Sexual Healing (6 page)

She caught his waist and eased up on the balls of her heels and covered his mouth with hers. He groaned into her mouth, gripping her ass and cupping her there as his tongue tangled with hers.
Ravenously, Arabia licked into his mouth, tasting him; a mixture of peppermint and wet heat that caused her cunt to clench, and her juices to seep into her laced thong.

Damn him.

She couldn't deny it. Theodore was extremely desirable and one hell of a sexy man. Which was why she had pursued him, preyed on him, until she was able to eventually break his resolve. Still, he hadn't wanted to cheat. He had been committed to his marriage, even though it was loveless and sexless, 'til death did them apart.

But . . .

Arabia reached between them and tugged at the drawstring of his pants. She seductively slid to her knees, dragging his pants down over his narrow hips with her.

Theodore's dick sprung out, its tip glistening with arousal. Arabia licked her lips, then flicked her tongue along its slit, before swirling her tongue over and around the crown of his cock.

And mmm, God—his precum tasted so sweet. She wrapped her delicate hand over his shaft and squeezed it gently in her fist, caressing it, before her tongue peeked out from between her sumptuous lips and swiped over the head of his dick.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, feeling every drop of his blood rushing straight to his now-painfully-hard cock. God, she hadn't even sucked him into her mouth—
yet
, and he was already about to come. “That feels so good.”

She moaned and licked her lips. Then looked up at him through her lashes and licked him again and again, swiping the tip of her tongue along his piss slit, then wetly swirling it around his dick's bulbous head.

“Unh. Shit,” he murmured as the moist flick of her tongue caused hot pleasure to ricochet through his body. He loved her wet, velvety mouth. She was such a good dick sucker.

Arabia leaned back a bit and took in the sight of his beautiful cock—arrow-straight, golden-brown, veiny, and thick—and prayed he wouldn't come until she had him wedged snugly down in her neck. She gripped it, again, and cupped his scrotum.

He grunted.

“You like that?” she asked all coy and vixen-like as she stroked him, her hand sliding up and down the length of him. She had to admit, she loved having power over his long dick.

“Fuck, yeah.” She kissed the tip of his dick. Then licked it, again. “Suck it, baby. Put that big dick in your mouth.” His hands delved into her hair as he tried to guide his cock into her mouth.

Arabia looked up at him, with raised brow. He had her all kinds of fucked up.
She
sucked dick when
she
wanted to, the way
she
wanted to. Not when someone told her to, or demanded her to. Instead, she licked over and around his balls while brushing the crest of his cock with her thumb. She wanted to extend her tongue out a little further and lick along the crack of his ass. But he'd never go for that.
Ugh
. She licked over his balls again.

A low moan slipped from his lips, letting her know that . . . mmm, she had him right where she'd wanted him. At her mercy. She was taunting him with her mouth and hands, and the shit was driving him mad, heat and sensation blistering through him.

Head back, neck arched, he shut his eyes, and bit into his lip. Arabia smiled as his fist tightened in her hair.
Yeah, snatch my scalp,
motherfucker. Mmm.
The words never left her lips, but she'd thought it as her tongue cradled his cock, then slathered the underside of his shaft with her spit.

His leg shook, and he hissed in sizzling desire.

She drew her tongue up the length of him again—under it, over it, along the sides of it, leaving wet streaks of intense pleasure.

“Unh,” he breathed as need spiked. He gritted his teeth. He
wanted . . . oh God, fuck, he wanted to come in her beautiful mouth. Badly. He didn't know how much longer he'd be able to hold out. It'd been weeks since he'd come. His balls were full with want, and need, for release.

He had to see her, watch her. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. “Aw, aw . . . unh, baby. Look up at me while you do that. Let me see you sucking this long dick.”

She looked up at him and batted her lashes. “You wanna coat my throat with your sweet babies, don't you?”

Shit yeah.
He couldn't get the words out fast enough before that sweet, velvet-slick mouth of hers opened, and she sucked him into her wet, silky mouth.

Her gaze locked onto his as she filled her mouth with his cock, taking him to the back of her throat, then easing out with a suction so strong that it almost took his breath away.
Fuck!
Theodore groaned out his pleasure and she sucked him more vigorously.

“Oh God, yes,” he growled. “God, yeah, baby—suck me with them sweet, sexy lips.” Arabia felt the throbbing in her mouth—he was about to release his warm man-milk. The thought moistened her panties. She was becoming deliciously wet. Her pussy clenched for some of him, the length of him; its own turn at milking his cock. She bobbed her head back and forth, his dick gliding in and out of neck, then mouth.

She wanted to suck him real slutty, wanted him to skull-fuck her, then throw her over the sofa and fuck her cunt deep. But she knew he'd never go for that. He was simply too damn gentlemanly.

Besides—

“Arabia,” he whispered, her name nearly a groan. Need and desire fluttered madly in and out and around him as his pulse raced.

Lips and mouth and tongue.

Deep sucking.

Sweet licking.

And lots of wet heat.

He was already on the edge.

Just a few more sucks, a few more licks, and . . .

Clutching his chest, he growled out, his warm nut hitting the back of her throat.

Then collapsed to the floor.

Six

W
hile Cruze dressed, grown folks' music played in the background—Erykah Badu and Andre 3000's collaboration of The Isley Brothers' “Hello.” If ex-lovers could come together on a love song after years of conflict, Cruze figured he could get over his uneasiness about attending Bret Hollis's charity event.

Though he tried to keep it low-key most of the time, he realized he'd never get to the next level if he didn't start rubbing elbows with a different set of people. He only wished the dinner wasn't such a high-profile event with press in attendance.

Avoid cameras at all costs and everything'll be cool.

In the mirror, he observed his new persona, which was a drastic change from the Brooklyn thug who'd spent his entire adult life flipping kilos. As he studied his image, he ran his fingers over his fresh dark Caesar spinning with deep waves. On his suit-and-tie shit, Cruze cracked a smile, imagining himself kicking it with investment bankers and politicians instead of his usual crew of con artists, thieves, and killers.

One last glance at his reflection and he straightened his tie and then strolled out of the apartment.

Standing at the elevator, Cruze gave a head nod to a sophisticated African American couple who approached. The man, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, was dapper in a tuxedo and his female
companion, who was several inches taller than he, looked about ten years younger. She was dazzling in a glittery black gown with a plunging neckline that displayed an exquisite set of tits. The spectacular diamonds that adorned her neck and her wrist shimmered beneath the light of the hallway chandelier.

On the sly, Cruze admired her lean body and the regal way she carried herself. Without meaning to, his eyes flitted to her ass, which was firm, plump, and round. She was a gorgeous well-preserved older woman, and she was obviously well cared for. Her entire look indicated that she was pampered and accustomed to the very best.

“Good evening, young man. You must be our new neighbor,” said the man cheerfully. “We're the Hamiltons—across the hall from you in 2612. I'm Morris, and this is my wife, Valentina.”

Cruze introduced himself and Morris shook his hand. Valentina's lips moved in an inaudible greeting, and then she quickly turned her head, barely glancing at Cruze. Embarrassed by his wife's rudeness, Morris held up his hands in an apologetic gesture.

Cruze instantly disliked Valentina. Beautiful or not, she was a stuck-up bitch that thought she was too good to be bothered with opening her mouth to extend a civil greeting.
Fuck her.
Although Cruze looked fly in a tailored, perfectly cut suit, Givenchy tie, and the five-thousand-dollar Hublot Classic Fusion watch that decorated his wrist, all Uppity-Ass saw was a young thug. She probably viewed his presence in the exclusive apartment building as a forewarning to a decline in property value.

Cruze's jaw twitched as he flicked imaginary lint from his lapel, then readjusted his tie.
Trick-ass broad can suck my fucking dick.

When the elevator door slid open, Cruze gestured for the couple to enter first. Nose in the air, the bougie bitch glided inside as if being extended courtesies from commoners was her birthright.

Inside the elevator, Cruze stared straight ahead, refusing to make any small talk with the husband and definitely avoiding any eye contact with Uppity-Ass. But, pulled by the allure of the sensual fragrance she wore, it was a natural response to gaze in one of the mirrored panels of the elevator and steal a glance at her. As he stealthily checked her out, he quickly averted his gaze when he saw something that made him think his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The elevator continued its smooth descent, and right before it reached the lobby, Cruze shot her another surreptitious look. This time there was no mistaking that Valentina, while standing next to her oblivious husband, was licking her lips and giving him a seductive look. Even more shocking, her hand that was embellished with the big, glittery diamond ring was rubbing on her pussy in a slow, circular motion.

Before departing the elevator, Morris said cheerfully, “Have a wonderful evening, young man.”

Valentina tossed Cruze a sly smile and said in a thick foreign accent, “Ciao, baby. Hope to see you soon.”

The fuck?!
Obviously, the stuck-up bitch was cray, but that accent of hers had his dick jumping in his pants and pulsing for release.

• • •

The charity dinner was a well-organized and classy event with over two-hundred guests filling the venue. Several of Hollis's old Nets teammates had come out to support him, and Cruze was honored to be seated next to Marquan Naylor. In his day, Marquan had been an electrifying and controversial player who had achieved popularity for injecting his hip-hop style into basketball. And he was equally infamous for his many skirmishes with the law.

Though Cruze was inwardly excited to be chitchatting with the
great Marquan Naylor, he didn't let it show—at least not for the first half hour. But as he grew more comfortable, he let his feelings of idol worship slip out. “People probably tell you this all the time, but on some real shit, me and my friends used to rock your sneakers and your jerseys when we were kids.”

“Oh, yeah? That's cool. Thanks, man.” Marquan sort of chuckled and tossed back a long sip of tequila.

Cruze suddenly felt stupid. He'd made it seem like he and his boys were unique in wearing Marquan Naylor apparel, when actually the whole world rocked the former player's gear during the peak years of his career.

He was about to clarify his statement when an extremely tall white dude with a big belly and a head full of snow-white hair approached their table. Marquan stood up and embraced the man. “Dusty McDowell,” Marquan greeted with a wide smile. “Good to see you, my dude.”

The rivalry between Marquan and Dusty had been as heated as the rivalry between Magic Johnson and Larry Byrd, back in the day. Cameras began to flash as members of the press enthusiastically captured the moment.

As much as Cruze would have enjoyed having a bird's-eye view of the historic reunion of the two basketball titans, he couldn't risk being caught in any photographs. Pushing his plate back, Cruze vacated his seat and strode to the rear area where the bar was set up.

“Remy on the rocks,” he told the bartender. With his back no longer facing the door, Cruze was able to keep an eye out for anyone who might have tried to come for him. Away from the flashing lights, Cruze relaxed in the cut and watched as Dusty and Marquan were joined in the photo op by Bret Hollis and two other former NBA players, whose faces were familiar, but whose names he couldn't recall.

Time could be cruel, Cruze thought, taking in Dusty's white hair and inflated gut. He glanced at the other two players and noticed that one walked with the assistance of a blinged-out cane, and the other had gone completely bald. Out of the group of former players, Marquan and Bret were the only two who still closely resembled the way they'd looked during their playing days. Good genes, he supposed.

“If it weren't for his height, I wouldn't have recognized Dusty McDowell,” said a scholarly-looking, cinnamon-skinned woman who had sidled next to Cruze. Looking her over, he guessed her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She was petite, no more than five-four, give or take a few inches.

Her light-brown locs were styled in a braided bun, and her oversized, geek glasses were intended to downplay her looks. But she was clearly a cutie despite her subdued attire and understated makeup. She wore a plain black pantsuit and had opted for kitten heels instead of the five-inch stilettos that adorned the feet of most of the other women in attendance at the glitzy affair.

“We all gotta grow old one day,” Cruze responded to her comment. “But cats like Dusty will be immortalized. He was a hella player in his day.”

“True. They used to call him Dunkin' Dusty. The way he used to drive the ball down the court and then dunk on his opponents, he rightfully earned that nickname. But I'm not so sure he deserves his spot in the hall of fame.”

Cruze tilted his head. “You know a lot about b-ball . . . for a girl.”

“I'm a Harvard grad, and I know a lot about a many things,” she countered with a smug smile. “Dunkin was the man, but Marquan Naylor was an exceptional player, and to be honest, I'm personally offended that the white boy was inducted into the hall of fame while Marquan is continually ignored by the committee. It's like
they want to punish him forever for his controversial persona during his playing days.”

Cruze nodded. “Yeah, Marquan used to be a rebel. He broke all the rules.”

“But his youthful rebelliousness doesn't negate what he did for the sport,” the woman said passionately. “The selection committee for the basketball hall of fame is an anonymous group. They don't have to explain or publicly defend their decisions. There's no transparency, and it's completely unfair.” She exhaled in frustration and took a sip of her pastel-colored drink. “Marquan is a legend, and keeping him out of the hall of fame won't change his stats or the electrifying magic he brought to the game.”

“Facts. Marquan has a place in history, no matter what,” Cruze concurred.

“I'm Lourdes Dunning, by the way. I'm with
The Daily Grind
.”

Cruze wrinkled his brows.

“The Daily Grind
is a hard-hitting news outlet,” she explained.

“Never heard of it.”

She pulled up the site on her phone and handed it to Cruze. He scanned the screen, noting that the lead story was something about Blac Chyna and Rob Kardashian. “Hard-hitting news, huh?” he said with a smirk and returned her phone. “I'm not really into the gossip blogs.”

“We're a lot more than that. We cover politics, world news, sports . . . technology. But that's beside the point; I was hoping you could help me out.”

“How so?”

“Well, I already interviewed Bret Hollis about his North Philly program and his dream to expand HYPE to other deprived areas in the city. But I'm hanging around, trying to get an exclusive with Marquan Naylor.” She eyed Cruze intensely. “I noticed you and Marquan talking, and . . .”

Cruze held up his hands. “I can't help you. I don't know dude like that—I just met him.”

“Damn,” she muttered. “Okay, well, you had an opportunity to gauge his mood. In your opinion, do you think he'd be willing to talk to me tonight?”

“I have no idea. If you've followed his career, you know he detests the media and refuses to give interviews.”

“Yeah, but maybe he's changed with maturity. Hell, the way he's been drinking nonstop, maybe he's twisted enough to spill his guts to me.” She chugged down her drink and set the empty glass on the bar counter. “I'm going for it. Wish me luck.”

Cruze watched with interest as Lourdes determinedly made her way across the room. Zooming in on her target, she speedily weaved in and out of the crowd. Her swift movements were impressive, and the kitten heels she was rocking suddenly made perfect sense.

Still, despite her tenacity, Cruze doubted if she'd get an interview with Marquan Naylor.

When the musical guest—a local rapper Cruze had never heard of—took the stage, Cruze ordered another drink and tuned out the noise emanating from the mic. Philly rappers couldn't touch New York talent. Diverting his attention to his immediate surroundings, he noticed that quite a few hot mamas had flocked to the bar.

During the next hour, he found himself surrounded by eye candy. Some struck up conversations and others sent him smoldering looks of lust. One chick, who was wearing the hell out of a very revealing, figure-hugging red dress with cut-out detail that showed off her ample boobs and midriff area, boldly sent him a drink. Her phone number was scrawled on the napkin. Out of all the women in close proximity, Skimpy Red Dress looked like the hottest piece of ass out of the bunch. He was about to go over and introduce himself when Lourdes suddenly came out of nowhere.

“I got it!” Grinning, she held up a small recorder. “It's all on tape.”

“I didn't see you talking to him.” Cruze looked over at the area where he'd last seen Marquan. “I thought he bounced when that corny rapper got on the mic.”

“He did leave. In fact, we left together,” she said proudly.

Cruze looked at Lourdes questioningly.

“Marquan and I sat in the back of the car while his driver took us on a tour of Center City. Marquan drank like a fish while I conducted the interview.”

Cruze wasn't sure if he should be impressed by Lourdes's ambitiousness or if he should give her the side-eye for her unethical practices. “It seems a little unscrupulous to take advantage of an intoxicated man.”

“No more unscrupulous than all the groupies Marquan took advantage of during his career.”

“Hey, you can't blame the man for accepting what was given to him willingly,” Cruze countered. Being a top lieutenant in the drug game was akin to being a rock star, and Cruze had enjoyed more than his fair share of groupie love.

“Let's not quibble over semantics. I'm in the mood to celebrate—care to join me?” Without waiting for an answer, Lourdes reached in her purse and took out a small envelope with a room number printed across the top and a key card inside. “Here you go. Meet me upstairs in ten minutes.”

Cruze was pleasantly taken off guard. Lourdes had struck him as someone too tightly wound and too career-oriented to be interested in frivolous sex. She hadn't even bothered to ask him his name, which was cool with him.

He pocketed the key card and then shot a glance at Skimpy Red Dress, who sat on the other side of the bar. As she stared daggers at him, he tried to apologize with his eyes.

Though Skimpy Red Dress had body for days, she wasn't anything special—merely another empty-headed ho, looking for a sponsor. It wasn't every day that Cruze got the opportunity to heat up the sheets with a naughty-librarian type who was also a Harvard grad.