They were running late, once again, because of his ass. Red-skinned fucker. She felt like backhanding him. He’d been dragging his heels all goddamn morning, being his usual passive-aggressive self. And all she knew was, if they missed this flight, she was going to jail because she was going to slice open his face with her six-inch acrylics.

  “All I’m saying, Bren, is slow down. Damn.” He shook his head. “I know I was dragging my ass this morning, but that doesn’t mean you gotta be reckless behind the wheel.”

  “Don’t tell me how to drive,” she snapped. She felt like slamming on the brakes and watching his head go through the windshield. God, he made her so fucking sick, just looking at him or hearing his voice made her want to claw his face open. And if she thought she could get away with it without him beating her ass—not that he’d ever put his hands on her, but there was a first time for everything. Shit. She knew her man—pretty boy or not—was no punk, and she knew just how far to go with him; even though he allowed her to get away with more than she knew any other man would.

  Roselle was a mixture of men—a little street, a little hood with a splash of sophistication and lots of education (yes, she’d snatched herself a man with a college degree!). And those were some of the things that had drawn her to him.

  “Yo, I’m not telling you how to drive,” Roselle said, trying his damnedest to keep from snatching the steering wheel from her. “I’m telling you to slow the fuck down. Period.”

  She blinked him back into view and said, “I said I got this.” She clenched her teeth, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “So don’t start your shit with me.”

  Roselle gritted his teeth. This disrespectful bitch! Anger splintered through his mind. He was really getting tired of her calling him out his name. Her slick-ass mouth would be the reason he’d conveniently forget real men didn’t put their hands on women, and crack her motherfucking jaw open. Shit. She was lucky he’d never beat her ass, like the last motherfucker she was with. He didn’t agree with a man putting his hands on a woman, but he definitely understood why some motherfuckers knocked a bitch’s eye socket in, and punched all of her teeth out.

  That mouth.

  Sweat trickled down Roselle’s back. Brenda picked a ninety-eight-degree day to decide she wanted to have the goddamn windows down instead of pumping the AC.

  All for spite, he was sure.

  She was spiteful as hell, he admitted inwardly. I knew I should have driven my own shit, he thought to himself as he took several moments to keep his attitude in check. He glanced over at the speedometer again.

  “Slow the fuck down,” he ground out, giving her a hot stare. “Or pull this motherfucker over.”

  She took her eyes from the road for a moment to throw a glare in his direction. Opened her mouth to say something, but closed it just as quickly. She faced forward before speeding through the intersection. They were only a few blocks from the ramp that led toward the Garden State Parkway, and twenty minutes from the airport.

  Her SUV bounced as she hit a deep pothole.

  “Shit,” she hissed. The last thing she needed was another bent rim or her front end tore up again. She’d just gotten her truck back a few weeks ago after damaging her suspension system.

  Fucking potholes!

  Roselle’s head hit the roof as the car jolted them. “Fuck, yo,” he snapped. “So what you gonna do, tear this motherfucker up?”

  She sped through another intersection, then veered onto the ramp for the Parkway, ignoring him. Several painfully long seconds passed before she shot him another look, and then her eyes narrowed slightly. Her gaze caught his masculine jawline, and she felt herself fighting the urge to slap the shit out of him and then lean over and kiss him.

  She wondered how one man could have such an effect on her. Love him one minute, then hate him the next. Want to kill him one second, then fuck him dry the next.

  “If you wanna live to see another day, I’d advise you to not say another fucking word, Roselle. And I mean it.”

  She stepped on the accelerator.

  Roselle shifted in his seat and frowned.

  But he kept his mouth shut.

  This fuckin’ crazy bitch!

  Two

  I WISH I COULDA LICKED UR ASS N SUCKED UR DICK ONE LAST TIME B4 U LEFT 4 UR TRIP. I LUV THE TASTE OF UR ASS N THAT SWEET NUT ON MY TONGUE

  Kendall grinned as he read the text message, before looking up from his iPhone to see if his wife, Krista, was anywhere in sight. She’d walked off to use the bathroom before they boarded their flight, and the last thing he wanted to do was get caught texting another woman.

  Yeah, it was a No-Strings-Attached situation, but—shit—damned if she didn’t make his dick stir every time he thought about her, or every time she sent him a dirty text. And though he loved his wife, she wasn’t sexually adventurous. She wasn’t open-minded. And she damn sure wasn’t freaky.

  If only she were . . .

  Shit. Quite frankly, Kendall found his wife’s ignorance to sex and sexuality repressive and emotionally stifling. And he blamed her, partially, for his infidelity. Although he knew his cheating was a choice. Still, he believed he wouldn’t have had to seek fulfillment of his baser needs outside of his marriage if she were the type of woman who was more open to explore a wilder side. But, no—hell no—Krista was satisfied with missionary, doggy-style (every few weeks) and, maybe, the occasional cowgirl, where she got on top and rode his dick wet and wild.

  But even that was a stretch.

  Give her a good, old-fashioned missionary dick down and she’d mewl like a kitten, and then sleep like a baby when the deed was done.

  Shit. Krista didn’t even suck dick, except for maybe his birthday and Christmas. She didn’t like having all that leaky shit—referring to his precum—in her mouth, and the thought of his nut busting in her mouth made her stomach queasy.

  Who the fuck didn’t give head? What woman didn’t suck dick in her relationship and expected her man to be okay with that?

  Fuck if he knew.

  Kendall shook his head. The shit disgusted and bored him. And it confused him even more, because he loved his wife. Truly he did. And he loved fucking her. He loved the feel of her pussy rippling along the length of his dick; he loved losing himself inside the warmth of her silken valley. And he loved when she gave into his desire to see her facedown, ass up, her ass cheeks pulled apart and her asshole puckering while he fucked her from the back.

  If only she’d let him spit into her asshole and slide a finger inside, or pull his dick out of her pussy so that he could dip his head in between those soft ass cheeks of hers and tongue that sweet-looking brown hole.

  Fuck yeah. Kendall would love nothing more than to lick all in his wife’s ass. He loved eating ass, almost more than he loved eating pussy. It was still considered so taboo, so dirty . . . and the idea of going against the grain of what society considered sexually acceptable gave him a hard-on. He opened and fanned his legs again. Precum was already coating the head of his dick. It was only a matter of time before there’d be one big-ass wet spot in his Calvin Klein’s.

  DAMN, BABY. WOULDA LUV’D THAT, he quickly texted back.

  Seconds later, his phone buzzed. MMM. ME 2! WHILE UR AWAY WITH UR WIFE, HOPE YOU’LL BE THINKING OF MY TONGUE WEDGED IN BETWEEN THE MANLY GLOBES OF UR ASS AS I’M STROKING UR DICK IN MY SOFT HANDS. MY PUSSY IS SO WET THINKING ABOUT IT

  “Fuck,” he hissed, pressing his legs shut, then spreading them open; he fanned his legs a few more times, the inner part of his muscular thighs pressing into the thick width of his dick; cramped up in his boxer briefs, like a caged beast desperate for release.

  Kendall felt his scrotum swelling with lust. He hadn’t nutted in almost—he glanced down at his Tag Heuer watch—eleven hours. He knew if he didn’t end these sordid text messages soon, he’d wind up having to slip into one of the stalls in the men’s bathroom and rub out a quick nut, before they were shuttled to their plane, just to ease the pressure.

  His balls were heavy and tender and begging for release.

  That’s what sexting with her did to him. Wet his drawers with his arousal, with his hungry need and freaky want for her.

  Persia.

  He didn’t necessarily consider her a sidepiece, although they hooked up at least once or twice a month over the last two years, but they were definitely friends, of sort, with benefits. Though he didn’t have feelings for her (other than having a fondness and mutual respect and admiration for her sexual confidence)—or at least he didn’t think it was any more than that—they shared a special connection. Their sexual chemistry was intense. She was sexy as fuck, freaky as fuck, and chill as fuck.

  Everything his wife wasn’t.

  He’d met Persia nearly three years ago when she’d replied to an sex ad he’d posted on a sex site called Nastyfreaks4u.com looking for an open-minded woman for no-strings, stress-free freaky fun that included sucking his dick, licking his ass, and stroking his prostate—yes, he was a heterosexual man who enjoyed having his asshole licked. What was the problem with that?

  Nothing, he thought.

  But his wife, and so many other closed-minded women like her, didn’t share that same sentiment. They saw a man enjoying ass play as being either gay or on some down-low shit. That was some straight-up bullshit. He couldn’t speak for anyone else, but he was neither. And, he learned that he wasn’t alone in his desires. There were other straight women-loving men out there, like himself, who enjoyed having their assholes licked and their prostates stroked.

  So he would post ads from time to time—not anymore, though, since he and Persia connected. But, in the past, when his dark desires crept up in him and they needed to be indulged, he’d post an ad; like the one he’d posted the day he’d met Persia.

  And out of all the responses he’d received, she’d been the only one who captured his attention. And held his interest.

  And she’d kept it since.

  NO DOUBT, he finally replied back. DEF GONNA KEEP THAT WET TONGUE N THEM SEXY LIPS ON THE BRAIN

  “Who is that you’re texting?”

  Shit.

  “It’s work,” Kendall lied, glancing up at his wife, who was wearing a frown on her smooth brown face. Krista wasn’t the prettiest woman, but she wasn’t butt-ugly either. She was simply unassuming. Plain-looking. However, what she lacked in the looks department, she made up for in other areas.

  Krista huffed. “Don’t they know you’re on vacation?”

  He looked over at his wife, sheepishly, as she plopped down beside him. “I’m not officially on vacation—if that’s what you wanna call it—until we board the plane.”

  Krista rolled her eyes. “Well, you need to officially let them know that you’re off duty for the next six weeks, starting right now. And I mean it, Ken.”

  Krista snatched open her pocketbook, and pulled out her own cell to check for any missed calls or messages. There were none. “You’re the one who convinced me to go on this couple’s retreat for six damn weeks—having me use up all of my time at work.” She shook her head, trying to bite back her annoyance.

  This whole idea of Kendall telling her he wanted more intimacy, more excitement, between them was a bunch of foolishness. As far as Krista was concerned, Kendall got more sex than most married men, so what more did he want from her?

  How more intimate did he want her to be? Did he want her to fuck him upside down from a chandelier? Swing from a damn stripper pole? Invite another woman into their sacred bed? Suck and swallow his damn dick?

  No.

  She was not about to ratchet up her sex life to appease some selfish-ass man, who couldn’t appreciate all the good loving she’d been giving him. Letting him use her body up. Fuck her pussy inside out whenever he wanted. Hell no. And she knew good and goddamn well—even though he’d hinted around the subject several times over the course of their marriage—Kendall wasn’t even thinking she was going to consider letting him stick his fingers in her butt, or lick her there. It was nasty. And unnatural for a man to want his tongue wedged in the crack of some woman’s ass. And she wasn’t even about to go there with him.

  Her asshole was off limits.

  Krista looked over at Kendall. “The least you can do is disconnect from work and that damn phone.”

  Krista was right. He had been the one who broached the subject of taking part in a couple’s retreat with two other couples on a remote, private island in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean. Krista had been reluctant, more like resistant. But he was persistent, and still very patient, presenting it like a chance of an opportunity to take a long-needed vacation. But secretly, he hoped that working with a sex therapist/relationship coach might help loosen the screws on his wife’s prudish ways.

  “I don’t need no damn therapy,” she’d said to him when he’d approached her with the idea of doing couples work. “Are you unhappy? Because if so, then you’re the one who needs the therapist.”

  He quickly texted: WIFE. GOTTA GO. TTYL

  Persia would know not to reply back. They understood each other’s boundaries and relationships. She too was involved—happily as she would say. In fact, she was due to be married sometime next year.

  Krista tossed her phone back into her purse, then shot Kendall an evil eye.

  “Okay, baby,” he finally said to his wife. And then he quickly deleted the entire text, before powering off his cell and sliding it down into his front pocket. He leaned over and kissed his wife on her pouty lips. “Whatever you say.”

  Three

  “Why the hell are you on the phone with that bitch right now, Isaiah, huh?” LaQuandra hissed as she dragged her carry-on onto the luxurious aircraft, The Pleasure Chest. A ninety-foot-long Gulfstream G500, with enough space to accommodate twenty passengers.

  “She doesn’t need to know shit about . . .”

  Isaiah ignored his wife. She stayed tripping and talking dumb shit. Fuck what she was talking, his BM—baby mother—needed to know he’d be out of the country for a minute, and that he’d only be accessible via email (one of the rules for couples taking part in the retreat) if something popped off regarding his teenaged son, Isaiah Jr.

  So fuck what she was popping shit about.

  He caught the eye of a brown-skinned woman who looked up from her book, The Wait, and nearly frowned as LaQuandra breezed by her seat. LaQuandra gave the woman the evil eye as she proceeded to an empty set of seats on the other side of the spacious cabin.

  Good, Krista thought as the loudmouthed woman walked by. She didn’t want that in back of her, all up in her ear with all that negative energy the whole flight. She cursed herself for not bringing her Essential oils to ward off negative energy; that one there needed an exorcism, Krista mused, before catching the eye of Isaiah.

  Isaiah offered her an apologetic smile as he strolled behind LaQuandra, while he listened to his BM on the other end of the phone run her mouth nonstop. LaQuandra and his BM were more alike than not when it came to not knowing when to shut the fuck up.

  Krista shifted in her seat. Isaiah was handsome, Krista thought as she returned a smile of her own, one meant to be more sympathetic than friendly.

  She decided she’d seen enough and returned to the page in her book.

  “And why is you gonna be gone for so long with that dogged-face bitch, anyway?” Isaiah’s BM asked. “I know that flat-ass ho ain’t ever gonna clap her ass cheeks around that big thick dick the way I do.”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Cass, chill with that shit,” he whispered. “You always tryna . . .”

  “Isaiah, did you hear what the fuck I said?” LaQuandra said in a staged-whisper as she slung her carry-on into the overhead compartment. She waited for Isaiah to come closer and then snatched his cell phone from his hand. “My husband has to go. Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t fucking bother him, or us, unless it’s an emergency.”

  Isaiah didn’t even try to take the phone from her. It was useless. He simply repositioned his wife’s carry-on in the overhead bin, then slid his carry-on inside, before closing it shut.

  “Coon bitch, boom!” his BM snapped loud enough for Isaiah to hear through the phone. “Eat my ass, LaQuandra. He might be off with you, but he’ll still be thinking about all this big fluffy ass I shook in his—”

  LaQuandra removed the phone from her ear and ended the call. Then she threw Isaiah’s cell phone at him. “I know you did not fuck that bitch last night when you dropped little Isaiah off.”

  He sucked his teeth. “Quandra, chill with the dumb shit, a’ight. No we didn’t fuck. Damn.” He’d only eaten her pussy, then tongued out her ass. So technically he wasn’t lying. And lying by omission didn’t count.

  Did it?

  “Well, you sure as hell haven’t been fucking me,” she said nastily.

  Isaiah cringed, glancing around the aircraft’s cabin. The last thing he wanted was for the two other couples to hear LaQuandra’s big-ass mouth. Too late. They’d heard it all.

  He shot her a hot glare. “Bring the volume down.”

  LaQuandra sucked her teeth. “My volume is down. But if you want me to turn it all the way up, you know I will.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Isaiah said, taking a seat across from his wife. “Whatever you say, Quandra. Just sit the fuck down and use your damn quiet voice.” Before I punch your fucking teeth out.

  Roselle glanced over at Isaiah, and smirked, giving him a head nod. Isaiah did the same, then shook his head, causing Roselle to chuckle. Roselle’s wife, Brenda, gave him a look, then made a face, before dipping her gaze back down to the Ebony magazine article she was reading on her iPad.

  Isaiah spotted a sleek bar near the back of the aircraft and swallowed the cotton swelling in the back of his mouth. Shit. He needed a drink.

  He sighed. “Look, Quandra. I’m not tryna beef with you.”

  “Neither am I,” LaQuandra admitted, finally taking her seat.

  “A’ight then. ’Cause I’m not flying halfway around the country to hear you bitching and complaining the whole time because if that’s what you’re about to do, I can get my shit and step.” He raised a brow, then pinned her with a hard stare.