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“No, you chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out like day-old tobacco,” Vale scoffs with her mocking grin. “And that’s when they find out you don’t swallow, either.”
I narrow my eyes. “When cum starts tasting like vanilla, I’ll swallow. Until then, what dumbass swallows salty bleach?”
Jace does that flat tire thing,pfffttingby the door. He’s supposed to keep his stoic composure and look like death in a Tom Ford suit, but we know his secret. His heart is as big as his body, and that dick I’ve clocked hanging like a limb in his pants.
But he’s not my type.
I go for the emotionally unavailable. I want love like I want a yeast infection.
Why?
Love only disappoints. It’s torture. It’s salt poured into a gaping wound, filling you with agony when you love someone you can’t have, so I’ve locked my heart away while I let my kitty roam free.
She keeps me satisfied.
Glancing around the store, I note it’s empty. Erotic lounge music fills the quiet air, piped in through speakers, and I sigh.
“This is gonna be a long night. We’ve got no customers.”
“We’ve been slammed all week.” Vale stands and turns, picking up a shipping box. “Enjoy the break, and here,” — she thrusts the box into my arms sheathed in long, tight red leather gloves — “restock these butt plugs. We can’t keep them on the shelves.”
These butt plugs are my favorite, too, and I’d rather feel frisky than bored tonight. So after I click back upstairs, I duck into the powder room on the second floor and partake in the fun. Of course, lavender hand soap and cotton candy lube are in here.
I use both, musing…maybe I won’t go home and write tonight.
Maybe I’ll start a new Tinder chat and see who feels like cuffing, pairing up just for the holiday for love.
Stupid Cupid.
That baby with his damn arrow puts way too much pressure on pussies to couple up for the night.
Or maybe I’m kidding myself.
Once I gently put the long black cat tail butt plug in, it excites my ass while I snap on its matching black collar that reads “BAD KITTY” in tiny rhinestones. Laughing at myself in the mirror over the white pedestal sink, who am I kidding?I’m going home tonight. I write my best stuff when I’m wearing a butt plug, and I have a chapter to finish and…
A subtle chime rings out.
That’s the doorbell to the main entrance, and we may be busy after all. Good, I need some entertainment.
Smoothing my leather skirt back down, hell yes, I’m hiding this tail. The tease inspires my cat and pages.
Through the thick, paneled door to the powder room, I hear heavy footsteps thudding up the wooden stairs, the sound aiming for the showroom.
It’s a man.
He’s probably buying something for his wife, husband, or a date, and I know better. I give him some privacy. I’ll wait a few minutes while he explores the toys before I saunter in, offering help.
Inspecting myself in the mirror, I open the cabinet it hides, where my make-up bag awaits. Carefully, I paint on my Gucci scarlet red lipstick; it’s the one treat I allow myself before I check my teeth and drape my hair over my shoulder, lifting both high.
Let’s go sell more orgasms.
Making my clicking approach in heels obvious, I roam the hallway, prowling toward the showroom doorway.
But I stop there.
The sight before me suddenly arrests my steps and heart, my lungs softly gasping, the rest of my body purring on instinct.
The sole customer is a tall man. He’s got his back to me with his broad shoulders wrapped in a cozy, cable-knitted cream sweater. His untucked black t-shirt hangs underneath it. It drapes over his Georgia peach of an ass that looks so juicy in those faded jeans I clench my teeth. Those expensive all-white Air Jordans he’s sporting are rare in these parts. They’re exotic. This is loafers and flip-flops country.
