LaQuandra stared back, feeling the urge to reach over and slap the shit out of him for treating her so damn shitty. This cocky bastard!

  She was cranky. Evil. And she needed a good fucking.

  It’d been months since she and Isaiah had been intimate; let alone, shared the same bed. He’d moved out of their master bedroom nearly two months ago, and she’d been stricken with anxiety ever since. She loved him. Her love, however, sometimes—okay most times, bordered along the fringes of obsession, but—oh well.

  So what if she stalked his text messages and calls, or rifled through the clothes hamper and sniffed his dirty drawers every night? So what if she stood at the door, arms folded, foot tapping, and waited for him. Then fought to snatch down his pants and drawers to smell his dick? Daring him to have another bitch’s dried-up pussy juice on his dick.

  What woman hadn’t done so once or twice in her lifetime?

  Sniffed her man’s drawers and smelled his dick?

  Real love, she reasoned, made a bitch do some crazy things. So crazy or not, LaQuandra had no intentions of searching for someone else to call her own when she already had whom she wanted.

  He wasn’t perfect—hell, neither was she, but he’d been her perfect love story.

  She hadn’t snagged Isaiah sixteen years ago, only to lose him now. He was hers. And she’d do whatever she had to do to keep him. Bottom line, she missed what they’d once shared. And she missed him fucking her. Oh God how she missed the stretch of her pussy melting over his powerful dick.

  That’s what she’d fallen in love with, first. His dick.

  Long, thick (oh so very thick) and curved.

  And, now, selfishly, the bastard denied her it. What kind of man denied his wife dick? That was so goddamn thoughtless, cruel, and unusual torture. She was so fucking angry with him for being such a selfish prick.

  Sure, she’d sneak into the guestroom where he’d taken up residence and slip between the covers and take his dick into her lush, greedy mouth. She’d suck him hungrily (and, with no words spoken, he’d fuck her mouth with an urgent need), until he’d explode his warm seed down into her throat. Tears streamed down her face every time she swallowed him. She’d drink him, empty him, until he had nothing left to give her while she rubbed her pussy and shuddered. Then after she’d cleaned his dick with her tongue, she’d tiptoe back into her big, empty bed with her wet, lonely pussy weeping as she cried herself to sleep.

  Sadly, that had become the soundtrack of her now failing marriage.

  She was goddamn miserable.

  And yet she didn’t want to lose Isaiah. He was a good provider. And, as painful as it was to admit—he was a damn good father to his fourteen-year-old bastard son. Isaiah Jr. The lovechild he’d conceived with some hoodrat bitch he’d been fucking almost a year into their marriage.

  Cassandra Simms.

  She hated that bitch with a burning passion.

  She was everything unholy and foul. And she was the cause of LaQuandra’s grief. Cassandra just couldn’t stay the fuck out of her life, his life . . . and their marriage. And their bastard child—a spitting image of the man she loved—was a constant reminder of how deeply he’d sliced open her heart with his sordid affair. That bitch, Cassandra, had given him the son she couldn’t. And every time she looked into his handsomely chocolate face, that painful fact was smeared in her face.

  Her marriage was in shambles. And she felt as if she were hanging on by a thin thread—no, no . . . a cobweb. Yes. That’s what she’d been hanging onto. But this couple’s retreat, she hoped, would be what they needed to relight the flame in their marriage, a start to a new beginning.

  LaQuandra breathed through her mouth, then exhaled. The fact that Isaiah had even agreed to participate in this once-in-a-lifetime experience had to mean something.

  Didn’t it?

  “All I know is,” LaQuandra said as she eyed him, “shit is gonna have to change, Isaiah. I can’t keep going through this shit with you and that ghetto bitch. What kind of man lets some bitch disrespect his wife, huh, Isaiah? I’m your wife. Not some dirty piece of ass you found on some street corner. I deserve respect from that ratchet bitch.”

  Isaiah swallowed, then blew out a frustrated breath. He was royally fed up with LaQuandra’s bullshit. However, deep down, he knew she was right. His BM needed to respect her more. Nevertheless, respect went both ways, and LaQuandra needed to figure out a way to respect the mother of his son regardless if she despised the woman or not.

  Yeah, his BM was ghetto. But, shit, so was she. The only difference was, LaQuandra had a college degree and his BM had a bunch of kids. Ten.

  With eight baby daddies, he just so happened to fall into the lucky number seven spot. And, yeah, he admitted that when he’d first met her, he’d thought with his twenty-year-old hard dick when he’d seen all that ass his BM had bouncing in the back of her the day he’d spotted her fifteen years ago, strutting across Essex County Community College in some skimpy-ass outfit with an infant son already propped up on her thick hip.

  What he hadn’t known before he’d fucked her sexy-ass raw was that, at twenty-five, she already had seven kids. Shit. Had he known she was so damn fertile, he would have probably pulled out. Then again, on second thought, he would have still busted inside of her. The pussy had been too damn good to pull out.

  Hell. It still was.

  “Are you hearing me, Isaiah,” LaQuandra badgered, reaching over and slapping his arm. “Shit’s gotta change. I refuse to . . .”

  Isaiah opened his mouth to say something, anything, to get her to shut the fuck up, but a beautiful dark chocolate angel, with long sculpted legs appeared from out of nowhere—wearing a dangerously short, very fitted, black skirt and a pair of killer gladiator heels. A mouthwatering amount of cleavage spilled out over the top of a black corset, and her thick black hair was braided and coiffed in an elegant knot.

  Isaiah caught himself admiring the way the gold straps wrapped seductively around her toned calves, then swirled up and around her shapely thighs.

  “Hello,” the chocolate beauty greeted, clasping her hands together in front of her. Her full lips were spackled to perfection in gold lipstick “On behalf of Captain Daniels, welcome aboard The Pleasure Chest. I am LaLani. And this is”—she gestured toward a lighter-skinned, more voluptuous woman donned in the same outfit as she stepped beside her—“Mocha . . .”

  Next appeared two tall, dark, and very chiseled men, who stood bare-chested and oiled on either side of the two women, wearing nothing but a pair of black slacks.

  “And to the right of me is Sin.” He gave a slight head nod, his dreads brushed over his chest. “And to my left,” the strikingly beautiful woman continued, “is Saint.” He also gave a head nod—his smoothly shaven head gleaming under the cabin’s lights. He ran a hand down over his neatly trimmed goatee. “And we’re here, along with the rest of The Pleasure Chest crew, to cater to your every need. So, as we prepare for departure, please, get comfortable. And enjoy the experience.”

  LaQuandra shot Isaiah a nasty look. “I mean it, Isaiah.” Her voice rose in frustration. “I refuse to continue to be disrespected by that bitch. I deserve . . .”

  Isaiah sighed, waving over his Chocolate Angel.

  She smiled. “Yes, Mr. Lewis. What can I get you?”

  “Let me get a shot of Henny. Please.”

  She gave him a slight nod. “Coming right up.” She looked over at LaQuandra. “Ma’am, can I bring you anything?”

  “No. I’m fine,” she said tersely, sizing the sexy vixen up. Another bitch with a big, voluptuous ass, she thought as she glanced at her cantaloupe-sized breasts that were practically spilling out of her corset.

  Isaiah eyed LaQuandra and shook his head. This was going to be one long-ass flight. “Um. On second thought,” he said to the flight attendant. “Make that a double.”

  Four

  Four hours, and fifty one-thousand feet of altitude later, the magnificent aircraft was somewhere high above puffs of sunlit clouds. The start had been rocky due to a significant amount of turbulence that had kept Brenda and the rest of the passengers confined to their plush cream leather seats.

  But now that the ride had smoothed and the captain had given the okay to move about the cabin, Brenda peeled her gaze from the breathtaking window view and quickly unlatched her seat belt to stretch. She had never ridden in a private jet before, but she’d experienced the comforts of first-class travel several times. However, this right here was how real ballers traveled—in sophisticated comfort and endless luxury.

  And she loved every second of it.

  She glanced over at Roselle, who was reclining in his seat, sipping a Hendrick’s gin and tonic. He seemed to be enjoying the velvety smooth drink as he peered out the window. Drink number three, of course. But she promised herself not to keep count.

  When he drank gin, his dick stayed hard and he could fuck literally all night long. Cum. Then want to fuck again. A blessing and a curse, for her, her pussy, and the bitches he made time to cheat on her with. But Brenda wasn’t going there. Not now.

  She eyed Roselle as he pressed his forehead against the portal glass and peered downward into the thick cloudbanks beneath the plane as if he were looking for something. Probably some damn pussy, she thought, narrowing her eyes.

  She simply couldn’t trust his ass. Not even when he sat across from her, and she had her eyes trained on him.

  His ass was sneaky.

  Roselle smiled. He knew Brenda was staring at him as he attempted to get a glimpse at the terrain below, but all he got so far was a foretaste of the sun slicing through the clouds. And he was cool with that. The view was awe-inspiring nonetheless.

  He took another sip of his drink, then glanced over at his wife and winked.

  Damn, she was fine. He sensually licked his lips at her. Against her will, she smiled. Damn him.

  The flight attendant, LaLani, came to Roselle’s seat. “Can I get you anything else, Roselle?” she asked in almost a breathy whisper, bending at the waist, her face mere inches from his.

  Roselle smiled, then licked at his bottom lip, trying like hell not to ogle her cleavage nearly spilling out of her dress. “Nah, baby. I’m good. But thanks.”

  “How about something to eat? I can have the chef whip you up something really delicious, if you’d like.”

  Roselle felt his dick stir, but then he caught Brenda’s glare and it went limp again. “Nah. Not right now.”

  “Okay then,” she said with a wink.

  Brenda tilted her head and raised a questioning brow. Oh, so this bitch was on a first-name basis with her husband. When did that happen?

  Most likely, she guessed, when she’d dozed off about two hours into their flight.

  Still . . .

  I know this messy bitch is not trying to flirt with my man knowing I’m standing right here.

  LaLani turned to Brenda. “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. You can’t,” Brenda said nastily. “But you can make a note that Roselle over there is a very married man. Please and thank you.”

  LaLani smiled. “That fact is duly-noted.” She matched Brenda’s stare. “Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

  Brenda gave a fake smile. “No, sweetie. Not at the moment.”

  “Very well.”

  As LaLani moved back toward the galley, Brenda sneered at her, and Roselle shook his head, but said nothing.

  “Baby, huh? So that’s how we’re doing it, Roselle. Huh? Baby? Since when?”

  “It’s a figure of speech. Damn. It meant nothing,” Roselle said nonchalantly. “Why you always tripping, Bren? All she was doing is her job.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes. “And I doubt anywhere in her job description does it say for her to fall into your lap and suck your damn dick.”

  Roselle laughed. But the imagery made him shudder inwardly. He’d love nothing more than to see her fine-ass on her knees, her mouth wet and open, and his dick pressed to the back of her throat. He’d fuck her mouth dry. Knock her tonsils loose. Skull-fuck the shit out of her.

  He looked at his wife. “Stop being so melodramatic, Bren. You’re always looking for shit to fight about.” He shook his ahead again. “But you know I love your crazy ass, right?”

  She sucked her teeth. “Maybe.” She stepped out into the aisle. “I’m going to walk around. See what’s going on. Don’t have me come back and find you grinning in that ho’s face again.”

  “Yeah, a’ight,” he said over a chuckle. And then he reached out and grabbed her by the forearm, pulling her to him. “C’mere.”

  He pulled her closer.

  “What?”

  He gestured for her to lean in.

  She huffed, bending at the waist. “What is it, Roselle?”

  “This Hendrick’s got me feeling some type of way.”

  Brenda raised a brow. “So.”

  “You know what it is, baby.”

  She frowned. “And?”

  He reached around and cupped her ass. “You wanna earn your points into the mile-high club tonight?”

  She saw heat flash through his eyes, and she knew that look very well. She slid her hand over his crotch, and smirked. As she’d thought, he was aroused. She squeezed the bulge under the button fly and teasingly licked her lips and squeezed his dick over his Robin’s jeans. Then she leaned in a little closer and kissed him softly on the lips. Mm, yes. Fucking in the friendly skies would be a delicious thrill. She’d love nothing more than to get fucked in the cockpit. Getting fucked on a plane had always been one of the things she wanted to cross off her sex bucket list.

  She and Roselle had experienced a little hand play under a blanket in their seats on a flight to Jamaica once. And another time, she’d given him some wet sloppy head, while the other passengers slept on their flight to Hong Kong last summer. But fucking on this aircraft would take their sex life to another height. And yet she pushed out, “No,” before slapping Roselle’s hand off her ass and then mushing him in the head. She walked off, leaving him sitting in his chair, sipping the rest of his drink and stroking a hand over his jeans.

  Roselle went back to dazing out of the window, smirking. He was going to get a nut off tonight, with or without her, even if that meant using his damn hand.

  Brenda headed toward one of the three bathrooms. As she walked through the cabin, she glanced over and smiled at Krista and Kendall. They seemed nice enough. They were in their seats, swiveled to face each other, playing a game of Scrabble. While Isaiah was on the sofa near the bar drinking a beer. And then there was LaQuandra seated across the aisle talking loudly on one of the sky phones that were mounted beside each chair.

  She hadn’t officially met the woman with the braids cascading down her back, but so far what she was noticing, she didn’t like. Yet, she knew better than anyone to never judge a book by its cover. She reminded herself to keep that in mind.

  Brenda finally reached one of the bathrooms at the far end of the aircraft. Once inside, she locked the door and took in the exquisite space. The walls were white marble, veined with gold. There was a glass shower stall with multiple showerheads. A white leather swivel chair faced a white marble vanity that held gold baskets of top-of-the-line hair-and skin-care products. On a shelf rested a tower of fluffy white towels.

  Brenda ran her fingers over the gold embroidered lettering: THE PLEASURE CHEST. This was the kind of wealth she’d dreamed of her entire life. And she wanted it.

  One day.

  She relieved herself and then washed her hands. And when she stepped out of the bathroom to head back to her seat, she was greeted by one of the two deliciously sculpted male attendants—the dark-skinned one with the shoulder-length dreads.

  Her breath caught in her chest at the up-close-and-personal sight of him. He had his locks pulled back. Damn, he was fine. And God knew she loved herself some dark chocolate, every now and again.

  He met her eyes with a sexy grin. “How are you enjoying the flight so far, beautiful?”

  She blushed, and a quick rush of heat splintered through her. She hadn’t expected that. She hadn’t expected to feel her cunt pulsing between her legs, either. And she hadn’t expected to have this overwhelming desire to reach out and touch him, slide her hands over the stretch of rippled muscle over his dark, chocolaty skin.

  She swallowed. “So far, so good,” she said. And then she swallowed again.

  “Cool.” He grinned again. “If there is anything I can do to help make your flight an even greater experience, don’t hesitate to call on me. I’m at your service. For as long as you need me to be.”

  Brenda’s mouth went dry, but her pussy got wetter as she drank in the sight of him, her eyes taking snapshots of his rippled abs and chiseled pecs; the way his dark nipples reminded her of two chocolate-covered raisins.

  Raisinettes. Mm, yes.

  Finally, the valves to her saliva glands opened, and her mouth watered. And, instead of swallowing, she allowed her lust to pool inside her mouth until she almost drowned in it.

  Lord, help me . . .

  “By the way,” he said. “I’m Sin.”

  Oh yes you are.

  Brenda was sure this fine black man, this Adonis, this Pussy Slayer, was full of just that. Sin. And if she didn’t hurry up and get back to her seat, she’d be tempted to pull him into the bathroom and yank down his pants. Yes, God. She’d drop to her knees and cup his balls and then spit-shine his dick.

  Thick and veiny, she imagined. Dear God. Adding him to her sexual scrapbook of naughty deeds (and, yes, there’d be a few salacious moments) would be an exhilarating experience for sure, but not worth the risk of getting caught.

  Or was it?

  She finally swallowed. “I’m Mrs. . . . uh, Brenda.”

  He smiled. “I already know who you are, Mrs. Woods.”

  Wait. How did he know who she was?

  Then it dawned on her before she could ask the question. From the portfolio each couple had been required to submit with a very lengthy application. Included in that packet were photos of her and Roselle. Yes. That was it. He had to have seen the photo of her to know who she was.