While Cruze dressed, grown folks’ music played in the background—Erykah Badu and Andre 3000’s collaboration of The Isley Brothers’ “Hello.” If ex-lovers could come together on a love song after years of conflict, Cruze figured he could get over his uneasiness about attending Bret Hollis’s charity event.
Though he tried to keep it low-key most of the time, he realized he’d never get to the next level if he didn’t start rubbing elbows with a different set of people. He only wished the dinner wasn’t such a high-profile event with press in attendance.
Avoid cameras at all costs and everything’ll be cool.
In the mirror, he observed his new persona, which was a drastic change from the Brooklyn thug who’d spent his entire adult life flipping kilos. As he studied his image, he ran his fingers over his fresh dark Caesar spinning with deep waves. On his suit-and-tie shit, Cruze cracked a smile, imagining himself kicking it with investment bankers and politicians instead of his usual crew of con artists, thieves, and killers.
One last glance at his reflection and he straightened his tie and then strolled out of the apartment.
Standing at the elevator, Cruze gave a head nod to a sophisticated African American couple who approached. The man, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, was dapper in a tuxedo and his female companion, who was several inches taller than he, looked about ten years younger. She was dazzling in a glittery black gown with a plunging neckline that displayed an exquisite set of tits. The spectacular diamonds that adorned her neck and her wrist shimmered beneath the light of the hallway chandelier.
On the sly, Cruze admired her lean body and the regal way she carried herself. Without meaning to, his eyes flitted to her ass, which was firm, plump, and round. She was a gorgeous well-preserved older woman, and she was obviously well cared for. Her entire look indicated that she was pampered and accustomed to the very best.
“Good evening, young man. You must be our new neighbor,” said the man cheerfully. “We’re the Hamiltons—across the hall from you in 2612. I’m Morris, and this is my wife, Valentina.”
Cruze introduced himself and Morris shook his hand. Valentina’s lips moved in an inaudible greeting, and then she quickly turned her head, barely glancing at Cruze. Embarrassed by his wife’s rudeness, Morris held up his hands in an apologetic gesture.
Cruze instantly disliked Valentina. Beautiful or not, she was a stuck-up bitch that thought she was too good to be bothered with opening her mouth to extend a civil greeting. Fuck her. Although Cruze looked fly in a tailored, perfectly cut suit, Givenchy tie, and the five-thousand-dollar Hublot Classic Fusion watch that decorated his wrist, all Uppity-Ass saw was a young thug. She probably viewed his presence in the exclusive apartment building as a forewarning to a decline in property value.
Cruze’s jaw twitched as he flicked imaginary lint from his lapel, then readjusted his tie. Trick-ass broad can suck my fucking dick.
When the elevator door slid open, Cruze gestured for the couple to enter first. Nose in the air, the bougie bitch glided inside as if being extended courtesies from commoners was her birthright.
Inside the elevator, Cruze stared straight ahead, refusing to make any small talk with the husband and definitely avoiding any eye contact with Uppity-Ass. But, pulled by the allure of the sensual fragrance she wore, it was a natural response to gaze in one of the mirrored panels of the elevator and steal a glance at her. As he stealthily checked her out, he quickly averted his gaze when he saw something that made him think his eyes were playing tricks on him.
The elevator continued its smooth descent, and right before it reached the lobby, Cruze shot her another surreptitious look. This time there was no mistaking that Valentina, while standing next to her oblivious husband, was licking her lips and giving him a seductive look. Even more shocking, her hand that was embellished with the big, glittery diamond ring was rubbing on her pussy in a slow, circular motion.
Before departing the elevator, Morris said cheerfully, “Have a wonderful evening, young man.”
Valentina tossed Cruze a sly smile and said in a thick foreign accent, “Ciao, baby. Hope to see you soon.”
The fuck?! Obviously, the stuck-up bitch was cray, but that accent of hers had his dick jumping in his pants and pulsing for release.
• • •
The charity dinner was a well-organized and classy event with over two-hundred guests filling the venue. Several of Hollis’s old Nets teammates had come out to support him, and Cruze was honored to be seated next to Marquan Naylor. In his day, Marquan had been an electrifying and controversial player who had achieved popularity for injecting his hip-hop style into basketball. And he was equally infamous for his many skirmishes with the law.
Though Cruze was inwardly excited to be chitchatting with the great Marquan Naylor, he didn’t let it show—at least not for the first half hour. But as he grew more comfortable, he let his feelings of idol worship slip out. “People probably tell you this all the time, but on some real shit, me and my friends used to rock your sneakers and your jerseys when we were kids.”
“Oh, yeah? That’s cool. Thanks, man.” Marquan sort of chuckled and tossed back a long sip of tequila.
Cruze suddenly felt stupid. He’d made it seem like he and his boys were unique in wearing Marquan Naylor apparel, when actually the whole world rocked the former player’s gear during the peak years of his career.
He was about to clarify his statement when an extremely tall white dude with a big belly and a head full of snow-white hair approached their table. Marquan stood up and embraced the man. “Dusty McDowell,” Marquan greeted with a wide smile. “Good to see you, my dude.”
The rivalry between Marquan and Dusty had been as heated as the rivalry between Magic Johnson and Larry Byrd, back in the day. Cameras began to flash as members of the press enthusiastically captured the moment.
As much as Cruze would have enjoyed having a bird’s-eye view of the historic reunion of the two basketball titans, he couldn’t risk being caught in any photographs. Pushing his plate back, Cruze vacated his seat and strode to the rear area where the bar was set up.
“Remy on the rocks,” he told the bartender. With his back no longer facing the door, Cruze was able to keep an eye out for anyone who might have tried to come for him. Away from the flashing lights, Cruze relaxed in the cut and watched as Dusty and Marquan were joined in the photo op by Bret Hollis and two other former NBA players, whose faces were familiar, but whose names he couldn’t recall.
Time could be cruel, Cruze thought, taking in Dusty’s white hair and inflated gut. He glanced at the other two players and noticed that one walked with the assistance of a blinged-out cane, and the other had gone completely bald. Out of the group of former players, Marquan and Bret were the only two who still closely resembled the way they’d looked during their playing days. Good genes, he supposed.
“If it weren’t for his height, I wouldn’t have recognized Dusty McDowell,” said a scholarly-looking, cinnamon-skinned woman who had sidled next to Cruze. Looking her over, he guessed her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She was petite, no more than five-four, give or take a few inches.
Her light-brown locs were styled in a braided bun, and her oversized, geek glasses were intended to downplay her looks. But she was clearly a cutie despite her subdued attire and understated makeup. She wore a plain black pantsuit and had opted for kitten heels instead of the five-inch stilettos that adorned the feet of most of the other women in attendance at the glitzy affair.
“We all gotta grow old one day,” Cruze responded to her comment. “But cats like Dusty will be immortalized. He was a hella player in his day.”
“True. They used to call him Dunkin’ Dusty. The way he used to drive the ball down the court and then dunk on his opponents, he rightfully earned that nickname. But I’m not so sure he deserves his spot in the hall of fame.”
Cruze tilted his head. “You know a lot about b-ball . . . for a girl.”
“I’m a Harvard grad, and I know a lot about a many things,” she countered with a smug smile. “Dunkin was the man, but Marquan Naylor was an exceptional player, and to be honest, I’m personally offended that the white boy was inducted into the hall of fame while Marquan is continually ignored by the committee. It’s like they want to punish him forever for his controversial persona during his playing days.”
Cruze nodded. “Yeah, Marquan used to be a rebel. He broke all the rules.”
“But his youthful rebelliousness doesn’t negate what he did for the sport,” the woman said passionately. “The selection committee for the basketball hall of fame is an anonymous group. They don’t have to explain or publicly defend their decisions. There’s no transparency, and it’s completely unfair.” She exhaled in frustration and took a sip of her pastel-colored drink. “Marquan is a legend, and keeping him out of the hall of fame won’t change his stats or the electrifying magic he brought to the game.”
“Facts. Marquan has a place in history, no matter what,” Cruze concurred.
“I’m Lourdes Dunning, by the way. I’m with The Daily Grind.”
Cruze wrinkled his brows.
“The Daily Grind is a hard-hitting news outlet,” she explained.
“Never heard of it.”
She pulled up the site on her phone and handed it to Cruze. He scanned the screen, noting that the lead story was something about Blac Chyna and Rob Kardashian. “Hard-hitting news, huh?” he said with a smirk and returned her phone. “I’m not really into the gossip blogs.”
“We’re a lot more than that. We cover politics, world news, sports . . . technology. But that’s beside the point; I was hoping you could help me out.”
“How so?”
“Well, I already interviewed Bret Hollis about his North Philly program and his dream to expand HYPE to other deprived areas in the city. But I’m hanging around, trying to get an exclusive with Marquan Naylor.” She eyed Cruze intensely. “I noticed you and Marquan talking, and . . .”
Cruze held up his hands. “I can’t help you. I don’t know dude like that—I just met him.”
“Damn,” she muttered. “Okay, well, you had an opportunity to gauge his mood. In your opinion, do you think he’d be willing to talk to me tonight?”
“I have no idea. If you’ve followed his career, you know he detests the media and refuses to give interviews.”
“Yeah, but maybe he’s changed with maturity. Hell, the way he’s been drinking nonstop, maybe he’s twisted enough to spill his guts to me.” She chugged down her drink and set the empty glass on the bar counter. “I’m going for it. Wish me luck.”
Cruze watched with interest as Lourdes determinedly made her way across the room. Zooming in on her target, she speedily weaved in and out of the crowd. Her swift movements were impressive, and the kitten heels she was rocking suddenly made perfect sense.
Still, despite her tenacity, Cruze doubted if she’d get an interview with Marquan Naylor.
When the musical guest—a local rapper Cruze had never heard of—took the stage, Cruze ordered another drink and tuned out the noise emanating from the mic. Philly rappers couldn’t touch New York talent. Diverting his attention to his immediate surroundings, he noticed that quite a few hot mamas had flocked to the bar.
During the next hour, he found himself surrounded by eye candy. Some struck up conversations and others sent him smoldering looks of lust. One chick, who was wearing the hell out of a very revealing, figure-hugging red dress with cut-out detail that showed off her ample boobs and midriff area, boldly sent him a drink. Her phone number was scrawled on the napkin. Out of all the women in close proximity, Skimpy Red Dress looked like the hottest piece of ass out of the bunch. He was about to go over and introduce himself when Lourdes suddenly came out of nowhere.
“I got it!” Grinning, she held up a small recorder. “It’s all on tape.”
“I didn’t see you talking to him.” Cruze looked over at the area where he’d last seen Marquan. “I thought he bounced when that corny rapper got on the mic.”
“He did leave. In fact, we left together,” she said proudly.
Cruze looked at Lourdes questioningly.
“Marquan and I sat in the back of the car while his driver took us on a tour of Center City. Marquan drank like a fish while I conducted the interview.”
Cruze wasn’t sure if he should be impressed by Lourdes’s ambitiousness or if he should give her the side-eye for her unethical practices. “It seems a little unscrupulous to take advantage of an intoxicated man.”
“No more unscrupulous than all the groupies Marquan took advantage of during his career.”
“Hey, you can’t blame the man for accepting what was given to him willingly,” Cruze countered. Being a top lieutenant in the drug game was akin to being a rock star, and Cruze had enjoyed more than his fair share of groupie love.
“Let’s not quibble over semantics. I’m in the mood to celebrate—care to join me?” Without waiting for an answer, Lourdes reached in her purse and took out a small envelope with a room number printed across the top and a key card inside. “Here you go. Meet me upstairs in ten minutes.”
Cruze was pleasantly taken off guard. Lourdes had struck him as someone too tightly wound and too career-oriented to be interested in frivolous sex. She hadn’t even bothered to ask him his name, which was cool with him.
He pocketed the key card and then shot a glance at Skimpy Red Dress, who sat on the other side of the bar. As she stared daggers at him, he tried to apologize with his eyes.
Though Skimpy Red Dress had body for days, she wasn’t anything special—merely another empty-headed ho, looking for a sponsor. It wasn’t every day that Cruze got the opportunity to heat up the sheets with a naughty-librarian type who was also a Harvard grad.
• • •
He’d expected to find Lourdes wearing something sheer and sexy . . . or better yet, he’d hoped to find her waiting in bed, butt-ass naked.
But she was fully dressed, sitting at the desk, hunched over her laptop with earphones on, listening to the tape player while her fingers clicked rapidly over the keyboard. Next to the laptop was a chilled glass of wine. She pulled off the earphones and swiveled around and faced him. “Give me a second while I transcribe some of the pertinent info from the interview and send it to my editor. There’s beer in the fridge . . . and wine. Help yourself to whatever you’d like,” she said with an offhand gesture.
Then she twirled back around and resumed typing.
Offended, Cruze wondered what this brainiac broad was on. She had to be smoking something if she thought he’d left the bar with all that wet pussy that was potentially primed and ready for a good fucking to come and sit in a room with his hands folded in his lap, while she worked on an assignment.
Oh, hell no. Him, a hotel room, and a piece of ass meant he was getting his dick sucked, sliding up into some guts, or both. He wasn’t about to sit around watching some bitch dressed like a church secretary dictate some fucking notes. Nah, this four-eyed broad had him fucked up.
Cruze’s jaw twitched. And a slight stirring in his groin made him push out a breath and curse under his breath. He was about to turn around and walk out the door, but for some unknown reason, his feet led him toward Lourdes. There was something about her nerdy ass that made him want to rip off her clothes and fuck her so deep that she would feel him fucking her soul. The thought sent blasts of heat straight to his balls.
Standing behind her, he reached down and pulled out the hair stick that anchored her locs, and watched as her hair unraveled and fell over her shoulders. When she didn’t stop him, he boldly removed her glasses, and then eased off her jacket. He was pleasantly surprised that there was nothing beneath it except a bra.
Cruze grinned, pleased at the sight of the plumpness of her breasts, the lush inner curves rising from the cups of her lace bra. He licked his lips, then hooked his fingertips into both cups of her bra and yanked downward on the fabric, causing her breasts to tumble out. Fully bared, the tips of her dark nipples stiffened, ready for the flick of his thumbs over them.
She let out a little sound of protest, which he silenced by pinching her nipples, causing a moan to escape her lips, before picking up her drink and running the chilled rim along her neck and down to her collarbone.
Lourdes trembled as droplets of condensation ran down her left breast and pooled around her nipple, hardening the flesh. Wanting to gain better access, Cruze spun her chair around. With a pitiless smile on his face, he trailed the cold glass over her other breast, and he watched with interest as that nipple tightened into a beaded knot.
“Unh. Ooh. It’s cold,” Lourdes uttered, her eyes closed as she arched her back, welcoming the painfully sweet pleasure slowly tightening around her areola. She gripped the arms of her chair, sinking her nails into the leather. “Oh, God, yesss!”
“You ready for me to heat you up?” Cruze asked in a husky voice that ignited visible shivers on the surface of her skin.
She nodded briskly.
“Stand up,” he urged, the pupils in his eyes going liquid with lust.
With a stuttered gasp, she complied, standing up and awkwardly extricating herself from her pants, and then hurriedly peeling off her already wet thong. Bared to him, her body suddenly flushed with burning arousal. She gazed in his eyes expectantly, waiting for him to remove his clothes.
But Cruze didn’t so much as loosen his tie. This chick had tried to play him like a chump, expecting him to wait around and twiddle his thumbs while she typed up some notes. She was on his time, now, and he’d give her every inch of his hard dick when he was good and damn ready.
“Yo, why you in such a rush.” He dragged his gaze over her body, then licked his bottom lip. “Sometimes I like to just chill and sit back and watch.”
Her eyes fluttered open. “Sit back and watch what?”
“Watch you make that pussy pop,” he rasped, his voice so thick with lust that it made Lourdes’s body shiver. Cruze’s big, warm hands reached out and closed over her exposed breasts. He squeezed. Kneaded. Then ran the tips of his fingers across the beaded peaks, causing a slight high-pitched moan to echo from her throat.
Satisfied, he let go of her breasts, then nudged his head toward her bra that he’d pulled down, and that now dangled beneath her breasts. “Get rid of the bra.”
She swallowed, hard. Then reached back and unhooked her bra, letting it float to the floor.
“Good girl. Now finger yourself for me.”
She squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that.”
“You shouldn’t be embarrassed to play in your pussy. Don’t you want to get it hot and juicy for me?” He ran a hand over the front of his designer pants, bringing her gaze to the growing print beneath the fabric. “Let me see how wet you can get that pussy, and, tonight, this dick is all yours. All night.”
Lourdes let out another soft moan. This fine-ass motherfucker had her juices trickling down her thighs already, and he hadn’t even touched her there yet.
“C’mon, baby,” he urged in a low, seductive tone. “Show me the inside of that pretty kitty. Open it up for me.”
Swallowing back her inhibitions, she closed her eyes once again and took a deep breath as her hand ventured downward, past her taut stomach, and down to her waxed mound. Delicately, she spread the folds of her labia. Opening herself, she revealed her throbbing clit and the rosy, silken skin that was hidden within.
“Damn, baby,” he muttered. “For a tiny chick, you got a plump pussy.”
Her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and yearning. “I’m . . . uh, I’m ready for you,” she stammered breathily.
“Nah, you’re not ready—yet, baby. Your pussy can get a lot juicier than that. Stick your finger in it and stroke that fat clit.”
She let out a groan, shaking her head. “I don’t want—”
Cruze raised a brow. “What? You don’t want this dick?”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, yes. I want it. Oh, how I want it.”
Cruze smirked. “Then you’re gonna have to earn it, baby. You got a lot of book smart, but you still have a lot to learn. C’mere ‘n’ let me show you something.”
Lourdes took steps toward him and tilted her chin, offering him her lips, which he ignored. Still holding the wineglass, Cruze shoved it between her legs, then rolled the smooth, cold object against her hairless mound.
“Hump on the glass,” he coaxed. “Slide your pussy all over it.”
Her face flushed, but she obeyed the command. “It’s cold,” she complained as her body defied what she was thinking in her head—hell, no!—and she slowly grinded her quivering sex against the wineglass.
“Yeah, I bet it is cold. But it was also cold for you to invite me up here and then blow me off the way you did, fronting like you didn’t ask me to come up here and get some of that sweet pussy.”
She looked up at him sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to blow you off. It’s just that—”
“Nah. Save the excuses, baby. You tried to play me. Now tell me you didn’t invite me up here so I could fuck the shit out of you.”
Oh, he was so very right. She had extended the invitation for a nightcap of hard fucking. But he frightened and excited her at the same time. She swallowed; every nerve in her body was aflame. She flushed again. It was a guilty flush, but also one that was telling.
“I’m sorry.”
Cruze’s lips curled into a sly grin, never dropping his gaze from hers. “Show me how sorry you are,” he said, unbuckling his belt. “If your head game is tight, I’ll warm that ass up for you.”
“It’s uh, it’s tight,” Lourdes assured him, looking both embarrassed and turned on at being treated like a slut.
“Word? Then get on your knees and let me test them skills.”
With quivering hands, she helped him with his fly. She groped inside his briefs and caressed his thick erection before wrangling out the heavy club of pulsing flesh. All she could do was stare at his enormous dick, her breath held in anticipation. Her mouth watered for a taste of him.
“Oh, God, I want you,” she murmured deeply as she sank to her knees and kissed the head, and then took him inside her mouth. She moaned as she felt his dick throbbing against her tongue. She cradled his heavy balls in her palm, sucking him deeply as she swirled her tongue. When she deepened the long, tight, suckling strokes, Cruze’s breath came out in rasping pants. Hunched over, he gripped her shoulders, squeezing, and pressing his fingers into her skin.
Lourdes slid a hand in between her legs and began stimulating her clit in a slow, circular motion, sliding her fingers every so often over the slit of her pussy. Her mouth got wetter as Cruze’s hot sighs wafted down over her, and his dick slid smoothly in and out of her mouth, the weight of his shaft gliding over her tongue. She slid two fingers into her aching cunt, then sucked him fiercely, greedily, like some feral animal, sucking him wild and sloppily. Soon Cruze began to fuck her mouth and she moaned frantically around his thick length, rocking her pelvis madly against her hand.
“Oh, shit,” he growled out as jet streams of salty cum spurted into her mouth.
Lourdes swallowed and wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her hand. When she looked up and met his gaze, Cruze jerked his head toward the bed and loosened his tie. “You know what it is . . . face down, ass up, baby.”