- Shopping Bag ( 0 items )
From New York Times bestselling authors Carl Weber and Mary B. Morrison comes this powerful, unforgettable novel about the ultimate player who has finally run into the wrong woman...
After a rocky marriage, irresistibly seductive Jay Crawford is ready for a new woman—and a new challenge. It doesn't take him long to discover both in one fine package: Ashlee Anderson. With a face and body that scream sex, she's just what he's looking ...
Ships from: North Brunswick, NJ
Usually ships in 1-2 business days
From New York Times bestselling authors Carl Weber and Mary B. Morrison comes this powerful, unforgettable novel about the ultimate player who has finally run into the wrong woman...
After a rocky marriage, irresistibly seductive Jay Crawford is ready for a new woman—and a new challenge. It doesn't take him long to discover both in one fine package: Ashlee Anderson. With a face and body that scream sex, she's just what he's looking for—hard-to-get, feisty, and freaky. But he'd never suspect just how freaky...
Ashlee turns out to be every bit as sexy as Jay suspected. What should've been a one-night stand extends into months of lovemaking that's too hot to give up and designed to burn him like never before. For Ashlee has no intention of letting their relationship ever end. Now Jay is in over his head with a woman who will go to any lengths to possess him. Trouble is, Ashlee's psycho behavior turns him on like nothing else. Maybe they're both crazy. But when Ashlee makes a shocking confession, Jay knows she definitely ain't the one and he's got to get away from her before she completely destroys his life...
"Weber spins a lively, revelation-packed tale deepened by genuine emotion, convincing detail and smart dialogue."—Publishers Weekly on The Preacher's Son
"Morrison delivers a deep, passionate story that holds readers from beginning to end." —Black Issues Book Review on Never Again Once More
Includes a teaser of Carl Weber's Something on the Side and Mary B. Morrison's Sweeter Than Honey
I stepped out of my new BMW 650i convertible and handed the keys to the valet at Zanzibar Nightclub. I could tell he was impressed by my new car. I was impressed too. You see, I wasn't a rich guy who could buy things like this all the time. In truth, I was just a civil servant, but the BMW was a present to myself, a present to celebrate my new life and my divorce from my wife-I mean ex-wife-Kenya.
It had taken me some time to get to this point in my life, but I finally felt free for the first time in years. Free to find the woman I would spend the rest of my life with, or die trying.
Kenya and I had been married for the past ten years, the last three of which we'd been separated. I know it's pretty pitiful, but I wasn't even in love with her when I married her. She was pregnant, and I thought I was doing the right thing. When in truth I was doing nothing more than killing myself slowly. It was something I swore I'd never do again. If I ever got married again, I was going to be in love.
To date there was only one woman that I'd ever been in love with, and her name was Tracy. We'd had an affair three years ago, and things were going great until she found out about my marriage. She was the reason I'd moved to D.C.in the first place. I was hoping to rekindle the flame of our past relationship and recapture the one thing I was missing in life-love. The only problem was, I'd been in D.C. almost three months and had no idea how or where to find her. I wasn't even sure she was still living in the D.C. area.
After getting my parking ticket from the valet, I glanced at the entrance of Zanzibar. There had to be at least a hundred people waiting in line to get in. And from what I heard from my new coworkers about the waterfront clubs in D.C., that meant at least an hour's wait. I wasn't worried about that, though, because not only was I on the guest list, I had a VIP pass waiting for me at the door, thanks to fine-ass Monica, the head bartender.
I'd met Monica about two months ago, after sharing a plane ride from New York to D.C. That wasn't the only ride we shared. We also shared a cab ride back to her place, and about a half hour later, I rode that ass to sleep. I know I sound full of myself and perhaps a little arrogant, but I put it on her so good, she'd been blowing my phone up ever since. I'd been trying my best to avoid seeing her again, giving her one lame-ass excuse after another, but for some reason she wasn't getting the hint. Funny thing is, I probably would have hooked up with her right away if it wasn't for the fact that she was one of the worst pieces of ass I'd ever had. Can you say, stiff as a board? I swear to God the girl did not move one muscle the entire time during sex. If she was any indication of what the sex was like in D.C., I was going to have to rethink my relocation to the nation's capital.
I know what you're thinking-If Monica was so bad in bed and I was trying so hard to avoid her, why the hell was I meeting her at the club? Well, the truth is, she called me from a blocked number and caught me off guard. She offered to put me on the guest list at the club and give me a pass to the VIP lounge. I figured, what the hell ... why not give her another shot? It couldn't get any worse than the first time. Besides, my divorce had just become final, and I was in the mood to do some celebrating.
When I walked up to the front of the line, it had to be about a five-to-one ratio of women to men waiting to get in. I could feel the women staring at me, and I felt like a movie star. I even heard one woman whispering, "Who is he?" to her friend.
Her friend answered, "I don't remember his name, but I think he was the guy who played in that movie with Monique, what's his name, Jimmy Jean-Louis."
"Oh my God! That's him," the first woman replied. "Damn, I got to give him some of this pussy."
I glanced at the woman and gave her a wink. She was fine as hell and could get a lot more than a one-night stand if she played her cards right. It looks like Monica'll be going home alone tonight.
You see, I kinda fancied myself as a player. Not trying to brag or anything, but I was a good-looking guy, five feet eleven with baby-smooth chocolate skin and, for lack of a better phrase, "good hair." I guess I gotta thank my mama for that. She was from Trinidad, and everybody knows that Trinis got good hair. Well, to make a long story short, I'd never had a problem with women falling all over me; it was guys I had a problem with, and as usual, they were hating.
One brother who was standing in line by the door actually had the nerve to say, "Who the fuck is that?" to the bouncer right after I told him my name and he gave me an orange wristband to get into the VIP area and let me into the club.
Once I got into the club, I made my way over to the main bar to find Monica. It was crowded, but I spotted her pouring drinks on the other end of the bar as she danced awkwardly to the music. I immediately busted out laughing. Now I knew why she was so bad in bed-the girl had absolutely no rhythm whatsoever. Just watching her dance reminded me how bad the sex was; I was about to fade back into the crowd when she spotted me.
There was no question that she was on me hard because, the second she saw me, she stopped what she was doing and headed toward me, grinning from ear to ear. I had to give her some credit, though. She may have been terrible in bed, but she sure was a pleasure to the eyes. I could see the jealousy in half the guys sitting at the bar as she approached me. If they knew what I knew, they wouldn't have been jealous at all; they probably would have bought me a drink in sympathy-'cause every guy knows there's nothing worse than a bad piece of ass.
"What you drinking, handsome?" Monica leaned over the bar.
I couldn't tell if she wanted a kiss or just wanted me to see her cleavage. Whichever one it was, I wasn't interested. "Hennessey," I replied as I took a step back.
She poured me a double and pointed to the VIP area. "I get off around two, so have a good time till then. Just remember who you're going home with."
"How could I forget?" I gave her a weak smile and walked away from the bar. By the time she gets off from work, I'll be long gone and hopefully with a new playmate.
I walked around the club for a while and danced with a few women before heading to the VIP area. I even ran into the girl from the door, Nikki, and we made tentative plans to meet up at the door around quarter to two, to hit a diner after we left the club. That way, if I didn't meet anybody more promising by then, I could get the hell out of the club with somebody to bed and not have to worry about Monica and her nonfucking ass.
I roamed the club for a while and actually found Zanzibar to be nice. The VIP lounge was higher than the club and gave me a nice view of the dance floor and the bar, allowing me to keep tabs on Monica. I settled into a chair in the corner by a rail that separated the club from the VIPs, so I could see almost everything going on and no one could see me.
One of my favorite things to do before I made a move on any women at a club was people-watch. Believe it or not, you could tell a lot about people just by watching them. Most of the brothers in the VIP were tall and big, so I suspected most of them were either football players with the Redskins or basketball players for the Wizards. Most of the women looked like video dancers or strippers, and all of them had GOLD DIGGER flashing across their heads, as far as I was concerned.
All of them but one, that is, and she seemed to be in her own world. Except when one of those pushy athletes tried to buy her a drink or asked her to dance. I'd never seen so many brothers get shot down by the same woman in my entire life. It was actually pretty humorous, along with being pathetic.
Whoever she was, she was one classy-looking female. She wasn't flashy fine, but fine in a sophisticated kind of way, and because of that, she stuck out from the crowd. Her body was slim, and although she was sitting down, her strong arms and legs told me she was an athlete, a swimmer or maybe even an aerobics instructor.
I watched her for a good thirty minutes, and to be honest, I wasn't sure if she was white or black, she was so light. Truth is, whatever race she was really didn't matter to me; what mattered was how I was going to get her to talk to me so I could take her home.
My opening finally came about quarter to one, when a guy about my size, with a weird Charlie Brown-shaped head, approached her. I'd seen him ask her to dance a few times before, but I guess this time he wasn't taking no for an answer because he actually grabbed her wrist.
She tried to play it off, pulling her arm from his grasp, but I could tell she was scared. I stood up and walked over to where she was sitting. By the time I got there, Charlie Brown Head looked like he was going to slap her.
"Ahhh, hell no! Didn't I tell you not to talk to anyone?" I pointed my finger in the woman's face, then pointed to where I was sitting. "You didn't even see me sitting over there, did you? You just couldn't resist making a fool out of me, could you? I can't leave your ass alone for two seconds, can I?"
She looked confused, like she was about to say something to tip off old boy.
I raised my voice even louder to shut her up. "I told you about flirting with these motherfuckers. Wait till I get your ass home. That's why I didn't wanna come here in the first place."
I turned my attention to Charlie Brown, who was looking a little confused himself. I wasn't sure if he wanted to fight or back off; I wasn't about to give him a choice. It wasn't like I was scared. Hell, I had a black belt in karate, but I never fought with or over women.
"Do you know her? 'Cause if you don't, let me introduce myself -I'm her husband, and we got three kids. So unless you're her long-lost brother, I think you should find someone else's marriage to ruin." I stood my ground, and the brother took a step back.
There was something about the word husband that always seemed to make a man reconsider his actions when it came to a pretty woman. Most brothers didn't care if a woman had a husband, as long as he was not around to interfere, but the minute the old man showed up, all bets were off. Which obviously was the case with Charlie Brown. He didn't say anything; he just stepped off and walked away.
I stared at him until he was out of sight, then turned to the sister. And she was a sister, which I could tell now that I was closer to the nape of her neck and her full lips.
"Sorry about the macho man routine, but you looked like you could use a little help. My name's Jay. Jay Crawford." I waited for her reply, and I knew I was in there when she started to grin.
I grinned to keep from crying, to keep from laughing, to keep from screaming hysterically in Jay's face. I didn't want this good-looking man to think I was crazy, but the reason I'd flown all the way from Dallas to D.C. and ended up at Zanzibar by myself was to escape my relationship blues. I could've easily gone down the street to the Channel Inn, but the concierge at my hotel said the crowd was too old. Or I could've walked a block down to H20, but there was a long line of what appeared to be college-aged students waiting to get in.
My objective when I left Dallas was to go to a city where no one knew me. I needed to spend some time alone trying to figure out where things went wrong between me and my ex. I wasn't looking for a new man; I was perfectly content grieving over my breakup with Darius, until Jay made me laugh. Maybe I could use Jay to forget about Darius, like Darius used his new fiancée to forget about me.
The saying "always a bridesmaid, never a bride" for me was more like "always the ex, never the wife." A bitter lump of jealously lodged in my throat as I imagined Darius and his bride-to-be, happy together.
Girl, lighten up and live a little, I thought, avoiding eye contact with Jay. Darius is not the only man in the world for you and you've got two hundred pounds of chocolate proof standing right in front of you smiling ... at you. Come on, forget about Darius, you deserve to be happy too.
I was too choked up to say anything to Jay so I shifted my attention to his glorious body and frisked him with my eyes.
Jay stood tall, not stiff. With confidence he planted his foot on the stainless steel rim at the bottom of the bar stool. A hint of arrogance accented the arch in his back as he leaned closer to me. His arrogance was attractive, but I could tell Jay wasn't a player or a gigolo like the other men in the VIP section who'd approached me. Jay was just what I needed-comical, caring, and sexy as hell.
When he interlocked his hands atop the table, I almost fell off my stool. I couldn't help but notice this Mandingo had thick succulent fingers. His middle fingers were longer than his ring fingers, which meant his dick was longer than six inches. After riding Darius's nine inches, I hated when a man's middle finger was shorter because that meant regardless of the size of his hands, his dick was five and a half inches at best.
Thinking of best, I bet those hands could make me come hard without touching my clit. Mmm, mmm ... look at the size of those feet. I can't wait to see his toes. Sure hope his second toe is longer than the big toe!
He nodded, showing me his pearly white teeth. He looked like he could've whupped up on every man in the club without breaking a sweat or unraveling his dark, curly locks.
"Hey, again, look ... sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have interrupted, but I-"
Gently covering his knuckles, I said, "No need to apologize, lovely; I'm glad you got rid of him," then whispered, "I'm Ash-lee." Slowly smiling, I dipped my tongue into the crevice of my lips, gliding the tip along my upper lip to the opposite side. The Bobbi Brown red lip moisture that I swabbed on my inner lips made my mouth irresistible. Many men lusted but never tasted my cherry flavor. I loved the fact that this product didn't get on my teeth. I gave Jay a half smile and a wink before caressing my own hands.
Glancing around, I saw that people were starting to leave, which meant I had about fifteen minutes to make up my mind. I could make a new friend or go back to my hotel room alone.
Girl, stop trippin'. No one in D.C. knows you, not even Jay. Invite him to that big-ass suite you have at the Hyatt. For once in your life, think like a man, Ashlee. Men know how to have no-attachment fun and sex-have some fun and hell, if you feel like it, ride that dick too.
But if I asked him to come to my room at three in the morning, he'd want to fuck.
Precisely. What's the problem? His hands? His feet? That's not it. Then what's the problem?
Sex with another man would completely ruin all chances of getting back with Darius. Jay wasn't worth the risk. Or was he? I glanced at his feet again. But if I fucked Jay on the first-damn, I can't even call this a date-the first night, what would he think of me?
Who gives a damn? Stop dwelling on the negatives; think of the positives. Look at those dark chocolate lips, girl. You've got about twenty minutes before last call. Literally!
Making a move, I laughed, leaning my breasts toward this mouthwatering, tall man who'd saved me, or should I say saved that watermelon-head who walked away? I was about to cuss that idiot out if he hadn't peeled his raggedy fingernails away from my precious silky skin. God knew I had enough Darius-inflicted scars already. Emotionally. Physically. What made that jerk think he had the right to invade my space and feel me up? Oh, I was about to lay hands on that-I hated when a man disrespected me, and loved when a man protected me the way Jay did.
Focus, Ashlee, focus. You are not alone; you have someone sitting across from you, okay?
"Um, um, um. Thanks for keeping me from slapping that man," I said angrily, then checked myself, meshing laughter with a contrived smile.
My handsome protector smiled, winked, then silently gazed at me, making me hot for sex ... with my ex.
You got it bad, girl.
I pictured Darius making love to Fancy. Fancy seemed so perfect: her shape, her breasts, her multimillion-dollar real estate firm. Bitch. Wish I could say she was chasing after Darius for his NBA contract money, but that was a lie.
Excerpted from She Ain't the One by CARL WEBER MARY B. MORRISON Copyright © 2006 by Carl Weber and Mary B. Morrison. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.