Lust and Lies 04 - Pretty Maids in a Row

fingers inside. I always use two fingers to get you ready for me. Do you ever think about that? I do." He stroked his erection and had no problem imagining that it was her mouth on him.
    "I think too much about you, and kissing your breasts, and slipping my fingers in and out of you while you rub yourself against my palm and purr in my ear. God, you're so tight... and hot. Tell me how hot you are."
    "David ..." Her voice was raw with need.
    "You can have me, love. Your mouth feels so good sucking on me. I'm big and hard, and just about ready to burst, but I want to be inside you. Guide me, baby. Press me against you, right where you want me. Now move me, up and down then in and out. That's it. Up and down. In and out. Don't stop. C'mon, stay with me, honey. A little faster now. Oh, god, you're good. I'm almost there. Come with me, please."
    He could hear her breathing clearly now-—short, broken gasps that harmonized with his own. "Say when." He clung to the edge of the cliff, waiting for her.
    "Now."
    He let go, knowing she was with him all the way.
    Moments later, releasing his own ragged breath, he murmured, "G'night, Holly." And hung up before she could say a word.
    The dreamy cloud of pleasure lifted from Holly's mind with the disconnecting click. It took a little longer for her body to catch up.
    Damn him.

Chapter 17

    David had only been asleep a few hours when the call came. Mick D'Angelo was willing to meet him at the Peacock Lounge in two hours. At the appointed time, David strolled into the nearly deserted bar as if his heart wasn't racing with excitement.
    He mentally dismissed the lone woman talking to the bartender. Only one other patron remained, and he was either a professional wrestler or Mick D'Angelo's muscle. The only hair on his big head was a thick, brown Fu Manchu moustache. Even his eyebrows had been shaved off. The fact that he was seated at a table in the far corner of the room did not hide his considerable size.
    As soon as the hulk spotted David, he stood up and jerked his thumb toward the men's room. David realized he had underestimated the guy's height and weight—he was literally a giant. It occurred to him that the man wouldn't need a weapon to be frightening, but he probably carried one anyway. Something like a chainsaw perhaps.
    In spite of the little voice screaming that this was one of the stupidest things he had ever done, David followed the hulk into the restroom.
    "Stwip to the skin."
    David's head tilted back with a jolt. Hulk not only had a lisp, but a decidedly feminine pitch to his voice. And he was blocking the exit. "Hey man, I thought you were somebody else. I'll just go back out there and wait—"
    "Aren't you David Wells? Word was you were a pwetty boy. Be cool. I pwefer tits with my piece of ass. I work for Mr. D'Angelo. You don't get to see him unless I guarantee you're not wired... anywhere."
    David's mind ran through his options, which were severely limited by his desire to meet D'Angelo. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. Hulk took it from him, gave it a thorough inspection and hung it over the door to a stall. Next went his shoes, socks, and slacks. Feeling less certain about his need to see D'Angelo every minute, he tried to remain as nonchalant as one could while wearing nothing but bikini briefs in front of a giant fruit fly. A disgusted sneer from his tormentor got him to remove the last of his clothes.
    "Arms over your head. Spread your legs."
    David did as he was told and gave in to the urge to close his eyes as Hulk circled him. Three swipes of the man's big, calloused hand verified that David had nothing hidden in any crevice.
    "Okay. Get dwessed and come back out. I'll get Mick."
    David had his clothes back on a minute later. It took several minutes more to replenish his lungs with air. When he reentered the lounge, he saw Hulk standing beside the table he had vacated. Seated next to him was an overweight, middle-aged man with thinning black hair slicked straight back from his face and a bulbous nose that had experienced one fight too many.
    "Mick D'Angelo," the man said, introducing himself with a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes. He didn't rise or offer his hand, merely waved toward the chair on the other side of the small table.
    "Your receptionist has cold hands, D'Angelo," David stated in a flat tone as he sat down. "A little extreme for a simple conversation."
    D'Angelo shrugged. "I can't take chances. I already know you're a