Page 22 of Passion Island

Kendall glanced over at the life-like statue of a man standing with his legs parted; behind him was a woman on her knees, her breasts large, her face wedged between his white-marbled ass cheeks, her hands wrapped around the man’s thick erection.

Damn.

Kendall thought the piece erotic.

It made him think of Persia. His very own cock-sucking, ass licker.

And it made him want—

Dr. Dangerfield cleared her voice. “Well, don’t all answer at once,” she said lightly. “How about you, Mr. Woods . . .”

Roselle sat in his chair wondering what color her panties were, and—most importantly—what style they were. She looked like a lace and silk kind of woman.

Nice bare pussy.

I bet that shit’s pretty as fuck, he thought. He was glad to be sitting down—just the thought of her pussy made him start to get hard.

She probably can’t take dick, though.

Or maybe that shit had teeth.

“Mr. Woods . . .?”

Isaiah reached over and tapped Roselle on the knee.

“Huh?” Roselle said as he shifted in his seat, his mind back in the moment, his semi-erect dick now deflated at the vision of her cunt gnashing its razor-sharp shark teeth at his dick. “Oh, damn. My bad. What was the question?”

Dr. Dangerfield smiled, and then repeated herself. “I asked you if you’ve ever cheated on your wife?”

“Yeah,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s really the only thing we ever fight about.”

Kendall tore his attention away from the statue and looked at Roselle.

Dr. Dangerfield nodded. “How many times have you cheated on your wife?” she asked Roselle.

Roselle laughed. “You mean, how many times have I gotten caught?”

“Damn, bruh,” Kendall said over a laugh of his own, “it’s like that?”

“Man, what can I say . . . I’m addicted to sex.”

“So you are saying, you’re a sex addict?” Dr. Dangerfield asked.

Roselle nodded. “Yes. My name is Roselle Woods. And I confess: I’m addicted to sex.”

Dr. Dangerfield shifted in her seat and then crossed her feet at her ankles. “So you’re saying sex consumes you, which is why you cheat?”

Roselle shrugged. “Yeah, something like that. It’s like them panties be calling for me. I can see a fine woman and, before she speaks, I’m already undressing her. In my head, the way she’s walking, it’s like she’s thrusting her pelvis at me, throwing the cookie at me, wanting me to beat it up. And, nine times outta ten, if I step to her, I’ma get them drawz. Maybe not that same day, but if I get them digits, I’m definitely getting a sample of that cookie, too.”

Dr. Dangerfield almost rolled her eyes up in her head. Being not only a psychologist and a certified sex addiction therapist, Dr. Dangerfield knew the difference between an addict and a pathological cheater. Yet, it seemed that every time a man (most) got caught cheating multiple times, the easy way out, the way to be absolved of any accountability, was to proclaim being a sex addict as if waving some colorful banner that said “I can’t control my dick” would make it all okay.

When, in fact, the majority of cheaters were far from addicts. And they didn’t always meet the clinical criteria for sex addiction. They didn’t use sex to cope with feelings or with life in general. Sex wasn’t used as a drug. And a cheater wasn’t obsessed with sex. Nor were they riddled with shame and/or guilt for their behaviors the way a sex addict was.

Many of them were simply thrill seekers. Pussy chasers.

Dr. Dangerfield believed they were simply self-indulgent, irresponsible and/or amoral. Fucking multiple partners was simply one of many forms of manipulation and opportunistic self-gratification. They cheated because they wanted to. Cheaters genuinely believed their cheating was justified. They didn’t want to stop because it disrupted some moral compass. No. In their minds, they cheated because they could, because they could get away with it. Because they knew more likely than not there would be no real consequences, not any that would be detrimental to them. The women in their lives would curse and scream and fight and, more than likely, toss him out. But the cheater knew, she’d eventually—with some work on his part—take him back.

Sadly, over and over again.

---