“Seb?” Max interrupted—for a third time.
My eyes snapped open.
Calvin gripped my hips and kept sucking.
“How much is the Henry C. Doughty Gold and Silver Polish?”
“H-hundred and f-fifty,” I said, sounding as if I were being strangled.
“Yeah, I told Mr. Michaelson that,” Max continued, “but he says the container is priced at twenty-five cents… so he wants to pay twenty-five cents.”
Calvin reached between my legs to caress my balls, and the warmth of his callused hand was what pushed me over the edge.
“Jesus Christ,” I swore, my orgasm hitting me like a freight train, causing me to double over.
“Don’t swear at me,” Max said through the door. “I’mnot the one who doesn’t understand inflation or supply and demand.”
I thrust into Calvin’s mouth until the mind-numbing joy came close to pain and I was forced to push him off so that the stimulation overload didn’t ruin the climax. Calvin wiped his lower lip with the pad of his thumb and then hastily unbuckled his belt. He jerked himself only a few times before biting back a groan and coming on the office floor.
I hastily righted my trousers and bent down to kiss Calvin. “I can’t believe you did that,” I whispered against his mouth.
“This is absolutely not a conversation you’re going to have with Max after I leave.”
“Not on my life.”
“Boss,” Max snapped.
“Good God, Max,” I shouted.
Calvin got to his feet, made himself presentable, then turned his back as I opened the door.
I brushed past Max and walked to the register, where a stocky man—early sixties, bad comb-over—waited, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Is the year 1865, Mr. Michaelson?” I asked, sidling up to the counter.
Michaelson blinked a few times. “Uh, no, of course—”
“Then due to 150 years of inflation, and the fact that this particular artifact from the War is completely intact—no easy find as far as paper antiques are concerned—it is one hundred and fifty dollars.”
Michaelson pointed at the small wooden box on the countertop. “But it’s been opened.”
“Yes, I suspect a Union officer likely polished his buttons and buckles with the contents.”
“So then it’s not mint condition.”
“Nothing that was shoved into a saddlebag and used while sitting beside a campfire during a war is going to be mint,” I growled.
“I won’t pay one fifty,” Michaelson protested, voice growing shrill.
“Fine. One forty-nine and seventy-five cents.”
Michaelson slapped the palm of his hand on the counter. “I won’t ever shop here again!” he declared before stomping toward the front door.
“Good,” I called after him, leaning forward on the counter to watch him go. “We deal and sell in antiques, sir. Those costmoney.” The door slammed shut and the overhead bell rattled obnoxiously. “I have rent and employee health insurance to pay for!” I continued, even though Michaelson was long gone.
Calvin appeared just then, leaned between Max and me, and set the container of assorted sushi in front of me. He put a pair of disposable chopsticks on top, then said, “Before your low blood sugar scares off any more customers.”
“Twenty-five cents,” I said with a snort, grabbing the chopsticks and yanking them apart. They didn’t snap evenly. “This paper’s still got color, right?” I asked next, directing the question at Max while pointing at the box with the chopsticks.
He obediently nodded. “Yup. A bright orange.”
