One Night Only (14 page)

His hands were on my head, massaging my scalp and hair, and as I drove the tip of my tongue into the slit of his cock I could feel his balls begin to tighten. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head away from his body. I strained to get his cock back into my mouth before I realized what had happened.

“Not yet,” he said. “I want to come inside you, not in your mouth.”

“Condoms,” I whispered.

“Yes, of course. Only a figure of speech, my dear,” he said. He helped me up and we walked to the bed. He pulled off the blanket and bedspread, letting them fall on the floor, and picked me up, placing me in the center of the great king-sized bed. I noticed his dopp kit on the bed table. He removed a couple of condoms and a travel-sized bottle of lube. “May I fuck your ass?”

I love anal, more I think than vaginal sex, so I smiled and said yes.

“You're sure?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, drawing him to me for a kiss.

He positioned me on my hands and knees on the bed and, with one hand on my back holding me in place, he drew his other hand down my ass, gently teasing the crack. He repeated the motion several times before withdrawing his hand. “Your body is amazing,” he said.

It's nice to be worshiped, and I basked in the sensation of his eyes on me until I felt cold lube dripping into my crack. His finger spread it around and began to tease me open, slowly and gently. He knew what he was doing. He was both sensuous and gentle.

“I love your ass,” he said, and he inserted first one finger, then a second into me, slowly fucking me with his hand. “I can't wait to feel that tight muscle gripping me.” He added more lube and kept up the gentle finger-fucking. He slipped a third finger in me and I moaned. “All right?” he asked.

“Slower, please. Just give me a minute to catch up,” I panted.

He stopped fucking me and held his fingers in place. When my breathing slowed, he began his slow in-and-out motion again. I hadn't felt this full in a long time and I was eager to feel his cock in me. My clit felt heavy and swollen but I kept my hands on the bed. I wanted to wait for his cock before touching myself.

He withdrew his fingers and I felt completely empty. I whined and he said, “I think you're ready for me now.” I heard him tear the condom wrapper and seconds later I felt the tip of his cock pressed against my anus and more lube drizzled over me.

He pressed slowly and steadily against me until my sphincter began to allow the entrance. He was an accomplished ass-fucker. He took his time. It was minutes before he was seated
fully inside me and I felt his balls against my vulva. I tightened my muscles against him and I felt, more than heard, him chuckle. He hung there, without moving, letting me get fully used to the pressure. I wanted desperately to touch myself but I waited.

“All right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I sighed and he withdrew, only to slowly push back inside. Each time he withdrew a little more and pushed back in a little faster until I was moaning, pushing back against him, fucking myself on his cock faster and harder.

I started to lower my head to the bed so I could take my weight on my chest and shoulders to free my hands but he told me not to move. He'd been keeping me steady, using my hips as handles. He slid one of his hands around me and stroked my cunt, only to find me dripping.

“You're one wet little slut, aren't you?” he said as he buried two fingers inside my vagina and assumed the same rhythm he was using to fuck my ass. “I can feel myself fucking you.”

My god, my muscles were convulsing wildly around both his cock and his fingers. I tried to get my hand on myself but he said, no, not to do it. “You want to come?” he asked.

A low, guttural, “Yes,” spewed from my throat.

“Well, you can't. Not yet.”

I growled and pounded against his body, his balls slapping against my flesh.

“I control this fuck and I'm not ready to come yet.” His rhythm changed, became more syncopated, but his fingers stilled. He used his thumb to circle my clit without touching it until I screamed. “Oh, the poor little slut's getting frustrated.” He withdrew his hand altogether and slapped my ass. I jumped and my muscles tightened against him again. “Oh, yeah,” he laughed.

His rhythm built back up to a steady pounding again and he slid a finger inside me one more time. This time, instead of fucking me with it, he began to stroke the ridge just inside my opening. His strokes became harder and harder until I was panting and whining. He was still actively fucking my ass, but the pressure on my G-spot was quickly bringing me to orgasm. Before I could even say, “I'm gonna come,” I was squirting fluid into his hand, something I'd never done before.

“Good girl,” he said. “That's the way.”

His hand slowed and withdrew but his pounding cock never faltered. After my initial tremors slowed, his rhythm picked up until it began to break up and become erratic, with more strength behind each thrust, as if he were trying to force his entire body into me, and with a few more thrusts, he came.

He grew still inside me and I felt his last few contractions as his orgasm finished. We stayed like that for a bit before he slowly withdrew to my groans of complaint. We rolled away from each other, sweating and panting, giving our heart rates a chance to slow down.

“Jesus,” I said.

“You're not so bad, yourself,” he laughed.

“Fuck. I never did that before. I never ejaculated before. Jesus.” Once the sweat dried, I went to the bathroom to clean up. By the time I dressed and came back into the room, he'd put his pants and shirt back on. It seemed our tryst was over.

“May I have your card?” he asked. “Perhaps the next time I'm in town, I'll call you.”

I was at the door. “Oh, I don't live here,” I said, digging a card out of my bag. As I handed it to him, he handed me something in return. I gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks, it was fun,” I said.

He closed the door behind me and as I walked to the elevator
I looked at what he'd handed me. It was money. Two five-hundred-dollar bills, to be exact. I laughed all the way down to my floor. While waiting for room service to bring my dinner I wondered what he'd thought when he read my card:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Y
ou have a new client, girl,” Gil whispered in my ear. “And this boy is smokin' hot.”

I dropped my bag at my station and glanced at my pink appointment sheet. “Harold Gruber? Not a hot name.”

Gil looked at himself in my mirror and preened, running a comb through his jet-black pompadour. On anyone else, it would have looked dumb. On Gil, it was snazzy. I saw that he'd added a streak of white blond on one side, giving him a kind of'80s rockabilly look. I nodded in approval.

“Trust me, Lulu. Mr. Gruber is going to rock your little socks,” he said, gesturing at my white anklets inside four-inch black stilettos. “And if he leaned my way, I'd be stealing him out from under you.”

“Hmm.” I glanced at the clock. “Well, I'm ten minutes late and Mr. Gruber is going to walk out the door if I don't get him in my chair.”

I did my own once-over in the mirror. It's a hazard of being
in the beauty business that I get carried away trying to look the part. I was wearing my kinky schoolgirl outfit today—sheer white blouse with a red lace bra underneath, short black skirt, fishnets, white ankle socks and black pumps. My hair—a custom mixed shade of red with a ribbon of dark purple—hung in two long braids, framing my breasts. Okay, so may be I looked more like a call girl fulfilling a businessman's afternoon fantasy instead of the top stylist at Shockwave Salon, but believe me when I say I blended in.

I walked out to the reception area, the sound of my heels clicking across the tile floor barely audible over the hum of hair dryers, and struck a pose. “Mr. Gruber?”

Whatever I had expected—and I will admit I expected a sweater vest, corduroy trousers and orthopedic shoes—Harold Gruber was decidedly not it. This six-foot-something, dark-haired, masculine beauty rose from a chair and walked toward me. The three remaining clients—two women and one college-aged skater boy, stared.

“I'm Hank,” said the object of all my future wet dreams.

I licked my bottom lip, coated in a thick, glossy layer of Fuck Me Red, and smiled. “Well, Hank, I'm Lulu, your stylist today.”

As he followed me to my station, I heard him mutter, “You can be my stylist any day of the week.”

That gave me back my confidence and I threw a little extra sway in my sashay.

The theme of the Shockwave Salon is retro punk, with lots of black and pink and silver. The chairs are black leather and each station is a three-sided mirrored stall. Clients don't like to be stared at when they're sitting in a stylist's chair, so the reception area is separated from the salon by a wall of beveled glass. It's kind of a neat setup, really. There's an intimacy to being a
stylist—it's like being a masseuse or therapist—and Norma, the owner of Shockwave, was smart to play on that.

I gestured to the chair and Mr. Gruber—Hank—settled into it. Like a bullfighter, I snapped a cape in the air before draping it around his neck. That was the first part of him I touched. His neck. I'm pretty impervious to my clients. I've only dated one and that was a disaster. I'd rather keep a client than have a date, so I lay the flirtation on hot and heavy when they're in my chair, but that's the only thing that gets laid. But rubbing my fingertips along the back of Hank's neck made me reconsider.

“So, what can I do for you today?” I said with a smile and an arch of one sculpted eyebrow.

I knew the insinuation was pure sex and that was my intention. There was a reason I was the top stylist at the salon—the only thing hotter than sex is the temptation of sex. Temptation pays the mortgage, baby.

“Just a little trim,” Hank said.

I've heard the phrase before from male clients, but never said with quite the same inflection. Hank had taken my flirt and upped the ante.

“Just a little trim?” I repeated, turning my back to him.

My bag of tools was still on the floor where I had dropped it and I bent over to dig out the clippers. Thanks to the mirrors, I could see Hank's eyes go immediately to my ass. I could feel my skirt riding up precariously high. He was getting a glimpse of the stocking tops of my fishnets and maybe even a shadowy peek of asscheek, but I didn't make an effort to cover myself. The clippers were right on top of the pile, but I spent a solid minute fumbling around so he could get a good, long look. Interestingly, his eyes slipped from my bottom down to my feet before traveling back up. It looked like Mr. Gruber wasn't just an ass man; he was a leg man, too. It's good to remember such
things about clients so one can dress appropriately on appointment day.

I finally stood, brushing my hand over the back of my skirt as I did. “Sorry, I'm a bit disorganized this morning,” I said, a little breathless. “I had a late night and overslept this morning.”

He cocked his head and studied me for a moment, as if considering what might have kept me up so late. Whatever his imagination conjured, it made him smile. “Not a problem.”

I stepped behind him, meeting his gaze in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed from bending over and one braid had slipped inside my blouse. I saw him glance to where the red plait disappeared and I made a show of freeing it while giving him a better look at my cleavage. My breasts had spilled over the top of my push-up bra, so he got more of a look than I intended.

“Sorry,” I said again, feeling his gaze like a touch. “How embarrassing.”

I really did need to get to work on the man's hair if I was going to make up for lost time, so I focused on giving him what he wanted—just a little trim. The clippers buzzed in my hand as I trimmed up the back of his neck.

“Do you normally keep it this short?”

“This is long for me. I'm a former Marine,” Hank said, staring at my cleavage as I leaned down to hear him over the noise in the salon.

“Oh. You're used to high and tight,” I said, referring to the preferred military haircut. “That's practically bald.”

I had moved around to the front of the chair, practically straddling his leg as I trimmed the front. My skirt had ridden up and Hank stared as I pressed my crotch against his knee. The silky fabric of the cape rubbed against my thighs and I gave his knee a little pelvic thrust. His knee never moved away. In fact, I think he might have pushed back a little bit.

“Is it?”

I was getting a little too enthusiastic about my work because I had lost track of what we were talking about. “Is it what?”

“Is it practically bald?”

I had the sneaking suspicion that Mr. Gruber was beating me at my own game. I brushed a few stray hairs from his forehead and smiled wickedly. “Oh, yeah. But some women like bald.”

“Hmm. I don't think I've ever had it bald.”

I moved around the chair to the other side, using the clippers around his ear. I had the overwhelming urge to lean forward and suck on his fleshy earlobe, but I figured that would be pushing my luck. Hank didn't seem averse to my flirting, but earlobe nibbling might scare him off. Or get me fired.

Even with all the flirting, I was finished with his cut in fifteen minutes. I have to admit, I was a little disappointed. I wasn't quite ready to let Mr. Gruber escape.