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Nairobia had exhausted precious breath trying to coax the sexual sloth (what she called men and women who were uninspiring and uncreative in the sheets) into something a bit more revealing. But Krista had been insistent. She wanted the pantsuit. But she’d begrudgingly agreed to ditch the blouse and wear a red bustier in place of it—a first for her. And now she was standing here uncomfortable, feeling exposed and sinful.
This whole island was nothing but the devil’s playground.
All this red, all this sexual music, all this naked flesh, all this—
Dr. Dangerfield nearly dropped to her knees and cried out to the heavens when she spotted Krista. She stared on instead.
“Krissy is,” LaQuandra whispered in back of Brenda, “dressed like she’s on her way to a J.C. Penney catalog photo shoot.”
Brenda shushed her, biting back a laugh. Poor Krista. The suit was cute. But it didn’t scream, take me! If anything, it cried, free Willy!
Roselle and Isaiah and Kendall latched their gazes on Nairobia.
“Goddamn,” Isaiah hissed, admiring his wet dream.
Nairobia seductively sauntered down the catwalk-like ramp, pressing a perfectly manicured hand over her earpiece. “Good evening, my loves,” she said, addressing the three men, “I give you your wives,”—she spread open her arms—“Brenda, LaQuandra, and Krista. And tonight they will seduce you, not in deeds, my darlings, but with words. So sit back and prepare yourself for a night of dirty talk . . .”
Kendall’s eyes widened, surprise registering over his face. Krista and dirty talk just didn’t fit in the same sentence. Oh I gotta see this shit, he thought as he looked on.
Brenda, always ready for a turn-up, shimmied her shoulders, causing her breasts to shake, as she walked.
“Yeah, baby,” Roselle said, a fist pumping in the air. “Do that shit. My baby, sexy as fuck.”
Brenda slid her tongue out of her mouth, and then when she reached Roselle’s chair, she stood in front of him. A hand on her hip, she struck her best seductive pose.
LaQuandra followed suit, two-stepping her non-rhythmic-having ass, down the narrow walkway. Isaiah had to admit, LaQuandra looked good. Maybe it was the lighting, or the way the makeup artist painted her face; either way, he was impressed.
The minute she reached Isaiah, she did as she’d been instructed—the way they’d rehearsed in the back—and stopped, both hands on her hips, legs spread, her thigh peeping out from her split. She tried not to look at Isaiah. But he looked good in all white. Lord, this bastard . . .
And then came Krista, clumsily, making her way toward Kendall in a pair of four-inch heels. They were way too high for her and the strap over her foot was cutting into her skin. Her damn foot was swollen. But she’d push through it, she told herself. Just like she’d push through this ridiculous stage show.
Dirty talk. Mmp. This whole experience was taking her out of her comfort zone.
Kendall smiled at her the second she reached him. He winked at her.
“You look good, baby,” he said.
Krista rolled her eyes, but—in spite of herself, she smiled.
Even Dr. Dangerfield felt her lips curving into a smile of her own as she watched on.
“Now, my darlings,” Nairobia coached. “Lean forward and grab the arms of your husbands’ chairs. Then look him in his eyes . . .”
The three women did, their arms capturing their respective men, boxing them in.
“Now look him in the eyes,” Nairobia said saucily, “and tell him you love him.”
Brenda and Krista repeated the words with ease.
LaQuandra, however, swallowed. She did love Isaiah, but the way he’d been treating her, he didn’t deserve to hear it. He stared at her, smirking.
“You know you love me,” he said cockily.
She rolled her eyes. “Fuck you, Isaiah, okay.”
“Yeah, talk dirty, Quandra,” he said over another smirk.
“Eat my ass,” she snapped.
