Sexual Healing (13 page)

She frowned, pulling into her building's parking garage. She liked the idea of being
engaged
—having a fiancé.
Not
being married. Not relocating. And definitely
not
having a cheating-ass husband.

“Now wait a minute,” she said, shaking her head. “Slow down, tiger. Don't go doing anything hasty. You should really think this through.”

“I have, baby. And my mind is made up. It's something I should have done sooner. I can't keep on living this way.”

Well, I can.
She frowned. “Don't you think
we
need to talk this through further,
first
, before you go making major decisions for me and
my
life?”

She felt heat rising in the center of her chest. She was seething. There was no way in hell she was letting
him
—or any other man—ever disrupt her life. She made and lived by her own rules.

“Our
life,” he corrected. “I'm doing this for us, baby. I'm flying in tomorrow morning so we can talk more about the future, our future,” he said, his voice dipping an octave lower. “Besides, we need some quality time together. It's been too long. And I need some of that good loving.”

Well, too goddamn bad.
Arabia clenched her jaw. He wasn't getting shit from her—none of her delectable pussy or superb head. So,
ha!
He had another damn thing coming if he thought she was going to spread her thighs open for him. Not after hearing this news. Whatever juices might have been pooling in her cunt for him were now dried up, like the damn Sahara desert.

“Not this weekend,” she said dryly.

“Huh? Why? I thought you'd be ready for some of this loving I've been saving up for you.”

Arabia rolled her eyes. “I have other plans,” she simply said. The lie rolled off her tongue quick, without thought. Truth was, she had nowhere to be. “And I won't be back until Sunday.”

“Oh,” he said, his tone tinged with disappointment. “Where are you going? I'll catch a flight there instead.”

She shook her head.
Oh no the hell you won't.

“Oh dammit. It's my sister calling in,” she lied. “Let me take this.”

“Oh, okay, baby. Call me when—”

She disconnected the call. Who the hell did he think he was,
trying to make plans with her life? No man called the shots. Ever. She was her own woman, with her own mind—and her own damn life plan. And it didn't include
him
leaving his goddamn wife.

She climbed out of her car with a new purpose. Getting the hell out of town. She had no idea where she'd be going, but two things were for certain: she wasn't calling him back. And she wouldn't be anywhere near the city for the weekend, just in case he was crazy enough to show up at her door.

She'd be tucked away in some hotel, hopefully with her legs up . . .

Getting fucked.

Thirteen

C
ruze gazed at his insane sneaker collection, trying to decide which pair to wear to tonight's game. Back in New York, his boys used to refer to him as a seasoned sneakerhead, but he didn't think of himself in that way. He didn't consider himself a sneaker collector, either. He viewed a collector as someone who invested in rare Air Jordans, Pigalle Lebrons, custom Air Force 1s, and other exclusive kicks, only to later trade them or jack up the price and sell them at sneaker conventions or on eBay. Cruze could never part with any of the sneakers he'd amassed over the years—not for any price.

Some collectors kept their sneakers inside their Jumpman boxes, untouched and only to be admired. But Cruze thought of his kicks as wearable art, and he definitely wore them. He sometimes wore two and three different pairs in the course of a day, depending on his mood. And he often bought doubles of his favorites, giving himself one pair to rock and one pair to stock—for later.

Of his over nine hundred pairs, he'd brought approximately a hundred pairs to the new condo. The rest were still showcased in his sneaker closet at the crib in the suburbs. The custom-made shelves at the house were backlit with a special wood that exemplified the sneakers. The shelving covered every inch of wall space and went from floor to ceiling. Despite his tall stature, Cruze had to climb a ladder to reach the sneaks on the top shelves of his collection.

Since taking over the youth basketball team, he'd made sure that his boys always looked fresh at the games, and looking fresh started with the Nike swoosh on their feet. Since he'd taken over coaching, he'd bought the members of the team three extra pairs of Nikes. The extras could be interchanged during school, recreation, and practice, but the first pair he'd bought to match uniforms were to be worn exclusively at their games. The team represented him and he couldn't have the boys wearing dogged kicks on or off the court.

Cruze's passion for sneakers began when he was a kid and got teased unmercifully for rocking cheap, no-name sneaks. “Hey, Cruze . . . what are
thooose?”
the other kids would taunt cruelly, pointing down at his feet.

He developed a sneaker obsession when he first started slinging, and back then he'd made it a point to buy himself a new pair of kicks every day. He even treated himself to the styles that were popular during his childhood, and that his mom couldn't afford to get him.

In recent years, he'd calmed down considerably with his sneaker purchases, only buying new pairs when something with a lot of hype came out, like the Drake-inspired Jordan 10 OVOs and the 12s as well as the “Dunk,” a high-end sneaker designed for Nike by the creative director of Givenchy, Riccardo Tisci. Cruze had only recently copped the Dunks and added them to his vast collection. He was waiting for the right occasion to wear them.

As a coach, his focus couldn't be entirely on the boys' appearance. He also had to make sure they played exceptionally well. Especially tonight. There would be special guests in attendance at tonight's game that included Marquan Naylor and several other former NBA players who were big contributors to HYPE.

Tonight, Cruze's coaching skills would be scrutinized by the best
of the best and he had to come through with a win. Needing to calm his nerves, he headed for his weed stash in the bedroom. He tugged on the handle of the drawer, and then suddenly changed his mind. Getting high prior to a sporting event violated the code of conduct expected of coaches. Even though no one would know that he'd smoked a blunt or two before the game and even though he doubted if weed would impair his judgment, he considered it grossly inappropriate to coach kids while lit.

But, he was super-amped and needed something to help him relax. His gaze landed on a candle that Valentina had included in the basket she'd brought over the other day. He wanted to give her back all her shit, but not wanting any more interactions with the nutty broad, he decided to keep the gifts.

Having heard that scented candles had a calming effect, Cruze picked up the Malin + Goetz candle and read the label:
Dark Rum with hints of plum and leather.
He opened the lid and inhaled the pleasant combination of scents, which were unquestionably masculine. Aromatherapy was supposed to be calming and he hoped the claim wasn't bullshit.

His nerves were becoming more rattled every minute, and if the candle didn't help him get into a peaceful state, then he'd have no choice but to spark up a blunt.

After lighting the candle, he sat in the bedroom chair, closed his eyes, and inhaled the rich fragrance. It was pleasant to simply be still and not think about being three steps ahead of the enemy.

In a relaxed state, he pictured his team beating the crap out of the opposing team from West Philly. In his mind's eye, he saw his star forward, Barack, leading the troops and dazzling the crowd by blasting off a series of three-pointers.

With his eyes closed and with the manly fragrance of the candle wafting through the air, his mind quieted down enough for him
to be able to think clearly and come up with a defense strategy. He could clearly see his team playing their positions and clogging West Philly's path to the basket. He imagined numerous highlights of the game, and by the time he opened his eyes, he felt confident that his team would win by a landslide.

• • •

Crouched between Ramona's thighs, his lips glistening with her juices
, Cruze lifted his head and asked, “Am I doing it right?”

Ramona brushed the top of his head. “You're getting a little better. But practice makes perfect.” She grinned and pushed his face back be
tween her thighs and grinded her pussy against his mouth. “More tongue
, baby. You can't just lick around the clit area when you eat pussy. You gotta mix it up. Get a rhythm going between licking and sucking. And every now and then, you gotta bury that tongue as deep as you can up in the pussy hole. And wiggle it.”

Seventeen-year-old Cruze came up for air again and looked at Ramona
with a frown. “You want me to wiggle my tongue?”

She nodded. “You know, like a snake.” Ramona sat up on her elbows and stuck out her tongue and demonstrated a wriggling movement.

“Oh, okay. I gotchu,” Cruze said. Looking intense, he gripped her hips
and yanked her toward him forcefully, causing her torso to collapse onto the pillows.

Ramona struggled upright and held out her hand. “Hold up, dude. You acting like you about to devour my ass. Should I be scared?”

Cruze cracked a smile. “Nah, you shouldn't be scared that I'ma hurt you, but you should be a little nervous about how I'ma make you feel.”
He stretched her legs further apart. “I'm getting tired of you complaining
that I'm not doing it right, so I'm about to show you something.” He winked at her and licked his lips.

“Somebody's talking shit. All right, big boy—show me.”

“Yo, stop calling me that. I'm not a boy. I'ma grown-ass. And I'm
your man.”

Ramona burst out laughing. “When will you be eighteen?”

“Ain't shit funny, Ramona. I don't see you laughin' when I'm puttin' this dick in you. Anyway, I'll be eighteen in a couple more months.”

Ramona rolled her eyes, then playfully waved him off. “Whatever, boy. How many more months 'til you'll be eighteen?”

“Around six,” he said with a shrug.

She grinned, shaking her head. “Okay, well, when you turn eighteen ,you can legally be my man. Until then . . . you're still jailbait.”

He shook his head, smirking. “But I bet this dick ain't jailbait. Is it?” He eased up on his knees and grabbed his hard dick, and shook it at her, then smacked it over her clit and her wet hole.

Ramona gazed at the size of his dick, and smirked, the answer to his question shining in her lust-filled eyes.

“A'ight then,” he said smugly. “Just what I thought. Now stop talkin' that age shit. I might not be legal in your eyes, but I gotta license to eat pussy and fuck.” Before giving her a chance to respond, Cruze was back between her legs, kissing her pussy.

Ramona moaned, flopping back on the bed.

Cruze clamped his hands on her thighs and then slid his tongue up and down slowly between her folds, provoking her to twist and writhe
and coaxing a hot stream of moisture out of her. She inched closer to meet
his caressing tongue. He lavished her pussy with long lingering tongue
swirls. Then, he followed her explicit instructions and began alternating
between licking deep into her hot hole with a wriggling tongue followed by suckling and teasing her sensitive clit with maddening tongue flicks.
He kept building up the intensity until Ramona was desperately begging
him to stop.

“First you said I wasn't doing it right, and now you want me stop,” Cruze said tauntingly.

“Come on, that's enough, Cruze,” she whined breathlessly. “Look at
the time.” She closed her legs as she pointed to the bedside clock. “You know
you gotta be home by eleven, so stop playing and let's fuck.”

“Nah, you always tryna call the shots. You wanted your box ate out and that's what I'm doing.”

“Please, Cruze,” Ramona pleaded. “Stop playing and put your dick inside me.”

“Uh-uh. You was poppin' all that shit, now you actin' like a lil' girl and beggin' me to stop. Be quiet and let me eat this pussy. Then you can get all the dick you want.”

Reluctantly consenting, she opened her legs for him, once again. This time, when Cruze tenderly slurped out her honeyed nectar, Ramona was taken to a screaming point of intensity. He burrowed his rippling and undulating tongue inside her until she was pitched over the edge. She grabbed a pillow, placed it over her face and screamed into it at the exact moment when a wrenching explosion jolted her into the infinite depths of an excruciatingly sweet climax.

As her body shook and convulsed, she reached for Cruze, pulling him on top of her.

Frantic with need, Cruze's dick was already leaking when he stuffed it inside her. Two minutes later, his breath came in deep, rasping pants and then his body jerked and was racked by spasms. He collapsed, his face buried between her breasts.

“I'm sorry, Mo,” he muttered, using the pet name that he gave her.

Ramona rubbed his back briefly and then patted his shoulder. “It's okay, I know you can't last very long, that's why I gets mine first.” She gently rustled his hair. “You have to go, Cruze,” she whispered.

“Nah, man, I don't wanna leave, yet. Let me hit it again.”

“Go home, big head. You can come back tomorrow,” Ramona said with laughter, and playfully popped him on the head.

“Yeah, a'ight. I'll be back here tomorrow, and the day after that, and
the day after that, all up”—he grabbed her ass and cupped it—“in this.”

Ramona smiled and kissed him deeply. “That's my big boy.”

“Nah, cut that shit out. I'm your fuckin' man.”

She licked her lips. “You're right . . . you're all the man I need,” she said
, fondling his dick and pulling him back toward the bed.

• • •

When Cruze arrived at the center on Friday night, there were so many cars in the lot, he had to park around the corner. The place was so packed, Bret had to call in extra security.

The big crowd had arrived to see Marquan Naylor. The former all-star player had agreed to engage in some one-on-one playing with a few HYPE kids during the halftime festivities. He also was slotted to take selfies with the attendees, and sign basketballs for his fans. The press was in attendance and would be capturing promotional pictures of Marquan interacting with underprivileged kids. It was good promotion for HYPE and Bret Hollis had convinced Marquan that his participation would persuade the Hall of Fame committee to change their minds about inducting him.

Cruze hadn't expected the press to be involved with a kiddy basketball game, but Bret was going hard trying to get his organization noticed, and all Cruze could do was accept the media's presence and suck it up.

He had a big job to do and he wouldn't be able to function properly if he was consciously fending off and dodging cameras, and so he tuned out the media.

To his chagrin, his team played embarrassingly bad the first two quarters, and when halftime rolled around, he was livid as he herded them to the locker room. In the midst of pointing out everything the kids had done wrong, Marquan came in and gave them a pep talk. He told them that he was proud of their spirit,
and sportsmanship, and that he expected to see them all playing in the NBA one day. After he pointed out what he noticed that each boy had done right, he opened the door to the locker room and allowed the kids' parents to come inside and take pictures of him posing with their sons.

When the team returned to the floor for the third quarter, they played as if a fire had been lit under them. Oddly, it hadn't been tough talk that got them motivated; it was Marquan's method of pointing out their strengths.

Cruze took notes for future games.

The fourth quarter was close, but Barack came through with an amazing string of three-pointers that put them ahead by five points by the end of the game.

The crowd erupted with a burst of cheers and joyful yells. The boys, grinning from ear-to-ear, high-fived each other.