Sexual Healing (17 page)

“What?”

“We gotta ride blindfolded.” Sameer fell out laughing, again. The ridiculous sound reverberating inside the car.

“Damn, it's like that?” Cruze asked, laughing too.

Ramona stopped for a red light and slammed so hard on the brakes, Cruze toppled forward. When he looked at her, he couldn't understand why her arms were folded and her lips were poked out.

“Yo, I'ma hit you back, Sameer. What time should I be ready?”

“Ten o'clock, man.”

“A'ight. Bet. See you then.” Cruze hung up and gawked at Ramona. “What the fuck's your problem?”

“Oh, you think you gon' go to a big-time drug dealer's high-profile party while my ass is slaving at work. Hmph, I don't think so.” She swiveled her neck and cracked the gum she was chewing even louder.

“Don't blame me. You're the one who wanted to work so bad tonight.”

“I don't want to work bad enough to miss out on Moody's party. Blue Diamond better call some other fool because I'm rolling with you and your boy, Sameer.”

“Do you know Moody?” Cruze asked, studying Ramona's face.

The light changed to green and she focused on traffic. “I know of him. A few of the girls at work be bragging about getting invitations to one of Moody's get-togethers. From what I've heard, his parties are every
thing: free flowing champagne, top-shelf liquor, all the coke in the world
. They say his house is laid out like something featured on
MTV Cribs
.”

Cruze gazed at Ramona intently. “Since when did you start caring about coke?”

She shrugged indifferently “I don't go overboard with it, but I snort every now and then. You know, only to get me through the night down at the club.”

“That's news to me,” Cruze said suspiciously.

Ramona waved at him dismissively. “Are you taking me to the party or not?”

“Nah, it's boys night; you need to take your ass on to work,” Cruze said, grinning devilishly.

“Don't play with me,” she said, laughing.

“A'ight, you can go.”

“Thank you, baby.” At the stop sign, she leaned in for a kiss. “Baby, I feel like pulling over and fucking you, again.”

“That's okay. I'm good.”

“You stay horny, so you know that's a lie.”

Cruze chuckled. “I'm good. For real.”

Ramona gave him a doubtful look.

“I'm good until we get home, and then I'ma tear that ass up.”

“But I'm feeling some kind of way right now,” Ramona said, pouting.

“I'ma take care of you,” he said, lifting up and taking a lighter out of his pocket while reaching for the half-blunt in the ashtray.

“Baby, can't that wait?” Ramona asked.

“Why?”

“'Cause I'm so excited about going to Moody's party, I feel like I need to bust a nut real quick.”

“You want some dick or you want me to suck on that pussy?”

“I'll cum quicker with tongue, babe. You can fuck me when we get home.”

“A'ight,” he said nonchalantly. “Pull over on one of those sidestreets, over there.” Cruze barreled into the back of the car while Ramona took a detour off the main road.

As she parked, Cruze lay awkwardly with his torso on the backseat and his long legs, bent at the knees. “Hurry up and bring that ass back here and squat over my face.”

“Hush, Cruze. You talkin' all dirty, you gon' make me cum on myself before I even park the car.”

“You taught me to how to talk dirty, so don't complain about it.”

“I know, I know,” she said breathlessly as she quickly zigzagged into a parking spot. “But you don't understand how my pussy feels right now.”

“Feed me a hot nut and make me understand,” Cruze said, staring at her intently.

“But, babe, I don't want you to get upset with me.”

“About what?”

“I didn't have any wipes or nothing to clean my pussy after we finished
fucking.”

Cruze looked at Ramona like she was out of her mind. “So? I love you
, Mo. You're my girl. Do you think I give a fuck if your pussy is dripping with my nut? Shiiiit. It probably gives it more flavor. Now, get back here and let big Daddy take care of that thing,” Cruze said, reaching for Ramona and then lowering her downward until she was straddling his face.

Eighteen

A
lmost a week later, and her sordid nightclub rendezvous with Mr. Tall, Dark and Deep-Dimpled still played in her mind. She'd had her share of wild sex, but fucking
him
—whoever he was—like that was way beyond her wildest expectations. It had been one of her greatest
fucks
. She couldn't decide if it was the anonymous sex that had made it so deliciously dirty. The swirling strobe lights and lighted flooring. Or that he was so damn fine. That night, she'd hoped he'd be daringly uninhibited enough to drop to the floor and tongue her to August Alsina singing about being ridden like a porn star, but he hadn't. And she had to remind herself that she hadn't been at that
type
of club. It was a dance club, not a sex club. Still, a girl could fantasize. Couldn't she?

Yes, Lord! And fantasize she'd done ever since that night. Oh what she wouldn't do for another fill of him, stuffing her full. Maybe next time she'd drop down and worship him like the chocolate Adonis he was and suck his dick.

Maybe.

Ooh. Arabia, your slutty ass is out of control, girl!

She covered her face in her hands, smiling and shaking her head. The aftershock of what she'd done that night still heating her flesh. His dick had been deliciously big—long and thick, but not ginormous. It'd been the perfect fit, with just the right amount of stretch
and burn. Her pussy pulsed at the salacious memory. She could practically still feel him swelling inside her as she'd clutched him, sandwiching his dick between her slick walls and milking him to orgasm. Mm-hmm.
This snap trap pussy does it all the time.
She giggled.

He'd been succulent. Edible. Not just his lips, every part of him. And she would have eaten him alive had she not had to keep reminding herself of her surroundings.

Arabia ran a hand through her hair. Oh God—help her. What a shameless bitch, fucking him like that. What had gotten into her? She almost laughed. The answer was simple: she'd finally gotten a good damn fuck—hard and hungry; that's what had gotten into her—a good dose of dirty fucking. Thankfully, she'd held a gold wrapper in her clutch that night.
“Fuck me,”
she'd boldly told him, before she slyly slipped him the condom, then turned her back to him and blocked anyone's view of him as he sheathed his throbbing erection with the Magnum, his back pressed up against a wall of mirrors.

She hummed Rihanna's “Work” and subconsciously grinded and bounced her ass slowly down into the leather chair, remembering how she'd bent over and grabbed her left ankle as Mr. Deep Dimples pulled her thong to the side and slid inside; her ass clapping around his dick as she held her free hand up and snapped her fingers to the music, her pussy popping, her hips dipping, her body rocking into him.

Arabia pursed her lips, wondering if Mr. Deep Dimples would have fucked her raw that night had she not handed him a condom.
Ooh, I bet his scandalous ass would have tried it.
She shuddered at the thought. At least at the sex club she belonged to, she knew that everyone was tested—and retested—every three months. It was a mandatory requirement of everyone who wished to remain in good standing with the club. So she'd been known to fuck without
a condom on those rare occasions when she felt slutty, and wanted to feel some random hunk's nut filling her up, then warmly oozing out of her quaking pussy.

But she'd never dare haphazardly go raw, sharing her bare pussy, with some
stranger
—no matter how sinfully sexy said stranger might be.

Shifting in her chair behind her desk, she licked her lips, then crossed her legs at her ankles as she picked up her ringing phone, shaking away the steamy remnants of her salacious night.

“Arabia Knight speaking.” She cleared her throat, running a smooth hand over the top of her sleek mahogany desk. “How may I help you?”

“Well, beautiful lady,” the thick, husky voice on the other end of the line said, “you may help me, first, by having dinner with me tonight. Then allowing me to make love to you.”

Arabia's lips curled. “Oh, Wellson. You're so sweet.”

“Yeah, but not as sweet as you, baby. I've missed you.”

Arabia moaned, running a hand through her hair. “Mmm. It's nice to be missed.”

“Yes, baby. It is. Junior misses you, too.”

Junior was the pet name for his dick, the dick that acted on its own accord, holding a solid erection when it saw fit. What a waste of dick. Maybe he'd finally wear the cock ring she'd given him, she mused. Yeah, right. Wishful thinking.

Arabia looked up from her desk to find a doe-eyed Ashley Givens, one of the agency's six account executives, leaning against the doorway of her office. Ashley had been with the ad agency for a little over three years now, and so far—with her excellent organizational and communication skills—she'd proven herself a great asset.

And the fact that she had a great body and exuded sex appeal didn't hurt, either.

Arabia motioned her in with a hand, telling Wellson to give her one minute, then she put him on hold.

“What's up?” Arabia glanced at her long legs as she crossed the threshold and sauntered farther into her office.

“You got a sec?”

“Sure.”

Ashley slunk her lean, toned body in one of the leather chairs positioned in front of Arabia's desk, then crossed her legs. “I'll make it quick. I just got off the phone with The Center in Philadelphia . . .”

“Oh?” Arabia placed her elbows up on her desk, clasping her hands together.

“And it's a go. I have a meeting with the Executive next Thursday at eleven to discuss how we can best help them market and advertise.”

Arabia smiled. “Great news.” And great it was. Her agency had come highly recommended, and they'd sought her services out to discuss their advertising needs. The Center, from what she'd gathered from her talks with Ashley, was a statewide phenomenon, but they were eager to take their vision to the next level and become a more nationally known organization. Landing this account meant a cool million dollars in advertising funds. And a great look for Ashley's professional career.

Ashley smiled, swiping her bang from her eye. “Yes it is. Hopefully, we'll be a good fit.”

“Oh, we are,” Arabia assured her. “Trust me. Remember, they sought us out.” She glanced at the telephone line blinking. “Listen, let me finish up this call. We'll talk more later.”

“Gotcha.” Ashley stood, smoothing a hand down the front of her skirt and then made her way toward the door.

Arabia waited until she was gone, then resumed her call. “Ooh, I'm so sorry about that. Now back to you, sexy man. Where are
you?” she asked, picking imaginary lint from her form-fitting skirt. She crossed her legs and swiveled in her chair, glancing over at the huge wall of glass overlooking Manhattan. “Here in the city?”

She hoped not. She hated when he popped up unannounced, expecting her to be readily available to him—engaged or not, she had a schedule to keep with her men. Especially when she wasn't hungry for him
or
Junior. But she did enjoy wining and dining out with him. And she loved the way Wellson slid his tongue between her puffy lips from her slit, then gently sucked her clitoris into his mouth, his tongue lightly fucking her, tasting her from the inside out.

Oh—
yes
, how she loved his thick manly tongue laving her pussy.

So, maybe . . .

“I'm in Chicago for a meeting,” he said, jolting her from her dirty thoughts, “but I can have a ticket at either Newark or LaGuardia Airport ticket counter waiting for you, if you cared to join me.”

“Oh . . .” Her voice trailed off as her smartphone chimed, alerting her she had a new text message. “I don't know, Wellson,” she said, reaching for her cell. “You know how I am about last-minute plans. I have nothing packed.”

“You don't need to pack, baby,” he said quickly. “Everything you need is . . .”

She opened her message from an unknown number.
WE NEED TO FUCKING TALK! IVE GIVEN UP EVERYTHING 2 B W/U

She blinked. Reread the text. Then frowned.
What the hell?

Lifting an eyebrow, she texted back:
WHO IS THIS?

Silly question she knew, still she asked, hoping Eric wouldn't be
that
damn crazy sending her this foolishness, even if she had been avoiding his calls and text messages for the last week. And since he hadn't shown up at her condo as he'd threatened he would, she had thought he'd finally gotten his mind together and gotten over it.

Obviously not . . .

She sighed, wondering how she had missed the memo that he was borderline-nuts. Either she'd been too damn blinded by all the shiny trinkets he'd bestowed on her during the course of their relationship—and she was using that term
relationship
loosely, or he'd done a good job hiding it. Either way, after almost two years, she'd never imagine it would come down to
this
. She hated ugly breakups. Why couldn't people simply part responsibly?

Mere seconds later, another text came through—confirming what she feared.
U REALLY FUCKED MY LIFE UP! U KNOW THAT RIGHT
?

Oh for the love of God. Now he was being melodramatic. He chose to cheat. So what if she'd agreed to fuck him—the whole week in Kentucky? Was she to blame for his marital woes? Hell no. He didn't have to get caught up in a sordid affair with her. That was his choice.

Reluctantly, she replied.
ERIC. I'M SORRY U FEEL THAT WAY. BUT DON'T BLAME ME. U DID THIS TO U. NOT ME. U SHOULD HAVE WAITED TO TALK 2 ME B/4 U TOOK IT UPON YOURSELF TO TELL UR WIFE U WERE LEAVING HER. THE WAY U SPOKE TO ME WAS UNACCEPTABLE. I'VE NEVER TALKED 2 U IN THAT MANNER. BUT I AM BETTER THAN THAT. SO I FORGIVE U. LET'S BE ADULT ABOUT THIS N MOVE ON. OK
?

Seconds later, another text message came through.
IM SORRY. I WAS PISSED. I WANNA SEE YOU. JUST 2 TALK, BABY

She blinked. Oh so now she was
baby
. Ha. Unequivocally—
hell no!
Not after the way he'd yelled and cursed her. She'd have to be crazier than him to agree to see him. She'd never tolerated any man disrespecting her, and she'd be damned if she'd start now.

SORRY. THAT'S NOT A GOOD IDEA

WHY NOT?

GO BACK TO YOUR WIFE, ERIC

WTF?! U DONT GET TO DISMISS ME! MEET W/ME ARABIA. DON'T MAKE ME DO SOMETHING CRAZY. I SWEAR I WILL

Arabia frowned.

She quickly typed:
IS THAT A THREAT
?

I WANNA SEE YOU. TAKE IT HOW YOU WANT IT

That
felt
like an ominous threat to her. He had lost his damn everlasting mind, trying to intimidate her like that. What the hell was wrong with him? Who the hell did his bipolar ass think he was?
Men.
Where the hell were they teaching this kind of shit? Breakups happened every day. So why was he all of a sudden having a damn psychotic moment with her telling him it was best that they part ways? He was acting like she was his damn property or something.

Boy, bye!

She blocked the number, then laid her phone face-down on her desk.

He could kiss her ass—left check, right cheek, and inside her whole asshole. He didn't own her, or her pussy—or any other part of her body. Didn't he know what she held between her thighs had only been on loan to him?

Mmph.
Apparently not! Okay, so maybe she should have handled the situation a little better, been more diplomatic. Bruising a man's ego was never a good thing. This she knew. But would he be crazy enough to try to harm her?

She refused to believe he would. After all, he'd never shown her he had too much to lose. A career. There's no way he'd do anything crazy to ruin that. Would he?

No, no, no—of course not.

Then why the hell were her nerves suddenly rattled?

“Baby? You there?”

Arabia blinked. “Huh? What did you say?”

Wellson chuckled. “Did I lose you, baby? I was saying everything you need is already here, right with me.”

She frowned; clearly she'd missed the entire conversation. “What's
already where?” she asked. She shook her head, trying to drive out the nagging thoughts that slowly began to swirl around in her mind. Eric had threatened her.

“Clothes, baby. Me. You. Here in Chicago.”

She swallowed. Pushed back the crazy idea that he'd ever go there. He was just being childish, letting emotions overrule him, speaking out of anger. Yeah, that was it.

She was not about to let him work her nerves. No, no. Absolutely not.

“Oh, okay,” she agreed, deciding a quick getaway was exactly what the hell she needed. “Sounds good.”

“Perfect, baby . . .”

“I'll make your life a living hell!”
Arabia could practically hear him spewing those same texted words at her, slinging them like battery acid.

She shuddered.

“And when you get here,” Wellson prattled on, “we can stop in Cartier to pick you out something special”—now
that
put a smile on her face—“then grab a bite to eat at Cité, before heading back to the hotel for a night of lovemaking. I'll have you back on the first flight in the morning, in time for work, baby.”

Snap
—just like that. She perked up. Did he say Cartier?

Arabia licked her lips at the idea of being draped in exquisite jewels. And the thought of wrapping her lips around a succulent dish of butter-poached lobster didn't sound half-bad, either. In fact, it made her mouth water. She enjoyed dining at Cité, with its spectacular 360-degree views from the seventieth floor, perched atop Lake Point Tower. Hmm. It'd been a while since she'd been to the Windy City. Dinner, drinks, a little light shopping along Michigan Avenue . . . and,
maybe,
some hard dick?