Sexual Healing (26 page)

Let her go, let her stay? Fuck her six ways to Sunday, or send her on her way?

Fuck it. The more he tried to suppress it, the more acutely aware he became of its presence, filling the air around them.

The heat.

The sexual chemistry.

“Yo, fuck all that,” he said, low and husky, giving into to his animalistic need. He slung the pillow he'd had his hard dick pressed under off his lap, then pulled back the comforter. “Come back to bed.”

Arabia blinked. Tilted her head. Then feigned indignation. “And why exactly would I want to do that after the way you tried to manhandle me?”

He reached over and extinguished what was left of his blunt in the ashtray, then climbed out of bed and stalked over to her, his dick hard and thick. “When I manhandle you, ma, you'll know it. So let's both stop playing this silly-ass game, and get down to what we both know we want.”

Hand on her hip. “And what is it you
think
I want?”

“Some hard dick, and a good
fucking.”
His eyes, the way he looked at her, promised just that.

Arabia's mouth went dry. Her pussy wet. Before she could process what he was doing, he pulled her roughly into his arms, and hurled her against his body. She tried to put her hands up to push him back, to keep him at bay, but as soon as she made contact with his chiseled chest, more heat, more fire, radiated through her entire body.

“Get your—”

The words were cut off with a gasp when Cruze hoisted her up over his shoulder. Stalked back over toward the bed. Then threw her down on it.

Arrogant. Cocky. Big-dicked bastard.

And then . . . mmm . . . oh God . . . the head of his dick was there, hovering ever so lightly over her clit, then sliding over her slit . . . oh, no God . . . yes . . . then nudging at her slick opening.

Every nerve ending in her body jolted, and she gasped again as his gaze burned into her as he said, “Now tell me you don't want this dick.”

Twenty-Seven

S
he hadn't planned on seeing him again. Ever. She'd gotten what she'd wanted from him, so there was no further need to be in his presence again. But, several days later, when Cruze called out of the blue—his deep, sexy voice sliding over her senses
and
her skin, something inside of her tingled and she'd quickly forgotten her proclamation that she was officially staying away from his egotistical ass.

Oh, God, this was bad.
He
was bad.

But how the hell could something so bad feel oh so good?

Everything that looks good and feels good isn't always good for you.

She had to keep reminding herself of that.

Yet, here she sat.

Across from him at Miss Tootsie's in downtown Philly, a South Street multileveled restaurant bar and lounge that was praised for its golden fried chicken and gravy-smothered turkey chops. Neither of which Arabia ate. But she'd ordered the tilapia and a side of mac ‘n' cheese that was flooded with butter and cheese and sinful goodness that she was afraid to eat it all for fear of becoming addicted. In just a few bites, she could already feel the pounds packing on to her hips and clogging her arteries. So she took tiny, dainty bites, then pushed the rest aside.

Cruze looked up from his plate and eyed her. “Is everything a'ight? How's your food?”

She stared down at her plate, realizing that the fish was half-eaten and she honestly had no recollection of eating what was gone.

“It's surprisingly really good,” she said.

“See,” he said. “Told you.”

“Yes, you did. But it's still a bit too rich in cholesterol and calories for my blood.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “What, you watching your waist?”

“My waist, my hips, my ass . . .”

Cruze chuckled. “Well, how about this. You indulge yourself one day, and let me be the one to watch all that”—he leaned to the side, eyeing her hips—“for you. It'll be my pleasure. Because from where I'm sitting, I'm diggin' the view.”

Arabia's cheeks heated, and she blushed. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

He shook his head. “Nah. Only to the ones I like.”

She waved him on. “Uh-huh. And I bet you have a harem of women at your beck and call.”

Cruze laughed. “Nah, nah. I'm not even on it like that.”

She gave him the side-eye, and he laughed again.

“Nah, I'm dead-ass.”

She playfully rolled her eyes at him. “Okay, Mr. Fontaine. Whatever you say.”

He fixed his eyes on her. Damn, she was damn near flawless. “So, what's good with you? Why you single?”

She shifted in her seat, and reached for her drink. “Maybe I haven't found the right one to change that.” Not that she'd been looking for the right
one
. She preferred Mr. Right Now. But sitting across from him, feeling the strong chemistry between them, she wondered if he could be the
one
.

She quickly shook the silly notion from her head. She mentally scolded herself.
Girl, you know damn well this fine motherfucker isn't
your type.

He wasn't old enough.

He wasn't married.

He wasn't refined.

He wasn't . . .

Her mental rambling was cut short when their server came back to their table, flouncing her ass and bouncing her breasts, grinning all up in Cruze's face. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked, staring at Cruze like he was the only one in the room. How dare she ignore her like she was some hot trash?

Rude bitch.

What if she was his woman? She wasn't. But—
shit
—that was besides the point. This
bitch
didn't know that. “No,
you
can't get
him
anything else,” Arabia snapped, not hiding her irritation, giving the trick a hard stare.

The server slowly turned her attention to Arabia, tilting her head. “Then what would you like?” she asked with an attitude of her own.

Oh this tramp must really want me to put this six-inch heel in her forehead.

“I'd like for you to run along,” Arabia said icily. “Come back when you're summoned.”
Because right now, bitch, your tip is looking real slim.
Arabia flashed her a tight smile, then shooed her away from the table. “Please and thank you.”

The server sneered and shot Arabia a dirty look, then stomped off, her ass bouncing and shaking hard and nasty.

Cruze shook his head, and laughed. “Damn, ma. Why you go in on her like that? She was only doing her job.”

“No, she was only being messy. She saw me sitting here with you.”

He flashed his dimples. “What, you jealous?”

She gave him an incredulous look.
“Jealous?
Boy, bye. Hardly. Like I said, she was being obnoxiously rude. And I didn't appreciate it. What if you were my man?”

He grinned. “Do you want me to be?”

Arabia gave him a blank look. “Be what?”

“Your man.”

She swallowed. Suddenly, the room felt smaller, hotter. “You know what I mean. She came over here like you were all she saw. Flirting with you, like I wasn't even sitting here. That's very rude and disrespectful.”

Cruze nodded. “True. But she didn't mean any harm by it.”

She tilted her head and stared at him. Men. “Okay, whatever you say.”

He grinned. “But you still didn't answer the question.”

“What question?” she asked coyly.

“Yeah, a'ight. Don't play.”

“Annnnnnway,” she said, shifting the conversation in a completely different direction. “Is Philly where you're from? You sound like you're from New York somewhere.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I am. Brooklyn.”

Arabia smiled knowingly. “I thought so.”

“And what about you? Where you from?”

She twirled a lock of her hair. “Originally from Jersey. Grew up in Bergen County.”

“Oh, word? Where at?”

“Alpine,” she said blandly.

“Oh, a'ight, a'ight. I see your work,” Cruze said, impressed at hearing the mention of one of America's most expensive ZIP codes. “That's nothing but money out there. Your peoples must have some long paper to afford living out there.”

Arabia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn't like anyone knowing she'd lived a privileged life. They automatically assumed she was spoiled. Stuck-up.

Well, okay—she
was
spoiled. Still . . .

She shrugged. “I guess. I spent most of my school years at boarding schools.”

“Damn. How was that?”

“Lonely,” she wanted to say, but she settled for, “Different.”

Two years after her father . . . died, she was shipped off to a school in Switzerland. Her mother had wanted her out of her hair once she'd remarried. Claimed she was sending her thousands of miles away to help broaden her horizons. The bitch was a liar. She'd shipped her across the Atlantic Ocean because she
hated
her. Period. Two years later, she was
allowed
to attend the Emma Willard School—an all-girls' private school in Troy, New York. Had it not been for her sisters begging their mother to bring Arabia back to the States, she'd have spent her entire time over in Europe isolated from her family.

Cruze regarded her thoughtfully. “And you went to college?”

Arabia nodded. “Yeah, Spelman. All of my sisters did, as did my mother, and grandmother. So . . .”

“It was your legacy,” Cruze said.

“More like a curse,” she muttered. Cruze gave her a questioning look, so she reluctantly went on. “It was hell having to stand in the shadows of my sisters, and be held to standards that only my mother got to approve of.” She blew out a long breath. “I was expected to be a certain way. Pledge a certain sorority. Be groomed for the perfect mate.”

“Damn. I can't imagine having that kind of pressure on me.”

“I rebelled.” She laughed. “I'm the black sheep of the family. The wild child.”

He laughed. “I like you wild.”

Arabia swallowed. “So how many baby mommas do you have?” she blurted out. It was a random question, one that felt more like an assumption, but she wanted the attention off of her.

Cruze scowled at her.
“What?
What makes you think I have
one;
let alone—multiple?”

Her eyebrows rose in curiosity, in question. “Do you?”

He shook his head. She was officially a fucking wet-dream killer. Ignorant-ass broads like her pissed him off assuming every young, black man was out in the streets slinging raw dick, making a bunch of babies. Yeah, he'd been reckless in his life over the years, and dumped his nut in his share of wet holes. But he wasn't looking for a baby momma, let alone multiple. He felt like checking her dumb ass. He decided to let her think whatever the fuck she wanted instead. He cleared his throat, and a silence stretched between them as he reached for the linen napkin in his lap and wiped his mouth, before he asked a question of his own: “How many baby daddies do
you
have?”

Arabia made a face. “Excuse
you?”

He smirked. “You heard me. Since you're asking me how many BMs I have—straight up assuming I have kids to begin with, I asked you how many cats you've let seed you?”

She blinked.
Seed me? What the hell?
“I'll have you know,” she said, indignation lacing her tone. “I don't get seeded, breeded, or anything else by a man. I'm allergic to raw sex.”

He looked at her as if amused by her response. “So I take that to mean, you don't have a bunch of baby daddies?”

She shook her head. “Absolutely not.” He smiled, and Arabia found herself helpless to stop from staring at his dimples. Damn him. “I don't do babies or baby daddies.”

His eyebrow went up. “Oh, okay. Yet
you
assumed I would have multiple kids by a bunch of different women.”

She swallowed, feeling regretfully silly for how she'd posed the question. “I apologize for assuming,” she said earnestly. “I should have simply asked if you had any children.”

He cocked his head to the side. Satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. “Yeah, you should have. But you're forgiven. This time.” A slow smile worked over his mouth as he reached for his knife and fork, and said nothing more on the matter.

End of discussion.

Arabia shifted in her seat again. Then tilted her head to the side, and eyed him as he cut into his fried chicken breast. Oh how she wanted to reach over and slap his damn face. And yet there was an aura of mystery surrounding him that made her skin tingle with curiosity.

In that moment, she let out a breath—one she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

The rest of the evening, they finished their dinner making small talk, mostly talking about HYPE and how much he enjoyed working with the kids there, especially now that he was one of the basketball coaches there.

Arabia smiled. “That's great. Sounds like you really enjoy what you do.”

Cruze nodded, and grinned. “Yeah, I definitely do. It's like those young cats give me a renewed sense of purpose. Many of them remind me of myself when I was their ages.”

Arabia nodded. “So you played basketball in college?”

Cruze shifted in his seat. “Nah.” He paused a moment, still staring intently in her eyes. “College wasn't a part of my life plan.”

“Oh. Well, it looks like you've done well for yourself regardless.”

Cruze smiled. “No doubt. Thanks.”

“How old are you?” she wanted to know.

“Twenty-eight. And you?”

Arabia feigned insult. “Don't you know it's impolite to ask a woman her age?”

Cruze smirked. “Nah. I didn't know that.” He shrugged. “So, what, you're like thirty?”

Arabia playfully rolled her eyes. “I'm thirty-two.”

“Oh, a'ight. A cougar,” he teased.

She laughed, feeling her skin heat.

Ooh, this man was dangerous.

And she'd eat him alive.