One Last Job

by Anise Starre

“And anyone who spends the night with me isn’t walking home either.” “Why? Because you’re so good, they can’t walk once you’re finished with them? Disappointing, Hawthorne.” She shakes her head and gives me a blank stare. “If that’s the kind of line you’re using on women, I find that very hard to believe.” “That wasn’t a line,” I say with a smirk. “I meant that I always pay for a cab home for them as a bare minimum, as any gentleman should. But.” I lean in and bump my arm against hers. “Interesting that your mind went there.” A blush creeps up her neck. “My mind didn’t go anywhere.” “Sure sounds like it did.”

Her thighs press against mine, and I can feel an obsession building. I want her legs wrapped around my neck, her thighs on either side of my face, squeezing tightly as she comes undone. She could smother me to death with them for all I care and I’d thank her for it.