One Night Only (15 page)

“That was quick,” he said, sounding a tad disappointed himself.

I'm good at thinking on my feet. “Would you like a shampoo to rinse off all the loose hair?”

He looked up at me, past my breasts, an expression of dubious amusement on his face. “Isn't that a little girlie?”

“Absolutely not! It'll get all those itchy little hairs off the back of your neck.”

He seemed to consider it. “Will you do it or does someone else?”

“We have a shampoo girl,” I said. “But she's out sick today, so I could do it. I don't have another appointment for half an hour.”

“Okay.”

I unsnapped his cape and tossed it in the wicker basket by my chair. “Just follow me back to the shampoo station.”

I took a few steps toward the back of the salon and realized he wasn't following me. Walking back to the chair, I started to ask why. Then I saw why. Mr. Gruber had a sizeable erection tenting his khakis. Without a word, I retrieved the cape and snapped it around his neck again.

“Problem solved. Follow me.”

“Problem hidden,” he said dryly. “Not solved.”

We passed Gil on the way to the shampoo station. “Give me a heads-up if anyone is coming back for a shampoo.”

Gil gave me a wink. “Told you, girl. Rock those socks.”

The shampoo station is a dimly lit alcove with three comfortable recliner chairs and more mirrors. I got Hank settled into the chair on the end and started the water running. The salon wasn't packed today and a cursory glance at the other clients' progress told me we had a few minutes alone. I tilted Hank's head back toward the towel-lined sink and smiled.

“Relax.”

He smirked, closing his eyes. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Good boy,” I said, running warm water over his head. “You'll enjoy this.”

Having someone shampoo your hair is a sensual experience—or it can be. I was determined to make sure Hank wasn't disappointed. I lathered thick coconut shampoo in his hair, bemused by the expression of pleasure on his face. I was standing over him, my hip pressed against his muscular forearm and breasts practically in his face. He opened his eyes, staring up at me. “I can see your nipples,” he whispered.

I looked down and saw that my breasts had slipped the confines of the push-up bra again. The dark ridge of each nipple was visible through my blouse.

“Oops.” I winked. “I can't do much about it right now, with my hands soapy and wet. Would you help me out?”

I wasn't sure what his reaction would be, but I didn't expect him to lean up and lick one nipple through the fabric of my blouse. The sensation, fleetingly brief but electrifying, made me jump. He grinned wickedly.

“Mr. Gruber,” I said, my voice all breathy. “That wasn't exactly what I meant.”

“Do you mind?”

Did I mind? My salon flirtations never went beyond a little flashing and a lot of innuendo. Did I mind?

“Not in the least.”

“Good,” he said, before dazzling me with his ability to unfasten the buttons on my blouse with just his teeth.

“Wow. Did you learn that in the Marines?”

He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

Before I could even catch my breath, Hank had two buttons undone on my blouse and was suckling one nipple. I kept lathering and rinsing his hair, at an utter loss as to what else I should do. I hoped to hell Gil had taken me seriously when I told him to warn me before anyone came back to the shampoo station.

Hank tugged at my nipple with his lips, causing me to rock forward on the balls of me feet. I was rubbing against his arm now, horny as hell and wishing I could climb on his lap and fuck him. When had this turned into
his
show? I didn't really care anymore.

“I can't do anything for you here,” I said, regret in my voice, rinsing his hair until the water ran clear.

He let my nipple slip out of his mouth. “That's okay. I'm enjoying this.”

I had a thought. It was insane and I wasn't thinking clearly, but glancing back toward the salon, hearing the steady buzz of the hair dryers and the hum of chatter, I was willing to risk it.

“I want to know how much you're enjoying this,” I said,
thrusting my breasts in his face. “I want you to get off.”

He went still against me. I expected him to pull away. It was going too far and I knew it. But I was so fucking hot I felt reckless. Hank shifted in his seat and I saw movement under the cape. He had unzipped his pants. He was stroking himself.

I moaned. The urge to rip the cape away and watch him jerk off was almost too much. But it was too risky. The whole thing was too risky and I was trying to convince myself it wasn't.

“Like that?” he murmured, nipping the swell of my breast with his teeth.

I nodded, staring at the rhythmic motion of his hand beneath the cape. “Oh, yeah,” I breathed.

I gave up any pretense of washing his hair while I imagined what was going on under the silky fabric covering his lap. He sucked hard on my breast, leaving a red mark. I didn't care. I moaned, counting on the running water to drown out my voice.

“Show me,” he whispered, pulling away. “I'm so fucking close.”

I thought he meant my breasts, but he was staring between my legs. My skirt had ridden up as I rubbed against him, barely covering my crotch. I stood up, enjoying this moment of feminine power.

“You want to see my pussy?”

He nodded, his hand working steadily beneath the cape.

I reached down and grabbed the hem of my skirt, raising it enough for him to see. My crotch was just above eye level now and I wondered if he could smell me over the scent of coconut.

“More,” he said, breathing hard. That made two of us.

I tugged my thong to the side, revealing my wet, wet pussy. “Told you it was bald,” I said.

He was mesmerized, his pupils dilated and face flushed.
Hank Gruber was going to come while staring at my pussy. I couldn't resist. I dipped my middle finger between my lips, dragging moisture up over my engorged clit. I trembled, more turned on than I could ever remember being.

“Do it,” he urged.

I braced my feet apart, one hand holding up the hem of my skirt, the other between my legs. I stroked myself again. One, two, three, watching Hank's hand move furiously under the cape. He was going to get off watching me get off. He was going to splatter white drops of come all over the black fabric. The mental image of what was going on just beyond my view—and my reach—was too much. I shuddered as I came, rocking back on my heels.

“Yes,” Hank hissed. His eyes fluttered closed and his hips jerked upward.

I fondled my clit until I couldn't take it anymore, watching him come even though I couldn't see what he was doing.

Awareness came back to me in a rush of noise. For a few minutes it seemed like we were in our own little cocoon, but now I could hear voices—closer than I thought—and Gil talking loudly just around the wall that separated the alcove from the rest of the salon. I jerked my skirt down and tucked my breasts back in my blouse just as Gil walked around the corner. He had a look of panic on his face as he led a blond woman to the farthest shampoo chair. He shrugged apologetically at me.

“I think you're finished,” I said, still sounding breathless as I turned the water off.

Hank glanced at Gil's stricken expression and laughed. “Oh, yeah, I'm finished. That was the best…shampoo…I've ever had.”

Gil's client had her head in the shampoo sink and was oblivious as Hank maneuvered to get his pants fastened under the
cape. He sat up and I draped a black towel around his neck to keep the water from dampening his shirt. Once he gave me the nod, I unsnapped the cape and folded it in on itself, tossing it in the laundry hamper in the corner.

“Ready to be blown?” I asked, taking great delight in watching Gil nearly swallow his tongue.

Hank stood, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. “Nah, that's okay. I don't mind it wet.”

I could have sworn I heard Gil choke. His poor client was wiping water out of her eyes. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, attempting to watch what he was doing to her but unable to take his eyes off Hank and me.

I laughed. “Well then, let's go to the reception desk and get you taken care of. You could even schedule your next appointment, if you like.”

“Great,” Hank said, running a finger down my cleavage. “I can't wait.”

Scandalized, Gil shook his head as we left him to his poor neglected client. He called after me. “Socks, Lulu?”

I smoothed my hands down my skirt and gave him a wink over my shoulder. “Rocked, Gil. Rocked
hard
.”

 

 

 

 

 

J
eff kept
staring
, but he was good-looking enough that he could get away with it. He'd stared at Molly before, from across the room, with a little less heat and a little less sleaze, though no less expectation. At the time it had creeped her out a little, but those times were long gone—what, twenty-five, thirty minutes ago? An eternity in the world of sleazy bar-pickup threesomes. Now it was almost like having a boyfriend watch her eagerly as a very hot Italian woman came in for a kiss. She was getting very throbby in places she probably shouldn't be in public, and while throbby was definitely
good
, it was also very
scary
.

Jeff looked more intently as Ilaria caressed Molly's arm. The former leaned closer, lips parted.

The latter trembled.

The latter took a deep heaving breath, and with a mingled sense of inevitability and excitement, prepared to be debauched.

As their faces neared, Molly's breath came tighter. The scent of Grapèro and brandy and clove cigarettes and the hint of a
joint wafting off of Ilaria and through her slick, dark cranberry-kissable lips got Molly high all over again.

Ilaria took off Molly's glasses and slid her hand up Molly's short dress.

“I think they frown on that here,” said Molly breathlessly.

“Good thing you won't be able to see them frowning,” said Ilaria, her breath sweet with liquor and her Italian accent thick.

It was the kind of accent that made Molly want to put her tongue in all sorts of places.

Their lips met. Ilaria's mouth was hot and sweet. Her lips felt firm, so much firmer than the last time Molly had kissed a girl. Firmer, in fact, than the last time Molly had kissed a
guy
. Her tongue, on the other hand, was soft and wet and cool, probably from the drink. It tasted luscious. It slid deep into Molly's mouth; so distracted was she by the glorious feel of Ilaria's tongue against hers that she forgot
totally
about the hand sliding up between her thighs.

Ilaria pulled back slightly, glanced with a smirk at Molly's drink—pink and bright and untouched.

She said with purring pleasure:

“How's your Earthquake?”

“Fucking glorious,” breathed Molly, and crawled under the table.

 

They were drinking Pink Earthquakes. As Molly would later tell all of her friends, this is not, necessarily, a good thing.

The Earthquake is a real drink. Its invention credited to Toulouse-Lautrec, the drink was the yummiest drink a girl could ask for. It was made with equal parts absinthe and cognac, about a gallon of each. It tasted like licorice, sex, death and sin.

She'd had the Earthquake before, in this very bar, Blueboy's,
which had then—1995—been deep into its grand opening as “1906,” or “Nineteen-O-Six” if you were saying it, rather than texting it to a fuckbuddy you wanted to meet up with.

Ninteen-O-Six had been a sort of gay bar then, if you can call anything in San Francisco a gay bar anymore. On alternate nights it was packed with hairy, howling septuagenarian Madonna queers, drag queens and Temescal-minded diesel dykes whose biological clocks were ringing so loud they practically had turkey basters in hand. Plus, of course, the twinks—who showed up every night of the week, and fucked whoever would fuck them, hungry for surrender and speed.

Nineteen-O-Six hadn't lasted. There had been seven names since then, and something like twelve re-re-openings: Trixie's, The Mint Cup, Fivey's, Tip's, The Sunbeam...and the Earthquake, introduced when it was called Nineteen-O-Six, had remained a fixture through all of those name changes.

Barely legal herself in the early days of the Earthquake—or, technically,
not
legal, but who carded in 1995?—Molly had guzzled down one-dollar Earthquakes with a terrifying zeal through happy hour and into the night, because the screaming queen bartender “Nana Puppy” (so named, in case you were wondering, because he was old enough to be a grandmother and when he wasn't tending bar he was a “lifestyle puppy”) really, really liked her.

Nana P was also a history nerd, terrifying in his knowledge of just who had fucked who in 1890s San Fran. He had taught Molly all about the Earthquake, the drink, and the Earthquake, both always with a capital
E,
because as far as Nana P was concerned there was only one of each.

Of the former, the facts that had stuck in her head since Nana's departure several years ago for a Radical Puppy compound in the Appalachians were that for a brief period from
1920 to 1930, some vagabond on Powell Street made Earthquakes out of whiskey and gin and Pernod, instead of absinthe and cognac.

Nana disparaged that “son of a bitch,” believing that “Toulouse-Lautrec had a little bit of something going on.” (“I like short men!” he'd purr as he poured and poured and poured, mewling “Cognac! Cognac! Cognac!”)