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He looked up toward the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
She’d come to him in a dream, and had given him permission to find love again. She wanted him to be happy. And to be with someone who would, could, love him for the man he was.
Marika had been the only woman who had done exactly that. Loved every part of him. And he knew no one would ever love him in the way she had. And he also knew he’d probably never be able to love another woman as deeply as he had her. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of loving again.
He wanted love.
He still had so much more of it to give.
And he had a big, hard dick with lots of nut that he wanted to share with someone special. He didn’t want random pussy from a bunch of faceless women. He wanted to be able to look in a woman’s eyes and see, feel, the pleasure he was giving her every time he touched her, looked at her, or simply made love to her.
He didn’t want a woman he had to fuck, simply because she wasn’t someone he found worthy of being made love to. He wanted substance. Something meaningful. What he wanted was a love of his own.
Was that too much to ask for?
Marcel sighed.
Shit. Maybe it was too much to ask for.
Hell. He was starting to think maybe something was wrong with him. He was motherfucking Marcel Kennedy reigning over an entire empire of music and media. He was the motherfucking man. He had sex appeal, a large bankroll, and mad swag. Hell, his motherfucking name rang bells in the industry. He could have any woman he wanted. He knew this. Hell, he’d bedded down some of the baddest ones out there. His name and his dick always made lasting impressions.
And, yet…
He was still alone.
He leaned forward, and covered his face in his hands. This shit was so fucked up. “Why’d that bitch have to kill you, baby?” he whispered into his palms.
He felt so fucking helpless without her. Yet, he somehow found hope in his memories of her. He couldn’t tell anyone that she spoke to him, not only in his dreams but while he drove, while he showered, while he sat alone at home or in his office. Marika came to him. Sat and talked with him. He could see her clear as day. Smiling at him. Weeping for him. Praying for him. She was everywhere, watching over him. He felt her presence. Could still feel her touch. And smell her in the air.
Maybe there was something wrong with him.
He didn’t know.
All he knew was, Marika had come to him and had told him that Nairobia was the one. She’d given him her blessing. But had warned him to be patient with her.
Sadly, time was ticking away.
And his patience was running out.
He’d give her two more days, that’s it. Then she’d need to make up her mind.
Him.
Or nothing at all.
FORTY-THREE
Nairobia found herself straining for release. She was coiled tighter than a hymen. And she needed to break free.
From the club.
From Marcel.
Even Josiah—whom she adored, was getting on her last nerve.
She felt like she was being strangled. And she didn’t like it one bit.
Oh, don’t be mistaken. She loved The Pleasure Zone and all of its debauchery, and hedonistic energy. It was truly a den of iniquity. And she loved owning it. But what she didn’t love was the work that went along with it. It was becoming mind-numbing, and mundane. She hadn’t opened the private club to be chained to a desk, managing it. No. That was not what she’d envisioned for herself when she opened the extravagant club. To work long hours. To be holed up in an office, save from being bent over her desk with a hard cock seesawing in her cunt. Other than that, that was absolutely not the plan she’d had in mind.
