Sexual Healing (12 page)

Then he sank down into a chair and closed his eyes—groaning in sorrow and regret, unable to stop the flashes of horrible memories: Ramona's devastating confession. That bloody night of carnage. The son he'd been denied, lying in bed with a bullethole between his eyes.

The dreadful scenes played over and over again like a sickening loop in his mind, causing his head to pound. Heart aching, Cruze threw his head back . . .

And cried out in agony.

Twelve

T
hank God it's Friday!

Arabia couldn't wait to luxuriate. It'd been a long, grueling week of one meeting after another with account executives and her advertising firm's creative team by the time she slid into the cabin of her car, her body melting into the buttery-soft leather seat. She'd been given the Maybach as a gift from Theodore over a year ago, and had only driven it a few times. But since his death, she'd felt compelled to drive it more. She honestly missed him, sort of—in her own strange way.

A slight smile eased over her lips as her mind drifted back to the day he'd given her the extravagant luxury car. Christmas eve. That night, she'd almost collapsed from the shock of being led down to the parking garage with her eyes closed, then opening them to find herself standing in front of the three-hundred-something-thousand-dollar luxury car; a big red bow tied in front of its grille.

Clit pulsing—with key in hand, and a kiss on her lips, her cunt moistened at the imagery of having her legs up over his shoulders and her ass cheeks fucked down into the plush leather. Heat and desire and the excitement of having been given such an expensive gift surged through her body, causing her to reach for him, grabbing him by the nape of his neck and pulling him to her. A hand beneath her ass, he pulled her into him and their mouths met in a rush, a melding of lips, a burst of raw need; one moan after another.

Within moments, the two lovers were in the rear cabin—windows fogged, naked, lost in the throes of passion, christening the leather seats. She'd sucked his cock and given him some backseat pussy right there in the parking garage as a thank-you.

Arabia found herself warming at the memory.

Theodore's hard, veined dick flashed in her mind as she started her engine and it purred to life. He had always loved being swallowed—dick, balls, and every last drop of his nut. And he loved—oh God, yes, how he loved—snacking on her snatch.

Arabia gripped the steering wheel, a sly smile covering her lips, remembering the last time he'd slipped his tongue between her folds and inside her, finding her so warm, so wet. God—rest his soul—he'd surely be missed.

She caught her reflection in her rearview mirror just as she shifted the car into gear and sped off. She couldn't wait to get home. All she wanted to do was slip out of her heels and clothes, pour herself a glass of Chardonnay, then slink her body into a steamy bath and read a few pages from the novel she'd been reading. Some new author, Body of Work, had captured her with her raw writing style and Arabia wanted to get home to crack open her book to see what dirty little sexcapade would be going on next. Whoever the anonymous erotica author was, Arabia was convinced—she was a certified freak.

And she loved a nasty freak.

Too damn bad I don't have one of my own.
She shook her head. Wellson had only scratched at the surface of her cunt's greedy need while he was in town. And she was thankful he'd manage to keep an erection, as needed, the two days they'd been together.

Well, in truth—she
knew
his dick would stay almost painfully hard, and he'd be able to fuck her nonstop. Unbeknownst to him, she'd taken L-arginine, Saw palmetto, Yohimbe, and some other
male enhancement capsules and ground them in her blender, stirring the powdery substance in all of his drinks, starting with his morning glass of orange juice, then ending with his nightly tumbler of scotch. She'd even gone as far as purchasing a bottle of OxySurge—some male enhancement serum she'd read about—and used it as a lube to give him a nice, slow hand job. His dick had swollen to a delicious erection. Powerful. And he'd piped her down like a horny twenty-year-old.

Still. It hadn't been enough. She'd asked him to choke her, and he'd cringed. She'd begged him to fuck her from the back and slide a finger in her ass, and he'd squawked at that. Sure he'd pounded her pussy, fucked her like a wild man, beat her pussy down like it'd stolen something from him, the entire two days they shared. But he'd still left more to be desired, more to be craved.

Nevertheless, Wellson had been shocked by the intensity of his erections. He hadn't complained. And she hadn't considered the consequences of mixing so many supplements together. But when his heart pounded in his chest and he'd broken out in a sweat, his vision blurring, his pulse racing erratically, Arabia feared the worst. That he was dying. Panic surged through her. Dear Lord. The last thing she wanted was another 9-1-1 call with another lover found naked
and
dead in her presence . . . from sex.

She definitely didn't need, or want, another body on her conscience, or another lover's funeral to attend. Then again—she shook her head—she wouldn't have gone. No. Not after what'd occurred the last time, when she'd shown up at Teddy's.

She cringed.
Crazy bitch.
She reached for the stereo system, and waited. Moments later, KEM's “You're On My Mind” oozed out of the speakers. She allowed his voice and the melody to take her there.
Yesss.
She snapped her fingers and bobbed her head as she zigzagged her way through the bustling city traffic.

“Yessss, baby . . . I ain't too proud to beg,” she sang aloud. She suddenly felt like dancing. Felt like swinging her hips, pussy popping, and booty shaking. She laughed at the thought. She hadn't been out dancing in a real club—
wow
—in years.

“Yessss, dammit! Come get this loving . . .” She shook her hair, and found herself swirling her hips into the leather of her seat as she drove. Hell, maybe she should go out, let her hair down a little. Even snatch up some stray dick along the way. She could always go for a good fucking. She felt herself growing moist at the possibility. She reached between her legs and patted her kitty. “You ready for another feeding, boo?” she spoke to it as if
it
would speak back.

And it did. Clenching.

She chuckled.
It
wanted her to ride down on a cock like a porn star, stretching
it
in pleasure. And, maybe, she would. By the time Miguel's “How Many Drinks” started playing, she was seriously toying with the idea of
turning up
tonight. She blinked back the feeling of sleep coming down on her. Then stifled a yawn, and remembered what she really needed most—a quiet night at home with a good bottle of white wine, reading and relaxing. And, if her sexual urges overwhelmed her, then she'd open her toy chest—and fuck her own self to sleep.

She yawned again as she made her way to Tribeca—one of the most expensive ZIP codes in the downtown section of the city—to the cobblestone streets and the comforts of her spacious loft in a converted sugar warehouse. Some considered Tribeca the new Upper Eastside. But, for her, it was simply home. She'd been living in Manhattan ever since she'd graduated from Spelman, almost fifteen years ago. And she couldn't imagine her life anywhere else. Ever.

The music on her stereo faded and a call rang through. She
smiled, glancing at the name flashing across the screen. Eric. He was another one of her fiancés. Six-one, dark-skinned with a swimmer's build. She'd met the forty-eight-year-old architect in Chicago, while they both waited for a connecting flight to Kentucky. During their three-hour flight delay at O'Hare Airport, they'd talked and laughed. Then, over drinks at Chicago Cubs Bar & Grill—while they waited for their flight, he surprisingly confessed to being married, but wanting to spend time with her while they were both in Louisville, staying at the same hotel.

Feeling naughty, she'd bitten her lip and taken a moment to consider the invitation before she boldly leaned into his ear and whispered, “If I say yes, you'll have to spend most of your time inside this pussy.”

Flashing a seductive grin, nothing more had to be said. The entire time in Kentucky, every moment of his free time was spent with
her
—fucking her. And he'd sexed her good—not great, but good enough for her pussy to stay wet, and for her to want to fuck him again, and again, and again.

Now, here they were, almost four years later, and—not only was she engaged to him, she was still fucking him knowing damn well he was
still
a married man.

She pressed a button on her steering wheel, and answered on the third ring. “Hey.”

“Hey, baby,” he said, his voice low and enticing.

“Hey yourself, sexy man,” she cooed.

“I miss you, baby.”

Arabia smiled. “I miss you, too.” Although they texted and talked regularly, she hadn't seen him in over a month because of shit she really cared nothing about—his work, the kids, and his ailing wife. Still, she wasn't sure how much truth lied in her words. Did she really miss him? Not really. Hell, she rarely lusted him these days.

But he was good to her. And that's all that really mattered to her.

“I've been thinking about you all week,” he said warmly.

“Mmm. Is that so?”

“Yeah. You're all that's been on my mind lately. I need you so bad, baby.”

Oh, how sweet.

She moaned low in her throat.
“Mmm.
How bad do you need me?”

“Enough to want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. You're my whole world, baby.”

Her smile widened. “Aww, baby, you say the most sweetest things.” She couldn't bring herself to tell him he was
her
world too, because he wasn't. He was only a thin slice of it, a portion of her life that could be replaced at any given moment. “You mean so much to me,” she offered instead. It was the best she could do.

“I know I do, baby, which is why I've finally made a decision.”

“Oh?” Arabia said, curiosity spiking in her. “And what decision is that?”

“I'm leaving her.”

Arabia almost lost control of the steering wheel, swerving into the other lane, not believing what she heard. “Excuse
me?”
she shrieked. “You're leaving
who?”

There had to be some mistake. Her ears had to be playing some kind of nasty trick on her. She blinked, still not quite able to believe her ears. He couldn't possibly be leaving
her
—as in his
wife
. No, no. There had to be some other
her
he was referring to.

“Gwen. My wife,” he said softly. “It's time.”

She slammed on her brakes, almost running a red light. She blinked again.
What the hell kind of fuckery is going on here?
“Time for
what
exactly?” she asked, gripping the steering wheel tightly, so tight her hands were starting to go numb.

Over the last year-and-a-half, he'd been talking of
supposedly
leaving his wife of twenty years, saying he'd grown tired of her, that they'd grown apart. She was thirteen years his senior, and he felt like they were both traveling in different directions. But Arabia had heard that line before from all the others in her life over the years. Not that she had ever asked him, or anyone else, to leave his wife. After all, she wasn't like most sidepieces who eventually wanted more from the men they shared with their wives or girlfriends, whining and begging and nagging them to death for more than what he might be willing to give them. No, she was nothing like those silly bitches. She
knew
her position, and enjoyed being in her role as just that—the other woman.

Now this fucker was trying to throw a wrench her way. The gall of him!
Bastard!
She'd told him—hell, encouraged him—on more than one occasion when he'd first started talking of leaving his wife, to stay right where he was, where he belonged—with her old, tired, dry-pussy ass.

She'd told him in so many words that leaving the arthritic bitch was foolish. She wanted him to stay until she dropped dead, or at least until she succumbed to some tragic illness and became an invalid. At the rate her arthritis was eating at her bones, she was well on her way to becoming a cripple. All he needed to do was bide his time.

She'd never believed he'd really
leave
her. But—
now
, after hearing this shit, she guessed she was wrong. He'd been serious all along. She felt her stomach knot. What the hell was he leaving
her
for? He couldn't be that stupid to
think
or
believe
she'd ever trust his cheating ass. Could he? Most men didn't ever leave their homes; they only wanted something extra on the side.

What the hell was he trying to prove?

The horn of a silver Porsche blared in back of her, jolting her
from her daze. “And why would you do that?” she snapped indignantly, speeding down the street.

“Damn, baby,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I thought you'd be happy.”

Well, goddamn it, I'm not!

“I am. I mean . . . this is a surprise.”

“A nice one, I hope.”

Arabia sighed. “Well no. I mean, yes. I mean I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. I can't believe what I'm hearing.”

“Believe it, baby,” he said, excitement coating his tone. “It's real. It's going to be you and me, finally.”

She swallowed. “Oh,” she said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. But there was none. She couldn't even feign excitement. What the hell was she going to do with a full-time man? She sped through a yellow light. “When are you planning on leaving her?”

“I'm telling her tonight.”

She gasped.
“Tonight?
Why so soon?”

“It hasn't been soon enough. Life is too short to stay in an unhappy marriage,” he said, sounding like he was having an Oprah moment. “I want to spend what's left of my life loving the woman who has my heart—
you
, baby. I've already been looking at apartments for the time being. Once the ink is dried on the divorce papers, you and I will move in together. In the meantime, I figured we can start thinking about locations and looking for a house somewhere, since we're eventually going to be married.”