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He frowned. “Hide? What do you mean?”
“Your eyes. You hide them from others. Why?”
“That’s not what I’m doing. I wear them because it allows me to watch others without them knowing I’m watching them.”
Nairobia smiled. “Well, my darling. When your eyes are on me, I’d rather see you looking at me.”
He gave her a head nod. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She opened her magazine, and flipped through the pages one last time, before glancing out the window with a smirk on her fine-ass face—as if she knew he’d been thinking lusty shit about her, as if she knew he was sitting on the other side of her with a hard-ass dick.
SEVENTEEN
“I see you were at the concert in L.A. last night,” Marcel said low and husky into the phone. He glanced at the photo plastered on the front page of the entertainment section of her up on the stage with Carlos, with her head tossed back as if she were in pure ecstasy; her ass all up on his boy’s cock, and his arm wrapped around her, pulling her in close as he sang.
Nairobia smiled. “Yes, my darling. And it was quite delicious.”
Marcel raised a brow, then eyed the photo again, before glancing at the next caption. It read: R&B CROONER TAKES PORN-STAR BEAUTY. Beneath it was a candid shot of him with his tongue shoved down her throat. Marcel slung the paper. He knew he had no right to feel slighted. After all, Nairobia was a grown-ass woman free to do whatever she pleased with her body. Still, that knowing did nothing for his deflating ego, or his raging libido. “What was delicious, the show?”
No. His cock. “Ja,” is all she said.
He hesitated, then hedged. “You fuck him?”
Nairobia blinked. None of his fucking business; thank you very much. What or whom she did with her kut was no one’s concern except her own. She answered to no one. She belonged to no one. She wasn’t sure why the question unnerved her because she’d had them both between her sheets—at the same time. But it did. And she felt herself becoming annoyed that he dared ask her that.
“MarSell, my darling. You know a lady never kisses and tells.”
He smiled. That’s what he loved most about her. Her ability to keep her mouth shut. But today he hoped like hell she’d open it wide for his hard cock.
“Oh, aiight,” he said. “Then how ’bout you kiss on this dick, then tell me how good it is?”
“And why would I do such when you have not earned my sweet kisses?”
“Because my dick misses you,” he murmured into the phone. He called her for one thing, and one thing only. Pussy. He had no time for games. It had been weeks—shit, longer than that—since he’d gotten laid. And his swollen balls were dangerously full from the drought. Getting pussy wasn’t a problem for the music mogul and radio show host. He had access to some of the most exotic, beautiful women from around the world. The problem was, since the death of his wife, his sex drive hadn’t been—well, let’s just say his dick didn’t always come alive when called upon.
But over the last several weeks it’d been throbbing for some pussy—Nairobia’s pussy. He was a man who went after what he wanted. And what he wanted at this very moment was to bury his dick deep inside Nairobia’s silky walls. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her.
Ever since seeing her down at the radio station during her interview with him, then talking, well, listening to her on the phone some weeks ago—moaning in his ear, then watching her between his legs on the car ride to Rhode Island sucking his dick…well, shit. All he could think about was having her in his bed, her bed, or any other bed. Hell, he’d fuck her over a ledge, up against a wall, on the hood of his Bentley…or wherever else as long as he could feel the inside of her warm guts. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d parted her thighs, teasingly, showing him her golden brown pussy lips in the studio. Her pink, creamy center was all that kept flashing through his mind during their interview segment. It had been hard for him to concentrate.
And he damn sure couldn’t get the image of her soft, buttery lips wrapped around his dick, licking and teasing its head, suckling it the way a newborn nursed its mother’s nipple.
Over the last few weeks, she’d been fucking with him—without knowing it, haunting his thoughts. And he knew the only way he’d be able to shake her from his brain was busting the thick-ass nut he had swelling up in his balls. He’d been saving up this nut for her. And now he was ready to pop off in her cunt.
Shit.
Nairobia was dangerously addictive. And he knew it. And his wife had known it to when she was alive. The two of them hadn’t been able to get enough of her. Still to this day, he believed his wife, Marika, had caught feelings on the low for Nairobia, even if she’d never admitted to it.
Hell, he wouldn’t have ever blamed Marika for falling for the exotic sex goddess if she’d confessed her true feelings for her. He would have understood. Hell. Who the fuck was he kidding? He knew he’d have welcomed it with open arms, and a hard damn cock, like right now. His dick was bricked. He felt pre-cum seeping from the tip of his dark chocolate-colored dick, wetting his drawers. And all he could imagine at that very moment was Nairobia’s beautiful lips caressing his cock, her tongue flicking over his mushroom-shaped head, her soft hands cupping his cum-filled sac.
Marcel glanced at his Omega Skeleton. It was close to seven p.m., and he was still in his office looking over the contracts of three new artists MK Records was signing on. But to hell with work!
He had to stand and stretch his legs. He needed to free his dick from the constraints of clothes. He wanted to fuck. He wanted some ass. Jacking off wouldn’t suffice. Getting just head would only frustrate him. He needed the wet grip of a pussy. He groaned inwardly. Shit. His dick was stretched down his leg, its head practically brushing his knee.
Besides his wife, none of their other sexual conquests that they’d shared together during their marriage—with the exception of Nairobia—had ever been able to handle all thirteen inches of him. But like his wife, Nairobia rode his cock like a roller coaster. She was a pro. He loved watching her throw her luscious ass back on his dick, watching her pussy make his dick disappear in her slick heat. She wasn’t afraid of a big dick. She’d always welcomed it.
Marika had had some good pussy. No, scratch that. It’d been superb. But Nairobia’s was like floating on clouds. Every time he had slid his dick into her deep, wet tunnel, he’d felt like he was fucking his way into heaven. Her chatte was simply heavenly.
He knew he should probably fall back and leave well enough alone. But he had to have a taste of her. He needed the warmth of her. The only woman he’d ever begged for pussy from was his wife. And, even then, it was done playfully, knowing she’d give in. Or else he’d take it. But Nairobia wasn’t Marika. And he wasn’t interested in taking what was between her legs. He wanted her to give it to him willingly. He wanted her to want his dick buried inside her, fucking into heat and desire, as much as he wanted it.
