Maneater Read Free

streamed down my cheeks. Breathing heavily, I thought, Mama, what should I say to this man?
    â€œI’m not a damn Barbie doll! I’m a woman. I have feelings. For God’s sake, can’t you see how much I love you?” I didn’t know what to do or say next. I struggled to rationalize his behavior but couldn’t.
    Maverick replied, “True. Barbie is white,” adding no comment about his love for me.
    I sat there on the verge of a nervous breakdown. This man was my everything. My friend. My lover. My fiancé. I had to marry him.

Chapter 2
Maverick
    H ad a lotta shit on my dick.
    Seven didn’t know me. No one knew the real Maverick Maxamillion. I was a motherless child, knew I wanted to be loved, and was not so sure I was capable of loving. I was money hungry, and money masked my insecurities and promiscuity. I was certain that Seven loved me, and I loved Seven the best I knew how. How could I keep a secret from her?
    Best to let her go now, spare her the shock of discovering what I’d taken from her without her permission. The choice to decide if she wanted to marry a bisexual man. Shit was complicated. My reputation was at stake if I came out. Couldn’t give my father another reason to disown me. My business partners would force me out. Clearly, I needed Seven more than she needed me.
    Seven sat there, searching my eyes for answers I’d never share. She was so damn gorgeous. Large, brown, dreamy eyes. Thick, full, pouting lips, which men craved to have on their dicks. Flawless skin, softer than a baby’s. Long, silky jet-black hair, which nicely framed her grapefruit-sized natural breasts. Sexy, shapely legs. She’d put on more weight than I desired. Wouldn’t hurt her to get it off before the wedding, but her weight gain wasn’t the reason I had to have space.
    â€œThink about how we can work this out. I’ve got to go to my office for a few hours,” I lied, then said, “We can finish this discussion when I get back.” I stood, kissed her on the cheek. I looked over my shoulder as I walked away. She hadn’t moved or stopped crying.
    I retrieved my cell phone off the coffee table, got on the elevator, strolled past the doorman at the front desk, walked outside, then strode to my town car.
    â€œYou sure you want to go there?” Danté asked, holding my door open.
    â€œYeah, I’m sure, man. Drive,” I said, closing my eyes before he’d shut my door. Leaning my neck against the leather headrest, I felt tears escape as I visualized Seven crying.
    In many ways, I was perfect and fucked up. Parental rejection had ruined my childhood. Truth was, I wished my father were dead. Better to lie to Seven about my parents than to have her deal with the bullshit I’d been confronted with all my life—death threats, rejection.
    â€œI hate that motherfucker,” I said, struggling to suppress my sniffles. Hated him for emotionally breaking me down.
    Stomp! The sole of my leather shoe landed against the back of the driver’s seat. Adjusting my black slacks, I spread my thighs, held my dick.
    â€œDon’t know why you put yourself through this every week,” Danté said from the driver’s seat. His deep voice excited me. “Just whup your old man’s ass, get your mother out of his house, and let her live with us.”
    I wasn’t going to argue with him. I’d told him the house I was building based on Seven’s architectural plans was for Seven, not for him. Initially I’d asked Seven to leave so I could keep our new home, the home she’d fantasized about, a surprise. I was tired of Danté’s insecure ass being in competition with my fiancée.
    My immediate concern was my mom. I had to find a way to free her. She was miserable, but refused to leave my trifling father. They’d probably die together. The same way Jesse Jackson had offered no genuine apology to Obama for saying,