There were only two options.
To fuck, or not to fuck…
Nairobia increased the tempo of her fingers over her clit.
Lamar cursed under his breath again. Then eased back from the door. He was leaving, but not the same way he’d come in—with a hard, throbbing dick.
Nairobia cried out. Her body thrashed. Adrenaline spiked, searing through her body as she orgasmed.
She was determined to have the sexy, rugged, bouncer/bodyguard/pussy punisher in her bed, and between her sultry thighs. Oh, yes. Lamar was going to be a deliciously painful challenge. One she was determined to conquer. Patience, she warned herself. Reel him in slowly. She just needed to ensure he stayed around long enough for the ride.
Her trembling cunt clutched around her fingers. She grinned, closing her eyes, and moaning. She swore she’d own him, his cock…and that beautiful mouth of his.
If it was the last thing she ever did…
TWENTY-NINE
Nairobia whisked inside the entrance of Nappy No More II, lifting her shades over her head. She greeted Zeus with customary air-kisses. “Hey, diiiiiva,” he cooed, getting up and assessing her attire. Once again, she’d come in and slayed him with another scrumptious handbag. Dior. And he was sick with envy.
But she gave him life every time she served him.
“Oooh, yass, boo, yass. You are too fabulous.”
Nairobia smiled at his exaggerated antics. She found him simply adorable. Her mind wandered to the left, and she found herself wondering what his lean, toned body looked like underneath that little skimpy top and those skinny jeans. Her filthy mind flooded with salacious thoughts, trying to imagine him naked in a set of heels with his cock hanging between his legs. She wondered if he had a long, smooth cock, a short stumpy one, or if it was the size of an itty-bitty sausage link.
Oh how she adored him, in all his femininity. She swallowed. She wanted to lick over his cock like a clitoris. Oh, how scandalous. She should be ashamed of herself wondering and thinking such filthy thoughts.
Her lips curled into a naughty grin. “Zeus, my love. It’s always so good to see you.”
He smiled wide. “You, too. Pasha should be coming out shortly. She should be finishing up with her eleven o’clock.” Nairobia glanced at the time. It was quarter-to-twelve. She was fifteen minutes early.
“No, worries, my love. I can wait,” she said, pulling out her buzzing phone.
“I’m going on a quick break. I’ll be right outside if you need anything,” he said, before grabbing his designer backpack, then sashaying his way out of the door.
Nairobia answered her phone on the third ring. “Hello.”
“I wanna see you. Make time for me.”
She felt her body heat. “Sorry, MarSell, my darling. I’m out of town.”
He groaned. “Damn. How long?”
She’d come out to California to meet with her agent, then spend some needed office time at her production company. Things were getting busy there, and she wanted to have her finger on the pulse of everything happening with the production and release of several new porn titles. It was Monday, and she knew she had to—unfortunately, return back to the East Coast by Thursday early evening, before the doors to The Pleasure Zone opened.
She sighed. “Not until sometime Thursday.”
“Oh, aiight. Damn. Where are you?”
She frowned. This business of being asked her whereabouts did not sit well with her. Was he trying to keep tabs on her? Or was he simply asking because he genuinely wanted to know?
“I’m in L.A.,” she told him.
Marcel grinned on the other end the phone. “Shit. That’s even better. I have some business out there later on in the week. I’ll just fly out earlier than planned. I’ll have my pilot fuel up, and be there by ten o’clock your time.”
Nairobia blinked. “MarSell, my love. You can do whatever your heart desires.” But that did not mean he’d be doing her.
He lowered his voice. “Does that include you, baby?”
She smiled. “Not tonight, mijn liefde.”
Now tomorrow?
Maybe…
Nairobia spotted Pasha walking toward the front of the salon with a strikingly exotic-looking woman, who looked almost Indian, holding a baby in her arm. Her skin was the color of cinnamon, and she was holding the hand of a caramel-skinned boy with a head full of curly hair. The little boy looked to be about four or five, and—with the exception of their different skin tones, bore a remarkable resemblance to the woman.
“Yeah—”
Nairobia cut Marcel off. “I have to go. Call me when you land.”
She ended the call, sliding her phone down into the inside pocket of her bag.
Pasha met her gaze, and smiled. “Hey, Nairobia, girl. I’ll be right with you.”