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She was exhausted.
Shortly after her call ended with CO Rawlings in the wee-hours of the morning, she’d drifted into what had started out as a peaceful slumber until she’d started dreaming of her first love.
Desmond.
Dez for short.
He’d been her first boyfriend, and her first love.
Tall, hard-bodied, dark-chocolate—everything fairytales and dreams were made of. The moment she’d laid eyes on him and his crooked grin, she’d become enamored. And he had wanted to have the young beauty, before anyone else sank their dick in her. And he’d snatched her up. Quick.
It’d been her freshman year, second semester, at UConn—the University of Connecticut. She was seventeen. Naïve. A virgin. And happy to be from under the overprotective thumbs of her brothers and father.
He was nineteen. Hood. Promiscuous. And obsessed with stacking money.
It had taken him almost a year, before she’d given up her virginity—his meaty, curved dick, stretching her tender cunt. He’d fucked her until tears burst from her eyes, until her burning pussy erupted in pleasure.
Afterward, he asked her how it felt. “Painfully good,” she said, and he kissed her, then rolled her on top of him and showed her how to ride him, the curve of his dick hitting parts of her soul she never knew existed. She rode him—looking him in his dark-brown eyes, him instructing her how to change the rhythm, slowing down and speeding up; her ass clapping, her pussy coating his shaft until he slid in and out of her body with inexplicable ease and pleasure.
They kept at it—fucking, until she was skilled at it. Until her cunt became his personal sheath. He became her dark knight in shining jewelry. She—his arm candy, his sweet piece of ass. And, together, they’d been a beautiful couple. But, barely two years into the relationship, he began putting his hands on her. Mushing her in the head at first. Then came the snatching her up. Followed by open-handed slaps.
If another guy looked at her, he’d have a problem. If she looked over in some random guy’s direction too long, he’d have a problem. If she wasn’t accessible to him when he wanted her to be, he had a problem.
Suddenly, she’d found herself sucked into his world of danger, hiding her new life from her family, her grades failing, risking her freedom and her safety. All for love.
It’d taken her almost four years—and three STDs later, just shy of her graduation, to realize that the Hartford-bred thug was no good for her.
His drug dealing and weed smoking, she had been able to overlook. After all, he’d pamper her, buy her whatever she wanted; basically gave her the world. But the guns and his happy-handed attempts at controlling her, and all the other bitches in his life that she’d had to fight, had taken a toll on her. She couldn’t put up with it any longer.
He’d been a liar, a cheater, and a damn woman beater.
She’d fought back—always. And stabbed him once. Suddenly, things between them had gotten better, filled with almost six months of bliss. And then he slipped back into the streets and his old womanizing ways.
The only thing consistent was, him fucking her good. He was insatiable. No matter who else he’d give his dick to, he never had enough of her.
But she’d had enough of him.
So, with her college degree in hand—and three trunks stuffed with designer clothes and expensive handbags and heels—she climbed in the backseat of her father’s Benz and cried her eyes out, leaving him and her broken heart behind.
Never looking back.
She’d left Connecticut nothing like the way she’d come. She’d arrived as an inexperienced girl from the suburbs, but left as a woman with a love for the hood.
And a voracious sex drive.
Heaven shook her head. She felt sudden disgust, plus anger at herself that she’d awaken with her panties wet.
Why, after all these years had he come into her conscience?
That had been a lifetime ago, the two of them. She hadn’t thought of Desmond in years. But somehow he’d found a way to rob her—of what had started out as the ending of a very bliss-filled night, planting himself inside her head.
And then came the images of Freedom. Though he had never laid hands on her or given her an STD, he’d always reminded her, in many ways, of her first love.
Desmond and Freedom had a lot in common.
Hustlers. Liars. Cheaters.
And damn good fucks.
