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tell him.
The engine is almost silent but when I shut it off, and I can see just how low and sensual that sound really was. Kind of a subliminal hum, a vibration that thrums through the whole chassis. Pretty sexy.
Just had a hummer this morning, as a matter of fact. I try to remember her face, and what the hell was her name? She gave me one of my top-ten blowjobs ever, jamming me deep into her throat and still managing to hum like a kazoo band in that sexy, low voice.
It was all her idea. I expected her to leave after I fell asleep, like they usually do. I thought she had to get to class or something, but I guess she wanted to stick around. Then she dropped back under the tangled sheets and started pushing my ball sack around with the tip of her nose. Singing to herself or something, I thought. Then humming, then deepthroating me with a soundtrack. Maybe some kind of voodoo, I don't know. It worked just fine, that I can definitely say for certain.
Now what was her name?
Just thinking about it — the blowjob, not the name — is getting me hard all over again. I ease the seat back a little bit and settle into the supple, leather bucket seat, my hand jammed against the base of my cock. I feel it twitch, hard. Yeah, I'm ready again. Maybe not such a great blowjob after all? Not a lasting one, in any case.
Should I do it? Actually beat off as I’m parked in my brother’s reserved, special parking space? With my eyes half-closed, I kinda see his name up there, through the windshield. That's a little weird.
I close my eyes. She had the blackest hair I've ever seen. So dark, with highlights as shiny as plastic. She moved her head up and down, and it seemed as though I could almost see a reflection of the whole Chicago skyline, right there on the side of her head.
Beautiful.
Thud.
I sit upright, looking around. I felt the car move. Did some motherfucker just hit me?
“Excuse me?” I ask over the roof of the Ferrari as I get out. There’s somebody there, shuffling in the space between cars but too low to see.
There are LED lights in cans, one over each spot. It’s a nice detail, and safe too. It almost looks like a hotel bar in here. After half a second, a mahogany brunette head pops up, followed by one of those oval-shaped, pretty, brunette girl faces. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Big, brown eyes with long lashes.
“Excuse me?” she repeats, like I've offended her. Lots of sass in that voice. This is going to be good.
“I think you just hit my car.”
She squints at me like this is some kind of trick. Like I’m going to abduct her in the parking garage of my own company or something.
“I just dropped my keys,” she scowls, as though that says anything.
“You hit my car,” I repeat as I walk around the back to inspect the damage. Dammit, I just got it out of the shop. Again. I'm not in the mood to be replacing another body panel.
“I told you, I just dropped my keys,” she holds up her fingers and jingles the ring. “See?”
I don't answer, just scowl at the side of the sleek machine, kneeling to get a better look. I don't see any immediate damage, but sometimes you don't see that kind of thing right away. Not until you get it out in the sunlight, at least. Sometimes there’s a dent you don’t notice until you compare it with the other side. So I keep looking, measuring mentally.
And I hate it when people assume that just because I don't need the money that I don't mind when they mess up my shit. Kind of a pet peeve, I guess you could say. A quirk.
My fingers slide softly along the panel, feeling for divots. As I get close to the front of the passenger door, I notice that she's edging away, practically all the way to the concrete wall by now.
“You scared?” I ask her without looking up.
She doesn’t answer right away, but puts her feet shoulder width apart. I bet you a hundred thousand dollars she's got her arms crossed now, looking tough.
“Well?” I look up at her, just tipping my head while I'm down here practically laying on the ground. Close enough that I could reach out and stroke her ankle. Close enough that I could lean forward and tongue the circumference of her kneecap. I get a little whiff of something… is that perfume?
Oh, she's one of those girls who sprays a little Chanel up her twat. I like that.
I stand up slowly, rising parallel to her and watching her eyes track my height until I finally stand over her. Even in her stiletto heels, I still have a good five inches on her.
And I'm totally right, her arms are crossed. Somebody owes me a hundred thousand dollars.
“Well?” she asks defiantly, setting her jaw slightly to the side.
“You're not Hannah Bonham,” I remark.
