Sexual Healing (2 page)

Two

T
he central air was on full blast inside the apartment, yet the place felt muggy and stifling. Sitting at his old friend, Moody's bedside, it was difficult for Cruze Fontaine to keep up his end of the conversation with his friend coughing and wheezing and struggling to choke out every word.

It had been thirteen months since Moody had narrowly escaped death. Caught in a hail of bullets, several had ripped through his chest and pierced both his lungs. Since then, his respiratory health had rapidly declined. And so had his finances.

Moody's wife, Ramona, interrupted the visit, telling Cruze it was time for her husband's oxygen therapy. Eager to escape the desolate environment, Cruze quickly rose to his feet. “It's time for me to bounce, man. We'll kick it again, soon.”

“When?” Moody rasped.

“Soon, man. Real soon.”

Cruze hadn't seen Moody since the fateful day of the shootout, and it wasn't likely he'd see him anytime soon. It wasn't easy witnessing his once-energetic friend lingering at death's door. But Cruze was grateful that Ramona had stuck it out with his boy. But it was obvious that being an around-the-clock caregiver had taken a toll on her. Ramona used to be one of the hottest and best-dressed chicks in Brownsville; now she looked haggard and drained.

Cruze cut an eye at her right arm, which was riddled with bullet wounds that zigzagged from her wrist to her forearm. Her pants
covered the rest of the scars that trailed down her right thigh and leg. The bullet that shattered her ankle had left her walking with a limp.

Moody and Ramona had suffered tremendous losses in a single tragic day.

Within the narrow confines of the cluttered sickroom, Cruze squeezed past a set of oxygen tanks, a wheelchair, a portable commode, and other depressing medical equipment. When he reached the front door, he gave Ramona two bundles of cash, more than enough to cover household expenses for a while and afford them a few luxuries, as well.

“This should hold you and Moody for a while. Make sure you buy yourself something nice.”

Ramona's eyes darted downward as if it embarrassed her to have to accept money from the man who used to be her husband's second-in-command. “Thanks, Cruze. This really helps.”

Cruze nodded. “Take care of yourself, Ramona.”

“You do the same,” she replied.

Outside the building, Cruze threw up his hoodie and lowered his head. Security cameras were everywhere nowadays and he didn't want to end up on any of them—not in this neighborhood where he was very much a wanted man.

He took a deep breath, but the air he inhaled seemed as stale and oppressive as it had been inside Moody's apartment. It was the location—a section of Brooklyn where crime and concentrated poverty seemed to have suctioned out the oxygen. Crisp, cool air didn't travel to the 'hood. And like the flow of fresh air, Cruze also avoided his old stomping grounds.

Overly cautious, he'd parked near a deserted factory, about a quarter-mile from Moody's place. Walking swiftly along the uneven pavement, he appeared to look neither left nor right, yet his
watchful eyes were carefully taking in his surroundings. On high alert, Cruze became keenly aware of the sound of footsteps that suddenly crept behind him.

He cursed at his stupidity for thinking he could slip in and out of Moody's crib without detection. No matter how much time had elapsed, his enemies were ever vigil. Hell, for all he knew, Ramona could have tipped someone off. In the world of crime, no one could be trusted.

Adrenaline flooded his system. He could take off running and risk a bullet in his ass or turn around and try to reason with the muthafucka who wouldn't let go of an old grudge. But Cruze knew better than to believe he could negotiate with a killer.

Surrendering to his fate, he slowed his stride, and he wasn't surprised when the footfalls behind him sped up. His luck had finally run out. Surprisingly, instead of fear, he felt an odd sense of relief. And acceptance.

The looming presence was directly behind him and Cruze braced himself for a bullet to the back of his dome.

“You know what it is, man, gimme your watch,” the voice behind him demanded. “Give it up, and . . . and don't try nothing, either. Oh, yeah, reach in your pockets and gimme your money . . . and your phone, too.”

I'll be goddamned. This isn't a hit . . . it's a fucking stick-up!
Cruze almost laughed, but he was too infuriated to crack a smile. Quick as lightning, he pulled his piece and wheeled around and came face-to-face with a big bruiser who was almost as tall as Cruze, and as wide as he was tall. Chubby cheeks and a youthful face revealed an overgrown kid, seventeen or eighteen. Maybe younger.

The chubby-faced teen gawked at the gleaming Glock that was aimed in his face, and then his gaze drifted downward at the metal pipe in his own hand.

Cruze cocked the gun. With a simmering rage, he fixed hard eyes on the juvenile. “What's wrong with you, young nigga? You ain't got nothing better to do than try to rob hardworking muthafuckas, huh, fuck boy?”

In Cruze's darkened eyes, the would-be robber glimpsed a chained beast that was so angry and frightening; the youth couldn't help taking several steps backward. “Yo, man, I was only fuckin' with you. I ain't tryna rob nobody.” Proving his harmlessness, he smiled dumbly and unfurled his fingers. The metal pipe, as ineffective as a water pistol, rolled out of his hand and clattered to the pavement.

In swift motions, Cruze grabbed the pipe and struck the teen in the kneecaps. The oversized boy pitched forward with a loud groan and then stumbled backward, hitting the ground with the force of a massive tree.

Cruze leapt on him. He pistol-whipped the boy unmercifully before pressing the gun against his forehead. “Your punk-ass is a few seconds from dying . . . was it worth it, stick-up boy?”

“Nah, it wasn't worth it. Don't kill me, Mister. Please. I'm sorry,” the youth cried through bloodied lips.

Cruze fingered the trigger and then caught himself.
What the fuck am I doing? This fool ain't nothing but a dumb-ass kid.
He stood up, cursing as he returned the Glock to his waistband.

Looking down, Cruze noticed blood on his Air Yeezys. With renewed anger, he kicked the boy in the ribs. “That's for bleeding on my shit, bitch-ass fuck-boy!”

Leaving the bungling thief wallowing on the ground in pain, Cruze took off through the park. When he reached his nondescript rental car, he sparked a blunt before pulling off. As he merged into traffic, the calm that came over him quieted his pounding heart. But the violent altercation with the young punk had awakened something that weed couldn't appease. Feeling strangely energized
by the murder he'd almost committed, Cruze made a sudden U-turn.

It was crucial that he got out of New York and returned to Philly, but the stirring in his groin was relentless, demanding that he make a pit stop, first. There was a long list of candidates to choose from, but Laila Stanley was the closest in proximity.

• • •

Head down to obscure his face, Cruze trotted up the steps of the Brooklyn brownstone and rang the bell. The door cracked open, and he flashed a smile that displayed the set of deep dimples that were sure to melt away any resentment Laila might have harbored against him.

“Hey, baby,” he said in a low, sensual tone.

Eyes wide, Laila gasped, covering her mouth as if she'd seen a ghost. “Cruze? Oh, my God, Cruze!”

“Are you gonna invite me in?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

Nodding, she moved aside, allowing him entry. Then, after closing and locking the door, she fell into his arms and buried her head in his chest. Clinging to him, she murmured his name over and over. Her slender body trembled and when she lifted her head, Cruze saw the tears that streaked her face.

“Aw, don't cry, Laila. Shh,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Come on, baby, don't cry.”

“How could you?” she sobbed, looking up at him, her eyes filled with pain and relief. “Leaving all of a sudden, the way you did . . . you hurt me to my heart, Cruze.”

Shit. He wasn't up for a bunch of damn tears. He felt like dipping on her crying ass, but the slow throb in his pants reminded him of why he was there in the first place. For some pussy.

“Shit got crazy,” he said apologetically, “and I had to get ghost,
but I never meant to hurt you.” He wiped her tears and then brushed his lips against her cheek and her neck, then cupped her ass as he smoothly walked her backward down the hall toward her bedroom.

In her room, he stepped back from her and came out of his hoodie and pulled off his shirt. Sniffling, Laila cried harder. “It's been over a year, and not once did you ever try to contact me. How could you do me like that, Cruze?” She angrily pounded his chest with her fists.

Cruze caught her wrists, and held them tightly. “I didn't have a choice. I had to wait until the air cleared. But I'm here, now. I'm back.”

“Are you here to stay?”

Cruze bit his bottom lip and nodded. “Yeah, baby.” He hated to have to lie to her. Laila was a sweet girl and had been hopelessly in love with him for years. Although the feelings weren't mutual, she deserved better than being treated like a random ho, but with his dick on lump, he had no choice. He wanted to fuck.

Figuring he'd done enough talking, Cruze began to unzip his jeans.

Insulted, Laila scowled. “Really, Cruze? After all this time, you're still as disrespectful as ever—coming here thinking I'm supposed to just spread my legs and let you fuck me. I can't believe you! Without any explanation of where your ass has been, you come up in here and start stripping out of your clothes, expecting me to let you jump back into the pussy—with no questions asked. I'm not giving you shit until I know where the fuck you've been.” Eyes narrowed, hand on hip—she waited.

Cruze reached for her. “Come on, babe, it's not like that. With my lifestyle . . .” He paused and shook his head. “You already know the kind of world I move in, and there's a lot of shit you don't need to know. I'm not deliberately being cold. Do you think I like keeping
shit bottled up inside? I'd love to be able to come home to you and share my troubles, but right now, the less you know, the better off you are.”

Cruze watched as a range of emotions crossed Laila's face. He was certain that his remark about coming home to her had given her hope and weakened her resolve. When her features finally relaxed, it was clear he'd successfully torn down the barriers she'd put up.

“The only thing I can tell you, Laila, is that I missed you so bad, it hurt,” he added to speed up the process of getting some dick relief.

She swallowed as her anger subsided and her heart softened. “I missed you, too,” she confessed. Her voice cracked and she seemed to be working herself up to more tears.

Oh, shit. Please don't start crying, again!

Horny as fuck, Cruze swallowed hard as his intense gaze roamed over her pert breasts and down to the crotch of her yoga pants where a pussy print was evident. Filled with raw yearning, he uttered a primal sound from deep in his throat. “Come on, baby. Take your clothes off for me. Let me see that pretty little body that I've been craving.”

Laila's expression suddenly hardened and she stubbornly folded her arms across her chest. “You ain't right, Cruze. It's been more than a year—”

Yeah, okay. And? You already said that shit.
He wasn't trying to repeat himself explaining why again. He moved closer, shutting her up by rubbing on her titties and whispering, “I've been having wet dreams about that pretty pussy of yours.”

Laila gazed up at him and swallowed as heat swept through her. No man had ever had that effect on her, except for Cruze. Damn him! With a look of defeat mixed with sexual yearning, she began tearing off her clothes.

As Cruze finished undressing, he could feel Laila's eyes burning into him. Anticipation scorched through her veins. He was her only desire. And as angry as she was with him for abandoning her, she couldn't deny herself him. Standing at six-foot-four, his body was sculpted like a Nubian god, and Laila couldn't help running her hands over his bulging biceps and rippled abs. She'd missed the feel of his hard body.

“You 'bout to find out how much I missed you,” Cruze warned, before licking his lips. He enveloped her inside his brawny arms and with his lips, he traced a moist path from her neck to her breasts, nibbling and sucking on her nipples, and coaxing desperate little moans from her.

His hand wandered downward, moving past her belly button and then stalling. A long finger made circles around her rigid clit, and then moved a little lower, caressing the seam of her pussy, where hot juices had gathered.

Cruze didn't tongue kiss or eat pussy because most bitches put their mouths on too many dicks and raw-fucked way too many different niggas. But he had no problem playing in a batch of hot pussy. One finger explored the pooling wetness between Laila's legs while his thumb orbited her juice-slickened clit.

“I love you so much, Cruze,” Laila whimpered, her mouth hungrily seeking his. Cruze pulled away. “You know what I want, Laila . . . suck it for me, babe.” He applied pressure to her shoulder with one hand and held the base of his hard, throbbing pole with the other.

Without hesitation, Laila sank to her knees and opened her mouth.

“Mmm,” Cruze moaned as he slid the smooth head between her plump lips. “Suck it good,” he coaxed. She pulled him in deeper, and the moment she applied suction to his hardened shaft, a fire erupted inside him and tiny sparks raced up his spine.

He could have easily lost control and released a hot load of cum
right then and there, but he composed himself. With concentration, he was able to stroke in and out of her mouth, slowly and rhythmically.

“Damn, you suck a good dick, girl. That juicy mouth of yours drives me crazy.” Cruze's dick glided along her tongue in a leisurely fashion, but when Laila puckered her lips around the middle of his shaft, tightening and releasing her hold like a quick-gripping pussy, Cruze's breathing intensified and he went wild, banging against her tonsils,