“I heard you, damn.”

  “But, motherfucker, are you listening to me?!”

  He started to say no, then stopped himself. “Of course I’m listening. Fuck,” he added, as he stretched his long legs out and ran his palms over the top of his head.

  Dr. Dangerfield decided to intervene. “LaQuandra, please try to refrain from name-calling.”

  LaQuandra rolled her eyes. She’d had enough of this uppity black bitch. “I’ll call him what the hell I want. I have a right to after all the shit he’s put me through. I’m his wife, so if I want to call him a motherfucker, then that’s what the hell I’ll call him. Because, quite frankly, that’s exactly what the fuck he is. A. Mother. Fucker.”

  Well, all right then.

  Honestly, Dr. Dangerfield hadn’t expected any other response. LaQuandra might have held a college degree, but she was still just as ghetto as she claimed Isaiah’s child’s mother was as far as she was concerned. No amount of education was going to ever change that, no matter how proper she tried to present herself. Somehow, some way, the ghetto part of who she was would eventually find a way to rear its ugly head.

  “What your wife is saying, Isaiah,” Dr. Dangerfield simply said, thoughtfully, “is that she misses you. Her husband, her life partner; the man she committed herself to. And she’s frightened. She’s afraid that the two of you are growing apart, and that she is losing you. She feels alone in this marriage. She’s married to you, but feeling single and that in itself can be very frightening.”

  LaQuandra felt herself becoming overwhelmed with emotions. But she wasn’t about to give this motherfucker the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.

  “I hate you, Isaiah. Do you hear me? I fucking hate your black ass.”

  It was a boldfaced lie. But still she said it. She couldn’t hate him. She wanted to. Oh, God, how she wanted to. But she loved him too much and that hurt her the most.

  Loving him.

  Isaiah said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t want to hurt you, LaQuandra. But . . .” He trailed off as he measured his words. “I . . .”

  LaQuandra shook her head, unwilling to hear him out. “But you don’t want to keep me either, do you?”

  He didn’t know what to say to that, and LaQuandra saw it written all over his face. She felt the tears prick at her eyes. Goddamn him—goddamn him for being responsible for causing her all this anguish. Pain she hadn’t realized ran so deep.

  “Fuck. You.”

  LaQuandra stood up. She had to get out of here.

  Isaiah caught the eye of Dr. Dangerfield, who gestured with her own eyes for him to go after his wife.

  “LaQuandra, wait,” Isaiah called out, standing to his feet.

  She turned back, her finger held up, her eyes fiery slits, her expression pained so vividly that he could feel his own heart pounding in his chest. He knew LaQuandra was fighting an explosion. She was keeping a tight rein on a temper he’d seen before.

  “I’m—”

  “No. Don’t say shit,” she warned, cutting him off. And then she turned away again and stalked off.

  Fourteen

  Surrender . . .

  Letting go of the parts of yourself that no one else could see. Peeling back the petals of your soul and allowing room for vulnerability. That’s what surrendering was all about.

  That was the lesson. Correction. That would be the lesson. One day.

  Surrendering.

  For each couple to give into their desires unapologetically (and respectfully—of course) without shame or regret. But each couple had work to do before they could ever cross that proverbial bridge.

  What Dr. Dangerfield had come to learn about most of the couples she counseled and coached over the years was that they were afraid of letting go, afraid of giving into pleasure with one another. They held on to their fears, their resentments, the past, and, most importantly, their control. And it limited them in their relationships. It stifled their emotional and sexual growth. It blocked their ability to be more open-minded.

  And it kept many of them stuck.

  Stuck in mediocre sex. Stuck in sexless marriages. Stuck in sexual misery.

  Yes. Surrender. That was the lesson. But, first, Dr. Dangerfield had to start from the bottom, then fight her way up to liberating the couples. She had to dig deep, and pull even deeper, to get some of them to feel safe enough to eventually step into their own truths.

  She didn’t doubt that the couples didn’t love one another. Sadly, love wasn’t enough. Not in a society where everyone, everything, was easily replaced by the next best thing—good or not.

  But the question was: how much was each partner willing to invest in (and commit to) in the process? How emotionally transparent were they willing to become for the sake of their relationships?

  She looked forward to finding out. For the next several weeks, she had her work cut out for her. She would push and probe. And they would either break or bend. Fight or flee. The choice would be theirs.

  And she’d be right there along the way to guide them. But, first, in order for the couples to surrender, to let go, to free their inner sexual beasts, they would need to learn to trust in not only their partners, but, also—most importantly—themselves.

  Dr. Dangerfield shook her head as she thought of the couples. She definitely had her work cut out for her, especially with that loudmouthed ghetto one.

  LaQuandra.

  She was clearly a walking billboard for what an angry black woman looked like. Her mouth was filthy. And her disposition was shitty. But Dr. Dangerfield knew that behind her roar was a hurting woman, a damaged one. And she looked forward to peeling back LaQuandra’s very thick skin, one layer at a time. And Isaiah—mmph—with his detached self. Hood dick, that’s what he was. Probably a real good fuck, too, Dr. Dangerfield thought as she slowly kneaded her nipples.

  She nearly died out there in The Garden when they’d both answered nearly every damn question wrong. What a damn mess. Clearly, neither had ever taken the time out to talk, to really get to know one another.

  Her thoughts then shifted to Brenda. Brenda, Brenda, Brenda. Brenda with the big bouncy ass, she mused. Oh she was a wild one, Dr. Dangerfield realized. But she needed to learn ways to not emasculate her husband, Roselle. Whew. He was a fine one, Dr. Dangerfield thought, sliding the tip of her tongue over her top lip. Not her type, though. He didn’t wet her pussy, but he was definitely nice to look at.

  And then her mind went back to Krista. Jesus. She was clearly the most sexually repressed of them all. Bless her heart. She didn’t love fellatio—giving or getting.

  She couldn’t imagine life without head. She simply couldn’t wrap her mind around women not giving their men oral pleasure, especially when he eagerly tongued and laved her sex. She couldn’t fathom the thought of not having a man’s turgid shaft sliding over her tongue, or her tongue catching his precum, or her succulent lips being painted with his milk.

  However, this wasn’t about her dick-sucking eps or her sexual liberation; this was about the three couples that awaited her in The Aquarium, where tonight’s festivities were being held, a tank full of pleasure, sort to speak.

  Janet Jackson’s Damito Jo album played low in the background.

  She pinched her nipples, and a low moan escaped her.

  Dr. Dangerfield suspected Krista—and, maybe even, LaQuandra—would be the most difficult to engage. Hell. Krista appeared to be the least creative in the bedroom out of the three women. So Dr. Dangerfield already made it up in her mind that getting her to let go of her sexual inhibitions was truly going to be the most challenging. But she lived for moments like this. Oh yes.

  Dr. Dangerfield spread her thighs open and her freshly waxed pussy greeted her. She smiled as she imagined one of her secret Island lovers kneeling before her, tonguing the slit of her cunt, brushing his tongue over the hood of skin that covered her clit . . . God, yes . . . and then sucking one of her swollen labium into his hot, juicy mouth; the taste of her rippling over his tongue.

  Mm. How decadent.

  Her pussy throbbed. And yet, somehow, she managed to peel herself away from her salacious thoughts, her mind momentarily drifting back to LaQuandra Lewis.

  Dr. Dangerfield believed she was the saddest, most hurt, of them all. Not solely from her strained marriage, but more so from her past. A past she was certain scarred her deeply. Mmph. At least she gave oral pleasure, Dr. Dangerfield mused. It was the least she could do with that mouth of hers. She shook her head, reaching for her bottle of Rogue by Rihanna.

  She sprayed it over her body, its scent filling the room.

  She inhaled, and smiled.

  She had a vast collection of very high-end bottles of perfume, but this scent here was most fitting for tonight. She felt naughty, and playfully mischievous.

  Roguish.

  That’s what these couples were in their own way—deceptive and deceitful.

  Defiant.

  Destructive.

  Dr. Dangerfield sighed. Same story, different set of couples.

  She set the bottle back atop her vanity and then stood naked in front of her mirror and slid her diamond studs into each earlobe, before clasping her diamond choker around her slender neck. A large teardrop diamond lay perfectly in the center of her bosom.

  She loved diamonds. Loved the way they came alive under the lights.

  Although she was mostly business conservative in her dress during the day, she had a wild side. Bold and daring. And, tonight, she planned on showing the couples that other side of her—in her dress, that was. There was nothing wrong with being sexy, feeling sexy. There was nothing wrong with exuding sex appeal.

  Being naughty.

  And, on occasion, being slutty.

  Dr. Dangerfield stared at herself through the mirror, and then a sly grin eased over her lips as she slid into a red silk, backless halter dress with a plunging V-neckline and side slits. The short dress was bold and daring and dangerously sexy.

  Exactly like her alter ego.

  Oh yes. She knew how to be slutty. Knew how to fuck and suck and pleasure herself.

  And a man.

  Or a woman.

  Or both.

  Anonymously or not, she knew how to be nasty, and take what she wanted. But she also knew how to be submissive. She knew how to give as well as she could take. Mutual pleasure. Reciprocity. That’s what lovemaking and fucking were all about—giving and taking gratification.

  Dr. Dangerfield admired her lithe body, cupping her taut breasts. She plucked at her nipples until they tightened and her cunt clenched. Then she raised her arms up over her head and began a slow sensual roll of her hips as Janet sang, in her whispery voice, about getting moist. Her gaze locked on the reflection staring back at her as she drew her tongue over her upper lip and slipped a finger inside her pussy.

  Oh, yes, she was very moist.

  And the night had yet to begin.

  Fifteen

  They’d followed a lighted stone pathway toward a three-story, stoned elliptical structure landscaped with coconut palms and large pink hibiscus flowers. The main entrance, which was flanked by marbled pillars and life-like statues of nude lovers that sat atop enormous pedestals, faced a garden of exotic flora.

  LaQuandra and Isaiah were the first to cross the opulent threshold, followed by Krista and Kendall, and then Brenda and Roselle—who were holding hands and strolling like young, horny lovers. LaQuandra found the couple disgustingly happy. Miss Brick House and her wavy-haired stallion, always pawing and kissing on one another.

  Yes. She was hating. Hard.

  They seemed too damned perfect.

  So, why the hell were they—?

  “Welcome to The Aquarium,” said a woman with skin the color of brown sugar. A hint of a smile pulled at her tangerine-glossed lips. She was beautiful, LaQuandra decided. Like every other woman she’d seen on the island thus far. Her lithe, youthful body could have easily belonged to a Victoria’s Secret model. Her beautiful breasts, with their dark chocolate nipples, swayed slightly as she swept an arm back, welcoming them inside.

  Isaiah tried not to stare, but he found his gaze dipping down over her flat belly and then over the slight curve of her hips, then at the strip of silk that covered her sex.

  He found himself imagining her bent over with him behind her, pulling open her cheeks, licking the inside of her ass, over her brown hole, over the thin string of her panties, before pulling the string with his teeth.

  LaQuandra caught the way Isaiah was looking at the little tight-bodied bitch and rolled her eyes. A hand closed around Isaiah’s arm, and he found himself being dragged away.

  “Oh hell no,” LaQuandra hissed as she pulled Isaiah by the arm.

  Tinashe’s “Bet” seeped down over the massive atrium through Bose in-ceiling speakers, her voice raining a melody that almost made LaQuandra want to use one hand to snap her fingers, and the other to slap the shit out of Isaiah.

  She was so over him.

  The sexy door greeter gave a quick glance in their direction as a smile shadowed her mouth as if she’d known why LaQuandra had stomped off angrily. It wasn’t the first, nor would it be the last, time a wife trudged off with her ogling hubby in tow. They—the insecure ones—always managed to see her as a threat to their already fucked-up marriages.

  “Damn,” said Isaiah once they were out of earshot. He yanked his arm from her grasp. “What’s up with you now, Quandra, huh?”

  “You eye-fucking that bitch; that’s what’s up now.” LaQuandra slammed a hand up on her hip. “I’m sick of you disrespecting me, Isaiah. What, you wanna fuck her now, too?”

  Isaiah frowned, but damn . . . he’d been busted. “Ain’t nobody thinking about that lil-ass girl,” he lied.

  LaQuandra scoffed. “Yeah, right, motherfucker. I saw how you were looking at her.”

  Isaiah shook his head, and tsked her. “You stay on your bullshit. You know that, right?”

  “Whatever, Isaiah. If you think you’re gonna be sticking your dick in her or any other island bitch, you have another thing coming. If I’m not fucking, neither are you, nigga.”

  All eyes turned to LaQuandra and the spectacle she was making of herself, while Isaiah stayed silent, impassive almost. He wasn’t about to argue with her, not here. Not in front of all these nosey-ass onlookers.

  “Whatever, man. Go get our seats. I’m going to the bar.” Isaiah walked off, leaving LaQuandra looking like a crazed woman. I’m sick of this motherfucker disrespecting me. Eyeballing some other bitch right in front of me. She quickly slid a hand up along the side of her dreadlock bun updo, thankful that Brenda approached her. She desperately needed the distraction, before she really showed her ass.

  “Girl, you okay?” Brenda wanted to know as her gaze skittered from LaQuandra, then over toward the direction of the oval-shaped bar, where Roselle meandered over to. She trusted him enough to know he wouldn’t blatantly do any dumb shit that would get him fucked up out in public, but still . . . she had to be on the lookout.

  Krista had made her way to the ladies room to freshen up, bypassing the two other women. She didn’t particularly care for females. And she only had one good girlfriend, and that was her older sister, Latrice. Out of her four sisters, Latrice was the one whom she confided in, and trusted the most. Sure, she had female acquaintances and colleagues that she’d be friendly with—or perhaps cordial was a better suited-word, but she’d never consider any of them a friend.

  LaQuandra gave Brenda a dismissive wave. “It’s nothing, girl. Just Isaiah being a man, eyes gawking everywhere.”

  Brenda chuckled, smoothing a hand down the front of her dress. “Tell me about it. I’ve been keeping my good eye on Roselle, because I know how he can get. Acting like some horny adolescent boy.”

  LaQuandra glanced around the opulent atrium with its mammoth crystal chandeliers and Fazioli Brunei centered in the middle of the room. The four hundred thousand-dollar grand piano was a spectacular sight to behold for any piano enthusiast.

  “Girl, my motto is,” Brenda said, causing LaQuandra to focus her attention back on her, “let them look. As long as they don’t touch, who gives a damn? I know I don’t. Hell, even I look. And if Roselle’s a good boy, I might even bring him home a sexy treat for us both to enjoy.”

  “Wait,” LaQuandra said, giving her a baffled look. “You go both ways?”

  “Girl, I go whatever way my mood is.” Brenda glanced back over toward the bar and spotted Roselle grinning in the face of a tall woman wearing a red, bullet-cone bra corset with a matching thong. She shook her head. “Anyway, look on the bright side,” Brenda continued. “At least your husband isn’t eyeing another man. Now that might cause a problem.” She tooted her lips as she fingered the triple strand of Tahitian pearls dangling from her neck. “Well, not unless you’re into that kind of stuff.” She eyed LaQuandra, waiting for her reaction. Personally, Brenda loved bisexual men. In fact, one of her exes, Franklin, was bisexual. And he had been upfront with her about his sexuality, which Brenda had found refreshing and oh so very sexy. Franklin had oozed masculinity and sexuality, and he fucked real good. She also had him to thank for turning her on to the world of bisexuality.

  Of course, she was more open-minded than most women, and a whole lot more daring sexually than many, especially black women, she believed. They were simply too uptight about sex and sexuality, unlike her Latina sisters, and—of course, the Beckys of the world.

  LaQuandra frowned. “Hell no. I’m not down with that nasty shit. Bisexual and down-low niggas can’t do shit for me; except for show me where the straight men are.”

  “I heard you on that,” was all Brenda said over a laugh.

  LaQuandra sighed, and then she scanned the bar area. Perhaps she’d overreacted, she mused. Brenda was right. What was the harm in Isaiah looking at that little perky-tit bitch? As long as he was nowhere near Cassandra’s ass, there shouldn’t be any pause for concern.

  No other woman, besides that bitch, was the problem.