Nairobia shook her head. “No, my darling. Thanks. A lady never drinks before three.”
He pursed his lips. “Mmph. Isn’t it just past three on the East Coast?” He winked at her. “I’d say the lady deserves a cocktail or two…”
Nairobia glanced at her timepiece. 3:05 p.m. Her watch was still set for East Coast time. She smiled slyly. “In that case, my love. One glass of bubbly will be fine.”
He pressed a few keys on his computer. Then within seconds, a server appeared, handing her a glass of Armand de Brignac Rose champagne. She took the glass of cava, then proceeded to take in the opulence of the salon as she took a slow sip.
She loved the stunning rain curtain that flowed from the ceiling to the black lava stones in the marble floor. She admired the custom décor and an impressive collection of art, including pieces by Andy Warhol, William Nash, and Leroy Campbell. The minute you stepped across the threshold of the ten-thousand-square-foot salon, you knew you’d stepped inside sleek sophistication.
“Nairobia,” Pasha called out as she walked toward her, her smile wide, her eyes bright. “It’s so good to see you.”
The two women embraced. Nairobia air-kissed both cheeks, then stepped back from her. “You look delicious, my darling.”
Pasha waved her on, blushing. Her five-carat diamond hooped earrings sparkled against the lighting. “Girl, stop. Not as fabulous as you. C’mon to the back.”
Nairobia followed her down a long hall with glass walls to her station. Pasha was a sweet piece of ass. And she eyed the way her hips swayed in her Emilio Pucci printed, silk, lace-up dress and wondered just how sexually liberated she was.
She was tempted to extend Pasha an invitation to The Pleasure Zone to see just how far she’d be willing to allow her limits to be tested. But she quickly thought otherwise, deciding if she ever wanted to indulge her desires, then she’d inquire about her club on her own.
Nairobia had heard—no, no…she’d uncovered during her inquiries about the wealthy stylist—that she’d once been married to a notorious drug dealer and had come into millions of dollars from an unknown source after he was found murdered.
Bless her heart.
Nairobia admired her strength, raising her two young children alone—well, with the help of nannies and…
Marques Houston’s “Always & Forever” floated through the speakers, slicing into Nairobia’s musings. She found herself humming along as he crooned about not being able to stop thinking about his love interest. Nairobia imagined herself positioned between his legs, and him staring down at her, her face so very close to his dick and him urging her to suck it. Slow and deep.
She shook her head at the absurdity of her being his type no matter how delectably irresistible she was. Still, she grinned slyly at the memory of boldly kissing him on his succulent lips and sliding her hand over his crotch at a private release party some years ago.
When they arrived at Pasha’s private workstation, Nairobia took her seat in the plush chair, and Pasha snapped the black satiny cape around her neck. “So how’s life over on the East Coast treating you?” Pasha asked her as she slowly spun her chair around.
Nairobia loved the excitement and energy of New York. But it was congested. Dirty. Had rats the size of raccoons. And the beaches were filthy. It didn’t matter that it was one of the world’s financial meccas, or that some of the most powerful shakers and movers lived and breathed there.
It lacked culture. Lacked sophistication. Lacked the openness and carefree spiritedness of Europe. Her heart was torn between her estate here overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and the palatial villa she owned in the South of France. As far as Nairobia was concerned, setting up a permanent life in the Big Apple would never be.
New York was simply a temporary pit stop.
“It’s interesting at best,” she said.
Pasha smiled knowingly. “Ohmygod. I almost forgot to thank you for the beautiful gift basket. It was a wonderful surprise. But you really didn’t have to.”
Nairobia waved her on. “Nonsense, my darling. It was the least I could do to show my appreciation.” She licked her lips. “Hopefully, you’ve found use for some of the goodies, no?”
Pasha blushed. The basket had been filled with an assortment of dildos and vibrating butt plugs and beads and G-spot apparatus, along with whips, paddles, a pair of diamond-encrusted handcuffs, and edible panties from Nairobia’s Nasty collection.
“A lady never kisses and tells,” Pasha teased.
“But a tramp, my darling,” Nairobia cooed, her eyes dancing with mischief, “will confess her dirty desires. And live out her deepest fantasies. Let the tramp in you out, my love. She’s dying to be released, no?”