He didn’t. As satisfied as he was with his existence on earth, I doubted he cared what anyone thought of him, including the two women behind him who were now nodding in our direction.
“No,” I replied. “You don’t.”
He studied my face. His eyes narrowed. Using the two fingers that were still buried deep in my throbbing pussy as leverage, he pulled me close to his chest.
“If I want to finger you in the street,” he said sternly, “I’ll finger you in the street.”
“Umm.” I swallowed a ball of apprehension. “Okay.”
As the two women in the distance watched eagerly, he proceeded to do just that. Seconds later, I was backed against his motorcycle with my eyes rolled back into my head and him leaning over me.
The world around me vanished momentarily, leaving me to enjoy the fruits of Devin’s labor in the solace of silence.
My eyes shot open as he brought me to climax. I bit into my lower lip in hopes of stifling my urge to scream out in pleasure. Wondering just what he’d done to change me from the woman who once worried what someone might think about the color of my shoes to one who obviously didn’t care if someone watched me being finger-banged while my ass rested against a dusty Harley-Davidson, I looked at Devin, thinking the answer might be hidden somewhere deep in his brown orbs.
His eyes glistened with satisfaction. He curled the tips of his fingers against my G-spot once again for good measure. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
I collapsed against his motorcycle, nearly tipping it over. “What…what are you doing to me?” I stammered.
He slid his hand from inside my jeans. “Whatever I want to.”
That much was obvious. I braced myself against the teetering motorcycle. “I can see that.”
“C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the coffee shop behind him. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee.”
I situated things the best I could and checked myself in the motorcycle’s rearview mirror. “I look like hell.”
“You look fantastic.” He draped his left arm over my shoulder. “You always look fantastic.”
I tugged my panties out of my crotch and adjusted my ponytail. “I’ll take your word for it.”
We sauntered across the street. As we strolled past the table where two of the interested parties were seated, Devin paused and faced them. He raised his right hand to his mouth and sucked my juices from the two fingers he’d used to please me.
“Good morning.” He lowered his hand and gave the two women a sharp nod. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Either incapable of responding or unwilling to do so, they both gawked at us as if we were aliens.
Devin reached for the door and opened it. “After you,” he said, gesturing inside.
I stepped into the coffee shop, wearing a prideful smile. There was no doubt Devin was opening my eyes to accepting changes, many of which were in complete contrast to my mundane past. Nevertheless, I had not one single regret.
I hoped that didn’t change anytime soon.
Chapter Seventeen
Devin
Midway through his meatloaf dinner, Herb paused to listen to the newscast playing in the adjoining room. When the segment finished, he shifted his eyes from the television to me.
“Some lady cop posing as a masseuse offered him a hand job. Then she arrested him when he tried to pay her.” He waved his fork toward the television. “Did you see that?”
I’d seen the report several times prior. The man, a rich celebrity of sorts, had driven from a wealthy neighborhood in Palm Beach to a seedy massage parlor in a neighboring city.
“Somebody with that much money wouldn’t drive from Palm Beach to Jupiter to get a massage unless he wasn’t looking for a little something extra,” I replied. “I’m guessing he didn’t stumble in there by chance.”
He pressed the tines of his fork through the corner of his meatloaf and paused. “Man’s a billionaire, isn’t he?”
“I think so.”
“What’s a billionaire doing getting hand jobs at a shitty massage parlor, anyway?” he asked.
“That’s exactly what I was wondering.”
He poked at his food. “What’s a hand job cost at a place like that?”
I’d never had a hand job. Considering all the available options for arousal to the point of ejaculation, a hand job was the clear loser in my opinion.
“Hell, I don’t know,” I replied. “Twenty bucks?”
“I paid three bucks for one in Da Nang in nineteen sixty-nine,” he said. “She yanked on that fucker like she was trying to start a goddamned lawn mower. Each time she tugged on it, I came up off the bed about six inches. I finally told her to stop. Gave her another three bucks for a blowjob. She wanted five, but I talked her down. Felt like I’d cheated her afterward, so I gave her a five-dollar tip. Considering that was fifty years ago in Vietnam, I’m thinking a hand job will go for fifty, here in the States. Maybe more.”
“Fifty?” I stared in complete disbelief. “Who’d give fifty bucks for a hand job?”
He nodded toward the living room. “People like him.”
“A hand job’s worth fifteen bucks and five for the tip,” I said. “Twenty total.”
He considered my reasoning. He shook his head in opposition. “I bet twenty bucks would buy about three strokes.”
“Three strokes?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s seven bucks a stroke. Applying that math, the fifty-buck hand job you’re talking about would buy seven strokes. A girl would have to be pretty talented to finish a guy off in seven strokes.”
“Bet that gal you’re seeing could get it done in seven strokes, can’t she?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “She’s never given me a hand job.”
His fork fell from his grasp and hit his plate with a clank! “What?” He seemed appalled. “Why in the hell not?”
“Who wants a hand job?”
He reached for the fallen utensil. “Who doesn’t?”
I shrugged and commenced eating my dinner. “I don’t.”
His wrinkled brow furrowed even more. “Why not?”
“They’re dumb,” I said over a mouthful of food. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of options to relieve myself. A hand job is my last choice.”
He leaned forward, hovering over his plate, his brows raised in wonder. “Does she give blowjobs?”
“She sure does.”
He relaxed into the back in his chair and whistled through his teeth. “Who in their right mind would want a hand job if that was an option?”
I chuckled. “Precisely.”
“Does she have you finish on a tissue, or does she collect it in her hand? Midge used a tissue.” He shook his head, as if recalling one of their sexual activities together. “Drove me nuts. She always had her left hand dangling at her side clutching a Kleenex. Made it hard for me to stay focused.”
I chuckled again. “Neither.”
He seemed confused. “What’s she do with it?”
“She swallows it.”