But it was too late.
Before he could get his condom off, he came with a rush, with a fierce spasm, a force so powerful that his entire body shook.
Nairobia laughed to herself. Silly man he was.
Demanding she kneel and suck his cock. Ha. She knelt before no man. And she sucked when she wanted, not when summoned.
Nairobia looked at him, taking him in—all of him, standing there, his eyelids fluttering, his chest heaving, his jeans open and shoved down, his sheathed cock exposed, wet and sticky, and curving to the right. What a delicious sight.
So decadent.
So masculine and erotic.
Lamar stumbled back and collapsed into one of her office chairs. She smiled slow and easy and seductive, then leaned in and brushed a gentle kiss over his lips. Lamar’s brain was mush. He couldn’t see or think straight.
Nairobia sauntered off toward the bathroom, her juices sliding down the inside of her thighs—leaving her heat and musky scent and him sitting there, dazed and confused.
Lamar closed his eyes, and shook his head as his pulse finally steadied.
He knew.
He was in too deep.
Beyond the point of no return.
And in some serious fucking trouble.
Shit.
FORTY-ONE
A few days later, Nairobia was snuggled into Marcel’s sofa, her bare feet curled underneath her as she stared at the flames flickering in his fireplace. It was the middle of a sweltering July, but never too hot for a gorgeous fire.
Marcel stepped into the room barefoot in a pair of lounge pants, and settled onto the sofa beside her. He pulled Nairobia into his arms and she snuggled against him.
She gave a soft sigh, then lay against his bare chest, the top of her head resting just underneath his chin. Marcel pulled her in closer, and breathed her in. She smelled of mangos and coconut. He loved the way she smelled. He ran his hand up the length of her arm and pressed his lips to her hair, inhaling even as he kissed her head. The scent of her hair was intoxicating. He wanted to stay like this for as long as humanly possible, just breathing her in.
He’d needed to see her.
And she’d wanted him to.
They hadn’t seen each other since the night they’d had dinner, several weeks ago. Between her travels back and forth to L.A., the club, and her other engagements. She’d also been very busy…avoiding Marcel.
But tonight, she’d finally decided to make time for him.
Surprisingly, she’d finally admitted to herself that she really did enjoy his company. That he called to a part of her soul that frightened her. He made her feel things she never fathomed. But she couldn’t lose herself in him.
In doing so, she feared she’d lose everything, her voice; every part of who she was. And she wouldn’t allow that.
Marcel had told her over dinner to stop running from him. But Nairobia wasn’t running. She was simply preserving, protecting herself. Self-preservation was all she had. It was what had kept her from heartache thus far. Letting go of it would make her susceptible to getting hurt.
A man had already sliced her in the heart once in her life. She vowed to never, ever, allow another man free reins to her heart. Maybe her years as a porn star had made her too detached, incapable of fully loving anyone other than herself.
But she felt something for Marcel, a fluttering in her heart.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t quite put a finger on it, couldn’t quite describe what the feeling was. She just knew it was there, chipping away at her.
And she didn’t like it.
“I’m not her,” Nairobia finally said, breaking the momentary silence between them. Her voice was barely a whisper as she glanced over at the sixteen-by-twenty oil painting of Marika hanging on the wall. “I’ll never be.”
“I don’t want you to be,” Marcel said earnestly, following her gaze. “I want you to be you. That sexy, beautiful, free-spirited woman you are. That’s whom I’m attracted to, baby. That’s whom I want to spend my time with. Not some facsimile of my wife. There was—and will always be—only one Marika. I’m not looking for another.”
Nairobia turned her eyes from the stunning portrait and gazed directly at Marcel.
“Then what are you really looking for?”
Marcel inhaled sharply, scrubbing his hand over his face. He thought he’d already made it clear what he wanted. He wasn’t into the dating game. He actually felt out of touch. And the prospect of being on some online dating site was something he couldn’t wrap his mind around. The thought of dating after having been married for so long actually made him uneasy. And he wasn’t into multiple sex partners—anymore. Well, not really. Well, he hadn’t been since Marika’s death. And he seriously doubted he ever would be again.