Sexual Healing (20 page)

Right now.

“Well,
Cruze
. Nice meeting you.”

“Oh, let me walk you out,” Bret offered.

“Oh, no. Please. Stay. I'll be fine. I'll leave the two of you alone . . . to
talk
,” she said pointedly. And with that she was sauntering toward the door, her heart pounding so fast she could feel its beat in the pit of her pussy.

She managed to keep her back straight as she walked, feeling heat searing up the back of her body as Cruze kept his gaze on her, taking in the way her fitted skirt curved over her hips and grazed at her knees. Her plump ass was like two fluffy biscuits he found himself wanting to bite into. He swallowed. He wasn't one ever at a loss for words, but he found himself standing here frozen as a hot coil of desire twisted through him, making his balls ache.

Bret cleared his throat again, shooting another scathing look over at Cruze. Then this time, he mouthed through clenched teeth, “Fix this shit.
Now.”

Cruze gave him a knowing glance, then turned to catch her. But she was already gone, melted away from his view. He stepped out into the hallway and, as he came up behind her, he said, “Yo,
Arabia.”

A shiver raced up her spine as she peeked over her shoulder, her brown eyes glinting surprise. She stopped and looked up at him through long-lashed eyes as he approached her. He was right in front of her, so close she could feel the air between them thicken. The hunger on his face was unmistakable, and Arabia's breath caught in her chest.

“Yes?” she coolly replied.

“Forgive my forwardness. But have dinner with me tonight.”

She tried to control her breathing. She stepped back from him, her back practically brushing against the bar of the huge glass door.

If he noticed her reaction, he didn't let on. She tilted her head, and he could see that she was toying with the idea. “And why would I do that?”

Cruze stepped in closer, closing the distance between them, making sure she saw the heat brimming in his eyes.

“It's simple,” he said smoothly. “I'm all you've been thinking about.” It wasn't a question. It was an assertion. He could smell her heated juices wafting from beneath her skirt, her sweet cunt taunting his senses.

Arabia blinked. This was utterly ridiculous lusting over a man this way. His gaze made fire pulse through her veins. But she had no damn intentions of giving him the satisfaction of knowing that. And—before she could open her mouth to deny the yearning between her legs, his mouth curved, revealing those delicious dimples.

“And you're delusional,” she said, her gaze fixed on his.

He laughed. “So is that a yes?”

“Mr. Fontaine,” she said as she pushed back on the door's handle. “It's a ‘you're not ready for a woman like me.' Have a good day.”

And leaving that little bit of mystery dangling between the two of them, she stepped out into the sun; her smile slow and easy and full of heated challenge.

Twenty-One

T
his chocolaty motherfucker sitting in front of her was an egotistical asshole, a smug son-of-a-bitch.
Sexy bastard!
It was evident in the way he spoke, the way he carried himself—his confidence bordering dangerously close to arrogance—that he was the kind of man who was used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted. She was sure
no
wasn't a word in his vocabulary. And clearly he wasn't the kind of man who had to look far for pussy. He was probably used to women falling for his
GQ
looks, that deep-dimpled smile of his, and his never-ending charm. Hell, she mused, he probably had a slew of wet-pussy hoes catcalling and mewling outside his door, trying to claw their way into his sheets.

So why the hell had she accepted his invitation to dinner?

Well . . . because deep down—even if she hadn't wanted to admit it, yet—she wanted to be clawing at his bed sheets as well. Hell, she'd hang upside down from a chandelier and do the damn Tootsie Roll if it meant having her cunt stretching and creaming all over his cock one more time. One more time—
yes,
that's all she needed.

That's all she required.

Her stomach tightened.

She wasn't sure why the idea of him giving a string of horny bitches his long, hard dick bothered her. It shouldn't. But it did. It made her envious. And she didn't like it one damn bit.

So Arabia reached for her drink, then sipped and eyed him from out of the corner of her eye. She licked moisture from her lips as she set her drink back on the table.

She'd opted for a seat next to him, instead of across from him because, at the time, she didn't think she'd have enough strength to get through a full meal having to look him in those dreamy eyes without creaming in her panties.

But—
holy hell
—sitting next to him was far worse than she imagined had she'd chosen to sit across from him. Breathing him in was too intense, too intoxicating, too dizzying. And it made it difficult for her to think straight.

This kind of shit never happened to her. Not Arabia Knight. Not the sultry queen of seduction. But this man . . . this tall, dark, and goddamn deliciously sinful hunk of man did something to her that she couldn't quite put into words—not yet at least.

And—
no
, she didn't like it one damn bit.

Cruze hid a smirk behind his napkin as he dabbed at his mouth. He had been eyeing her from his periphery since they'd arrived for dinner. She hadn't wanted to sit across from him, but to the right of him instead. He'd found it odd, but okay—whatever. Several times, she slid her pretty pink tongue over her top lip, then pulled her bottom lip in. She twirled a strand of her hair, and shifted in her seat. He didn't know why he found the simple act sexy, but he did.

And several times he had to discreetly slide a hand down into his lap and press the heel of his palm against his hard dick. Fuck dinner. Why hadn't he asked her for a night of fucking in the backseat of his whip instead?

His throbbing dick would have thanked him for it.

Arabia reached for her glass again, and took a long sip of her wine, before shifting in her seat to angle her body so that she was almost facing him.

Was she nervous?

Did
he
make her nervous?

Nah. Not after the way she threw that pussy at him. There was no way in hell she was uneasy about shit. So Cruze shook the notion from his head. Still, he couldn't believe that
she
was
here
in the flesh. The freaky broad who'd consumed his fantasies for the last few weeks. He wasn't pussy whipped by any means. Yet, here he was sitting beside this broad, lust simmering in his eyes, with a hard-ass dick. Eyeing her made his balls flood with need.

He pressed his legs together.
What the fuck is going on here?
He hadn't asked her out to fuck—well, maybe he did, but that was beside the point. The point was, if she offered him some pussy, he'd gladly beat her guts up again—no questions asked. Then send her stuck-up ass on her way.

Shit.

Who was he fooling?

What was supposed to satiate his sexual appetite that night had only made him hungrier; he wanted more. He wanted her to suck his dick, use a lot of spit. Then bend over and let him lose himself inside her heat again. Without words, she had spoken to a part of his soul that night. Had gripped and begged and clutched and opened to him like no other woman, which is why he wanted to have dinner with her tonight. He needed to get a handle on who this broad was. And figure out what was it about her that had him ready to fuck the shit out of her again, repeatedly and in excess.

He sighed inwardly as his cock thickened.

Shit.

“What is it about this broad?” he asked himself again.

Yeah, okay. There was definitely lust; lots of hot, greedy need. The throbbing in his loins was proof of that. Still, he was a man in control. Always. Of everything. And, yet, here he was feeling his restraint slowly slipping out of his grasp, wanting to give into
his hard dick, and his sexual urges, like he'd almost done earlier in his office with Tanji.

Fuck.

It was bad enough that memories of he and Arabia's nasty encounter in the club was still playing inside his head as they ate. In his mind he kept seeing the sway of her hips, her smooth milk-chocolate thighs, that juicy ass and . . .

That
lil' red dress!

He kept hearing her screaming with abandon over the sound of the music, the bass pouring out of the club's speakers, vibrating through their bodies as her cunt clutched him.

He kept feeling his dick buried inside her—and how tight and hot and wet her pussy had been while he'd fucked her, while they both plummeted over the edge. He'd fucked her hard. And she'd fucked him back harder. He'd fucked her fast. And she'd fucked him back faster. Wetly. Greedily. And they'd done this on a dance floor, surrounded by partygoers who had been none the wiser.

He groaned inwardly.

Everything about that night was etched in his brain. He'd done some wild shit in his life. But fucking a broad on a dance floor?

Nah, that was the first.
She
was the first.

She was bold. Nasty. And goddamn sexy as fuck!

Inadvertently, he licked his lips.

And Arabia almost swallowed her tongue watching the reddish tip of his tongue sexily glide over his top lip. A hot ache grew inside her as she imagined his tongue sliding over her pussy. She quickly cleared her throat, and shook the imagery from her mind. She had to get ahold of herself.

“So tell me, Mr. Fontaine,” she decided to ask, pushing her half-eaten plate back and slicing into his salacious thoughts. “Do you make it a habit of screwing random women in your office?” she bluntly asked, surprised that she'd gone there with him.

The corners of Cruze's mouth quirked into a half-smile.

He raised his brow and eyed her, his left dimple flashing ever so sexy. “Well, Ms. Knight, how 'bout
you
tell me. Do
you
make it a habit of letting muhfuckas you don't know fuck you in dance clubs?” he countered coolly.

Oops. She hadn't expected that.

Touché.

Arabia smiled indulgently at him, matching his stare with one of her own, a glint of mischief in her eyes as she leaned into him. “Mr. Cruze Fontaine,” she said huskily. “I
fuck
who I want. When I want. Where I want. And I
fucked
you because my pussy told me to.”

Well damn.

Surprisingly turned on by her candor, Cruze laughed—not that he found her
funny
, but she was refreshing. And it was the first time in a long time that a woman had actually made him laugh; one that didn't feel forced. And, shockingly, he felt . . .
relaxed
. So relaxed in fact that he'd turned off his cell—something he never did.

For several long seconds, Cruze studied her, and everything about her was threatening to make him unravel. And he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. But, God, if he didn't want to fuck her pretty little mouth. He wanted to fuck it hard, so hard that his heavy balls would slap her chin. He'd fuck her so hard until he fucked all of her teeth loose. And then he'd keep fucking that sweet mouth until her gums went raw.

Shit.

That stunt Tanji had tried to pull down at the center earlier in the day still had him feeling some type of way. Disgusted; yet, still very horny for some wet head.

“Oh, word?” he said, rubbing his chin. “And what is that sweet kitty telling you to do now?”

A slow, flirty smile eased over Arabia's lips. “Right now it's warning me to seal up the gates, and flee for the hills.”

Cruze couldn't help but laugh again, reaching for his drink. “Yeah, a'ight. That's what your mouth says,” he teased back. “But I bet your body is saying something else.” He licked his lips, then took a sip of his cognac. The rich, bold elixir warmed his chest. All he needed now was a blunt and some pussy, and his night would be complete.

Arabia shifted in her chair, pressing her legs shut. Could he smell her arousal? Could he feel the heated need radiating from her skin?

God, what a horny whore she was.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway,” she continued, choosing to ignore his last remark. “I bet you were a momma's boy growing up.” That came from out of nowhere, causing Cruze to cringe inwardly.

Growing up, he despised being called
that
. A momma's boy; even if he had been one. His friends would tease him because his mother kept such a tight leash on him, doing what she could to keep him close to home—where she could keep an eye on him. And he'd end up getting into fistfights with his peers over them calling him
that
.

He scowled. “Why you say that?”

She shrugged. “I don't know; just a feeling. Are the two of you close?”

Cruze shifted in his seat. A faraway gaze entered his eyes when he looked at Arabia, and she'd noticed it the minute she asked the question.

“Nah,” he offered. “Not anymore.”

Arabia gave him a questioning look.

And before he knew it, he told her, “She's dead. She died from cancer.”

Arabia gasped, more startled by the ache in her chest than the news of his mother's death. She'd heard it in his voice, pain. And
she wanted to comfort him. What the hell? “Oh, no. I'm so sorry,” she said in a soothing tone that made Cruze's body relax some. “How old were you when she died?”

“Thirteen.”

“What about your father?” she asked, genuinely interested in knowing more. “Are you close with him? Do you have any siblings or are you the only child?”

Cruze's body stiffened. And coldness crept into his gaze. See, now this broad was starting to do the most. Give a bitch an inch and she started wanting to write your whole damn biography.
What the fuck?
He had already told her more than he'd expected. He didn't really like talking about his personal life. It was private. Shit he kept locked in a tiny box in the back of his brain and in the bottom of his heart. Shit that wasn't any of her damn nosey-ass business, or anyone else's.

And this was why he didn't take bitches out. They asked too many damn questions. But
he
had asked her out. And there was something about the way she was looking at him—all wide-eyed and curious and . . . interested—that made him slightly uncomfortable.

Damn, muhfucka, relax. She's only tryna make conversation. Not investigate ya ass or set ya paranoid ass up. That's what muhfuckas do on a date, nigga. They talk. Have conversation.

Cruze leaned back in his chair, and blew out a sigh. “Nah. I'm an only child.”

Arabia cocked her head to the side, studying him, a question in her eyes the moment he caught her gaze. The fact that he hadn't said anything about his father didn't go unnoticed, and she took that as her cue to leave it alone. She'd leave whatever deep, dark secrets he had for someone else to uncover.

“A'ight, so enough about me, Ms. Arabia Knight,” Cruze said. “Your turn.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Well, what would you like to know?”

“Are you the only child?”

She shook her head. “No. I have three sisters. They're all married with children. I'm the youngest.”

Cruze nodded. “Oh, a'ight. So you don't have a man?”

“No,” she said. Well,
technically
, she didn't have one—not one of her own, anyway. She had someone else's. But that bit of news wasn't anything for him to know. “And I'm not looking for one,” she added a beat later.

Cruze smirked. Broads stayed talking that “I'm not looking for a man shit” until they got the dick-down, then they were begging to get wifed up.

“Oh a'ight,” he said. “I heard that. So what's good with your parents? They still alive?” Her gaze went beyond his for a moment before she allowed it to flit back to his face.

“My dad died . . .”—
more like was murdered
—“when I was ten.”

“Damn. Sorry to hear that.”

Arabia smiled faintly. “Thanks.” She took a breath and shook her head. “It crushed me when he passed,” she said solemnly. She rarely ever spoke about her father, or his death. And suddenly out of nowhere, she felt tears glittering her eyes, and felt herself getting choked up. She reached for her wineglass and took a deep swallow.

“So you were a Daddy's girl, I bet,” Cruze said.

Arabia nodded and smiled at the thought. “Yeah, I was. My father doted on me. He loved me to the core. And spoiled me rotten. My sisters always said I was his favorite.” She smiled, remembering. “Whenever he looked at me, he made me feel as if I were the most beautiful girl in the world. I felt loved by him. I was special. And he made me feel it. Every waking moment.” She took her linen napkin and dabbed along the corner of her eye where a damp trail of tears had formed. “Ooh, forgive me,” she muttered. “I don't like to talk about it.”