Passion Island Read online

  Dear Reader:

  Cairo always brings the heat, along with drama, and Passion Island delivers it.

  Readers are exposed to the lives of three couples—Krista and Kendall Evans; Brenda and Roselle Woods; and LaQuandra and Isaiah Lewis—as they explore the ups and downs of their relationships on a private island off the coast of Tahiti in the South Pacific.

  This adventure offers the best and worst from this trio of couples under the direction of Dr. Gretchen Dangerfield, a sexologist and therapist with actions and thoughts off the planet when it comes to her clients. She’s cool, savvy, seductive and practices a no-holds-barred theory where anything and everything goes in this lush paradise. The couples, who’ve arrived for a six-week session to reignite their relationships, get more than they bargained for, including the revelation of dark secrets and desires.

  While the novel is entertaining and loaded with Cairo-style erotica, there is another side of the journey: the doctor’s tactics are engaging with her consultation style, and readers may feel as if they too are in a therapeutic chair. Her messages are realistic and provide challenging techniques on relationship advice. Whether the characters decide to heed it or not, they must face their own realities.

  Sit back and become immersed in tropical temptation on this wild ride.

  As always, thanks for supporting myself and the Strebor Books family. We strive to bring you the most cutting-edge, out-of-the-box material on the market. You can find me on Facebook @AuthorZane.

  Blessings,

  Publisher

  Strebor Books

  www.simonandschuster.com

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

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  DEDICATION

  For you, the readers . . .

  Step into your own sexuality, embrace sensuality, and allow passion to guide you. Keep waving those freak flags!

  Acknowledgments

  What’s good, my freaky peeps? It’s been a minute since I’ve written one of these. I mean, after seventeen books in, whom else should I have to acknowledge? You all know you’re my motherfuckin’ peeps. You all know how thankful and blessed I am to have you riding on this literary journey with me. You all know how much I appreciate you waving your freak flags and spreading the heat with ya own peeps.

  So, again . . . whom else do I need to say thanks to?

  But, uh, for the hypersensitive—I say, thank you, thank you, thank you!

  Enough said.

  So moving on. Passion Island was supposed to be a story of three couples seeking sexual freedom, welcoming hidden desires, and embracing unbridled passion like never before; it was supposed to be a mush love story with a happy-ever-after ending.

  But somehow the story evolved into something much bigger than I had any control of. The voices, the characters, their personalities—all had influence over how the tale should be told. With that being said, this is their story. Not mine. And, hopefully, you will enjoy their journeys as lies are uncovered, truths are exposed, and loads of drama unfolds.

  Now open wide, you nasty heathens. And step into the heat.

  One luv—

  Cairo

  Prologue

  Rope looped around each wrist and tied to the headboard, her cunt tightened up like a vise, her slick walls clutching, as her six-foot-three, two-hundred-and thirty-five pound anonymous lover pummeled his thick, long dick into her wet valley.

  Skin the color of mahogany, stretched over rippled abs and miles of muscled back, glistened from sweat as Mr. Anonymous stroked her walls and slid his dick back and forth over her G-spot; the head of his dick nudging her cervix.

  The woman arched her back, her eyes slowly rolling back in her head. Her anonymous lover was fucking her . . . down. And yet he methodically stroked the core of her soul. Sweetly. He was fucking her pussy. Loving her pussy.

  How could that be?

  How could a man, a stranger, dig so deeply into her guts, stretch her cunt, and ravish her walls and then so gently caress every fiber of her being at the very same moment?

  How could this man burn the essence of her skin with just his touch?

  A man she could not see. Or touch.

  The woman couldn’t make sense of it, even though she knew there had to be some rational reason for this exquisite man being able to—

  “Aaah. Oooh. God, yessss . . .”

  The air heated and sweetened from her musk. And she audibly inhaled. Her pussy smelled . . . intoxicating. She—unh, ooh, yes—tried desperately to remember the last time she’d had an orgasm—one not manipulated by her own hand or by some ridiculously expensive sex toy.

  She couldn’t.

  And, and . . . oh, God, yes . . .

  This was what she’d asked for, wasn’t it? Yes, yes, yes. Oh, God, yes.

  She croaked out a half-grunt, half-groan as a tear—a mixture of pleasure and heartache—slid down her cheek.

  Oh God, oh God . . . yes, goddammit, yes . . .

  Her pussy rippled over her secret lover’s cock. Smooth velvet wrapped around thick, hard dick. This, this—oh God, yes . . . this anonymous fucking, felt so d-d-damn good. She needed this—God knows she did. But it wasn’t the man she loved. It wasn’t her husband. And yet her body defied the confusion swimming around in her mind. She couldn’t get her husband out of her head, wondering what he was doing at this very moment. Was he somewhere fucking some island whore behind her back? Was he somewhere with his dick stuffed down in some other bitch’s neck?

  Still . . .

  She cried out, her hands tightly gripping the restraints. She felt so helpless. So trapped. And, yet, so liberated.

  “Oh God,” she heard herself murmur as she felt soft fingers rolling lazily around her clit, making her skin erupt with goose bumps.

  This wasn’t cheating. It was therapy. Sexual healing. Wasn’t this why she’d come to Passion Island, for passion and therapeutic healing?

  “God, God, God . . . yes, yes, yessss,” she chanted as another woman’s delicate hand drew slow, deliciously sweet circles over her clit.

  “Mm. Ja, mijn liefde,” the other woman whispered in her ear. “Geniet van zijn grote pik met uw natte kutje (Mm, yes my love. Soak his big cock with your wet pussy).”

  Tears gathered behind the woman’s eyelids as she tried to imagine what her lover looked like, while fighting through the hurt and betrayal she felt so consumed with. Her husband had hurt her over and over and over again—with his lies and infidelity. Yet she was too weak to leave him. She didn’t want to abandon their marriage the way he had abandoned her, leaving her heart aching and her cunt empty.

  However, through everything, she still summoned the fortitude from somewhere deep within to forgive him for his indiscretions, his moments of weakness. After all, what man didn’t cheat, at least once? It was in their DNA. Men were born to be dogs. They were bred to be unfaithful. They had to be trained to be faithful and loyal.

  So why hadn’t he been faithful and loyal to her? She fought to understand, nearly driving herself crazy, trying to figure out what it was those other bitches had that she didn’t?

  Still, in spite of her husband’s faults, he was a good man. But she was simply tired of his shit. She was tired of being in her marriage by herself. She was tired of begging—for attention, for love, and now, most recently, his dick.

  She was a woman with wan
ts and needs and desires, too.

  And what she wanted most was for her husband to love her again, to want her again. And she was willing to do whatever it took to win him back.

  The woman tethered to the bed cried out as her clandestine lover began thrusting furiously. The steady pounding of his body into hers made her toes curl. He was fucking her like a wild, rabid animal as he rammed in and out, pounding her into the maelstrom of a third orgasm.

  “Yessss, yessss, yesssssss . . .”

  She gasped for breath, her body arching, welcoming the rippling waves of ecstasy. She heard him growl, and then it dawned on her that she hadn’t heard him say one word the whole evening; only grunts, groans, and garbled sounds of pleasure.

  “Ja, my love,” she heard the woman with the seductive drawl murmur near her ear. The thick accent warmed her skin, causing prickly heat to coat her flesh. “Let yourself go, my darling. Geven uw natte kut.” The woman’s native tongue whispering in her ear, urging her to give into her wet pussy made her walls clench. She moaned as she felt the fluttering of fingertips over her nipples. She’d never had another woman touch her breasts, her clit—or any other part of her body before and the sensation, the knowing, was startling. Her nipples suddenly became turgid, chocolate peaks of arousal, swollen and painfully tight.

  Heat splintered through her.

  Behind the blindfold, her eyeballs rolled around in their sockets, and her lids struggled to flutter open against the silky material. But there was nothing but a blanket of blackness over her eyes. More heat danced over her skin as her mystery lover’s dick—

  “Oh God, oh God . . . ohhhh . . . unh . . .”

  The curve of his dick swept around her cunt, brushing her walls causing vibrations to ricochet through her womb.

  “Please God, yes, yes, yessss!” the woman cried out and grew wetter, her lips swelling between her legs.

  The scent of sex and sin and unbridled lust filled her nose. She breathed in, and swallowed as her lover’s gaze dipped to the swell of the other woman’s own breasts, her nipples and chocolate-colored areolas visible through her sheer gown. He growled over the red gag ball strapped in his mouth at the erotic image.

  Everything about the exotic beauty standing before them was breathtaking. She’d been one of his many fantasies. He’d fucked her in all of his fantasies, his dreams, many times over the years.

  As he eyed the exotic goddess, he imagined it was her cunt his dick was in. He wanted nothing more than to feel his thick organ snuggled deeply inside her heated walls. He imagined her pussy being hot silk.

  The striking enchantress licked her lips and slid a hand through the thigh-high slit of her dress and pulled it back like a curtain, unveiling her heavenly cunt. With eager fingers, she opened herself to him, pulling open her petals, giving him a glimpse of her glistening pink flesh.

  Transfixed on the magnificent view of her cunt, her labia, her beautiful clit, he drew in a breath and slammed his dick in and out of his bounded lover’s quaking body; his dick knocking against her cervix with a ravening hunger.

  His fantasy woman leaned forward and licked over the ball stuffed in his mouth, and—holy shit—he nearly came on the spot.

  He grunted again, sweat dripping from his face, sliding down the center of his chest. He gripped the edge of an orgasm, and fought to contain himself.

  The seductress watching him watch her undid him. She wet her lips again, the pink tip of her tongue seductively darting out, teasing him. He nearly groaned. And then she leaned forward. Her mouth brushed against the woman’s ear beneath him, and he felt her pussy quiver around his dick. “Je wilt je kut gevuld met lul, mijn liefde (You like your cunt stuffed with cock, my love)?”

  His mystery lover had no idea what the sexy siren was saying, but it made her toes curl again. And she mewled out and writhed as her lover’s hips rocked forward, thrusting hard and urgently into her body—his dick sliding against the walls of her cunt.

  The masked woman moaned. “Yes, yes, yessss . . .”

  She felt herself being tossed around in a sea of sexual pleasure and emotional pain as sensual heat washed over her as she became swept up into the blaze of another orgasm.

  “Welcome to Passion Island, my darling,” was all the woman heard before the room went blurry around her and she grew hotter, wetter, and then . . .

  She felt herself getting swept up in the firestorm.

  One

  Brenda Woods stepped on the gas and ran through the red light, not caring about the posted speed limit or potentially getting a speeding ticket. She was going seventy in a forty-mile zone and still running late. She had a plane to catch. And she didn’t give a damn how fast she was going. She had no intentions of missing her flight.

  The thick-hipped, curvy diva with the butterscotch complexion and almond-shaped eyes was on a mission. Come hell or high water, she would be boarding that plane. And nothing but death would stand in her way from climbing aboard the luxury private jet.

  She needed this six-week, all-expense-paid getaway, like she needed the air she breathed. She needed her whole life back. And she needed it back, fast, before she became unglued.

  Professionally, she had it going on. Her trendy hair salon, Scissor Happy, was finally pulling in the clientele and the coins that would set her apart from her competitors. No, no. She had no competition. She considered her salon one of the best.

  Shit. Who was she kidding? She knew as did the rest of the hair industry that until she crushed out her only real rival—the highly successful Nappy No More hair salon—she would still be second best. The salon’s owner had several locations in Jersey, New York, and California. Now that bitch was getting paid. And Brenda wanted that same level of high-profile success. She’d never openly admit it, but she secretly admired, idolized, and envied its owner, Pasha.

  Still, Nappy No More—aside from numerous locations—didn’t have anything that her salon, Scissor Happy, couldn’t have. It was in a class all by itself. And it had the potential to be one of the world’s premier hair salons. And it was well on its way to being just that. And she was happy. Finally living the good life.

  Now her personal life . . . ugh. Well, it was part good, and part bad, with a mixture of bullshit stirred somewhere in the middle, thanks to her philandering husband. Roselle.

  Simply put, she was tired of his cheating . . .

  Her stiletto-clad foot pressed down on the pedal and the car flew through another light as it turned from yellow to red.

  Roselle—red-skinned with jet-black wavy hair and dark, long lashes (a pretty boy)—cut his eye over at his wife, then flicked his gaze to the speedometer. What the fuck? She was flying. And he had to wonder if she was trying to kill them—him, intentionally.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d tried some crazy shit like that. But he wasn’t going to let himself think about her crazy-ass antics. It was too early in the morning for this shit.

  The bitch was crazy.

  But the pussy was good.

  Real good. Wet and juicy good; he had to keep reminding himself of that. Hell, yeah, she had good pussy. And she sucked dick and swallowed. It didn’t get any better than that, crazy or not. Still, she had multiple screws loose.

  However, two kids and eleven years later, he had no intentions of leaving her. Like the saying went, it was cheaper to keep her. So fuck a divorce. He’d ride it out with her nutty-ass until she’d had enough and wanted out of the marriage on her own. Until then, he’d be stuck with her evil ass. And he’d keep slinging his dick whenever his salacious urges heated through his veins.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t love her. He did. She had his heart in a way that no other woman ever had, or would. But he loved himself more. And—in no particular order, he loved fucking, getting head, and busting a heavy load. Yeah, he was a selfish motherfucker, and a very horny bastard.

  And?

  Shit. She knew what it was before she’d married him. She’d played the sidepiece for almost two y
ears, was willing to share the dick, before she’d finally made her way to MVP—Most Valued Pussy.

  So what the fuck was her problem now?

  She knew he loved her crazy ass. Knew that them hoes in the streets didn’t mean shit. They were just a piece of wet ass and a nut.

  Roselle sighed inwardly, glancing over at Brenda. She was pretty as fuck. He allowed his gaze to linger over her breasts—oh hell yeah, those big, bouncy tits with the big areolas and thick nipples. He felt his dick thicken as he imagined sliding his meat between the folds of her breasts. A nice titty-fuck was what his dick needed.

  Brenda felt his gaze on her, and shot him a hot glare that said, “Why the fuck are you staring at me?” She rolled her eyes for emphasis and sped through another light.

  Roselle shook his head. Evil ass.

  Truth be told, he hated what his cheating ways did to his wife. And he hated even more having to apologize for shit he wasn’t necessarily sorry for. And he hated making promises he knew, she knew, he most likely wouldn’t keep. He’d try, like now, to not fuck another woman.

  And, so far, for the last two months, he’d managed to keep his dick home. Well, shit, wait—head didn’t count, right? Nah, head definitely wasn’t cheating. And it was that mindset that told him it was okay for him to let some young booster chick suck his dick in the backseat of his truck in exchange for a pair of woman’s Gucci shades she’d managed to swipe out of Neiman Marcus for him.

  The same oversized sunglasses his wife currently had wrapped around her face, his gift to her for her birthday. It was fair trade. He got superb head, and his wife got a banging pair of shades.

  “Don’t you think you should slow it down?” he asked calmly as she made a sharp right, then sped down the street.

  She sucked her teeth, cutting her eyes at him. “I got this,” she grumbled. “But if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have to run red lights ‘n’ shit. So don’t start.”