The Mobster's Masseuse

by Jessa Kane

I’m never looking to meet a woman. They’re usually just scenery. As inconsequential as any of the men I encounter who aren’t making me money. This girl, though. She smells like oranges and the scent cuts right through me, waking up my senses. It’s an unusual smell for me. Coffee, leather, alcohol, gasoline, blood. Those are smells to which I’m accustomed. Her fresh, citrus zing sends fingertips crawling down the front of my body and my cock reacts. Then. Then she looks up at me and I start praying. I don’t know what prayers sound like anymore, but my memory dredges them up from years of Catholic school and I silently trip through them, wondering what the fuck kind of magic she’s wielding. My God. Meadow, was it? I’m rock hard behind my zipper. So fat and ready, I could come with one rough stroke of my fist. All because of that pillowy bottom lip, her freckled nose and eyes the color of a freshwater lake. Even her hair is turning me on and she’s got it in a ponytail, little sandy blonde-brown pieces framing her face. Her body isn’t even on display. She’s in a pristine white uniform that hangs loose around her curves, but I can still tell she’s got a dynamite rack. A pussy I definitely want to pound.