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Authors: Noire

Candy Licker

Praise for
G-Spot
by Noire


The Coldest Winter Ever
meets
Addicted
!”


JAMISE L. DAMES,

bestselling author of
Momma's Baby, Daddy's Maybe

“Freedom comes with a price in Noire's sexy,
gritty urban melodrama. Noire's heady brew of
lethal realism and unbridled sexuality should spell
‘hot and bothered’ for erotic fiction fans.”

—Publishers Weekly

“G-Spot
is being billed as an urban erotic tale, and it lives up to the billing!”

—Booklist

“A sexy novel with loads of action.”

—Romantic Times

“Rough and raunchy—it moves.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Also by Noire

G-Spot

This book is dedicated to urban
scribes far and wide.

Shake the dirt off ya shoulders and
keep doin’ the damn thing.

NOIRE

Acknowledgments

All props go to the Father above for blessing
me with the ink that flows from my pen.

Thanks to Missy, Jay, Man, and Tyrone for
having my back 24/7. To Reem Raw, keep
spittin those lyrics and don't forget about me
when you blow UP! And to Harlem's Nasty

Nisaa, keep laughing at the posers, ma.

We know they can't handle your flow!

STAY BLACK.

NOIRE

WARNING!

This here ain't no romance

It's an urban erotic tale

Real life, straight, unscripted

Which 4 some of us is hell

If truth and violence scares U

Then this story ain't 4 U

But someone's out there hurtin

Cuz they know these words are true

In this tale I give U

tribulations large and small

The streets are grimy, cash is king

And young girls take a fall

Folx chillin in the suburbs

Sucking on a silver spoon

Pretend this shyt don't happen?

Well yo azz is 'bout to swoon.

But 4 urban soldiers living on

The front lines every day

I speak your truth and sing your song

Cuz real's the only way

So this here ain't no romance

I'ma say it once again

It's an urban erotic tale

Not no bullshyt CNN

NOIRE

In the beginning …

H
ave you ever laid down with a man and wasn't sure if you'd ever get back up? Tossed the sheets with a bone-knocking fear that only a cold-blooded hustler could produce? Sexed him like your life depended on it, because, in reality, it did? You still with me? Then let's roll over to my house. Harlem. 145th Street. Music and madness. Dollars and deals. Step inside the hottest recording studio on the East Coast while I put you up on what's real. Grab a seat and brace yourself as I show you the kind of pain that street life and so-called success can bring. My name is Candy Raye Montana. I lost my dreams in the House of Homicide. The house that Hurricane built.

Chapter 1
Money, Lust, Fame

I
t was a little after one on a Friday night and mics were on fire at the House of Homicide. Junius “Hurricane” Jackson was Homicide's CEO, producer, and all-around king niggah in charge. Hurricane commanded mad respect on the streets of New York City, and even the most thugged-out criminals feared him like the badass hustler that he was.

The House of Homicide was located smack in the middle of Harlem, on a block that stayed live twenty-four hours a day. It was originally built as a neighborhood movie theater, but when Hurricane started running things, he converted it into a hot nightclub/recording studio that attracted hundreds of ballers, rappers, and hopeful wannabe artists looking to get on a stage and get paid.

Every superhead in Harlem wanted to be down on Homicide's tip. The crack fiends, the teenage baby mamas. The video hoes who were lost and turned out.

“That Cane niggah is
hard!”
they'd laugh as they lined up half-naked outside the studio, posing and shivering in the cold,
just dying to get a spot on his latest video shoot. “Let that rich motherfucka put the camera on me. I'll rock my ass so hard he'll forget his mama's name!”

Yeah, Hurricane was a living legend in Harlem, and he had his House on lock and under total control. He was a genius when it came to recognizing raw street talent, and he dominated the music industry so viciously it made those cats over at Crunk Cuts and Ruthless Rap look weak and broke-down.

Hurricane was in deep with the Mafia too, and they gave him a lot of rope. He strong armed a bunch of small businesses and laundered Mob money through almost all of them, especially the corner liquor store he owned and his rib joint that was right next door. He played the role of a community leader and all that too. You know, giving out free turkeys during the holidays and sponsoring bookmobiles and things like that for the kids in the hood. He had fat knots in his pockets and was even known to organize street cleanups and pay people's bills when they got too far behind. But nothing went down in Harlem that Hurricane wasn't involved in. No deals got made, no pussy got sold, no dice got tossed. Nobody so much as rolled a blunt unless Hurricane got his cut.

Hurricane had mad pull from coast to coast. In the time that I'd known him he'd signed some of the hottest singers and rap artists from L.A. to Miami and snatched them into his camp. A few artists he straight stole from other labels, and some he actually got honest. But no matter how they got here, the minute they put their name on the dotted line their asses belonged to the House of Homicide, and Hurricane Jackson became their don, their daddy, and their dictator.

This Friday night was starting out just like any other. I was
chilling downstairs in one of the recording rooms with two hopeful artists, Jazzy and Danita. Friday nights were fresh-talent night at the House of Homicide. The House was packed, and rappers and video hoes were lined up out the door and around the corner waiting for their chance to jump in the pit and impress Hurricane.

Jazzy had been here once before, but it was Danita's first night in the House. Since we were sitting around waiting for the pit to go live, we decided to kill some time listening to some bootleg mix tapes somebody had brought in off the streets. I'd watched both of these chicks rehearse the tracks they were gonna perform in the pit tonight, and they didn't sound half bad. The problem was they were regular. Didn't nothing stand out about them except they asses. I knew exactly which rooms they would end up in, and it damn sure wasn't gonna be no mic room like they were hoping.

Jazzy was the cutest of the two and she was rocking a pair of Donna Karan shorts that were so tight the V between her legs looked like a camel toe. Danita was just as hot. She sported a fly little Rocawear miniskirt that clung to her thighs and rode up her hips every time she moved. Upstairs, the music was banging and the party was in full charge. The way Danita and Jazzy were flossing I could tell they were ready to rush up the steps, grab a baller, and get crunk in the middle of the mix.

“Damn, Candy,” Danita said, winding her hips and slurping from a cold bottle of beer. “I ain't into no bitches, but you one lucky heffah! Booming body, pretty red hair, blue eyes, light chocolate skin … I see why that niggah Hurricane got you laced up so lovely. Do you, boo! If I was laying up with Hurricane I'd be iced out and cutting hits left and right too. But just
wait till your niggah hears some of
my
rhymes. I'ma press his ass
out!”

I just nodded and thought about Dominica and Vonzelle, my girls from Scandalous! We was fresh and hot like Jazzy and Danita at one time too, so I understood what kinda cloud their heads were stuck in. Born singing, I'd had visions of being a superstar for as long as I could remember. But hard knocks and cold men had taught me a little somethin’ about the music business that Jazzy and Danita must didn't know. These chicks couldn't see past the obvious. The bright lights, iced-out jewels, expensive cars … all this shit came with a price on it, a price that sexing Hurricane had taught me I couldn't afford to pay.

I
'd met some pretty mean niggahs during my travels, but Hurricane Jackson was the first one to show me what real pain was all about. Hurricane held a lease on my life. He'd paid the Mob cash money for my ass, and his word and his protection were the only things keeping me alive.

I got my first taste of Hurricane's cruelty while I was laid up naked in his bed, and the minute I saw what he was working with I knew my shit was fried. The niggah was a bonecrusher. He had a body like Mr. Universe. Mike Tyson didn't have shit on him. Swole chest, twelve-pack stomach. Muscles everywhere. But it was mainly for show. Sex with Hurricane was all about Hurricane, and he got his pleasure by seeing other people in pain. No tonguing me down or licking my neck. That was the last thing on his mind. He didn't even stroke the poon-poon or worry whether or not it was wet. Nope, fucking Hurricane was
unlike anything I'd ever known, and I would find out the hard way that his foreplay was even more destructive than his name.

Don't get me wrong. Ain't nobody out here perfect, but there are some brothers who been blessed with gifts that can make a sistah climb the walls. Hurricane, too, had been blessed in a lot of ways. He was powerful, he was rich, he was fine, and everybody knew he had crazy musical talent. But none of that shit made up for what Hurricane was lacking, and a deficiency like the one he had, especially in a such a big, strong, buff-ass man, was enough to turn even the most mellow niggah into a raging maniac. Yeah, Hurricane Jackson had a whole lot of things the average brothah could only dream of, but what he was missing was the one thing all his money and his power couldn't buy him.

A dick.

T
he first time Hurricane took me home to the banging mansion he kept on Long Island, nothing in my life had ever impressed me more. About a thousand niggahs lived up in there with him, but I didn't care.

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