Strip Poker

Please be advised that this excerpt contains adult material, unsuitable for younger readers. Chapter One Stretch limos don't normally impress me. Except I wouldn't think you could get a full-size massage table in one. Goes to show you how good my depth perception is. The legs were sawed off like those of a stool, but I was high enough to look through the tinted windows at all the kids smoking pot and the frustrated map readers at the Eros fountain in Piccadilly. I was lying on my back, nude, which was okay by me because Fitz was naked as well, kneeling at the end of the table, cradling my right foot in one hand. He had spent the last forty minutes reducing me to a pliant mass of soft flesh, practically every muscle in my body relaxed while the whole limo smelled like lavender and a couple of other massage oils. Alicia Keys's new album was playing on the portable stereo. And there was Fitz, nut-brown biceps flexing and swelling as his fingers worked the ball of my foot, that wide chest of his falling and rising with each breath. When he inched his way forward on one knee, I looked at the vanity mirror he had propped up and got a terrific view of his ass in the reflection. He smiled down at me, warm brown eyes and flashing white teeth framed by his funky dreads. I had this honey glaze from the oil on my dark skin, and he was getting this polish sheen of sweat from his efforts. My eyes kept straying to his long, thick dick that kept insistently pointing north. Fitz and I don't have much of a relationship. Sure, we sleep together regularly, but he's more like . . . I don't know, sexual comfort food. As the car made its wide turn onto Regent Street like a sea barge, I glanced down and thought: I'm gonna have to do something soon about that gorgeous cock. Only I was a little busy. His right hand kneading my toes, while his left was working the lubed-up dildo in my pussy, and I heard his voice say gently over the music, "Hey, I don't think I ever showed you this trick. Doesn't work on everyone, but . . ." That tiny buzzing sound of the dildo motor as he plunged it in deeper just as the pad of his thumb pressed hard on this point (don't ask me where the hell it is!) in the arch of my foot. And then I was spontaneously, violently, coming. "Shit! Oh, shit, Fitz, do that again, baby!" My head fell back against the cushioned headpiece of the massage table, my back arching, and I was clawing at the white sheet. I told him hoarsely that I thought we better close the sunroof. They'd probably hear me out there in Oxford Circus. And then my mobile rang. I was going to ignore it. Fitz was ignoring it. He sent me into another small convulsion and as I floated down from the high, that damn phone kept ringing on and on, and I saw the number on the caller ID. Helena. Fitz worked for my friend Helena Willoughby these days. He was with me tonight "on loan" as a way to get me to do a favour for her. I wasn't sure what the favour was going to be, but I was certain it would be a bit dodgy. Of course, if I really wanted or needed to see Fitz, I could call him up any time I liked, but it was Helena who tossed in the frillswhat she liked to call "OTT TLC." Over-the-top tender loving care. The limo, the champagne on ice with the Belgian chocolates I loved, not to mention the chocolate-coloured man I could just eat up as well. Seeing Fitz as a "client" made things less complicated, and if Helena wanted to pick up the tab, hey, why not? I could always say no. "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah!" Oh, I was pretty far from saying no. That damn phone. "Teresa?" "Helena, yoLawrence, Lisa is the author of 'Strip Poker', published 2007 under ISBN 9780385340731 and ISBN 0385340737.