She’d been with Sin more times than his brother Saint. But she’d never had the pleasure of being with Soul. And yet here she was with all three.

  Their glorious erections (thick chocolate cylinders etched with veins) hers, all for the taking—to be sucked and fucked.

  Saint’s mouth brushed across the column of her neck, and Dr. Dangerfield bent her head to one side to welcome his lips as each kiss caused her skin to heat.

  He slipped a hand between her thighs and found her clit, already slippery with want, the hardened nub throbbing with need. He pressed on it, and Dr. Dangerfield gasped—from the pressure, from Soul in back of her, on his knees, spreading open her ass and licking her there.

  “Is her pussy wet?” Sin asked as his hands closed over her breasts. He leaned in, flicking his tongue over one chocolate nipple.

  “Let me find out for you,” Saint said and then he dipped a finger into her naked pussy, stroking upward, twice, three times, through her wetness. “Ah, yeah. That shit wet.”

  Dr. Dangerfield moaned, her body thrumming with a slow burning fire that only a hard fucking could extinguish.

  Soul nipped at each of her ass cheeks, then slapped them, making her ass jiggle, the sting causing a bubble of aching need to stretch inside her.

  “Fuck me,” she whispered frantically.

  No one spoke.

  Instead, she was being flipped over to her stomach, having a pair of pillows shoved under her. Grabbing her hips, Saint was the first to thrust deep inside her.

  Dr. Dangerfield gasped and her pussy grew unimaginably wetter as Soul greeted her lips with his long, ten-and-a-half-inch dick.

  He slid his dick over her lips, then swung it like a bat, slapping it across her face, her lips. Dr. Dangerfield gazed at it.

  “Stick out your wet tongue,” Soul urged. And she did, allowing him to slap the rigid shaft down on her tongue. Spit splattered with each slap.

  “Look up at me,” he said.

  Dr. Dangerfield’s eyes fluttered up as Soul finally slid his dick over her tongue and into her waiting mouth toward the back of her throat, stopping when her lips rested not even halfway up its length.

  She grunted as Saint pummeled inside of her, his balls slapping against her ass with each greedy thrust.

  “Man, shit. This pussy good,” Saint said, more to himself than anyone else. Several pumps later, he was pulling out of her quaking body, and Sin was sinking his dick into her cunt in place of Saint’s.

  Dr. Dangerfield’s moans and spit gurgled over and around Soul’s dick.

  “Yeah, suck this dick, baby,” Soul murmured; his throaty voice spurring her on to suck him deeper, wetter, swallowing him down her neck.

  Dr. Dangerfield felt herself going faint as Soul’s dick clogged her airway. “Ahh, ahh, ahh.”

  “Yeah, gag on that shit, baby.”

  Eyes filled with tears, she breathed through her nose and focused on loosening the muscles in her throat, letting Soul fuck her there as much as possible without gagging, without choking to death.

  “Ah fuck, yeah,” he muttered. “She got some good neck. Ah, shit . . .”

  “Let me get some of that wet mouth,” Saint said, holding his hard, beautiful shaft at the base as he moved in.

  Sin groaned in back of Dr. Dangerfield as she arched her back and melted around his thrust. Pound, pound, pound—oh God, yes, yes, yes. Harder. Harder. Harder.

  “Ahh, ahh, ahh,” she grunted as saliva splashed out from her mouth. Then her mouth was being stretched wide—two huge, mushroom-sized heads between her lips.

  Saint and Soul feeding her mouth; the sweet, salty mixture of their precum gathered on their tips and she suckled, edging out more of their cock juice.

  Dr. Dangerfield raised her gaze as she sucked them both. And then she cried out over their dicks as Sin’s dick bumped her cervix. She gasped and mewled with every lunge inside her lush body.

  “Yeah, Sin,” Saint rasped. “You hitting that shit. Beat them guts up, bruh.”

  “This pussy so fucking . . . wet,” Sin breathed out. And then he groaned as her walls tightened around him. He felt the base of his spine tingling and his balls tightening. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer if he kept stroking her, so he pulled out.

  “Nooo,” Dr. Dangerfield cried. “More dick. Please. Give me more.”

  Nothing more needed to be said. Her wish was their command.

  With her mouth full of two dicks at a time, they took turns fucking her mouth, her pussy, their strong hands grabbing her by the waist, their balls slapping wildly into her ass.

  One after the other, they stretched her. Fucked into every part of her pussy until her vision blurred and all she could see through her watery eyes were white lights.

  In and out, in and out . . .

  Switch.

  In and out, in and out . . .

  Switch.

  In and out, in and out . . .

  Switch.

  One hard dick after the other was being pulled out to be only replaced with another, lunging in, sinking deeply into every space of her core.

  Dr. Dangerfield moaned, her cunt clutching wildly, each stroke making her pussy juicier than the stroke before.

  More wet gurgling sounds burst from the back of her throat.

  “Goddaaamn,” Saint hissed. “She’s sucking the shit out these dicks.”

  Soul grunted in agreement. He’d always heard the good ole doctor was a freak. He’d be back for another round for sure—but alone.

  He wanted this fine, freaky-bitch all to himself.

  They fucked her until the wee hours of the morning, ravishing Dr. Dangerfield’s cunt, her mouth, giving her the most exquisite pleasure imaginable.

  “Ah, God, yes.”

  Click, click, click.

  Her wet pussy squishes.

  Click, click, click.

  Her wet mouth squishes.

  The sounds become a sensual melody over the sweet hum of Dr. Dangerfield’s moaning. She is plummeting over the edge, coming, coming, coming . . .

  Shrieking in ecstasy.

  Mewling in bliss.

  Now Dr. Dangerfield was being flipped on her back.

  More thrusting. More pounding. More deep fucking, primal grunts and low groans snatched the air around them. Each man’s orgasm spun out of their bodies, bursting through swollen dickheads, splashing out in thick ropes of white cream.

  And then they took turns licking over her pussy, sinking their mouths where each one’s dick had been, their individual tongues swirling in hot, rhythmic circles on her engorged clit.

  Dr. Dangerfield whimpered helplessly as more pleasure spiraled through her and instinctively, she thrust upward into their alternating mouths, basking in the sensations that ebbed and flowed through her body.

  Her pussy surged with fresh juices, even after having just come—for the third time.

  “Oh yes, oh yes,” she murmured. “Lick my pussy. Bite my clit . . . oooh, yes . . .”

  Saint, Sin, and Soul licked and kissed over her body. Three male mouths on her flesh one at a time. Dr. Dangerfield shut her eyes, drank in the pleasure, felt it pulsating through her pussy.

  And then cried out.

  Thirty-Eight

  Investment . . .

  The giving of one’s self to a relationship.

  It required honesty and respect.

  It required time, energy, and emotion.

  It required letting go of ego and pride.

  It required attention and affection.

  And, most importantly, it required effort.

  Partners needed to put something into the relationship in order to get something out of it. And in doing so, it created the possibility of long-term sustainability—the weathering of life storms, together, with purpose and passion.

  Dr. Dangerfield saw more too often than not many couples who were simply staying in relationships with men and women who they saw no real future with just for the sake of not being alone. They were staying in marriages that were lacking in trust, intimacy, openness, and love. Expecting something for nothing. Expecting change when they weren’t willing to change. Expecting respect when they themselves were not willing to give respect.

  Yes, investing in any relationship came with risk and a certain level of vulnerability. But the more couples put into their relationships (and in their partners), the greater were the returns.

  So the question always remained: Was the relationship an asset or an endless debt? Bad investments, even in relationships, never ended with a happy return.

  “Mr. Lewis, how are things going with you and your wife?” Dr. Dangerfield asked, not expecting love and light at the end of the proverbial rainbow. But the couple was due for their next session together and she wanted to know how many Excedrin she’d need to pack in her bag the day of.

  Isaiah shrugged. “It’s a’ight. I guess. Quandra’s Quandra.” He tilted his head and raised a brow. “Need I say more?”

  Dr. Dangerfield gave him a sympathetic look. Not because she felt sorry for him. No. She held no pity toward him, or for him. Fact of the matter was, Isaiah was responsible for his own misery. And he’d sit in it, drown in it, and—more likely than not, die in it—unless he did something different. But. There was always a but.

  Isaiah seemed unmotivated. And he seemed to be attracted to drama—some men were. From all outward appearances, Isaiah was unmoved and unbothered by the fact that his marriage was rapidly deteriorating. And Dr. Dangerfield wanted to know if his aloofness was a defense mechanism or did he simply not give a damn.

  “Do you want your marriage, Mr. Lewis?” Dr. Dangerfield asked.

  Isaiah leaned forward in his seat, fixing her with a hard stare. “If I say no?”

  It was on the tip of Dr. Dangerfield’s tongue to congratulate him for getting the hell out of it, if he didn’t want to be chained to his miserable state or to the likes of his wife anymore. But that wouldn’t have been professional of her, so she settled on, “Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Nah. That’s not what I’m saying.” He pushed out a curse. “Shit. I don’t know if I do or don’t. All I know is, shit has to change.” His voice took on a more purposeful tone, and he leaned back, surveying Dr. Dangerfield with appraising eyes. “Tell me, Doc. You married?”

  Dr. Dangerfield regarded him, mulled over his question. She didn’t typically self-disclose too much about herself with clients, but it was an appropriate question. And so she said, “No. Divorced.”

  “You left him?” Isaiah asked.

  Dr. Dangerfield shook her head. “No. We left each other.” And no she had no interest in expounding on that tidbit. They’d simply outgrown one another. Outside of sex, they’d had no real common ground. He’d wanted to gamble and trick his money away on luxury cars, slot machines, strippers, and cocaine.

  And the husband before Taylor had been blessed with big beautiful balls and a long tongue. But he’d been cursed with an itty-bitty dick. And he came quickly. Yet that hadn’t stopped him from fucking half of Venice Beach, then coming home and bringing her gonorrhea.

  She’d divorced him—quick, fast, and in a hurry, taking with her the summer home in Hawaii, along with three hundred-thousand dollars as part of her divorce settlement.

  “Sometimes couples outgrow one another. Sometimes they fall out of love with one another. And other times, the blueprint of their life plan has changed and the person they’d thought they’d wanted to build a life with is no longer who they thought they were. I say all that to say, people change. Relationships change. Needs and wants and desires change. But most couples won’t talk honestly about it. Or they’re afraid of letting go.”

  “So the question is, Mr. Lewis, how invested are you in your marriage at this very moment? Because right now is all that really matters.”

  Isaiah shrugged. “Right now . . .” He let out a sigh. “It’s whatever. If Quandra stays, she stays. If not, I’m cool with that too.”

  Dr. Dangerfield regarded him thoughtfully. “I see. So at this moment, you have very little investment in your marriage or in trying to fix what’s broken.”

  Isaiah shook his head. “Man, listen. I’m tired; feel me? You don’t know what I have to put up with. Shit’s draining.”

  “I can only imagine. Still, it is all by your choice,” Dr. Dangerfield pointed out. “We always have a choice in what we allow in our lives.”

  “It’s not always that cut-and-dry,” he stated.

  “You don’t love her, do you?” Roselle asked bluntly as he stared at Isaiah. He couldn’t relate to not wanting his wife. He wanted Brenda. He loved her. And he wanted his marriage. Fuck whatever hoes he fucked in between time. Bottom line, he wasn’t leaving her crazy ass.

  Isaiah was caught off guard by Roselle’s question. And yet he felt compelled to be straight-up with him. “No, I don’t. I mean. I care about her. We’ve been through a lot of shit together. But . . . fuck.”

  “But what?” Dr. Dangerfield asked.

  Isaiah shook his head, more in disbelief than anything else. He was surprised at himself for openly admitting as much as he’d already shared. Most times he just pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind and drowned his feelings in work and bottles of brew, or Hennessy—or any other dark liquor that would give him the buzz he needed to cope.

  “Like I said. I’m tired.” And that was the truth. He was tired of LaQuandra. Tired of Cassandra. Tired, tired, tired—of both of those crazy bitches.

  “Then it’s time you reevaluate your situation,” Dr. Dangerfield said softly. “And make some changes. Being unhappy is unfair to you. And it’s unfair to your wife. Being miserable isn’t what marriage is about.”

  Isaiah shook his head solemnly. She was right. But shit. He had too much time and money tied up in his marriage. They’d recently bought a new home, a bigger home—one he knew would never be filled with more kids. Something he wanted. He knew LaQuandra wouldn’t want to sell their home and she definitely wouldn’t move out, so he’d have to be okay with practically giving it to her. And he wasn’t.

  “It’s obvious,” Dr. Dangerfield stated, “that there’s no real emotional investment in your marriage. Staying and being miserable only depletes the remaining balance of your emotional reserve.”

  Isaiah tsked. “Man, listen. The bank is broke. I’m drained. I have nothing left to give.”

  “Damn, bruh,” Roselle said, shaking his head. “That’s fucked.”

  Isaiah simply nodded. There wasn’t anything else to add to that. All around, he knew he was in a fucked-up situation.

  “Mr. Lewis, if there is anything else you’d like to share, the floor is still yours.”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’m good.”

  “I’m available to you,” she offered. “Anytime you need to talk, to sort things out, you can reach out to me.” He nodded, appreciatively. And then Dr. Dangerfield moved on to Roselle.

  “Mr. Woods, I know you’ve been very vocal about how much you love your wife . . .”

  “No doubt,” Roselle said over a smile. “That’s my baby.”

  Dr. Dangerfield offered a slight smile of her own. “But do you love her enough to give up your cheating? Every time you engage in a one-night stand—and your wife catches you or learns about it—you are taking away from the marriage; you are robbing your wife.”

  Roselle gave her a questioning look.

  “You are stealing hope for her marriage away from her. You’re taking marital investments and laying them down in bed with another woman. Every time you cheat, you steal from her, Mr. Woods.” Dr. Dangerfield kept her tone even, nonthreatening, nonjudgmental, and almost soothing.

  Roselle cringed inwardly. He didn’t like the way that sounded. “I don’t cheat on Brenda to hurt her. Shit. Most times, I don’t expect to get caught.”

  “And yet you still do,” Dr. Dangerfield stated.

  Roselle frowned but didn’t deny it. And he didn’t interrupt her.

  “There are cracks in your marriage, Mr. Woods. Even if you can’t see them, they exist. And each time you cheat, you are chipping away at the foundation of your marriage. It’s only a matter of time before it—your marriage—starts to crumble.”

  Roselle shifted in his seat. “Nah. We good. Brenda ain’t leaving me. Ever.”

  “I didn’t say she would,” Dr. Dangerfield said. “All I’m stating is the obvious. And yet you still haven’t answered the question.”

  Dr. Dangerfield caught Kendall’s eyes on her. He’d found himself staring at her. Staring through her. There was something about her that reminded him of Persia. Maybe it was the short, pixie-style haircut. Or maybe it was the way she subconsciously licked over her perfectly glossed lips that made him think of Persia’s hot, wet tongue on his dick, his balls—and fuck yeah—in his ass. And the thought was not only making him horny, but it was making his dick painfully hard as well.

  Shit.

  “What was the question again?” Roselle asked.

  Dr. Dangerfield crossed her legs at her ankles. “I asked if you loved your wife enough to give up your womanizing ways? But now I’m asking if you are more invested in cheating than you are in your marriage?”

  Damn.

  Roselle couldn’t say he could give it up. But he didn’t want to say he wouldn’t either. So he settled for somewhere in the middle. “I can only try.”

  And Dr. Dangerfield took that to mean he’d stick his dick in the next wet hole made available to him—just like on the beach, and on the plane ride. Yes. She knew all about those indiscretions. Nothing happened here that she wasn’t privy to.

  “Trying is a start,” is all she offered. And then her attention moved on to Kendall.

  “Mr. Evans, are you okay? You seem a bit preoccupied today.”

  Kendall stretched out his legs and ran his palms down along the inside of his thighs as he stretched. He shifted into the plush leather cushion of his chair.

  Yeah. I’m horny. I want my prostate stroked, so I can bust a good nut.

  He and Krista still had not completed Dr. Dangerfield’s masturbation assignment, because he hadn’t been in the mood to. And Krista hadn’t shown much enthusiasm nor interest in the idea.