The Pleasure Zone(41)
Glancing at Nairobia sideways, behind mirrored shades, Lamar wondered what it must be like to be her. It had to be lonely. Spending her whole life fucking a bunch of random men. It had to do something to her self-esteem. He didn’t know. He wasn’t a shrink. Maybe it didn’t affect her at all. Hell, he didn’t care. But, after everything he’d experienced in the short time having her as a client, he surmised he didn’t need a college degree to know Nairobia was nothing more than an attention whore who loved to be seen.
He needed a blunt. Bad! He cursed under his breath for stopping one of his favorite “chill-out” pasttimes. Taking a deep breath to relax himself, he surveyed the jet’s main cabin. There were ten oversized seats, along with a plush leather sofa, a fifty-five-inch flat-screen, a stocked media console, and an extended dining table. In back of the jet were two suites, each with its own bathroom.
Lamar glanced back at the sofa and wondered how many times she’d been fucked on it, over it. Wondered how many times her pussy had soaked into the leather cushions. He wondered how many babies she’d swallowed right there on that sofa. And then his mind swirled to the left as the nose of the plane rose, wondering what it’d be like fucking her on her own plane.
Groaning inwardly, he scolded himself. “Muhfucka, what the fuck is wrong wit’ you? Pull ya’self together.” He eyed Nairobia as the jet roared down the runway, the outside world zooming by.
Keenly aware that he was watching her—the same way she’d known, felt, his eyes were on her all last night, burning over her—Nairobia looked over at Lamar.
“Why do you hide, my love?”
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.