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They’d met at Liberty State Park in Jersey City. She’d been there for her church’s thirtieth annual family day picnic. He’d been there, over on the other side of the massive park, for his family’s thirtieth (a sign right there) family reunion. He’d bumped
into her as she was struggling to drag a large cart packed with aluminum pans of food. Kendall had been headed to the parking lot to grab the two bags of ice he’d forgotten in his truck, but he’d stopped and asked Krista if she’d needed some help.
Of course she did.
And, yes, she’d sized him up. He was tall enough. Handsome enough. And he seemed harmful enough. So she accepted his offer.
Forgetting about the melting ice in the backseat of his SUV, Kendall took the handle of her cart from her and pulled it with ease, eyeing Krista out of his peripheral, catching the swell of her breasts hidden beneath her I LIVE & LOVE FOR THE LORD T-shirt and the curve of her hips, that she’d tried to hide under an ankle-length skirt—some farm girl shit that reminded him of something worn on that old-ass television show Little House on The Prairie his grandmother—rest her soul—had loved watching.
Still, Kendall had thought Krista was cute. A bit homely, but underneath her plain-Jane look, he saw her beauty. And he’d told her so, right there at the park, while she’d graciously fixed him a hefty plate of a little bit of this and little bit of that—a thank you gesture for helping her with her cart.
And then he’d boldly asked her for her number—right there in front of Pastor Hurtson, of all people, with his prying, judging eyes taking it all in. However, Krista didn’t dare give out her number to a stranger, no matter how fine said stranger was, or how sexily said stranger’s jeans had hung from his hips—loosely fitted, but still fitted enough to show he was handsomely endowed.
Not that size had mattered. Well, okay, it did matter. Sometimes. Okay, hell, most times. But Krista hadn’t had sex in nearly three months. She’d been on a hundred-and-eighty-day cleanse—a self-imposed detox from hard dick. And, although, she’d secretly been horny, she’d had no intentions of breaking her pledge of celibacy—not until she’d married a God-fearing, church-going man.
But there had been something about the way that Kendall had looked at her when he’d asked for number. He had looked at her. Right at her. With those intense brown eyes, he stared, taking her in, waiting for her response.
And in that moment, she’d felt her inner walls clench—and she knew he was the one she’d been praying for. Even he hadn’t stepped inside of a church in ages.
Still, Krista had done what any good Christian woman would have done while Pastor eyed you like a hawk. She’d coyly taken his instead. And then she had held on to it for months, before curiosity and boredom and a relentless throb between her thighs, along with her sister Latrice’s insistence that she was going to end up being an old maid with a dry-rotted crotch if she didn’t find herself a good man with some good dick to shake the dust loose from her cooch.
So she’d called Kendall. Asked him if he’d like to see her.
Sure he did. An hour later, he’d picked her up and they’d caught that new Denzel Washington movie, the one she’d really hadn’t wanted to see but ended up enjoying after all. And Kendall had been gentlemanly afterward; too damn much so. But she’d liked his calm disposition and quiet strength and the fact that he made her feel special so much that she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Three dates later, Krista had invited Kendall inside her panties.
And he’d fucked her and made her forget all about some silly-ass rule of waiting, holding out on sex until some church pimp swept her off her feet.
No, Kendall, had already done that.
Six months later, he married her.
Yes, yes, yes—God, yes—Krista had a damn good man.
And she loved Kendall for that.
She hadn’t really considered herself an insecure woman, but somehow—she’d found herself questioning herself, questioning her looks, questioning her body.
Was she really enough woman for Kendall after all these years of marriage?
Oh, God. She couldn’t believe she was asking herself that. But she’d caught the way Kendall had gazed at Nairobia last night.
Bitch.
Slut.
Whore.
She’d never caught him before, gazing at another woman. Of course she knew he looked. All men did. But, last night, she’d caught him, and there’d been a glimmer of something—a smoldering heat—in Kendall’s eyes that she didn’t recall ever seeing before.
Sure, Kendall desired her sexually. Krista couldn’t pretend otherwise. He’d proven that the moment they’d stepped inside the villa last night. He’d made love to her, ravished her. Dicked her down, the way she loved it.
Tenderly.
Lovingly.
Passionately.
