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Roselle finished off his drink. “Man, what my wife doesn’t know won’t hurt her. What you think they’re over there doing on the other side of the island, crocheting?”
“Probably talking shit about us,” Isaiah admitted over a laugh.
“Yeah, that too,” Roselle stated emphatically. “But they’re also over there looking at another muhfucka’s dick, and probably letting him feel all up on her. All in jest.”
“Shit. Then I need to go shake his hand,” Isaiah said. “And then hand him over my marriage license, so he can take over the headaches.”
Kendall laughed. “Both y’all crazy, man. I can’t speak for anyone else’s wife, but . . .” He paused when Aurora returned with their drinks. He waited for her to set them down on their individual tables, and then eyed her as she walked off.
Roselle had since moved on from her, his attention back on the big-assed beauty twirling her hips, watching him watch her.
“I know for a fact Krista isn’t letting another man touch her,” Kendall continued once the young woman was out of earshot. “And she’s damn sure not dick watching.”
Roselle pulled his gaze away from the women dancing and gave Kendall a questioning look. “You sure about that?”
Kendall nodded. “Yup. There’s not a doubt in my mind.” He sipped his beer.
“That’s what’s up, if you have it like that,” Roselle said. “But I know for a fact Brenda’s freaky-ass is licking her lips and talking shit and—”
Kendall gave him an incredulous look. “You’re cool with that?”
“Hell yeah,” Roselle admitted. “She can let him get her all hot ‘n’ bothered and then bring that sweet kitty home so Daddy can beat it up for her.”
Isaiah shook his head. “So you’re cool with your wife cheating on you?”
Roselle frowned. “Hell nah. I’m cool with her flirting. Big difference. My baby’s a big flirt, but she’s definitely not giving up the cookie to any other muhfucka. She’s too in love with this quarter-pounder to play herself like that.”
Roselle took a long swallow of his drink, before standing and facing Isaiah and Kendall. “I’ma tell you cats this—you ready?” He took another large swig from his cup, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Wait for it . . .?”
He belched.
“Man, will you get on with it,” Isaiah said, “or sit ya drunk-ass down. You blocking my view.”
“Fuck a view, bruh. Know this,” Roselle continued, “a wet pussy has no conscience. And neither does a dick when it’s hard and has no one watching it. Now you mofos can sip on that, while I go get me some ass.”
He stripped out of his swimwear and then headed toward the group of dancing women, while Isaiah and Kendall looked on in wide-eyed amazement as Roselle hoisted the object of his desires up over his shoulder and then ran into the ocean with her, leaving his Speedos and his footprints in the sand behind him.
“Damn,” was all either of them could say as they watched Roselle whisper something in her ear, and then watch her disappear under the water and Roselle’s head roll back.
Thirteen
“What is love . . . to you?”
Dr. Dangerfield asked the question moments ago, looking over at Isaiah, but the question was meant for LaQuandra. And she still had yet to respond. She was pondering the concept, its abstraction. These days, the word love was elusive to her.
Had she’d been asked the question this time last year, hell seven months ago (when Isaiah was still sharing a bed with her and fucking her down three times a week!), she would have said something goofy like, “Love is dancing naked in the rain.”
Then again, she might have gotten all poetic and said, “Love is the beat of my heart, the nourishment to my soul.” Or she might have said, “Love is tattooed across my lower back centered over a red heart.”
Oh. Wait. Maybe she would say some ridiculously dumb shit like, “Love is running through fire while having multiple orgasms.”
Ironically, her horny pussy was hot and on fire. And she didn’t know how much longer she could go on without the feel of hands slowly roaming her body, while a hard dick was thrusting into her, burning with her, melting into her.
She had yet to explore her secret fantasy of being fucked by a stranger, because, although it was a fantasy, it still felt wrong simply thinking about it.
Passion Island was supposed to be about rekindling the romance in her marriage, to get Isaiah to see his wrongdoings (i.e., fucking that bitch, Cassandra!); that’s what she’d signed up for. Not this extra shit. The focus should not be on her.
It was like this therapist bitch was trying to make her out to be the problem in their marriage, when Isaiah was clearly the one with the problem.
