Maverick Brown and I had been inseparable since college when he was the star quarterback of the school’s football team, and I was his devoted girlfriend who’d won her way to his heart with superb cooking skills.
Maverick received the Heisman Trophy and of course, various NFL teams were pursuing him. I wasn’t about to let him leave me behind, and so I persuaded him to marry me a few weeks before graduation. Although I would have preferred a big, dream wedding, I agreed to a simple ceremony before he ran off to training camp. Unfortunately, his newly hired agent butted in our business and convinced Maverick to hit me with a prenup. It was the worst prenup in history with nothing in it that benefited me, but I signed it, anyway. I had to if I wanted to marry Maverick Brown. From the day I signed that horrible prenuptial agreement, I made a decision that Maverick and I would be permanently joined at the hip. No separation, ever. And absolutely no divorce. We were going to stay together, forever—no matter what it took.
Before being sidelined by a knee injury, Maverick had a stellar nine-year professional football career that included two Super Bowl wins and numerous lucrative endorsement deals. With Maverick’s money, I opened a soul food restaurant in Harlem called Bay Leaf, made it a success, and then made a hefty profit by selling it. The rest of my story became history: three bestselling cookbooks and a series of instructional DVDs. I also had my own reality TV show where I whipped up Southern cuisine while blindfolded contestants, who were not told any of the ingredients, had to rely on their palates and sense of smell to duplicate the dish I’d prepared.
The contestants on my show were mainly untalented assholes with huge egos, but their obnoxious personalities combined with my sassiness, killer wardrobe, sexy apron, and stilettos had helped make my show a smashing success during the first season. I was set to begin taping season two in a few days.
Back in the early years of our relationship, I used to keep Maverick happy with the soul food recipes passed down by my grandmother, Eula Mae Barber, a former madam from back in the forties. After her brothel was shuttered, she opened a restaurant and a hotel and was able to earn a good living. Though she was considered successful, she didn’t want her twin daughters to ever have to hustle the way she had, and she sent them off to college to find good husbands—preferably doctors. Grandma Eula Mae had a thing about doctors. Even before she became senile, she spoke of doctors as if they were gods and the only men worth marrying.
She was sorely disappointed when both her girls became college professors and married businessmen. She was even more disappointed when they put their careers first, allowing their marriages to crumble.
Out of all of Eula Mae’s descendants, I was the only one who had an interest in cooking. I was the only one in the family who was interested in braising short ribs or frying catfish to perfection. For me, standing next to Grandma Eula Mae while she eyeballed the measurements for banana-blueberry pancakes was fascinating, like watching a scientist at work. Everyone else sat at the table and gobbled up her food, but couldn’t care less about the masterful skill it took to prepare the meal. While my cousins ran out of the house, holding their noses and complaining about the stench of chitterlings, I had my hands immersed in water, helping my grandmother clean those pig guts.
I was raised on soul food, but rarely touched the stuff, anymore. Maverick and I were extremely picky about what we put into our bodies. We practiced a healthy lifestyle, and neither of us would dream of stuffing ourselves with the high-fat food that had made me famous. But we didn’t share that information with the public.
With maturity, my husband had become even more smoking hot than he’d been back in college. At age thirty-three, Maverick Brown was increasingly sought after to promote not only the usual sports gear and custom brews but also luxuries that most viewers could only imagine. Currently an analyst for a major sports network, Maverick was in negotiations for his own Sunday evening show.
Recently, a Hollywood casting director had offered him a juicy role in an action movie. That deal hadn’t been finalized yet, but it was only a matter of time before my hubby was showing off his ripped body on the big screen.
We were indeed a power couple, living our dream, and the idea of me slowing down for a pregnancy was unthinkable.
NEED EVEN MORE? ENTER
BY CAIRO
AVAILABLE FROM STREBOR BOOKS
ONE
Desirous.
Hedonistic.
Orgasmic.
Drenched in exotic beauty, Nairobia Jansen was all of those things, then some. She was Kama Sutra. A dangerous combination of . . . seduction and sin.
She was good pussy.
Good fucking.
She was sweet surrender.
And the gray-eyed, half-Dutch, half-Nigerian beauty knew it. After all, she was every man’s wet dream. And over the years she’d become the forbidden fantasy of her share of women as well. No. She wasn’t a lesbian. But she didn’t consider herself heterosexual, either. In fact, she hated labeling her sexuality. She found it constricting, and goddamn boring. She refused to live her life confined to someone else’s definition of who she should or shouldn’t be. She fucked whom she wanted, when she wanted, however she wanted, with abandon.
But it was no secret she loved the taste of pussy. Hell, most of the world had probably seen her with her face pressed between the thighs of a slew of women during her porn-star days. She was Pleasure back then. It was unbelievable how that time in her life felt like a lifetime ago. Still her reputation followed her. She was a legend in the porn industry. And she was certain many men had jacked off watching her get fucked from the back, her ass bouncing up and down on a long dick making it disappear, while she tongue-fucked another woman. Pussy was heavenly. She loved licking into its wet folds, sucking on its plump golden lips. She loved the way its scent stained her tongue. Loved the heat of another woman’s cunt melding into her own, grinding clit-to-clit, creaming out an orgasm.
However, make no mistake. She loved the wet, juicy, slosh-slosh sound her pussy made every time it was being deep-stroked by a long, hard, throbbing cock more. So—hell no, she could never be a lesbian. She loved dick too much.
Nairobia drew in a deep breath, and resisted the urge to wince at not having had some good pussy since the death of her . . . well, the only woman who she’d once ever considered sucking and fucking exclusively. Marika. The thought of her being gone was still too much to give thought to. And tonight wasn’t the time for gloom.
No. It was a celebration. The grand opening of her latest adventure, a club—nestled inside what used to be a lesbian club—in the midtown section of New York. Its sole purpose was to cater to the carnal desires of wealthy men and women who stepped foot through its doors. She’d bought the space a little over a year ago as an investment to add to her already impressive portfolio. And now her dream of opening the doors to one of the world’s most erotic sex clubs would become a reality.
Tonight.
Nairobia stared at the wall of water cascading behind the sleek, curved bar before her eyes locked on the bartender. She was scandalously dressed, as always, in a form-fitting, sheer linen gown, a front and back slit crawling up to the crack of her luscious bare ass, and golden sweet pussy.
A Chopard diamond necklace, with over a 140-carats of teardrop-shaped diamonds, cascaded around her neck and dripped down into her cleavage. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled up in what she liked to call a naughty girl chignon. Her hair pulled back, twisted into a loose bun, then loose strands of hair pulled out, framing her face for that freshly “just-fucked” look.
The messier the better, that’s how she liked it. Like sex, she liked it wild.
“What’s your poison, Mademoiselle?” the bartender asked over the music. Silk’s “More” melted out through the world-class sound system.
She glanced around the club.
Chic.
Sophisticated.
Heated marbled floors.
Swathes of billowy ivory silk covered the walls on the first floor.
Candles of enormous sizes flickered about the expansive space.
Gas-lit torches lined the walls.
Draped candlelit booths.
Oversized white leather sofas and armless chairs.
Massive floral arrangements perfumed the air.
She looked up at the vaulted ceiling, then fluttered her gaze back to the milk chocolate Adonis in front of her, his eyes dancing over her body. Every muscle in his sleek torso bunched, and her pussy clenched.
Goapele purred out of the speakers about being ready to play. And Nairobia was more than ready. She stayed ready. Always wet, always ready. She thrust her pelvis to its beat, then reached over the bar, positioned in the center of the floor, and pulled him into her by his spiked collar. She kissed him on the mouth. Sunk her teeth into his plump bottom lip. Then nipped at the small diamond hoop earring in his left ear. There was a panther’s head tattooed on the back of his neck. And her mouth watered to bite it. She resisted the urge.
For now . . .
Save for his collar, the six-foot-four bartender’s sculpted body was naked, dusted in gold as was every other wait staff, server, and bartender. He grinned as Nairobia leaned further over the bar and her hungry gaze slid down his body and fastened on the meaty dick hanging between his muscular thighs.
Mmm.
Josiah.
Josiah.
Josiah.
He was drool inducing as was everyone else who would work the club, including the deejays and the bouncers. It was a mandatory requirement—to be beautiful, to be sexy, to be . . . fuckable, whether you were dressed or undressed. And, oh how he was so, so very fuckable.
Nairobia knew she would feed the staff her pussy and she’d feast on their hard dicks, and weeping cunts. But rule number one: she would not, ever, indulge the patrons’ libidos. No, no, no. Sexing the clientele would make for bad business. And fucking over good coin was not how she’d managed to brand her name, and her delectable talents. No matter how many thousands of dollars would pour into her club tonight—or on any other night, no matter how many loins would ache for her loving touch, she wouldn’t cross the axiomatic line. Not with the patrons.
She fixed her gaze on the sight before her. The swells of Josiah’s biceps made her clit tingle, but fucking him right this very moment was the farthest thing from her mind. She wanted his long tongue on her clit, in her pussy.
She whispered in his ear, “My poison tonight is, een natte tong op mijn kut.” A wet tongue on my pussy.
He smiled, then replied huskily, “Your every wish is my command, Mademoiselle.” His bulging chest muscles and abs rippled. Even the sight of his thick forearms, lined with wide veins, made her pussy churn in delight. She imagined him using her naked body as his human bench-press, lifting her up over his head the way one would a set of one hundred-pound barbells.
Nairobia inhaled deeply and held it. She rubbed a smooth hand over his rock-hard pectorals, right before pushing out a warm gush of cinnamon-scented breath, slipping her tongue into his ear and telling him how her pussy whispered from beneath her gown, how it longed for his long, thick tongue. “Mijn poes verlangt naar uw tong.”
He understood nothing she said, which made it that more alluring. He will submit to me, she told herself. As they all will, offering me his tongue . . . and his big, thick cock, if I so desire it.
Josiah disappeared from sight as a rich, sexy ballad filled the air. Nairobia blinked. Then a sly grin eased over her lips as she prowled around the bar. There he was. Lying on the tiled floor behind the bar on his back, his hands behind his head, his dick lying languidly across his rippled belly . . .
Mmm.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
A prolific writer, Allison Hobbs is the national bestselling author of twenty-seven novels and novellas of multiple genres, including paranormal and fantasy. Allison received a Bachelor of Science degree from Temple University.
Cairo is the author of The Pleasure Zone; Dirty Heat; Between the Sheets; Ruthless: Deep Throat Diva 3; Retribution: Deep Throat Diva 2; Slippery When Wet; The Stud Palace; Big Booty; Man Swappers; Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang; Deep Throat Diva; Daddy Long Stroke; The Man Handler; and The Kat Trap. His travels to Egypt are what inspired his pen name.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Allison-Hobbs
authors.simonandschuster.com/Cairo
Facebook.com/AtriaBooks @AtriaBooks
ALSO BY ALLISON HOBBS
Power Couple
Taming Madam M
The Secrets of Silk
Misty
With This Ring
No Boundaries
Put A Ring On It
Brick
Scandalicious
Lipstick Hustla
Stealing Candy
The Sorceress
Pure Paradise
Disciplined
One Taste
Big Juicy Lips
The Climax
A Bona Fide Gold Digger
The Enchantress
Double Dippin’
Dangerously in Love
Insatiable
Pandora’s Box
WRITING AS JOELLE STERLING
Forbidden Feast
The Dark Hunger
Midnight Cravings
WITH KAREN E. QUINONES-MILLER
Hittin’ It Out the Park
ALSO BY CAIRO
The Pleasure Zone
Dirty Heat
Between the Sheets
Ruthless
Retribution
Slippery When Wet
The Stud Palace (ebook original)
Big Booty
Man Swappers
Kitty-Kitty, Bang-Bang
Deep Throat Diva
Daddy Long Stroke
The Man Handler
The Kat Trap
We hope you enjoyed reading this Strebor eBook.
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Strebor Books
P.O. Box 6505
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www.simonandschuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 by Allison Hobbs and Cairo
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address Strebor Books, P.O. Box 6505, Largo, MD 20792.
ISBN 978-1-59309-672-4
ISBN 978-1-5011-1919-4 (ebook)
LCCN 2015957701
First Strebor Books trade paperback edition August 2016
Cover design: www.mariondesigns.com
Cover photograph: © Keith Saunders/Keith Saunders Photos
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