Made him hungry.
Made him want to be helplessly reckless.
He thrust hard and then slowed, sliding almost out of her body again, watching the mouth of her cunt suckle the head of his dick.
“Give me all of your cock, my love. Oh. Mm.”
Nairobia clawed his back, and he moaned again. She bit his neck, and he groaned. His muscles bulged as he crashed his mouth over her lips and began kissing her, his tongue sweeping inside her mouth as he stroked inside her body.
The sheets rustled beneath them. Nairobia’s breasts bobbed between them as he pounded into her body. Finally, after several moments of heated kissing, Josiah’s lips were on her neck, nipping at her flesh. Then his head ducked and he licked at her nipple, before sucking it back into his mouth again, lightly tugging with his teeth. He kept sucking at her breast, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, giving them both equal pleasure as his shaft caressed the slick walls of her pussy.
Nairobia cupped the back of Josiah’s head. “Zuigen…uh…mmm… moeilijker…” Suck. Harder.
Josiah sucked harder. Then licked. Then nipped at her nipple. Nairobia bucked upward, her cunt grabbing his cock. Yeah, she liked that. Her nipples bit. He bit into her other nipple, and she moaned as his teeth sank into the puckered crest. Wet fire swept through her veins.
She slid her hands up to Josiah’s chest, searching for his nipples. When she’d found them, she rolled them between her fingers until they pebbled, then pinched.
Josiah growled, his body slamming in to hers.
And then he came, hard, causing everything around him to blur.
Nairobia wasn’t his. But she was his for the night. All his. And he wanted to savor every wet stroke of her for as long as he could. She’d given him her body, and limitless access to her hot, wet, sweet clutch.
Josiah didn’t pull out. He remained buried inside her, slowing moving his hips, enjoying the warmth of her. He knew there were plenty of men who’d kill to be inside her right now. She’d partied all night. And, yet, had returned to her suite…to him.
That had to mean something. Right?
Her cunt clutched his cock, causing his orgasm to rip through his body, flooding his chest with warmth.
That was all the answer he needed.
ELEVEN
Back in New York, Nairobia found herself up to her sultry eyeballs in membership applications and invoices. Since opening night, over a month ago, the club’s membership had already increased by another two hundred new members. And on her desk there were still another…three hundred and seventy-two applicants from across the world—including that of a Middle Eastern prince—vying for membership in The Pleasure Zone.
Nairobia had known from the beginning that there was a market for a club such as hers. Oh, sure there were other sex clubs in the New York area, but none compared to hers. Besides the club’s “Anything Goes Behind These Doors” policy, Nairobia catered specifically to the rich and freaky. No others.
Was it discriminatory? Perhaps. But she didn’t give a damn. Have good coin and you could have whatever your freaky heart desired. You could experience sweet bliss and the underworld of taboo sex all under one tantalizing roof, until daybreak.
Nairobia glanced at the time, and smiled. It was almost time for the doors of her club to open. She was pleased of her club’s overnight success. But, she’d be lying to herself if she didn’t admit that it was overwhelming. Running a club of this magnitude was nothing like hosting her private sex parties around the world.
It required dedication and real commitment, and hard work. A little more than she’d bargained for. Sadly, Nairobia was beginning to think she wouldn’t be able to keep up with managing the day-to-day demands. The Pleasure Zone was not to become her life, only a part of it. The last thing she wanted was to be living and breathing to keep a club open. No, no. Her club would be a success. But she would not marry herself to it for that to happen. If she wanted a husband, she’d have one. No, no. She wanted excitement. She wanted pleasure. And she enjoyed seeing men and women receiving it here.
Still, she couldn’t help feeling a bit overwhelmed.
The club’s doors were already opened three nights a week—Friday, Saturday and Sunday, 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. That meant three sumptuous nights of decadence. Nairobia saw no need to extend sin beyond that. But the club’s members thought otherwise. Requests for another night were coming in heavily. Now Nairobia was at her desk, contemplating adding another night, which meant being chained to her club more than what she’d hoped for. She had books to write. Parties to host. And two other businesses to run.
She was the face and body of pleasure. She was a gypsy soul. Born for living. And fucking. Not toiling over paperwork. Yet, here she sat.