Sexual Healing (15 page)

Fifteen

S
aturday night, Arabia stepped from the town car in front of Club Seduction—a trendy Philadelphia nightclub on Sansom Street, and for a moment she stood there at the curb taking in her surroundings, while allowing onlookers to take in
her
.

Swathed in red—the color of seduction and sin. The fabric of her slinky dress clung dangerously to her body, outlining every single curve and dip of her voluptuous five-nine frame, cinching at the waist, then flaring out. Its hem fell a few inches from her ass cheeks, showcasing her long, sultry legs while leaving very little to the imagination. Beneath it, she wore a red lace thong.

It was nights like this—nights of prowling—when she was most bold, daring. And it showed in her dress, in her walk. It oozed from her pores. It swirled around her. Heat and passion and animalistic need hummed through her body.

A sensual club beat pulsed, spilling out into the night air every time the door opened, as partygoers eager to get inside stood in a line that extended down the sidewalk and wrapped around almost two blocks. Arabia was damned if she'd be standing in
that.
She waited on nothing, or no one.

She hadn't known of the club until two hours ago, when she'd asked the six-foot, twenty-something-year-old man/child behind the Marriott's concierge desk for a list of clubs in the City of Brotherly Love. He'd eyed her slowly, before licking his lips, then ticking off a list of hotspots. Nothing had stuck out until he rattled
off this one. Club Seduction.
Mmm
—yes. How apropos, considering she was feeling seductive tonight. And she wanted something hot and dirty.

Hell, after the bomb Eric had dropped on her yesterday—what an inconsiderate asshole—she really did need a night out to let her hair down and do a little finger popping, after all. Still, Philadelphia was the last place she expected to come for her great escape when she'd gassed up her Benz and driven the Interstate, heading out of the Big Apple.

Yet, here she was.

Maybe, if the night heated up, like she hoped, and someone caught her eye and made her pussy tingle, she'd bend over and pull her thong to the side. Maybe.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she fished it out of her clutch. It was from a blocked caller. She swiped a fingertip over the screen and answered. “Hello?”

“I've been trying to reach you all day,” said the gruff voice on the other end. “We need to talk, baby.”

Arabia frowned. “Eric, I told you I'd be out of town. And why are you calling me from a blocked number?”

“Where are you?” he asked, ignoring her question. He had been trying to reach her all day and she hadn't answered any of his calls, or replied to any of his text messages. But, surprisingly, she answered a blocked call. He had to wonder had she been avoiding him.

Irritation scorched her veins. “Away,” she said impatiently.

“Yeah, I know all that. Where?”

“Why, Eric? I told you I'd be with my sisters.”

He scoffed. “No actually you didn't. And you never called me back after you ended our call. Nor did you respond to my text messages.”

“I got sidetracked,” she quickly said. Yeah, trying to get the hell out of town.

“Wel,l when will you be back?”

“Tuesday,” she lied. She didn't need to have her weekend disrupted by his “I'm Leaving My Wife” news.

Eric snorted. “Ugh. Tuesday, huh? Just yesterday you said you'd be back Sunday. Now it's Tuesday? Yeah, right.”

Oops. She'd forgotten that she'd told him that. See. This was why she didn't lie. She could never keep up with its deceitful trail. Lying was too much damn work trying to remember every minu-scule detail. She simply wasn't cut out for it.

“Well, what's the urgency, Eric?” she said sharply.

“There's no urgency. Last night I told Gwen about us.”

She shook her head. Sadly, there had still been a part of her that had hoped he wouldn't have done so. “And why would you do that?”

He sighed. “We already discussed this. I told you I was telling her.”

Held tilted, hand on hip, she scowled. “No
we
didn't discuss anything, Eric. I told you
we
should talk about it
before
you did such a silly thing.”

“Silly?”
he scoffed. “What's so silly about wanting to be with the woman I love?”

Arabia blinked. Love? The only thing this asshole loved was access to stress-free pussy. He didn't
love
her. Hell, he didn't even
know
her. Because had he known
her,
he would have known that she would never commit to a cheating-ass man. Ever.

“It's me and you now, baby,” he said smoothly. “Now we can finally have the life we've dreamed of having.”

Her stomach lurched. She'd already been down this road twice with two previous lovers, and she'd broken it off with the both of them right on the spot. Now it looked like she'd have to do the same thing again. End it. She paced the sidewalk. How dare he try to ruin her goddamn night with this shit!

Arabia shook her head in disbelief. “And what kind of life do
you think we'd have now that you've left
Gwen
. And now that she knows there's another woman you're leaving her for, do you actually think this is going to unfold smoothly? No, boo-boo. She's going to make your life a living hell. Drag you for everything you're worth. Tell me, Eric. What kind of life is that, huh?”

“Baby, she can have the house, and half my pension if that'll make her feel better. As long as I have you—that's all I need, baby; I can rebuild. I don't care about any of that.”

Well, I care about it.
She sighed. This man was clueless. And there was simply no time like the present to be done with him. Her heart panged in her chest. This was so disappointing. And here she thought she'd be able to get at least another year or more with him.

She glanced down the sidewalk. “Look, Eric. I don't think this is going to work,” she said bluntly.

“Excuse me?” he said, baffled. “You don't think
what
isn't going to work?
Us?”

Arabia stopped pacing, and glanced at the line in front of her, then at the time. It was already going on eleven. She needed to get inside to get her drop and pop on before the place got too packed. Besides, she needed a damn drink, and a hard body to grind up on.

“Yes. Us.”

“And why not? I left my wife to be with you.”

“I didn't ask you to. You left her because that's what
you
wanted to do. You did that with no regard for what I might have wanted. I need me a man who is going to stay with his wife, not leave her. What kind of life do you think we'd really have with me
knowing
you cheated on her to be with me? Leaving her gives me no guarantees that you wouldn't turn around and cheat on me too. Sorry, boo. I've never been a woman to be cheated on. And I'm not about to sign up for that now. I don't need that kind of stress in my life.”

“Say what? Are you
fucking
out of your mind!” he yelled in her
ear. He was irate. “Bitch, I fucking gave up everything to be with you!” Arabia pulled the phone away from her ear, surprised by his sudden outburst. Eric was shouting so loud she envisioned his veins popping out of his neck. In all the time they'd been screwing, he'd never once raised his voice to her, let alone called her out her name. “Why didn't you open your fucking mouth and tell me this shit
before
I fucking told my wife about you?”

She pushed out a frustrated breath. “Well, had you
waited
like I told you to, you would have known. And we wouldn't be having this conversation right now.”

“I don't believe this shit! You've just fucked up everything.”

Arabia frowned. “No, Eric.
You
fucked up everything by leaving your damn wife. You had a good thing. And now you've lost it. Go crawl back to your baldheaded wife and tell her you made a mistake. Beg her forgiveness. I'm sure she'll take your lying, cheating ass back.”

“You fucking bitch! Gold-digging whore!”

“I've been called worse. Have a good life, Eric.”

“I want my fucking ring back,” he spat.

Arabia laughed. “Good luck with that.”

Stupid-ass men,
she thought ending the call, then turning her cell off before tossing it back into her purse. She couldn't believe this. She'd gone from having three lovers to one in less than a few weeks.
Whatever.
Good bye. Good riddance.

At this moment, she had her sights on having a good damn night. Tomorrow she'd worry about whatever would come. But, for now, it was time to let her hair down, and—
hopefully
, her red thong.

Arabia brought her attention back to the front of the club. Just outside the doorway was a dark-skinned bouncer—tall, bald, and bulky—who stood in front of a roped-off area, dressed in all black and wearing an earpiece that keyed him into all the activity going on inside the club.

It didn't take long before he caught sight of her and clearly saw what everyone else did. A woman bold enough to take what she wanted. A woman able to get any man she wanted without saying a word. Her body and presence said it all.

He gave her a head nod, and motioned her to him.

Arabia smiled, then glanced down the sidewalk, her eyes slowly traveling down the length of the ridiculously long line. A mix of beautiful—and, well, not so beautiful—people waited to get inside. Some of the females were glammed up in their most sultry outfits, donned in good heels and jewels, and hair that probably cost a small fortune. Others—wearing pixie-cut and bobbed wigs, multicolored weaves, and obnoxiously long ponytails—stood there in their clunky platform heels and peep-toe pumps, looking like they were waiting to audition for the circus in their cheetah, leopard, and other animal prints—from leggings and cat suits to skintight dresses, they simple looked a hot mess from Arabia's assessment.

Still, some of the women in the line were stunning. Some alone, probably on the prowl—like her, using the club as a hunting ground for some drunk, horny dick. Others were there with their arms securely looped through the arm of a date, or perhaps a lover. Territorially. Staking their claims to their men—or someone else's.

Yes, yes, yes. The
men
.

Handsome, buffed, hard-bodied men with either fresh-shaved faces or well-manicured beards with spinning waves, dreads, or low-top fades—all donned in expensive hard-bottomed shoes and designer digs. Gold and platinum chains hung from thick necks with diamond medallions sweeping across muscled chests.

There were also the ones in the suits and ties and Florsheim loafers and tie-ups, looking stiff and terribly out of place, there for the stray pussy that would probably cost them multiple rounds of drinks to even sniff.

And then there were the ones barely over twenty-one in their khaki pants and thin pullover V-necks and pierced ears, looking preppy and rich, out to get white-boy drunk with hopes of scoring some late-night pussy.

Arabia slid her tongue over her red-painted lips and tossed her hair. Dramatic she knew, but necessary. She hadn't even been out there for more than a second and she already felt the eyes on her. But it was okay. She welcomed the stares, as she always did; even the glares from the hating-ass, jealous hoes. They had cause to be alarmed.

The night air, cool and light, licked over her skin causing her nipples to tighten. The bouncer regarded her intently, his smoldering dark orbs raking over her, before fastening his gaze on her breasts, on the imprint of her nipples, on their puckered ridges, through her dress.

With the toss of her hair, Arabia tucked her clutch beneath her arm and sauntered toward him, one heeled foot in front of the other, her pelvis thrusting with each step. Subconsciously, the bouncer licked his lips and swept his gaze over her body again as she made her way to the door.

Eyes zoomed in on her, and those women at the front of the line sneered, practically gnashing their teeth, as the bouncer leaned in and whispered something in her ear before he reached down and unlatched the red velvet rope that was strung between two metal poles, welcoming her in.

“You hot, baby,” the broad-shouldered bouncer said, his eyes appraising her in pure male appreciation as he motioned her by.

Arabia smiled. Yeah, them bitches still standing in that long-ass line didn't hold a candle to her kind of hotness, and they hated her for it.

Oh, yes. She was hot. Hot like fire. She was a woman who knew
how to make a man's dick roar to life by just the lick of her lips, or the sway of her hips. A woman who tugged at a man's libido and inspired him to want to fuck her on the spot, fast and hard until he burned in wet heat and sin. And she knew it. She was a temptress on a mission. She was on the hunt for a scandalous night filled with dancing, hard dick, and dirty deeds.

So they had all better beware.

Because, tonight . . . somebody was going up in flames.

Sixteen

Y
oung Dro's “Fuck Dat Bitch” blared through the speakers, and Arabia didn't understand a damn word being said—except for
fuck that bitch
.
Ooh, she was so out of her element. She sighed. With a name like Club Seduction, she had expected the club's dance selections to be a bit sultrier, more tasteful. Not this ratchet shit. But so far that's all her ears were being assaulted by. She felt a headache slowly edging its way to the center of her forehead. Nevertheless, the song had a nice beat, and Arabia—despite pressure building in her head—found herself bouncing her ass and swaying her hips as she made her way through the club toward the bar, pondering how many drinks it would take before she settled into her surroundings and didn't look like she didn't belong.

Strobe lights flashed across the space. The bass thumped. Drinks flowed. And the mirrored bar stretched from one wall to another and was lit up with red lights.

Arabia eased her way through a group of loudmouthed twenty-something-year- olds, their pants riding low on their hips, each holding a bottle of Hennessy in their grips. She eyed them on the sly in all their flashy jewels and mouths filled with gold. They were young drug dealers, she surmised.

Every now and again, she hungered for some thug dick—for a hard fucking, but there was nothing a drug dealer could ever do
for a woman like her. Dismissing their hungry stares, she leaned in over the bar—feeling the young men's gazes caressing the back of her thighs and the rim of her ass cheeks peeking from beneath the hem of her dress. She murmured her order to the bartender. He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling in appreciation at the beautiful sight before him. Arabia took him in, and smiled back. He was handsome, not overly fine, with chiseled features.

She slowly slid her tongue over her lips, causing the bartender's skin to heat. He winked at her, then began making her drink—Fireball and a splash of orange juice. Tonight wouldn't be a martini night, or one of her frou-frou girly drinks. No, she needed something with a little kick to it, but nothing that would have her staggering or knocked on her ass.

She cringed when the DJ played a Bobby Shmurda song. Nigga this, nigga that . . . she blinked.
What in the hell?
She wanted to clap her hands over her ears. She couldn't believe anyone on any sophisticated level would dare play this, let alone
ever
dance to it. But the dance floor was packed, and the crowd danced hard, chanting out the lyrics.

Arabia twisted her lips in disgust.

Girl, get over yourself!
she scolded herself.
You're here hunting for dick, not to give out a damn music award.

As she waited for the bartender to return with her drink, she glanced around the two-level club, and experienced a sudden awakening as Fetty Wap's “Trap Queen” eased out of the speakers. It all made sense to her now. That's what she was surrounded by. Trap Queens and Trap Keepers. But she'd stomach through the ratchetness even if it killed her. She had no intentions of being derailed—shitty music or not. She'd simply get her drink on, then make the dance floor her personal playground.

She looked up at the second floor of the club and realized she
was down on the wrong level. All the beautiful people, the classy type, were up on the second floor. Not down here with the—

“On the house, baby,” the bartender said over the music when he returned with her drink. Arabia brought her attention back to the bar. She smiled, and thanked him, then quickly pulled a twenty from her clutch and handed it to him as tip for his thoughtfulness.

He winked again and smiled a
thank you
of his own, before heading down the bar to attend to another customer. Arabia pulled her drink to her sumptuous lips and took a long hard swallow. Instantly, the cinnamon whiskey began to heat through her veins and she felt her body relaxing.

Mmm
—yes.

It was exactly what she needed, a little jungle juice to loosen her hips. She took another sip, then licked at her lips. Drink in hand, she headed for her next destination. The second floor.

VIP was where she needed to be.

• • •

As soon as
she
came into view, Cruze blinked, then leaned forward in his seat overlooking the VIP section's dance floor, pushing the half-Asian, half-black female, with the pouty lips and perky tits—who'd been rambling on incessantly—off his lap, almost knocking her to the floor. The bitch wasn't talking about shit anyway. And he'd lost interest in the bubblehead the minute she'd opened her mouth. All she did was wrinkle the front of his thousand-dollar pants.

She hissed out a curse as she caught her balance, careful not to spill the drink in her hand. “Are you fucking
kidding
me?!” She shot him an icy glare. “Fucking asshole.” Cruze shooed her away, never giving her a second glance. She was blocking his view.

She stomped off, pissed that he'd dismissed her. He simply shook his head.

Dumb bitch.

Cruze eased up in his seat, and locked his gaze on
her
, a slow fire burning in his eyes. First glance, and he knew she wasn't from the Philly area. It was in her attitude, in her body language. Hands down, he knew without a doubt, she had to be from somewhere up north.

The seductive sway of her hips had every motherfucker in VIP looking down onto the dance floor at her, transfixed on her every move. Even those dancing with other females seemed to struggle to keep their eyes off of her.

Three Fireballs in, and Arabia was feeling good to the point that the Philly-style Trap music being played no longer bothered her. She simply shimmied her body, swayed, and pumped her pelvis, dipped her knees, and—every so often, swung her hair.

Cruze watched as she shook her head, or waved a finger, at cats trying to get up on her. She'd spin out of their grasp, then back away, putting a hand up for them to keep their distance from her. He couldn't help but shake his head. She was a tease, but not in a slutty way, and he found himself being drawn to her, caught up in a drowning sensation of need that came from someplace he hadn't expected. He hadn't come to the club to pick up broads, or even take one home, for that matter. But, now, the idea didn't seem too far from a possibility. For the first time tonight, Cruze felt his body jump-starting and his dick coming to life.

He stood up as she slowly twirled around in a sensual circle. He leaned almost over the rail for a better view.
Fuck.
He could see the edges of her ass cheeks jiggling seductively, practically calling out to him. He pulled in his bottom lip.

Arabia's eyes shut, then fluttered open as she found herself getting lost in the music.

DJ Khaled's “Gold Slugs” played and Arabia threw her head
back and looked up through her lashes. Their eyes locked. And, instantly, she felt her body heat. His masculine face illuminated when the strobe lights flashed, hitting the defined angles of his model-fine face. She swallowed. Then blinked. Oh, yes—she'd found her mark for the night. Her lashes fluttered shut and, then, she slyly licked her lips.

The seductive gesture caused Cruze to swallow. Not many women had the ability to bring him to full arousal without ever touching his dick, first. But somehow this temptress had accomplished that in a matter of moments.

Meek Mill's “All Eyes On You” began playing and Arabia threw a hand in the air and rocked her hips, and rolled her belly as if she were a snake charmer, as if she knew all eyes were indeed on her. She pretended to be oblivious to the effect she was having on her captive audience on the floor around her, and in VIP.

“Yo, man,” Marquan said, stepping up next to Cruze and tapping him on the arm. “You see that?”

Cruze simply nodded. Of course he
saw
her. How could he
not
see her?

For a moment, he imagined he was seeing things. But when he blinked again, it was clear that he wasn't dreaming or hallucinating.

“She bad as fuck,” Marquan slurred, slicing into Cruze's visions of the sexy vixen being down on her knees, and him slipping the head of his dick between those pillow-soft lips of hers, then sliding his shaft into that plush-looking mouth of hers until he was hitting the back of her juicy throat. He found himself imagining him parting her thighs, and her being wet inside, very wet, and hot; her pussy a slick glove of tight heat.

A slow fission of heat slowly spiked in his spine. She thrust her pelvis, almost deliberately at him—or at least that was what he thought he saw, what he
wanted
to believe—and his body flooded
with primal urges. She was hella sexy. And, yeah, he wanted to fuck her—he wanted to fuck her sexy-ass brains out.

Shit . . .
what the fuck?

He was bugging. Hard.

He hadn't lusted after a broad in years. Not since his days of hugging the block, not since his first love—the woman who'd turned him out, and betrayed his trust, and—eventually, had broken his heart.

Not wanting to think about old shit—not tonight, not now, not ever—he drained his drink, and another appeared before him on a napkin. He tossed the waitress only a cursory glance, before fixing his gaze back to the dance floor.

The DJ eased on Bryson Tiller's “Don't” and Arabia rolled her hips and licked her lips again, her eyes catching his, and Cruze's dick twitched. He wanted some sloppy top. Yeah, a dick suck was exactly what he could use right about now.

Marquan tossed back the rest of his drink. “Man, I'd like to take her home and dig all up in that. I'd split her wide open,” he boasted, waving over a scantily clad waitress, carrying a silver tray of an assortment of freshly poured drinks. He took a shot from the waitress, licked the salted rim, then tossed it back.

Cruze gave his inebriated basketball idol a side-eyed glance, shaking his head.
This drunken muhfucka! I wish he'd shut the fuck up.

He sighed, then took a long sip from his own drink as he brought his attention back to the dance floor, back to
her
, so engrossed in watching—a mixture of fascination and lust swimming in his stare.

Where the hell did she come from?
he wondered as he kept his gaze locked on her. She was fucking flawless. One of the baddest bitches he'd ever laid eyes on.

His gaze made a slow perusal from head to toe. The dress she had on was made for her, sexy and alluring. And those heels . . .
goddamn—those smoking hot “come fuck-me” heels had his mind spinning with salacious thoughts of having those long cocoa brown legs up over his broad shoulders, spread open in a V, while fucking her with nothing but those heels on. He'd grab the expensive red-bottomed heels like handlebars and give her the business until she melted her sweet chocolate all over every inch of him.

The decadent thrill made his dick stretch and pulse. He licked his lips as her breasts bounced, her succulent nipples taunting him through her dress. Arousal hummed low in his body, desire licking over his skin as he imagined what it would be like balls deep in all that ass of hers.

She had his dick pulsing for the last fifteen minutes, and his balls had become heavy, the head of his dick sensitive. And, then—fuck. She started singing along to Justine Skye's “I'm Yours” as if she were giving him his own private concert. She pointed to him, letting him know she was feeling him; that she was his; that he knew exactly what to do. And he did. He'd fuck her until she tapped out.

Arabia stuck her pointer finger in her mouth, pressed it to her lips, then slid it down over her neck to the center of her breasts, then motioned with her finger for him to come to her.

Fuck this. He needed—no, wanted—to see more, up close and personal.

Like he always made very clear, he wasn't weak for pussy. But he loved to fuck. And he had a thing for beautiful women. And if the pussy was good, then shit, that was even better. Still, he usually had control over his libido, but something about the way she moved had gotten his dick hard—the throb so deep it almost hurt, and had him wanting to indulge himself.

The DJ slipped on Rae Sremmurd's “No Type” and Arabia started rocking and bouncing her hips, feigning awareness of him coming for her, stalking toward her with a dangerous glint in his eyes. The
look made her feel as if she were about to become the hunted, and the tables were about to somehow be turned. She'd provoked him. Piqued his curiosity. And now . . . he had to know who this sultry temptress was.

She eyed him as he descended the stairs that led to the dance floor. Her pulse raced as she thrust her pelvis at him.
Yes. Come get this pussy, boo.
She twirled her hips, her dress swaying this way and that way, the slightest hint of her ass cheeks peering dangerously out from beneath the hem, playing peek-a-boo with all those who dared to sneak a look.

Cruze's dick throbbed.

Arabia threw her hands up over her head and eyed him. Then, as he slowly made his way onto the dance floor and closed the distance between them, she turned her back to him. Made him invisible.

Amused by the act, Cruze's lips curled.
Yeah, she knows what the fuck she's doing
.
K Camp's “1Hunnid” eased through the speakers as Arabia popped her fingers and swayed to the beat. Cruze didn't dance. Ever. He bopped. But something about this sexy-ass broad in the sexy red dress made him want to slide cross the floor and do the Superman, then follow it up with the Stanky Leg. But he refrained from making a fool out of himself.

Coolly, he eased up in back of her, his arm going around her waist. “Damn, baby, you sexy,” he said in her ear, over the music.

Arabia spun out of his grasp and faced him. Her pussy clenched. Oh my God, yes. He was everything she'd hoped he'd be up close. Tall. Dark. Dreamy. And ever so fuckable! A lascivious look flashed over her face as she said, “And I'm in heat, boo.” Then her gaze dropped to the front of his pants.