Crave

Prolouge

I sat in the hotel room crying and clutching the covers to my face just to bask in his scent. I loved everything about this man. Never mind the fact that he was facing federal charges and my husband was trying to prosecute him, I was already too far gone.

I had fallen off the deep end.

I was an addict and Ishmael was my drug of choice. It had gotten so bad that I went from sneaking around to see him every month, to damn near begging for his time every day. I would move mountains to get to that man. I didn't care if I had to miss work, school, or dinner with the mayor and my husband. Once I got that itch... Only Ishmael could scratch it.

I don't know if it was his 6 foot 3, 220-pound caramel tattooed muscular frame that looked to be sculpted from clay that got me, or the way he handled me so rough. Whatever it was, I had no plans on letting go.

I needed this man like I needed air to breathe. If I didn't get a taste of him my entire day would be ruined, and my mood would be shot. I loved my husband, but we had long ago lost the spark in our relationship.

Michael Henderson was an ivy league spoiled little trust fund baby. The beginning of our relationship was fun and exciting, once he moved up the corporate ladder everything changed.

I was no longer to allowed to hang out in my old neighborhood, my friends were a thing of the past, I had to dress and "act" conservatively so Michael's colleagues would like me. I had to hang out with their circle of stuck up politically correct wives. I basically had to forget about my old life and pretend to be someone I wasn't. 

The shit was depressing.

I told Michael time and time again that I was becoming bored and unhappy with my life, and he told me to join a book club. Smug asshole!

I grew up on the Suburban North side of town, but I spent my weekends and summers at my grandmother's place in Northridge projects. Because I was a stellar student, I was awarded a scholarship to attend private school and that's where I met Michael. I was a freshman and Michael was just starting his senior year. He said he was intrigued by my rough interior, but now I feel like I was some sort of project for him. However, Ishmael was more of my speed.

"Why do you always do that Paris?" Ishmael asked while pulling up his pants. "Every time I have to leave you get to crying and being all dramatic. Cut that shit out, it makes you look crazy!" 

He had just sexed me for two hours straight, and he wonders why I act the way I do. Not just any ole sex either, that mind-blowing heaven-sent type of sex. That sex that had me turning down the mediocre missionary I would surely be presented with at home. This shit was going to drive me crazy.

"I just hate it when you have to leave Ish! I hate this whole situation. The sneaking around and only getting to spend a couple of hours at a time together." I pouted, and it was the truth. There was no sense in denying it now. I was too far gone. The damage was done.

"You're the one that's married, P. I'm good on my end. I told you what I wanted, and you can't deliver." Ishmael shrugged nonchalantly. That was him. Nothing really mattered.

"It's not that easy baby," I whined. "I can't just up and leave my husband. Where would that leave me? I have a lot invested into my marriage, Both time and money."

"Don't try me like that Paris. Money is no issue! I can take care of you. You don't have to hang on to your punk ass husband for financial security."

"You just don't understand I-" I started before he cut me off.

"Exactly, there's no need for us to keep having this conversation. You throw those same tired ass excuses around and I'm tired of it. Just don't look crazy when I find a woman that only wants me."

I don't know why but Ishmael saying those words woke up something in me. I refused to let him be happy with another woman. Picking up the alarm clock from the nightstand, I threw it at Ishmael's head, barely missing.

"What the fuck?!" He yelled, looking at me like I was crazy.

Hell, maybe I was crazy. I honestly didn't know what to call it. This is the feeling Beyonce must have felt when she wrote "Ring the Alarm." Cause I'll be damned if I let Ishmael be with anyone besides me! Not fucking happening.

"Don't you dare fuckin play with me like that Ishmael! How you going to sit here and threaten to be with someone else?!" I broke down crying. This was how it always went.

"Do you hear yourself Paris?! You're married! You're not about to go lay up with another man every night and expect me to ignore any woman that wants to give me all her attention. Someone I can take out in the open and not have to sneak around with! You're really crazy if you expect me to do that." Ishmael yelled.

"Ok, I'll leave him. You just have to give me some time baby. I need at least two months to get some things in order and after that I'm all yours. Just bear with me please. I can't lose you baby." I said crawling to the end of the bed and stopping in front of Ishmael.

Unzipping his pants, I released his 9-inch monster that was already standing at attention. My mouth watered at the sight of the thick veins protruding from it. Ishmael had the prettiest penis I had ever seen, and I couldn't get enough of it. I took him in my mouth and damn near swallowed him whole.

So much for going to my husband's ceremony. 

He was being awarded the Key to the city while I was in a hotel obsessed with the very thug he was promising to take down. Life was funny like that though. The crazy thing is Ishmael had no idea who my husband was, he just knew I was married. I'm afraid if I tell him he'll never want to see me again, and I'm too far gone for that. So, for now I'll enjoy having my cake and eating it too.