…Her toes, sporting a French pedicure, tempted him from black and bamboo flip-flops. He’d like to suck on those toes, while buried nine inches deep.

But even more alluring was listening to her. She spoke of civil service as if performing it were a privilege. He might have pegged her for an officer of some inner-city church, if not for the vibrator commentary. Too bad she’d sworn off musicians—including once-famous ones. However, the carrot-top mentioned Cassie and the after-party Troy had already decided to blow off, perhaps prematurely. These women would undoubtedly attend Cassie’s gala, and while he never dreamed he’d be attracted to a friend of Seth’s ex, he could be persuaded to change this lovely girl’s mind about music men.

He couldn’t help imagining Ms. Seamless sprawled on his hotel mattress, legs spread eagle, hands occupied, probing a buzzing stick into her pussy. There was nothing more thrilling than a girl who knew how to love herself, and he’d enjoyed more than a few self-pleasuring shows in his prime. The interesting thing about watching a woman touch herself, or watching two women fondle each other, was the tenderness with which they did so. No woman crammed a dildo between her legs, seeking a quick release. Every movement was smooth, liquid, emotional.

Stationed a few feet away from the bed, he would watch this woman grind and moan her way to climax, savoring every stroke of bliss derived from her toy. Every second leading to orgasm would be a small pleasure in itself. Her back arching against the pillows, her sweet, feminine voice would moan his name, as she came, at last, in slow, shivering moments. Only when he was certain she was finished, perhaps when she tossed the implement aside and settled a smoldering gaze upon him, biting her lip in deliberation—had she pleased him?—would he approach her.

One female orgasm brought forth another, if a man were patient enough, and he’d tease her into the second with a trick he’d discovered years ago, while in bed with two darling brunettes.

That night, he’d learned to touch women the way they touched each other. With a gentle finger, he’d enter and stroke her, while massaging her clit with a compassionate tongue. When she gave him a sign—a wiggle, a caught breath—it would be time to add to the mix, while continuing with what worked for her. Repetition was another secret weapon. He’d keep the tongue going, the finger stroking at the exact pace—not unlike drumming an intro. While he pressed a second digit into her vagina and the tip of his little finger into her rectum, he’d gingerly cup a mound and brush a thumb over a distended nipple.

Bloody dangerous.