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Thirty-Five
“Are you enjoying your stay on the island?” asked the six-four, very lean-muscled man the following morning. He was part West Indian, part Polynesian, wearing a smile over his kissable lips as he looked up at Brenda. His strong hands moved rhythmically up and down and around her left calve.
God yes.
Oooh, he was sexy, sexy, sexy—that was the only word that came to Brenda’s muddled mind as she watched his muscled tattooed arms flex as he skillfully slid his—firm, strong, and oh so very warm—hands up a little higher, up over her knees and then back down to her ankle, where they lingered for a bit, kneading.
God, all she needed was for him to suck each of her toes into his mouth.
Brenda moaned. “Yes. Every. Single. Moment of it.” She sexily eyed him over the rim of her shades. He was too young for her, but he was delicious to look at. Lawd, forgive me. This boy can’t be no more than twenty, she thought, feeling her cunt flutter as his hands moved to her right calf, working the peppermint massage oil into her flesh.
Up, down . . . all around.
God yes.
His hands were heavenly. It had to be the three Passion Punch drinks she’d drunk so far that had heat swirling around in her belly.
“How old are you?” Brenda asked Mr. Sexy Tattoo.
“Twenty-four,” he stated proudly. “Real grown.” He flashed her a sexy smile. Lord, this man-child even had one deep dimple in his left cheek. And then he had the nerve to lick his lips.
LaQuandra fought back a yawn as she eavesdropped. She’d tossed and turned practically the whole night last night. But she didn’t want to think about it—or the reason why. So she glanced over from her own massage chair, where she, too, was relishing in the sensations shimmering up her legs as the hands of a brown-skinned man with Chinese-looking eyes and a headful of curly dark-brown hair massaged peppermint lotion into her calves.
LaQuandra cocked her head, pulling her shades down to the edge of her nose and then eyeing Mr. Sexy Tattoos, before locking her stare on Brenda’s.
“Not grown enough,” she muttered.
Brenda reluctantly agreed. “But, baaaaby. If only I were single and twenty years younger,” she stated as if the young hunk wasn’t at her feet hearing her. Her eyes were glued to the muscles in his neck. In the center of his neck was a set of lips—red and wet, with a cherry between those lips—directly over his Adam’s apple. Brenda licked over her own lips, imagining herself sucking him there, on his neck, over those sexy red-tatted lips, licking over that red cherry inked over his Adam’s apple.
Mr. Sexy Tattoo swallowed and Brenda watched that cherry move up and down, her mouth growing wet. “Lawd! Girl, stop this shit,” Brenda mentally scolded herself. She shook her lusty thoughts from her head.
The three women had been whisked off to other side of the island for a day of pampering in the sun, before they would need to return to the other side of the island for their next group session. And then later tonight, they’d been invited to dine with Dr. Dangerfield. Shockingly, even Krista had been looking forward to a spa day.
So far, they’d had their manicures, were now wrapping up their pedicures, and soon they would be stretched out under a cabana getting massages but masseuses. It’d been years since Krista had a professional massage. She was long overdue. And, surprisingly, looking forward to getting one.
Brenda leaned her head back and snapped her fingers as The Weeknd’s “Valerie” played in the background. She stretched open her toes, loving the feel of Sexy Tattoo’s hands. His fingers swiftly slipped through each of her toes, tugging them lightly one by one. Brenda slyly opened her legs a little wider, so that he could see she hadn’t worn any panties. And then she smiled when his eyes looked up. If she were out here alone, she’d be tempted to formerly introduce him to Kitty. She leaned her head back, instead, and closed her eyes, allowing him to enjoy the view.
LaQuandra glanced over at Krista, who had her head back, her eyes closed behind a pair of dark shades, while a shirtless, gray-eyed, bronzed-skin hunk pulled her right foot out of the foot bath and began scrubbing it with a foot file.
LaQuandra’s gaze stopped at his chest, and she couldn’t help but admire the bulging muscles of both arms and his upper chest. There was a smattering of curly hair in the hollow and then a fine line of hair trailing down to his navel. Before LaQuandra allowed her booze-soaked mind to wonder what was behind the drawstring of his white pants, she jerked her gaze back up and over at Krista.
“Krissy, you all right over there?” LaQuandra asked.
Krista cringed inwardly the moment LaQuandra opened her mouth and spoke. “It’s Krista,” she said, refusing to open her eyes or look over at the ole horse-faced troll. Krista shook her head. This ghetto bitch works my last nerve.
God, forgive me . . .
“Oops,” LaQuandra sai
d. “I like Krissy better, though. I mean, with you being all Christian and all.”
Krista rolled her eyeballs behind her lids. “Yes. I’m Christian. And I love the Lord. Perhaps you should try it. Maybe your blessings—”
“Don’t worry about my blessings, boo. It’s all good over here.”
Krista sighed. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t be worried about me and focus on all of your blessings.”
Brenda shot both women a hard stare. “Let’s play nice, ladies.” She couldn’t understand why LaQuandra liked antagonizing Krista. Let her be.
