blurted out. It was a random question, one that felt more like an assumption, but she wanted the attention off of her.
Cruze scowled at her. “What? What makes you think I have one; let alone—multiple?”
Her eyebrows rose in curiosity, in question. “Do you?”
He shook his head. She was officially a fucking wet-dream killer. Ignorant-ass broads like her pissed him off assuming every young, black man was out in the streets slinging raw dick, making a bunch of babies. Yeah, he’d been reckless in his life over the years, and dumped his nut in his share of wet holes. But he wasn’t looking for a baby momma, let alone multiple. He felt like checking her dumb ass. He decided to let her think whatever the fuck she wanted instead. He cleared his throat, and a silence stretched between them as he reached for the linen napkin in his lap and wiped his mouth, before he asked a question of his own: “How many baby daddies do you have?”
Arabia made a face. “Excuse you?”
He smirked. “You heard me. Since you’re asking me how many BMs I have—straight up assuming I have kids to begin with, I asked you how many cats you’ve let seed you?”
She blinked. Seed me? What the hell? “I’ll have you know,” she said, indignation lacing her tone. “I don’t get seeded, breeded, or anything else by a man. I’m allergic to raw sex.”
He looked at her as if amused by her response. “So I take that to mean, you don’t have a bunch of baby daddies?”
She shook her head. “Absolutely not.” He smiled, and Arabia found herself helpless to stop from staring at his dimples. Damn him. “I don’t do babies or baby daddies.”
His eyebrow went up. “Oh, okay. Yet you assumed I would have multiple kids by a bunch of different women.”
She swallowed, feeling regretfully silly for how she’d posed the question. “I apologize for assuming,” she said earnestly. “I should have simply asked if you had any children.”
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