Small Town

“If she did, it didn’t break his heart. She left him the cheesecake, and I have to say he looks happy with it.”

“More than happy,” Buckram said. “Try ecstatic.”

“I grant you he’s enjoying himself.”

“And she didn’t walk out,” he told them, “and she didn’t go to the can, either.”

“What did he do, devour her? Little black dress and all?”

“You’re closer than you realize,” he said. “I think she’s under the table.”

“How the hell—”

“I’m a trained observer,” he said. “Once a cop, always a cop. Look at the expression on his face, will you? That’s more than cheesecake.”

God, it was exquisite.

The feeling of utter submission, kneeling unseen before him, servicing him invisibly, almost anonymously. And, one with it, the sense of being wholly in control.

His penis in her mouth was an iron rod in a velvet glove, so sweetly soft on the surface, so iron-hard within. She cupped his balls in her hand, ringed the base of his cock with her thumb and forefinger. He gasped when she tucked the tip of one finger into him, and she thrilled at that, and at the way the sphincter tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed...

She was in charge, and she at once played him like a flute and conducted him like an orchestra, raising the pitch, building toward a climax, then easing off, tightening her grip on the base of his penis to choke off his orgasm before it could start. Then building again, moving toward the finish, and backing off, and resuming, and...

There were women who hated to do this. There were women who point-blank refused to do it. Fewer with each generation, from what she heard, and girls Chloe’s age seemed to regard a quick BJ as an easy way to satisfy a man, less intimate than intercourse and not much more than a step up from a goodnight kiss. Her own generation saw it as more intimate, and her mother’s generation saw it as unacceptably intimate.

Did her mother give her father blow jobs? Well, not now, obviously, but when he was alive? That was something she didn’t want to think about, so she forced herself, pushing against the resistance, and for a moment she became her mother and she was on her knees sucking her father’s cock.

God, if people could read her mind they’d lock her up...

Maury played his own part so perfectly. Not a sound, except for that one sharp intake of breath when she’d worked her finger into him. He’d been silent since then, and utterly passive, and he kept his hands above the table, not reaching down to stroke her hair, or, God forbid, holding her head in place. He didn’t need to be in control, he could let her be in control, and this was delicious, just delicious, and she could let it go on forever, but she couldn’t, not really, and it was time, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it time?

This time she let the crescendo reach all the way to the coda, and his semen spurted and she drank it down and fancied that she could feel the energy of it radiating outward through her whole body all the way to her fingers and toes. She kept him in her mouth and sucked him, but gently now, gently, and felt him soften and shrink, and she sipped the last drop from him and wiped him dry with her napkin and tucked him back into his pants. And zipped him up.

She couldn’t have enjoyed the orgasm more if it had been her own.

After a long moment she said, softly, “Is anyone looking our way?”

“I can’t tell.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured, and reached to remove an earring. She got out from under the table, holding up the earring in triumph, and refastened it to her ear before sitting down again.

He looked transformed, radiant. “You amaze me,” he said.

“If anyone was watching,” she said, “they saw a woman who dropped an earring and managed to find it again.”

“Unless they’ve been glancing over here off and on for the last ten minutes.”

“Is that how long I was down there?”

“I wasn’t checking my watch, you’ll be surprised to learn. You don’t care if anybody knows what just happened, do you?”

“No.”

“You even get a kick out of the idea.”

“A little bit,” she admitted. “I’m a naughty girl.”

“I was planning to take you home and punish you,” he said, “but I don’t know if I’ve got the strength. And I’ve got a bail hearing first thing in the morning.”

“For the case we’re not allowed to talk about?”

“I’m allowed, I’m just not inclined. And yes, for my newest client.”

“I should keep you up all night and let the bastard rot in jail. But I don’t mind an early night myself, Maury. Get the check and you can put me in a cab.”

“You won’t feel...”

“Unfulfilled? What we just did, I think I got as much out of it as you did.”

On the street she said, “I didn’t even tell you about my new artist. A black kid, he walked in while I was talking to you the other day with pictures of the sculptures his crazy uncle has been making out of junk he finds on the street.”

“Good?”

“Better than that, I think. Important. You’re going to buy a piece.”

“All right.”