Sexual Healing (7 page)

• • •

He'd expected to find Lourdes wearing something sheer and sexy . . . or better yet, he'd hoped to find her waiting in bed, butt-ass naked.

But she was fully dressed, sitting at the desk, hunched over her laptop with earphones on, listening to the tape player while her fingers clicked rapidly over the keyboard. Next to the laptop was a chilled glass of wine. She pulled off the earphones and swiveled around and faced him. “Give me a second while I transcribe some of the pertinent info from the interview and send it to my editor. There's beer in the fridge . . . and wine. Help yourself to whatever you'd like,” she said with an offhand gesture.

Then she twirled back around and resumed typing.

Offended, Cruze wondered what this brainiac broad was on. She had to be smoking something if she thought he'd left the bar with all that wet pussy that was potentially primed and ready for a good fucking to come and sit in a room with his hands folded in his lap, while she worked on an assignment.

Oh, hell no. Him, a hotel room, and a piece of ass meant he was getting his dick sucked, sliding up into some guts, or both. He wasn't about to sit around watching some bitch dressed like a church secretary dictate some fucking notes. Nah, this four-eyed broad had him fucked up.

Cruze's jaw twitched. And a slight stirring in his groin made him push out a breath and curse under his breath. He was about
to turn around and walk out the door, but for some unknown reason, his feet led him toward Lourdes. There was something about her nerdy ass that made him want to rip off her clothes and fuck her so deep that she would feel him fucking her soul. The thought sent blasts of heat straight to his balls.

Standing behind her, he reached down and pulled out the hair stick that anchored her locs, and watched as her hair unraveled and fell over her shoulders. When she didn't stop him, he boldly removed her glasses, and then eased off her jacket. He was pleasantly surprised that there was nothing beneath it except a bra.

Cruze grinned, pleased at the sight of the plumpness of her breasts, the lush inner curves rising from the cups of her lace bra. He licked his lips, then hooked his fingertips into both cups of her bra and yanked downward on the fabric, causing her breasts to tumble out. Fully bared, the tips of her dark nipples stiffened, ready for the flick of his thumbs over them.

She let out a little sound of protest, which he silenced by pinching her nipples, causing a moan to escape her lips, before picking up her drink and running the chilled rim along her neck and down to her collarbone.

Lourdes trembled as droplets of condensation ran down her left breast and pooled around her nipple, hardening the flesh. Wanting to gain better access, Cruze spun her chair around. With a pitiless smile on his face, he trailed the cold glass over her other breast, and he watched with interest as that nipple tightened into a beaded knot.

“Unh. Ooh. It's cold,” Lourdes uttered, her eyes closed as she arched her back, welcoming the painfully sweet pleasure slowly tightening around her areola. She gripped the arms of her chair, sinking her nails into the leather. “Oh, God, yesss!”

“You ready for me to heat you up?” Cruze asked in a husky
voice that ignited visible shivers on the surface of her skin.

She nodded briskly.

“Stand up,” he urged, the pupils in his eyes going liquid with lust.

With a stuttered gasp, she complied, standing up and awkwardly extricating herself from her pants, and then hurriedly peeling off her already wet thong. Bared to him, her body suddenly flushed with burning arousal. She gazed in his eyes expectantly, waiting for him to remove his clothes.

But Cruze didn't so much as loosen his tie. This chick had tried to play him like a chump, expecting him to wait around and twiddle his thumbs while she typed up some notes. She was on his time, now, and he'd give her every inch of his hard dick when he was good and damn ready.

“Yo, why you in such a rush.” He dragged his gaze over her body, then licked his bottom lip. “Sometimes I like to just chill and sit back and watch.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Sit back and
watch
what?”

“Watch you make that pussy pop,” he rasped, his voice so thick with lust that it made Lourdes's body shiver. Cruze's big, warm hands reached out and closed over her exposed breasts. He squeezed. Kneaded. Then ran the tips of his fingers across the beaded peaks, causing a slight high-pitched moan to echo from her throat.

Satisfied, he let go of her breasts, then nudged his head toward her bra that he'd pulled down, and that now dangled beneath her breasts. “Get rid of the bra.”

She swallowed, hard. Then reached back and unhooked her bra, letting it float to the floor.

“Good girl. Now finger yourself for me.”

She squirmed uncomfortably. “I don't know if I'm comfortable with that.”

“You shouldn't be embarrassed to play in your pussy. Don't you
want to get it hot and juicy for me?” He ran a hand over the front of his designer pants, bringing her gaze to the growing print beneath the fabric. “Let me see how wet you can get that pussy, and, tonight, this dick is all yours. All night.”

Lourdes let out another soft moan. This fine-ass motherfucker had her juices trickling down her thighs already, and he hadn't even touched her there yet.

“C'mon, baby,” he urged in a low, seductive tone. “Show me the inside of that pretty kitty. Open it up for me.”

Swallowing back her inhibitions, she closed her eyes once again and took a deep breath as her hand ventured downward, past her taut stomach, and down to her waxed mound. Delicately, she spread the folds of her labia. Opening herself, she revealed her throbbing clit and the rosy, silken skin that was hidden within.

“Damn, baby,” he muttered. “For a tiny chick, you got a plump pussy.”

Her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and yearning. “I'm . . . uh, I'm ready for you,” she stammered breathily.

“Nah, you're not ready—yet, baby. Your pussy can get a lot juicier than that. Stick your finger in it and stroke that fat clit.”

She let out a groan, shaking her head. “I don't want—”

Cruze raised a brow. “What? You don't want this dick?”

She shook her head. “No. I mean, yes. I want it. Oh, how I want it.”

Cruze smirked. “Then you're gonna have to earn it, baby. You got a lot of book smart, but you still have a lot to learn. C'mere ‘n' let me show you something.”

Lourdes took steps toward him and tilted her chin, offering him her lips, which he ignored. Still holding the wineglass, Cruze shoved it between her legs, then rolled the smooth, cold object against her hairless mound.

“Hump on the glass,” he coaxed. “Slide your pussy all over it.”

Her face flushed, but she obeyed the command. “It's cold,” she complained as her body defied what she was thinking in her head—
hell, no!
—and she slowly grinded her quivering sex against the wineglass.

“Yeah, I bet it is cold. But it was also cold for you to invite me up here and then blow me off the way you did, fronting like you didn't ask me to come up here and get some of that sweet pussy.”

She looked up at him sheepishly. “I wasn't trying to blow you off. It's just that—”

“Nah. Save the excuses, baby. You tried to play me. Now tell me you didn't invite me up here so I could fuck the shit out of you.”

Oh, he was so very right. She had extended the invitation for a nightcap of hard fucking. But he frightened and excited her at the same time. She swallowed; every nerve in her body was aflame. She flushed again. It was a guilty flush, but also one that was telling.

“I'm sorry.”

Cruze's lips curled into a sly grin, never dropping his gaze from hers. “Show me how sorry you are,” he said, unbuckling his belt. “If your head game is tight, I'll warm that ass up for you.”

“It's uh, it's tight,” Lourdes assured him, looking both embarrassed and turned on at being treated like a slut.

“Word? Then get on your knees and let me test them skills.”

With quivering hands, she helped him with his fly. She groped inside his briefs and caressed his thick erection before wrangling out the heavy club of pulsing flesh. All she could do was stare at his enormous dick, her breath held in anticipation. Her mouth watered for a taste of him.

“Oh, God, I want you,” she murmured deeply as she sank to her knees and kissed the head, and then took him inside her mouth. She moaned as she felt his dick throbbing against her tongue. She cradled his heavy balls in her palm, sucking him deeply as she
swirled her tongue. When she deepened the long, tight, suckling strokes, Cruze's breath came out in rasping pants. Hunched over, he gripped her shoulders, squeezing, and pressing his fingers into her skin.

Lourdes slid a hand in between her legs and began stimulating her clit in a slow, circular motion, sliding her fingers every so often over the slit of her pussy. Her mouth got wetter as Cruze's hot sighs wafted down over her, and his dick slid smoothly in and out of her mouth, the weight of his shaft gliding over her tongue. She slid two fingers into her aching cunt, then sucked him fiercely, greedily, like some feral animal, sucking him wild and sloppily. Soon Cruze began to fuck her mouth and she moaned frantically around his thick length, rocking her pelvis madly against her hand.

“Oh, shit,” he growled out as jet streams of salty cum spurted into her mouth.

Lourdes swallowed and wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looked up and met his gaze, Cruze jerked his head toward the bed and loosened his tie. “You know what it is . . . face down, ass up, baby.”

Seven

A
heart attack . . .

Arabia still couldn't believe it. Even as the plane hit the tarmac, even as she drove herself to the graveyard, even as she slid out of her BMW rental, she'd still had trouble believing it—she didn't
want
to believe it.

She'd killed him.

Sucked the life right out of him.

And now Theodore was dead.

To think she'd been the cause of his heart stopping. Well, maybe not
the
cause. But she'd surely been a contributing factor. Why hadn't he told her he had a heart condition? If he had, she might not have swallowed his cock so mercilessly. She might have been a more thoughtful cocksucker taking whatever medical condition he had into consideration as she sucked him down into her throat.

But he hadn't told her.

And now he was taking a permanent dirt nap.
Snap
—just like that; he was
dead
. When he'd collapsed, she'd smirked—silently boasting on her oral skills, honestly thinking it was her wet, juicy jaws and masterful tongue game that had caused him to topple over and hit the floor. She'd kept sucking him until his nut had stopped spurting, hitting the back of her throat.

Oh how scandalous it had been for her to have to dial 9-1-1, and, then, for the paramedics to arrive on the scene to find her with her
lipstick smeared and her lips still swollen from lust, and her sweet Teddy sprawled out on the carpeted floor with his sticky dick dribbling the slightest trace of cum from its slit, his lounge pants and underwear still draped around his ankles.

Oh what a dirty sight.

She'd been too distraught, too shocked, to—at least—fluff her hair and apply a fresh coat of lipstick to her greedy, dick-sucking lips.

The two male paramedics who'd arrived had grinned and eyed her lustfully as she recounted the events leading up to him collapsing. Before they'd entered the penthouse, she had wanted desperately to at least pull his pants up, to hide her dirty deed. But she was afraid it would appear . . . well, suspicious. So she'd left him there on the floor half-naked, his cock stained with her scarlet-red lipstick.

Oh what a harlot she was.

Embarrassed for herself, more so than him—hell, he was dead. God rest his soul—she had to be the one left to do the nasty “Walk of Shame” past the prying eyes of tenants, the police, and the
media
—for God's sake!

Now she had the gall—dressed in her black Versace dress and black gloves with her black clutch tucked under arm—to show her damn face
here
, stepping through fresh-cut grass—in her black seven-inch stilettos, flouncing her ass over toward his gravesite, holding a single red rose in her hand.

Did the heifer have no shame? Did she have no compassion for the grieving widow and his family? Out of courtesy, couldn't she have shown some decency and allowed them their moment of mourning without her trying to smear her sordid affair with the woman's husband in their grief-stricken faces?

Well, the prim and proper Mrs. Banks might have been his wife
and the mother of his children. But the prudish bitch hadn't been giving him any pussy or sucking the skin off his dick. Arabia had been. So she deserved to be there to say her goodbyes. After all, she was, for the last three years, his mistress. And she'd been with him when he'd taken his last breath. So this was where she should be. Besides, she was engaged to the man, for Christ's sake! And she was grieving, too—goddamn it, thank you very much.

So they could all get over it. She'd come to pay her respects, then be on her merry way; back to her life in New York, and the hell out of this Texan heat. The sun's blaring rays were beating down on her, and burning her flesh through all that damn black she'd chosen to wear.

She took a deep breath, then pulled off her oversized sunglasses and sauntered up the red carpet that led to Theodore's casket. There were a bunch of beautiful floral arrangements around his casket. Arabia stepped up and looked inside.

For some reason, she felt a tear slide down her face as she leaned in and kissed his cheek ever so lightly, before laying the lone rose inside his casket.

Instantly, she felt the air around her go still. She felt the hot glares. Heard the hushed tones.

“Oh, no, she didn't.”

“Who is that?”

“What is
she
doing here?”

Just as Arabia stepped back and turned on her heel to leave, she stood face-to-face with
her
. His wife.

Eyes ablaze with rage, the woman stood there and glared at her. Then dropped her icy stare at the Tiffany diamond on her ring finger. So
this
was whom her husband had found comfort and companionship in, this much younger, much more beautiful
whore
. She was sure the bitch had to be doing circus tricks with her tongue
in order for Theodore to drape her in exquisite jewels. She reeked of hot sex and raw sensuality.

Her nose flared. She wanted to hate
this
hot-pussy bitch, wanted to claw her face and draw blood, but she couldn't. She was everything she once was. Alluring. Mesmerizing. And she had breasts and ass and a tiny waist to die for.

Sure, she'd known all about her husband's affairs, especially this one. It was her right, her duty, to know the goings-on with her husband, including who he was
fucking
and putting rings on. So she'd kept close tabs over the years.

All the others before Arabia had been flings. Quick fucks. But there was something about this one here that had opened her husband's nose wide and had him running back and forth to New York to see her every chance he could. He was happier. Not as argumentative. And always more relaxed every time he returned home from his trysts with this, this . . . enchantress.

From the beginning, she'd known
this
one was different from all the others. She had to be in order to keep her husband's interest for as long as she had.

Three fucking years!

Sure she'd allowed her husband's extramarital affairs as long as he respected her, and their marriage, by not flaunting his whores in her face.

And, over the years, he had not.

But he'd fallen in love.

With
this
one. And now the shameless bitch had the goddamn nerve to bring her ass
here
.

“Missus Banks,” Arabia said, reaching for her hand. “I'm so sorry for your—”

Slap!

Arabia blinked, bringing her hand to her face.

“Bitch,”
the grieving wife hissed, her nose flaring. “How dare you
fuck
my husband, then show your face
here!
You filthy
slut!”

Arabia quickly recovered from the shock, and the sting, still holding her face in her hand. “If it's any consolation,” she calmly pushed out. “Teddy didn't suffer. He died with a smile on his face.” She leaned in closer and whispered, “In fact, he collapsed doing what he loved most. Coming inside my—”

The grieving widow spat in Arabia's face, then attacked her, her fingernails raking her face and drawing blood. The last thing Arabia remembered—before the screams, before the fist, before the flowers were tossed about—was Theodore's casket toppling over and his body rolling out. And his distraught wife screaming, “You fucking man-stealing
whore!
I will kill you dead!”

• • •

“Why haven't I heard from you?”

Arabia held her icepack to the side of her face and winced, wondering why she answered the call. All she wanted was a hot bath and a night of quiet. She was physically exhausted, mentally drained . . . and sore from tussling around on the ground with Theodore's wife. She'd broken one of the heels on her thirteen hundred-dollar pumps and her designer dress was ruined, thanks to that bitch. Teddy's sons had to pull the two of them apart and pick their dead father's body up from off the ground. What a mess.

That hurt Arabia to her heart, her and his wife rolling around on the ground, fighting on top of his body. She knew for sure, she would be going to hell if she didn't atone for her transgressions.
I'll go see a priest first thing in the morning, and confess my sins.

In the meantime, she was down a fiancé and needed to decide if she wanted a replacement, or to keep her man count at two—for now. Yeah, that was what she'd do. Just stick with the two she
already had. Juggling three men was slowly becoming more of a challenge than it was worth. And there'd never be another Theodore. So to hell with it, she reasoned in her head.

“Well, hello to you, too, Mother,” she replied sarcastically. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” She glanced at the time. 10:46 p.m. “At
this
time of night?”

Claudia huffed. “I've been calling you for several days now. Why haven't you returned any of my calls?”

Arabia rolled her eyes. “I've been busy.”

“Busy doing
what?”
her mother asked incredulously.

“With work, Mother. And minding
my
business.”

“I beg
your
pardon. It could have been an emergency.”

Arabia twisted her lips. “Well, was it?”

Claudia scoffed. “Well, no. But what if it
had
been?”

“Then I'm sure Maya, Alexis, or Tamara would have been blowing up my phone. And since none of them have, that says to me it wasn't.” Arabia shifted her icepack to her other cheek. “But, anyway, now that we've cleared that up. What is it? Is everything all right? Has Kirk taken ill?” Have you murdered another husband is what she really wanted to ask her mother, but she knew that question wouldn't go over so well. She'd mentioned to her sisters on several occasions over the years that she believed their mother had killed at least two of her husbands for their money.

Her sisters thought her ridiculously silly for even thinking such a horrible thing. “She'd do no such thing!' they'd shouted in her defense. Yeah, okay. Arabia believed otherwise. In her gut, she believed that her mother had targeted those men for their money, then slowly manipulated them into leaving her everything, before killing them.

For all Arabia knew, she might have even murdered her own father.
That
, however, she kept to herself. Her sisters would stamp her certifiably crazy, for sure, if she ever told them that. But she
knew what she'd seen that afternoon she walked into her parents' bedroom suite: Her mother standing at his bed; his IV tube in one hand, a syringe in the other. Ten-year-old Arabia saw her mother pushing something inside her father's tube, then—startled, Claudia dropped her hand, trying to hide the syringe when she saw her standing there wide-eyed, her jaw slack.

Nervously, Claudia shooed her daughter away. “Run along, Arabia. Your father needs his rest.”

“But where's Miss Penny? Miss Penny always gives Daddy his medicines. Not you.”

“She had to go out on an errand. Now go on. Go get ready for your piano lessons. You can visit with your father later.”

Reluctantly, Arabia turned on her patent leather shoes and walked back out the room, not before glancing over her shoulder one last time, and witnessing her mother push whatever else was left in that syringe she'd hid in her hand into her father's tube.

Moments later, she heard Claudia wailing.

Her father was dead.

It hadn't been all in her head. Or had it? No, no, and no. It—

“No. Kirk hasn't taken
ill,”
her mother spat, slicing into her reverie. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Well, let's see. It seems like each of your husbands tend to mysteriously fall to their demise after around the second or third year of marriage. And . . .”

“Arabia Knight! What on heaven's earth are you trying to insinuate here?”

“Oh nothing,” she replied snidely. “I've already said it. I'm simply pointing out an observation.”

Claudia huffed. “Well, I don't appreciate your comments, or you trying to imply that I would have anything to do with any of my dearly departed husbands' deaths.”

Arabia snorted. “Mmph. You said it. I didn't.”

Claudia sucked in a breath. “You are so damn despicable. I've loved each and every one of my husbands. And, Kirk, thank God, is as strong as an ox. And as virile as a twenty-year-old.”

Arabia let out a sarcastic laugh. “Mother, please. Despicable is,
you
. You run through men. You're nothing but a black widow spider, snaring men, then sucking the life out of them, before you run off to your next mark. You've never been with a twenty-year-old to know. The only men you've ever lured into your clutches have been old enough to be your father.”

“Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black, when all you do is play the dumb mistress to men old enough to be
yours
. But that's beside the point. I've heard tales,” she said, feeling herself becoming increasingly irritated by her daughter's indifference toward her.

Arabia feigned a yawn. “Look, Mother, I'm exhausted from my flight.”

“Your flight from where?”

“Texas,” she huffed. “So, unless there's something you need, I'd like to unwind for the night.”

“And why were you in Texas?”

“Mother, I don't care to discuss my travel itinerary with you, because frankly . . . it's none of your business. So how may I help you? Please and thank you.”

“Arabia Pauletta-Ann Knight, don't you dare dismiss me like I'm some common trash from off the streets! I am your mother.” Arabia cringed. She hated her middle name, even though it'd been both of her deceased grandmothers' names combined. And she hated even more every time Claudia declared herself
her
mother as if she were able to ever forget that mishap.