Ethic was a lonely man, haunted by ghosts, unable to shake his past enough to move forward to anything new. Dolce was a woman who thought she could change that, heal him, and that was her number one mistake. A woman couldn’t change a man. He had to change himself. For the right woman, he would. Dolce wasn’t that woman. To be fair, Raven was a hard act to follow. He didn’t know why he was sitting outside her house, contemplating using the key she had given him. He knew he was playing with fire. Dolce had put in too much effort, too much time over the years to just walk away without expecting something in return. Ethic just didn’t feel the soul-stirring pull that he had felt with Raven. Not for Dolce at least. Still, he was a man, full of frustration, and he needed to release it. Instead of going home where he belonged, Ethic opened the door to his Range and took long strides toward her front door. He used the key, letting himself in, and as soon as he opened the door, Dolce stood there, wearing a sheer, floor-length robe, six-inch heels, and nothing underneath. No one could ever deny that Dolce was beautiful. She was exotic. She was half Hispanic, half white and just remarkably pretty. Her light skin, long hair, and dangerous curves would be the only pre-requisites for another man to make her his wife, but Ethic was different. Ethic wanted his wife to be a sister; black, mixed with blacker, full of sweet juice and scented like shea butter. He wanted the woman he ended up with to be able to relate to his experience, to know what it was like to have strength and resilience, not because it was learned, but because it was inherited from generations of black people who had to be strong before her. He wanted nappy hair and intelligence. He wanted a woman that could make a feast out of a bag of beans and a neck bone, if he fell on hard times, and it was all he could afford. A woman who could raise his children, if his karma came and took him away prematurely. She didn’t have to come with much. In fact, she could have nothing. If her soul was pure, and her heart linked to his own, he had enough to share with the right one. Dolce wasn’t that woman. She was too pampered, too spoiled, and not cut from the same cloth as he was. They were compatible, sexually, but in all other areas they were opposites. Still, he was a man, and she had been sitting on his dick for years. As she approached him and rubbed the front of his Ferragamo slacks, he reacted to her. His dick had a mind of its own, as she aroused him, making it stand like a snake charmer.