Sexual Healing (10 page)

“It's me, Ma. I'm here,” Cruze said, watching for the rise and fall of her chest. Not sure if his mother was still breathing, Cruze bent down and shook her. “Ma! Wake up,” he said in a frantic whisper, glancing over his shoulder at the social worker who lingered near the door.

Sherrell's eyelids fluttered open and in that moment, Cruze felt so euphoric, he could hardly restrain himself from gleefully jumping up and down on her bed as if it were a trampoline.

“Cruze,” Sherrell whispered, bringing her shaky hand up and touching his face.

“Hi, Ma.” Gazing at her, he smiled with relief. His mother was alive and everything was going to be all right. He told himself that from now on, he'd do the laundry, cook dinner, and clean the house so that his mother could stay off her feet and rest until she was completely healed. And since he was tall enough to pass for sixteen, he'd lie about his age and get a job to help pay the bills and take care of his mother.

“I'm trying to fight this, baby.” Sherrell weakly raised both her fists and feebly attempted to mimic boxing.

“Fight, what?” In an instant, Cruze's feeling of euphoria was replaced
with fear and dread.

“The cancer. The doctor said it's spreading all through my body, and that's why they have to send me to that hospice place. But I'm not giving up hope. I'll be back home before you know it.” Sherrell winced and closed her eyes, again.

“What's wrong? Are you in pain?”

She coughed. “Yeah, I think it's time for more pain medication.”

Ms. Curry cleared her throat. “Do you want me to get your nurse, Ms. Fontaine?” the social worker offered.

Grimacing in pain, Sherrell could barely nod her head.

“Yeah, she needs the nurse,” Cruze interpreted.

When the social worker left the room, Sherrell took Cruze's hand. “The medication they've been giving me makes me groggy, so I have to speak my mind while I'm able to. Cruze, sweetheart, I'm gonna do everything in my power to come home to you, but it might take a while.” She paused and began coughing uncontrollably.

Not knowing what to do to help, Cruze handed her a tissue from the box on the nightstand. After she collected herself, Sherrell continued. “Since I don't have any family to help take care of you, I don't have a choice but to let the social worker place you in foster care—only for a little while.” Sherrell's voice broke and she used the tissue to dab at the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes.

“No, Ma! Please, don't let them do that! I can take care of myself. I'll get a job. And I'll get the cable turned back on so you can watch TV when you come back home.”

“That's sweet, honey, but you're not old enough to get a job or take care yourself. Now, you have to promise me that you won't give Ms. Curry a hard time.”

“I don't want to talk to that lady about nothing,” Cruze barked stubbornly. In that moment, he hated being a kid. He wanted to demand that a doctor talk to him and explain what exactly was going on with his mom, and why she couldn't come home. He felt so helpless not being able to do anything for the woman who'd always worked so hard to take care of him.

“Cruze,” Sherrell said in a weak voice, her face contorted as pain vibrated through her body. “Listen to me. Ms. Curry is going to help us until I can get back on my feet. Now, I need you to cooperate with her.”
Sherrell was openly crying now and tears poured from her eyes. “Can you do that for me, honey? Please?”

“Yes,” he reluctantly agreed. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down, his lips twitched, and his watery eyes bulged as he valiantly fought back tears.

“It's okay to cry, Cruze.” Sherrell held out her arms and Cruze collapsed
onto her chest, sobbing mournfully.

She stroked his hair. “It's only temporary, baby. We'll be together, again. Real soon.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Cruze blubbered, crying like a baby and reverting back to calling her Mommy like he did when he was a much younger child.

“Get all the tears out while you're here in this room with me because you're going to need to be stronger than ever after today. It's a rough world out there for young black men, and if you're going to survive, you have to learn how to control your emotions. Do you understand?”

Still crying, Cruze nodded.

“You're smart, well mannered, and the handsomest lil' dude in Brooklyn
with those deep dimples in your cheeks.” Sherrell smiled though her tears
. She coughed again. “We might be from the projects, but the projects do not define you, sweetheart. You are bigger and greater than the 'hood. Don't ever forget that. You have all the qualities to make it in life, if you apply yourself. I want you to go to college, Cruze. Do you hear me?”

Cruze nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “Yes. I hear you.”

Sherrell swallowed. “I want you to do something worthwhile with your life—something that will help people, not hurt them. I didn't raise
you to be a thug, or criminal.” She closed her eyes momentarily, and took
a deep breath. Slowly her lids fluttered open, and she locked her eyes on Cruze's wet gaze. “Don't let the streets get you, sweetheart. The worst thing you could ever do is to try to make a quick dollar by selling drugs.
You might feel tempted to make some fast money, but I want you to understand that slinging only leads to death or jail time. Now, promise me you won't ever try to take a shortcut by selling drugs.”

“I promise,” he whimpered.

“That's my good boy,” Sherrell said, running her hand from the crown of his head down to his neck. “Ms. Curry promised to bring you to the hospice facility in a couple of days, sweetie. Until then, I want you to know that I love you with all my heart.”

“I . . . love . . . you, too, Mom.” Cruze was gasping and choking and crying so hard, he could hardly get the words out.

The nurse and the social worker entered the room and found Sherrell and Cruze clinging to each other—both crying. Ms. Curry had to physically wrench Cruze's arms from around his mother. When the nurse administered Sherrell's pain medication, she seemed to instantaneously fall into a deep sleep.

“It's time to go,” Ms. Curry said when the patient behind the curtain went into a coughing fit that required the nurse's attention.

As he was being ushered toward the door, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, and felt heartened that his mother seemed to be resting peacefully.

That day, thirteen-year-old Cruze Fontaine had no idea that that would be the last time he'd ever see his mother alive.

Or hear her speak the words, “I love you,” ever again.

Ten

A
shrill sound woke a naked Arabia from a deliciously naughty dream. In the dream, hard bodies pressed into hers. Lips covered hers. Tongues licked at her clit. Hands squeezed her ass. Fingers curled around each breast as warm mouths suckled the tips. Her body arched, thighs parting beneath eager hips, thrusting inside her, deep . . . deeper.

She never begged—
ever
, but she couldn't stop begging. Couldn't stop saying the word, low and throaty. Please.

Please.

Please. Please, please, please . . .

Arabia's phone rang. And rang. Pussy clenching, her pulse raced.
No, no, nooo! Say it isn't so.
She was in the middle of being held down and fucked in all three holes by three dark-chocolate, six-foot-something hunks. Hard cock at the mouth of her pussy and at the rim of her asshole, the first two were about to stretch her open, while the third prepared to push his dick into her hungry, waiting mouth.

The dream had felt real, too real. So real that her nipples were tight, chocolate peaks of burning arousal. She'd experienced a threesome before. But having a truckload of hot, horny men fucking her was her most secret sexual desire. A fantasy she kept hidden in the darkest, most private parts of her mind. Multiple mouths. Multiple tongues. Multiple hands. Multiple cocks. All grabbing
her, tasting her, devouring her—mmm, oh God yes—fucking her.

It made her skin flush. It made her . . .

Her phone rang again.

Now
this
shit.

Her salacious dream snatched away by some goddamn obnoxious ringing phone.

She cracked a bleary eye.

Almost instantly, Kelly Rowland's “Dirty Laundry” blared again.
Oh for the love of God!
She blinked. Slowly opening her other eye, she blinked again, her eyes adjusting painfully to the sliver of light slicing in through the slits of her blinds. She lifted her head just enough to check the clock. Four thirty in the morning—on a
Saturday.
Rude. Who the hell called at this ungodly hour?

She knew the answer without having to reach for her cell or glancing at the caller ID. But she groped at the nightstand, anyway, until her hand found her smartphone.

Irritated, she swallowed back the last bit of her dream.

What the hell?

She cursed herself for not turning off her ringer as she snatched her cell from off the nightstand. She frowned and rolled her eyes, glaring at the caller ID. It was her mother, of course.
Oh, she has got to be goddamn kidding me. Not today you won't.
She hit
IGNORE
. Then turned the ringer off.
You had better try back at a decent hour.

She grabbed a pillow and buried her head beneath it. She was not in the mood for the likes of Miss Messy. She was exhausting, and it was simply too early in the morning for her shenanigans. There was nothing good that could possibly come from out of that woman's mouth at this time of the morning. Nothing.

It was bad enough that she'd confided in three sisters last week, over drinks, about Teddy's death and how she'd shown up at his funeral. She'd sworn them to secrecy as they sat and listened in
utter disbelief, shaking their heads. The sisters thought it real nervy of her. Impolite. Inconsiderate.

“More like trifling, if you ask me,” said her sister, Alexis. She was two years older than Arabia, living in Atlanta and married to a neurosurgeon. She was now six weeks' pregnant with their fourth child. “You need to stop acting so hard-up for somebody else's man, like you can't get a man of your own.”

Arabia frowned. “Well, maybe I don't
want
a man of my own. Maybe I like sharing them. Fucking them, then sending them back. Maybe—”

Tamara, the second oldest, cut in and said, “Well,
maybe,
you need your ass beat again. You had no business showing up at that woman's husband's funeral like that. I would have done more than clawed your face up, boo. I would have sliced you good.” She sucked her teeth. “I wish a bitch would.”

Tamara lived in Denver with her husband, who played for the NFL, and their two children. Let her tell it, her man never cheated on her. But, as far as Arabia was concerned, he'd simply never gotten caught. He played for the NFL for fuck's sake! Pussy was being thrown at him like candy on Halloween. But, whatever! It wasn't her story to tell. So, maybe, he hadn't—nor ever would—cheated on Tamara.

Her sister Alexis shook her head. “Arabia, you need to really get a grip, girl. You're too damn beautiful to be settling for someone else's seconds.”

Arabia sucked her teeth. “The only thing I've
settled
on is reaping the rewards of having a man
without
having to deal with all the bullshit that goes along with having a relationship with one.”

Tamara grunted. “Sounds like somebody needs to be stretched out on someone's white couch. Issues, girl . . . you need counseling.”

Arabia raised a brow. “Seems to me the only ones with
issues
about what I'm doing with
my
life is you three heifers. I don't have any issues with it. And I definitely don't need to be lying on some shrink's sofa, unless said shrink is packing eight or more inches of good hard dick.”

“Ooh, lies,” their sister, Maya, had chimed in. She lived between California and London, had two twin boys, and was married to an entertainment attorney.

The three sisters laughed.

“Whatever,” Arabia huffed, giving them the finger. “What
you
three hoes need to do is stop being so damn judgmental all the time.”

“Girl, bye,” they'd said dismissively—at the same time. “No judgment here. We're simply stating a fact.”

Arabia gave them a pointed stare. “And what
fact
is that?”

“That your ass is damn crazy,” Tamara had stated.

“And mighty desperate,” Alexis had added as she shook her head, “to think it's okay to screw another woman's husband. I don't care how good he looks, or how big his penis is, or how much money he has in the bank—a married man should be off limits, period.”

“Well, he isn't,” Arabia snapped. “So get over it.”

“Now, now,” Tamara said, wagging a finger at her. “Play nice, sweetie. We're only saying all of this because we love you. And we don't ever want to see you get hurt. There's nothing worse than a scorned woman; especially a married one. Believe that.”

“Call me what you want,” Arabia had said in her defense. “But I'm not the one stressed about what a man is or isn't doing when I'm not around him. It's all you married bitches running around, sniffing your men's drawers, hacking into his social media accounts, and going through his phones, trying to keep tabs on men you already
know
can't be trusted. See. I don't have that problem, boo. So who's really the crazy one in the room?” And for emphasis,
she'd tilted her head and swept her gaze over each one of her sisters, waiting.

Alexis scowled. “And
that's
your justification for
why
you do what you do?”

“Yup,” was all Arabia had said before she'd reached for her glass and took a deliberate sip.

“Y'all hearing this shit?” Alexis had countered, shaking her head. “Un-
fucking
-believable.”

“Well believe it, boo. There are no misunderstandings when it comes to what I need, want. I'm not looking for love. I'm looking for gifts, trips, and some good hard dick. Every time I spread open my legs for a man who I
know
is already taken, I leave my conscience at the door. And apparently so does he, or else he wouldn't be creeping. Right or wrong?”

Tamara had expelled a breath. Her sister's reasoning and this conversation had been slowly draining her. She was done with it. Arabia was going to do whatever the hell Arabia wanted to do. This bitch was delusional. End of discussion.

They'd all blinked at her, then raised eyebrows and stared at her.
Bitch, are you serious?
they seemed to ask. Arabia stared back, defiant and daring.

“Well all right then,” Maya finally had said, reaching for the bottle of coconut Ciroc. “It's time to pour it up. I've heard enough from this crazy ho for one damn night.”

The four of them sat silently for what seemed like an eternity sipping on their respective cocktails, before Arabia's ringing phone had sliced into each woman's reverie.

It'd been one of her married men, of course.

Arabia sighed, shaking away thoughts of that night with her sisters.

She had only wanted to share with them,
not
get talked at and lectured to. They could all lick her ass. She didn't care what anyone
thought of her. But what bothered her most was how she carried herself at Theodore's gravesite. Underneath it all, she knew she'd been wrong for going there. And she was even more wrong for saying what she'd said to his grieving widow about having his dick in her mouth the day he died. How low of her. It was downright tasteless on her part. Then, as if that wasn't enough, to have the fight between the two of them go viral on social media was utterly embarrassing.

What had she been thinking?

Ghetto and Arabia didn't fit into the same sentence. And it didn't exist in the same space as she. She wouldn't dare mix or mingle with slum-dogs, or their little gutter rats. But, in the blink of an eye, what she'd done by showing up at that gravesite had spiraled into some ghetto-hot-trash brawl with a grieving widow and her family.

She wasn't one of those thirsty, weave-wearing, hoochie-coochie mommas from around the block they called
thots
these days. Nor was she some around-the-way, weed-smoking skank with the stretch marks on her titties and the rug burns on her back and knees to match, either.

No.

She prided herself on being a cultured ho. Classy. A ho with morals and standards. And,
yes
 . . . very high expectations.

And that was exactly why she always preferred men who were cultivated. Polished. Educated. And well-traveled. Men who had large bankrolls and—
hopefully,
long, hard Magnum-sized cocks to go with all those zeros. And being a little—hell, no. Wait . . . a whole lot of—freaky in the sheets didn't hurt, either.

But that stunt she'd pulled in Texas—she shook her head as she replayed it in her head—had been downright
ghetto
and
trifling.
She cringed.
I would have slapped me, too.
Arabia touched the side of her face, then allowed her fingertips to brush over the scratches
along her neck. Thank God they were only superficial marks, and there wouldn't be any permanent scarring.

She sighed, then shut her eyes and tried to will herself back to that place of hard dicks and heavenly bliss. She reached between her legs and touched her sweet spot. She was still swollen and wet from her late-night fuck, and juicier, now, from her early morning dream. She dipped her middle finger inside her, stroking herself there, imagining her cunt was filled with warm man cream—then pulling out with wet fingers and holding them to her mouth. She licked the tip, then sucked her whole finger into her mouth.

Mmm-hmm. Finger-licking good . . .

She moaned inwardly.
Pussy this good should be bottled and sold,
she mused as she stroked between her legs once more, again coming up with more wetness.

She smiled at the thought of having her sweet nectar readily available for the masses. If only there were truly a way she could bottle up her cunt juice, then sell it by the case. She'd surely be one rich bitch. Hell, she pondered, if lactating women could sell bottles of their breast milk across the globe, then why couldn't she sell her pussy juice?

Her creamy cunt cream was good for the soul.

She wasn't conceited by far. She didn't have to be. The truth lay in between the folds of her slick pussy lips. It was confirmed every time she spread open her long luscious thighs, and welcomed one of her lovers inside her warm, silky walls and heard their breaths hitch in the back of their throats and saw their eyeballs roll up in their heads as she allowed her muscles to milk the nut out of them.

Arabia was reminded of just how good she was every time she made love to one of her lover's cock with her mouth, lips, tongue, and hands, swallowing him whole until her neck was full, until his warm babies slid down into her tight, horny throat.

Right down to the last damn drop!

She rolled over on her side and stared at her
other
lover, Wellson Cambridge, while he snored beside her, like a hibernating bear. She'd managed to fuck him down into the mattress last night. And, now, look at him. Sprawled out on his back—naked in
her
bed, on
her
plush mattress, atop
her
1800-thread-count Egyptian sheets, snoring and drooling like he didn't have a care in the world.

He'd flown in last night. “I miss you bad, baby. I need to see you,” he'd told her the night prior to his flight. Like all the others, Wellson couldn't get enough of her wet pussy. And every chance he got—which was about three, maybe four, times a month to sneak off—he was on the first flight out of Scottsdale heading to New York for another dose of her hot juices.

Men like him—the cheating kind, were so . . .
predictable.

Unhappy.

Sexually deprived.

Horny.

They'd say
and
do whatever they thought necessary, including a promise of marriage, to slide their dicks inside a warm, tight space.
Mmph.
Wellson was a damn fool if he thought she'd ever marry
him
, even if he had given her an engagement ring just two months ago.