Sexual Healing (37 page)

Epilogue

Fire.

It was all around them. The candles. The fireplace. Flames danced everywhere. They were in the middle of Vermont in a cabin overlooking Lake Morey, snowed in from last night's blizzard. The lake was frozen. Snow and biting subzero temperatures besieged them. But inside they were cozy, surrounded by heat.

Heat from the crackling fire.

Heat from their bone-melting sex.

And they were catching their breaths, heavy-lidded and satiated, shivers of pleasure still wracking their bodies. Now they were stretched out on a white mink rug—naked beneath an expensive fur-like coverlet, basking in the glow of firelight. The heat between them was so palpable that they could both feel the sizzle, hot and electric.

The nearby fire crackled. And Arabia closed her eyes as she nestled deeper in Cruze's arms. So much had happened between them in the last six months. Cruze's nightmares still seized him, but they came less and less. And he was thankful for that.

Ramona . . . she was a major part of his past, but she was now far removed from his future. That part of his life was over.

Cruze continued to dedicate himself to HYPE. After the fiasco with his team being suspended, he'd decided to turn lemons into lemonade. No longer needing to hide from publicity, he called a
press conference. With Bret and Marquan at his side, he appealed to the public to not label the children as young thugs, but to view their actions as a cry for help. They were victims of their environment, but they could be saved from the bleak future that seemed inevitable if the community pooled their resources and helped to increase the programs at the center.

Although the community didn't contribute much, the media exposure gave Cruze a national platform, and the cameras loved him. Three major corporations came forward with funding for the center and Vitaminwater became a sponsor for the team, which helped to change their status from a local team to a travel team that competed statewide.

In addition to continuing his work with the center and maintaining his real estate holdings, Cruze now held corporate board seats with two prestigious companies. He sometimes found it hard to believe that he'd gone from drug-dealer to becoming a suit-and-tie-wearing, briefcase-carrying businessman.

“If my mother could see me now,” he often thought, and then quickly reminded himself that she was always with him in spirit, helping to shine the light on his path that had led him out of the darkness. She was always there, nudging him with gentle whispers, encouraging him to make wiser choices.

And Arabia?

She was officially down to one man in her life. And she was more than happy with that. One man was all she needed. She had to finally get an order of protection against Eric. And she and her mother were still at odds. That would never change between them. She despised her. In her heart, she knew Claudia killed her father. She'd never falter from that belief. The woman was capable of murder, just as she'd been capable—many years ago—of locking Arabia in a dark, windowless room for hours, just as she'd been
capable of calling her
worthless. Whore. Unlovable.
Things she'd never shared with anyone—not even her sisters because they'd never believe her, no matter how close they were. So those horrors she'd kept bottled up inside, her dark secrets possessing her.

But Claudia was wrong. Arabia was worthy. And she was loveable.

She'd always been.

Cruze had proven that.

She was wanted and cherished by him.

And, yes, she still whored—for
him,
the man of her dreams, her dark, dreamy lover. He'd found his way into her heart, and vowed to spend the rest of his life loving her, protecting her, and—of course—fucking her whenever, wherever, she wanted him.

“I'm all yours, this dick is all yours,” he'd told her. No,
promised
her. And, with everything in her, she'd believed him as he'd caught her wrist and dragged her hand to his hard dick. Then he'd pulled her hand away and brought it up to his chest and pressed it flat over his beating heart. “My heart is yours, baby.”

She'd lost it. And together they'd cried tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of regret, tears of loss, tears of forgiveness, tears full of promise.

That night, they'd clung to each other, vowing to never let go of what they had almost given up, almost lost. Each other.

The weeks that they'd been a part from one another after that horrible shootout had been torturous for her, for him. In the midst of it all, they'd both realized that they were damaged. Flawed. Two tortured souls. But, somehow, still a perfect fit for each other. And that was all either cared about.

Still, she hadn't told him about her past penchant for sex clubs—occasionally. And he hadn't found the words to tell her about everything in his other life, the murders, and the number of bodies by his own hands.

Did it really matter?

It was all in the past. Maybe some secrets were best kept buried, for now. As far as either was concerned, they had a lifetime to uncover untold stories, and share each other's deep, dark secrets. For now, all that mattered was this very moment.

The present.

Arabia inhaled. Breathed Cruze in. She smelled him all around her. His musk. His manliness. His love. His desire.

Heat.

It swept through her in a rushing wave causing her pussy to flutter and clench. She needed him. Wanted him. Craved him.

She slowly opened her eyes, a slow grin unfurling on her face as she extended her hand and admired the five-carat, emerald-cut engagement ring he'd wowed her with. His proposal had both shocked her, and brought her to unrelenting tears.

She'd gotten the man. The ring. And a love of her own.

Maybe happily-ever-after did exist.

She reached over and pinched Cruze's nipple.

“Ow, baby,” he groaned, stretching lazily. “Why'd you do that?”

She rolled onto her side to face him. “I wanted to make sure this—
you
—were real.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. “I'm all real, baby.
This
is all real. Me and you, and that big-ass rock on your hand.”

She grinned. “Isn't it beautiful. I love it almost as much as I love you; maybe, even a little more,” she teased.

He laughed. “Oh word?”

“Maybe.”

“Yeah a'ight. I got your maybe,” he shot back, pulling her into his arms, his dick brushing against her thigh. She grinned happily, like a child. And then his smile matched hers, his dimples deep. God help her—she couldn't get enough of him.

Cruze leaned forward so that his lips brushed her ear. “I'm all
yours, Arabia. And I'm not going anywhere.” His voice was low, sensual—and it was making her wetter than she'd already been. He pulled back so that his gaze was locked on hers, and the desire she saw there matched hers, and almost drowned her.

Many times—in the past, she had thought, could have sworn, she'd seen love glinting in his eyes, but he'd never confirmed it, and she hadn't wanted to assume.

Maybe she'd been imagining it. Maybe she'd seen what she thought she wanted to see at the time. But, tonight, she didn't have to second-guess, or wonder. She knew. He loved her—all of her. And she felt it.

Cruze pressed his lips to her forehead, then ran the tip of his finger down the bridge of her nose and his dimples flashed again. He gazed at her, his eyes glowing with unfettered desire. “You're never getting rid of me, baby.”

Arabia smiled and caressed his jaw. “And I never want to.”

“Good.”

Even though she saw the kiss coming, it still made her heart flutter and her cunt clench with want as his lips brushed hers. A log popped in the fire as Cruze kissed her mouth, sucking on her bottom lip, then nipping at her top lip, before his tongue slid in to taste her and he leisurely explored her mouth, savoring her, wanting more of her.

He groaned into her mouth, lapping at her lips, then sliding his tongue back inside the plush warmth of mouth. Oh God—yes. She was melting, melting, melting. Every part of her was drowning in a pool of desire so deep, so intense, that she felt herself cry out. He literally snatched her breath away, sucking it into his kiss with sensual flicks of his tongue over hers as he slid his fingers through the folds of her pussy. He stroked her walls. She was wet, soaking wet. And it was all for him, all because of him.

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from her body and broke their kiss,
leaving her with an empty ache that made her mewl out with need.

Her gaze flashed wide, then narrowed to burning slits of arousal as he took his fingers and slid them into his mouth, tasting her essence, her passion. The intimate act caused a fresh burst of liquid desire to flood her pussy.

The sight rendered her speechless.

“Mmm
,
baby,” he murmured. “Damn. You taste so sweet.” He kissed her lips again, then trailed his lips down her neck. “Can't wait to taste your pussy.”

Arabia blinked. No, no . . . this wasn't happening. Him. There. His mouth, his lips, his tongue . . .
there
—between her thighs.

He slid down her body, spreading her legs open. Yes, yes—oh sweet God, yes. It was happening. He was trailing down her body, his tongue tracing the contour of her hip, then glazing over her abdomen. Goose bumps rose to the surface of her flesh as soft wet strokes of his warm tongue slid to her navel, dipping inside.

“Oh, Cruze,” she moaned.

His mouth and tongue journeyed lower. And then, right there—oh, yes . . . she felt his heated breaths against her slick folds as he visually drank her in, memorizing her sex, his fingers spreading her swollen lips, so wet and ready.

“Damn . . . so fuckin' beautiful.”

And there went his tongue—against her clit, licking and laving. He'd never gone down on her, ever. Oh how she'd prayed for the day.

Sweet bliss.

He tongued her entrance. He circled her slit, licking and gently sucking, then slid his tongue inward, licking her, tasting her, from the inside out. He ate her. Drank from her. Then licked her all over again.

“I've fucked you many times,” he rasped, looking up at her through a haze of lust. “But now . . .” He licked over her cunt lips, then slid his tongue along her slit.

She gasped, clutching the rug, her body arching to him.

“Tonight,” he murmured huskily, lifting up over her and blanketing her with his body. “I'm gonna make love to you.”

She trembled.
“Mmm.
Yes, yes, yes . . .”

She spread her legs wider, inviting him into the space she'd now reserved for him, and only him. “Take me, Cruze,” she whimpered.
“Please.”

And he did.

Took her like never before. His dick slid ravenously into her body—raw, the width of him devouring her wetness, the length of him claiming her core. He stroked her deep and slow, relishing in the clutch of her silky walls until they were both vibrating with need. The slick sounds of her cunt mingled with her hitched breaths, along with the
pop-pop
of the crackling fire.

Arabia moaned, her entire body tightening around him.

“Aah, shit,” he muttered. “You feel so good, baby . . .”

A savage blaze burned in his eyes when he looked at her. He loved her. He was
in
love with her. She completed him. Made him want to be loved again, and to love back. She made his heart full, and his soul fuller.

He found all that in her—his future wife, the future mother of his kids.

He moaned, rocking against her, his gaze latched on to hers.

“Mmm, Cruze . . .”

God, hearing his name slip from her lips—
fuck
. Lust pounded at him. She was pulling him in, drawing him closer to orgasm.

Her cunt clutched him. “I love you,” she whispered, tears slowly rolling out of her eyes. “I love, I love, I love you,” she murmured repeatedly over and over.

“I love you, too,” he rasped, his dick slowly, rhythmically, sloshing in and out of her warm juices. They were both almost there. Nearing nirvana.

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, his voice above a whisper. And then his mouth was back on her hers again, making love to her mouth, kissing her, teasing her, tasting every part of her tongue, snatching her breath again, then giving her his. Languorous. Sweet. Their breaths slowly became one.

She rocked.

He pushed.

She moaned.

He groaned.

The air around them exploded in heat, in passion, in raw hunger. A mass of erotic tension gathered, like a brewing storm, building, building. Desire and lust overwhelming, every stroke brought them closer to a sexual healing neither knew, or imagined, existed.

She was full . . . of love, of dick, of him.

Slick.

Hot.

He pumped slowly, lazily, into her cunt, the head of his dick brushing over her G-spot, then nudging her womb. Oh God, oh God, ohhhhh-fucking God! She tightened and swelled. Then arched up to him—sobbing as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders and stroked his sweat-slick back, caressing the hard muscles as he filled her soul with everything he was, with everything he'd ever be.

“I love you, baby,” he growled low, his words vibrating over her skin, before his lips met hers and they sank into an endless kiss.

And then he came, spilling his love inside her body, bathing her pussy with his seed, flooding her with his hopes and dreams . . . and deepest desires.

He, too, had finally found a love of his own.

I
F YOU ENJOYED
"S
EXUAL
H
EALING
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BY
A
LLISON
H
OBBS

A
VAILABLE FROM
S
TREBOR
B
OOKS

CHAPTER 1

M
averick and I were not ready to become parents. But after ten years of marriage, the pressure was on us, not only from our families, but also from the media and our fans.

While Maverick was in Los Angeles filming a Lexus commercial, I had the task of interviewing potential candidates that the surrogacy agency considered good matches for us. We'd both agree on the final candidate, but I wanted to get the ball rolling and at least start vetting the women.

There was no medical reason that prevented me from carrying a baby full term; I simply didn't want to put my body through that kind of trauma. Also, my husband and I were still building our brand and there was no way for me to fit a pregnancy into my hectic schedule.

God forbid if I suffered a bout of morning sickness and vomited while tasting some of the disgusting food the contestants prepared on
Cookin' with Cori
, my food-based reality show.

Unlike other celebrities, I decided not to fake my pregnancy by wearing prosthetics. I was going to be fully transparent, documenting and sharing my journey every step of the way.

If the blogosphere exploded with accusations that I was buying my way out of morning sickness, labor pains, stretch marks, hanging boobs, and postpartum depression, then they were right. Why should I suffer through any of the inconveniences of pregnancy when I didn't have to?

There would be controversy over our decision, but I was certain my husband and I would stand together, hand-in-hand, and face the critics. We'd argue that Maverick's career wouldn't have to be interrupted by a pregnancy, so why should mine? People could say and think what they wanted, but I felt it was empowering for a woman to keep her career intact—like a man—and still bring a child into the world.

Though the haters would probably say: Cori Brown is so selfish! So shallow! So unwomanly! I had so much influence over women in the age range of twenty-one through forty, I was certain that many out them would agree with me and come to my defense.

Nonetheless, controversy sold and I was looking forward to all the free publicity my husband and I would receive once the news got out that we were using a surrogate and were proud of it!

The media had dubbed us, “Mavcor,” a blending of our first names, Maverick and Cori. Maverick earned the lion's share of our income, but I was no slouch. Though we were already worth tens of millions, our goal was to become billionaires. The way things were going, it was entirely possible that we'd reach that goal within the next five years.

Maverick Brown and I had been inseparable since college when he was the star quarterback of the school's football team, and I was his devoted girlfriend who'd won her way to his heart with superb cooking skills.

Maverick received the Heisman Trophy and of course, various NFL teams were pursuing him. I wasn't about to let him leave me behind, and so I persuaded him to marry me a few weeks before graduation. Although I would have preferred a big, dream wedding, I agreed to a simple ceremony before he ran off to training camp. Unfortunately, his newly hired agent butted in our business and convinced Maverick to hit me with a prenup. It was the worst prenup in history with nothing in it that benefited me, but I signed it, anyway. I had to if I wanted to marry Maverick Brown. From the day I signed that horrible prenuptial agreement, I made a decision that Maverick and I would be permanently joined at the hip. No separation, ever. And absolutely no divorce. We were going to stay together, forever—no matter what it took.

Before being sidelined by a knee injury, Maverick had a stellar nine-year professional football career that included two Super Bowl wins and numerous lucrative endorsement deals. With Maverick's money, I opened a soul food restaurant in Harlem called Bay Leaf, made it a success, and then made a hefty profit by selling it. The rest of my story became history: three bestselling cookbooks and a series of instructional DVDs. I also had my own reality TV show where I whipped up Southern cuisine while blindfolded contestants, who were not told any of the ingredients, had to rely on their palates and sense of smell to duplicate the dish I'd prepared.

The contestants on my show were mainly untalented assholes with huge egos, but their obnoxious personalities combined with my sassiness, killer wardrobe, sexy apron, and stilettos had helped make my show a smashing success during the first season. I was set to begin taping season two in a few days.

Back in the early years of our relationship, I used to keep Maverick happy with the soul food recipes passed down by my grandmother, Eula Mae Barber, a former madam from back in the forties. After her brothel was shuttered, she opened a restaurant and a hotel and was able to earn a good living. Though she was considered successful, she didn't want her twin daughters to ever have to hustle the way she had, and she sent them off to college to find good husbands—preferably doctors. Grandma Eula Mae had a thing about doctors. Even before she became senile, she spoke of doctors as if they were gods and the only men worth marrying.

She was sorely disappointed when both her girls became college professors and married businessmen. She was even more disappointed when they put their careers first, allowing their marriages to crumble.

Out of all of Eula Mae's descendants, I was the only one who had an interest in cooking. I was the only one in the family who was interested in braising short ribs or frying catfish to perfection. For me, standing next to Grandma Eula Mae while she eyeballed the measurements for banana-blueberry pancakes was fascinating, like watching a scientist at work. Everyone else sat at the table and gobbled up her food, but couldn't care less about the masterful skill it took to prepare the meal. While my cousins ran out of the house, holding their noses and complaining about the stench of chitterlings, I had my hands immersed in water, helping my grandmother clean those pig guts.

I was raised on soul food, but rarely touched the stuff, anymore. Maverick and I were extremely picky about what we put into our bodies. We practiced a healthy lifestyle, and neither of us would dream of stuffing ourselves with the high-fat food that had made me famous. But we didn't share that information with the public.

With maturity, my husband had become even more smoking hot than he'd been back in college. At age thirty-three, Maverick Brown was increasingly sought after to promote not only the usual sports gear and custom brews but also luxuries that most viewers could only imagine. Currently an analyst for a major sports network, Maverick was in negotiations for his own Sunday evening show.

Recently, a Hollywood casting director had offered him a juicy role in an action movie. That deal hadn't been finalized yet, but it was only a matter of time before my hubby was showing off his ripped body on the big screen.

We were indeed a power couple, living our dream, and the idea of me slowing down for a pregnancy was unthinkable.