Krista blinked again, suddenly feeling dirty and unkempt. “Can I help you?” she said, her voice coated with disdain. She tried not to inhale the sweetness of her scent.

  “No, my darling. You can’t. I’m here to help you,” Nairobia said sweetly. “May I come in?”

  “Hell no! You may not,” Krista heard herself saying as she stared at Nairobia, dressed in some sheer pink gown—long, flowy, fitted waist, plunging neckline—that once again left nothing to the imagination.

  Krista caught the dark prints of Nairobia’s peaked nipples and quickly shifted her eyes. The tramp had no shame. She wanted to slam the door in her face. Tell this slutty bitch how she really felt about her and her wicked island. But she wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. For she knew the devil was a damn lie.

  Krista stepped back, motioning for her to come inside.

  Nairobia grinned. She made the church frump nervous. Without invitation, she took a seat on the love seat. And then Nairobia patted the empty space beside her, ignoring the indignation on Krista’s face. “Come, my love. Sit. Let us get better acquainted.”

  Krista folded her arms. “No. I’m perfectly fine standing.”

  Nairobia offered her a smile. “You do not like Passion Island, no?”

  Krista shrugged. “No—yes. I mean, it’s a beautiful island. But . . .” Krista shook her head. “This island is not for me.”

  “You wish to leave, no?”

  Krista shifted her weight again, and the look of contempt in her eyes did not go unnoticed. “Yes. I’m ready to get home.”

  Nairobia nodded, knowingly. “My loins ache for you, my darling,” she said as she ran a hand through her hair. Women like Krista might have found Nairobia repulsive because of the fact that she proudly wore her sexuality like a second skin. But Nairobia found women like Krista just as revolting. A bunch of frigid, prudish bitches who lived their lives sexually repressed, simply because they were too afraid of letting go, too fearful of giving into their deepest desires.

  Krista scowled. “Excuse you?”

  “Your enslavement, my darling. It aches my loins knowing you are so trapped, sexually, my darling.”

  Krista blinked.

  “Yes, my love. My kut weeps for you. It aches for your liberation.”

  Krista gave her a quizzical look, one that Nairobia purposefully ignored. She glanced over at the basket on the table. “You do not like my gifts, no?”

  “The basket was thoughtful,” Krista said, shifting her weight from one flat foot to the other. “But it’s not for me?”

  Nairobia gave Krista an amused look. “Why not, my darling? Do you not enjoy the hum of a vibrator rolling over your clit, or wetly wedged inside your kut, humming along your walls?”

  Krista swallowed. “I just don’t like them.”

  “Shame, my love. Do you not touch yourself?”

  Krista frowned. “That’s none of your damn business,” she said indignantly. “Now why exactly are you here?”

  Nairobia’s gaze roamed over Krista. She was nothing exciting to look at. Her cunt did not clutch from the sight of her. “You are only good pussy because your husband tells you so, no?”

  Krista’s brow rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  Nairobia stood to her feet, untying the knot around her waist.

  Krista blinked. “W-w-what are you—”

  “You are not good pussy, my love,” Nairobia continued as she opened her gown and allowed the flimsy material to flutter to the floor. “And you are, sadly, my darling, not good loving. You are simply wet walls.” Nairobia walked over to the gift basket and pulled out one of her favorites from her toy collection. She tore open the box and quickly pulled the toy out of its package. Then she wielded the ten-inch-long vibrating dong at Krista, who stood in shock as Nairobia reached inside the basket again and then pulled out her trademarked lube, Sweet Pleasure.

  Krista felt the blood draining from her face. “Get out,” she said in a stricken voice. And yet she didn’t move to show her to the door. She couldn’t. Her feet were stuck in place.

  Nairobia widened her stance. “You are just a shell, my darling. An empty vessel for your husband to plant his seeds in; that is all, my love.”

  Krista’s eyes widened in disbelief, a mixture of alarm and an unexplainable amount of fascination flowing through her veins, as Nairobia squirted lube over the silicone phallus, using her hand to slather the gel up and down its shaft and then over its head.

  “The essence of sexuality, my darling, is in the giving and receiving of sexual pleasures between two lovers,” Nairobia continued, pressing the multi-speed vibrator on a random setting. She slid the dildo between her legs. Krista’s gaze followed Nairobia’s hand as she slid the dildo over her clit and then slid it back and forth over the opening of her slit.

  Krista’s mouth opened to say something, but she clamped it shut when Nairobia said, “And you will lose your husband to another. You will lose him to not only good pussy, but to good loving and unforgettable fucking, my darling . . .”

  Nairobia kept her eyes trained on Krista. “You are not unforgettable, my darling. Your kut is not unforgettable.”

  This brazen bitch! Krista felt violated. How dare she disrespect her? Wait. Had Kendall said something to her? Had Dr. Dangerfield? Krista nervously shifted her gaze from Nairobia’s hand to the floor to the front door and then back to the low hum between Nairobia’s thighs.

  “Loving your kut, my darling, is loving yourself,” Nairobia said huskily. Her hips sensually moved as she pressed the head of the dildo into the mouth of her pussy. “You cannot love you, without loving it.” Nairobia dipped at the knees, pushing inch after inch of her dildo inside her. “Mmm . . . ooh . . . your kut . . . uh . . . is happiest when you feed it. When you allow it to be free. Do you not want to free your pussy, my love?”

  And then the dildo was gone. Wetly sucked into Nairobia’s body, humming on a high speed.

  Krista’s heart pumped fiercely, but she was too numbed by shock to feel the anger that her mind told her she should feel. Her face drained as realization dawned. What if Kendall walked in and found this whore fucking herself in the middle of their living room?

  She couldn’t let that happen. She remembered all too well that look he’d had in his eyes for her. “I need you to leave,” Krista said in a panicked tone. “Now. Or I will call security.” And yet she didn’t make a start toward the door.

  Nairobia tossed her head back and laughed. “This is my island, darling.” And then she pinned her with a look, her gray eyes shimmering pools of heated lust as she pulled the dildo from her cunt and then slowly licked over it.

  Krista blinked.

  “I will leave you with the scent of my pussy, my love. And the memory of these last words: You are a lazy lay. Selfish in your deeds.” Nairobia swirled her tongue over the top of the phallus’s head. And then she sucked it into her mouth before her pink tongue laved over her lips. “Your handsome husband, so virile, so hungry, needs a whole woman, my darling. A sensual woman, a sexual woman, a woman comfortable in her sexuality, a woman fearlessly willing to embrace her desires—one who knows how to embrace her strength and her femininity, while still allowing him to be a man. That woman is not you, my darling.”

  Nairobia shamelessly laid the cum-slick dildo on the table next to the basket.

  Krista frowned.

  Nairobia bent at the knees and scooped up her gown, sliding her arms through its sleeves. She sauntered toward the door. “And, my darling,” Nairobia said over her shoulder, “know this: someone else will give your husband what you are too afraid to give. Pleasure.”

  Forty-Four

  Fuck.

  No motherfucking Wi-Fi service again.

  Isaiah tossed his phone.

  He was drunk. And he was horny. And he wanted to bust a nut. But he wasn’t going to lie on this pullout sofa bed another moment longer playing with his dick without being able to watch porn. Something he’d been doing in the wee hours of the night—well, most late nights whenever his Wi-Fi connected—since arriving on the island.

  But, tonight, this motherfucking island and its whack-ass tower were fucking up his flow.

  He couldn’t just close his eyes and masturbate. He tried it. But his mind wandered. And then his dick would go from rock-hard to semi-hard to near flaccid. So then he would tug at his soft dick, shaking and pulling at it to get it to rise to the occasion. The shit was pissing him off. His sac was full of nut that he needed rubbed out.

  So he forced himself to try to think of something, like Cassandra—fucking her in that big ass of hers. The way she felt. The way his dick felt inside of it. The way she came around his dick—out of her ass while her pussy squirted.

  Isaiah squeezed his eyes shut tightly. And concentrated.

  Yeah. That was usually enough to get him off. But—fuck. Not tonight. Not after he’d snuck back over to Club Passion earlier tonight. Although he didn’t participate in any of the fuck-tivities, he’d watched some serous girl-on-girl shit pop off on the dance floor. Being in the club again, surrounded by all them sexy-ass broads—naked and horny; watching motherfuckers fuck all around him while on the dance floor—he now found it hard to keep his fantasizing focused on Cassandra’s freak-ass.

  He needed something more.

  Wet pussy.

  He could still smell it. It had clung thickly in the air in the club by the end of the night, and now he wanted some. But not from LaQuandra. He wasn’t putting his dick in her—again, until he knew what he wanted from her.

  He let out a frustrated sigh. Shit. What was the real point in that? By not fucking her—his wife, what was he proving? And in the end, what was the benefit of not fucking her when he had readily available pussy in reach?

  Fuck if he knew. All he knew was, he had a hard dick, and needed some pussy.

  Isaiah lightly pinched his right nipple while slowly massaging the head of his dick.

  Wake up, little big man. Damn. Let me get this nut out.

  Frustrated, Isaiah kicked the sheet off of him, and then bent one leg at the knee. He scrunched his face up and then he saw it. The Butterfly. Its colorful wings stretched out across the bare ass of the mocha-skinned beauty he’d seen a while back dancing up on the stage. Damn, she had a big, juicy ass.

  “Yeah, there you go,” he muttered. “All that big ass.” Slowly, his dick began to swell as he stroked himself. “Uh, yeah, baby. Bend over ‘n’ let me stick this fat, hairy dick in you,” he whispered. Isaiah hock-spit into his hand and then used it as lubricant to stroke himself, his palm slipping wetly over his now swollen dickhead.

  He frantically fisted his dick, his lids sliding shut as he grunted and ground his ass down into the mattress as his hips moved in sync with his hand movement.

  “So fucking horny,” he rasped.

  Isaiah’s balls swelled. He was finally on the verge of spilling out his orgasm. Eyes shut tight, in his mind’s eye, he saw that elaborate butterfly fluttering as Mocha’s ass bounced back on his dick.

  “Aah. Shit . . .”

  Isaiah sensed something in the room and his hooded lids slowly lifted. “Aah, sh—what the fuck . . .?”

  LaQuandra was staring down at him. Naked, the moonlight illuminated her shiny, dark skin. She shimmered.

  “I don’t know who the fuck you’re thinking about,” she said tersely. “But you’re not wasting that nut tonight.” And then the weight of her body sank into the mattress beside him.

  “Yo, what the fuck is you doing?”

  LaQuandra climbed up on top of him. “You fucking me tonight, nigga.”

  “Nah. Go ’head. Damn.”

  “I’m not asking you.” LaQuandra slid down his body.

  “I’m not beat,” he said, the resolute sound of his tone defying his throbbing dick as she snatched his hand away from his dick and licked up the back of his shaft, before flicking her tongue over the head.

  And though his mouth said no, his hands delved into her hair, holding her between his legs as he guided her to his hard dick.

  He gritted his teeth as the wet heat from LaQuandra’s mouth engulfed him. She sucked over his head, suckling and nursing there, before licking his balls, running a thumb up the length of his dick. And then she drew her tongue up the back of his dick again.

  Isaiah hissed in burning need, forgetting his mantra of not wanting her, of not fucking her.

  LaQuandra’s tongue cradled his dick. She needed this—him, his dick. Hunger seared her entire body as she took Isaiah to the back of her throat, then eased out with a wet suction so strong that Isaiah’s toes curled.

  LaQuandra dug her fingernails into his thighs as Isaiah fisted his hand in her braids, and fucked himself into her mouth.

  No, this motherfucker wasn’t coming into her mouth—not tonight. Her pussy. It had to be there. She wanted it there. His dick, his nut . . . buried deep inside her.

  She struggled against the tight grip of his hands, holding her head like a basketball as he thrust in and out of her mouth, each time his dick going deeper, deeper, until she had him lodged down into her neck.

  Abruptly, she pulled back and all that could be heard was a loud pop when his dick left her mouth. Her pussy clenched for the long, heavy length of him.

  Isaiah growled in frustration. “Fuck.”

  LaQuandra licked his balls again, and then she eased back up his body, her wet pussy dragging over his shaft, then resting over his dickhead.

  She leaned in and kissed him.

  For a second, Isaiah struggled against the kiss, but LaQuandra persisted, devouring him. Reluctantly, his mouth parted and LaQuandra’s tongue swept the roof of his mouth, before dancing around his tongue. He tasted of Jack Daniel’s and beer. And LaQuandra groaned inside his mouth. The blood heating through her veins now pooling between her legs caused her cunt to quiver.

  “You fucking me tonight, Isaiah.”

  “Go ’head, Quandra. Damn. I told you I’m not tryna fuck you.”

  LaQuandra sucked on his earlobe. “I’m not asking. I’m your wife, and this dick is mine. So close your eyes and keep thinking about whatever bitch you thinking about. But tonight, this dick is going in my pussy.”

  When her hand drifted down his abdomen and she reached for his dick, Isaiah pushed out a groan. She rubbed over the heavy weight of it, and then circled her fingers around it.

  “C’mon, Quan—”

  “I miss this big dick, Isaiah,” she stated huskily, cutting him off with another kiss. “My lonely pussy misses you.” She licked the side of his neck. “You like that?” she asked, all coy and needy, as she roughly stroked his length.

  LaQuandra inched up and directed his dick into her body, and sank down, taking him deep. Her head fell back in delicious wonder.

  Oh, oh, oh . . . it had been so, so fucking long since she’d felt him inside of her. Her breath released in a shuddering gasp. Rising and falling over him, LaQuandra rocked her hips with each downward motion, grinding her clit against him.

  “Oh, oh, oh, oh,” she chanted. Her eyes opened and when they did, they fell on Isaiah, his body gone rigid. “Don’t you want this? Tell me how much you need this pussy?”

  “Nah,” Isaiah muttered, trying to push her off, push her down to his groin. “Suck my dick, so I can nut in your throat.”

  “Suck my dick so I can nut . . .” The words sliced into LaQuandra, and suddenly something inside of her snapped. And she felt it. The tears, hot and angry, sliding down her face.

  Slap.

  “You fucking bastard! Fuck you, Isaiah,” she snapped. She slapped him again.

  Isaiah grabbed her hand. “Yo, chill with the fucking hands.”

  LaQuandra struggled against him, trying to break free from his grasp. “Am I that goddamn black and ugly to you, huh, Isaiah, that I’m only good enough to suck your fucking dick?”

  They tussled and his dick slipped out of her wet pussy. And then she landed on her back, pinned down into the mattress.

  “Get the fuck off me,” LaQuandra spat. “I’m goddamn sick of you hurting me, Isaiah! If you want that bitch, go be with her. I’m done fighting to keep you. I’m done fighting you. I’m done fighting her. You win, Isaiah. That bitch wins. Just go fucking be with her.”

  She squirmed in his grip. “Get off . . . me. Or I’ll scream.”

  “Not until you calm the fuck down,” he rasped, suddenly feeling the effects of the alcohol flowing through his veins draining from his system.

  All he’d wanted to do was bust a nut in peace. Not deal with this shit, this bitch.

  He had both her wrists snagged in one big-handed grip up over her head.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted in a gravelly voice.

  LaQuandra stopped fighting, stopped trying to get free from his grasp, and seconds later, his grip on her wrists loosened, slightly.

  “I swear, Quandra, I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “Then why do you, huh, Isaiah? Do you hate me that much? Do I repulse you so much that you can’t even stand to fuck me, huh?” LaQuandra sobbed. “I love you, Isaiah! And I know I can’t make you love me back. But why won’t you just let me love you, huh? Why?” She wailed. “All I want is you—you motherfucker!”

  Isaiah cringed. He turned his head, unable to bear looking into her eyes. All he saw swimming in her tears was pain.

  It, surprisingly, bothered him seeing her so hurt, so fragile. The fucked-up thing was, he really didn’t know what he wanted. Didn’t know if he wanted this marriage, or if he wanted a divorce. But what he did know was, he felt like shit seeing LaQuandra like this. So broken.

  This wasn’t her. Emotional. So vulnerable. Or maybe it was and he hadn’t ever noticed.

  “C’mon, Quandra. Don’t cry. Damn.”

  “Am I that fucking ugly to you, huh, Isaiah? Is all you see when you look at me is some ugly, black barren bitch?”

  He slowly shook his head. “That’s not what I see,” he said softly. And he meant it. What he saw was a fiercely independent woman. He saw a woman who loved ferociously hard.