The Divorcee Murder Club

Tres ~ 3

            The squeaky bathroom door swings open as a tattooed, pierced woman with fringe bangs walks out. Angie yanks me inside, slamming the door behind us, and flips the lock before pressing her back to it with a sly grin. Her eyes swallow me while my gaze takes in the chipped paint on the red walls covered in old, peeling flyers. There’s a light flickering above the sink and barely casting a glow on the porcelain with a grimy faucet that drips. Wads of tissue overflow from the waste bin onto the scuffed cement floor, which crackles under my boots, and I ask myself, am I really in the mood to get it on in here?

I clear my throat. "Maybe we should—"

"Hush." Angie presses a finger to my lips, and those drops of honey search mine.

Our pupils expand, adjusting to the atmosphere like the erection in my pants, and my hand gravitates south, giving it a quick tug. Her cold palm nudges it aside and begins rubbing over my jeans before clasping my bottom lip between her teeth.

"You like that?" she purrs.

"Yeah," I breathe and run my fingers through my hair as if I've developed a tick.

The taste of barley and orange peel ambushes my mouth as soon as her tongue glides in. Whiskey isn't my favorite alcohol, but on her, the flavor is interstellar. I don't even mind that her hand feels like an ice pack, but I pull back anyway.

"You keep doing that, and I'm gonna come before we even get started."

"Then let's begin."

She drops to a squat like an anvil and yanks my jeans down with her long nails leaving abrasions on my thighs. In one swoop, my dick disappears into her mouth before I can even argue. Not that I'm against it, but after weeks of no sex, I'd prefer to wrap those firm thighs around me. A hum vibrates from the back of her throat, and holy shit, the chill it sends up my spine leaves it gelatinous. Before my knees buckle, she slides me out and grins.

"Not bad, not bad."

"That's nine inches of pleasure right there." I bounce my brow.

"I know." She holds my dick in her palm, stretching her pinky and thumb across the shaft. "There are eight inches of space between these fingers, and you exceed it, so I know you're not lying."

"I never lie."

Her eyes latch onto mine as the thump-thump of reggae music pulses the walls, with Damien Marley's lyrics trickling past the door. She sways her shoulders to the sound, rolling her waist like Salma Hayek on steroids, and raises her arms above her head. I thread my fingers through hers, but she pulls them down and cradles my dick.

"How about loyal?" she asks.

"Very loyal. Maybe too much."

"Your ex wounded your pride, didn't she?" She glides her hand softly up and down the shaft like a ghost whisper. I clear my throat.

"A little, but I'll get over it."

"Sure, you can get over it, or you can do something better." She brushes the tip against her lips.

"Like what?" I swallow. And fuck do I wish she'd just slip me back inside her mouth where it's warm and wet because I'm ready to explode.

"Make our exes pay for doing us wrong." She swirls her tongue, her lips closing over it like a Tootsie-pop. How many licks will it take...

"Yeah," I grunt, and she glides down till her lips meet the base. My balls tighten because that's the hottest view I've seen in a while. "We can do that."

"Mm," she moans.

"Do that again," I whisper, threading my fingers through her damp hair, and she obliges. I don't ever want her to stop, but she does and looks up.

"You're going to kill my husband for me," she says before closing her mouth around me again, and I see stars as my head thuds against the grimy wall.

"Ughyes," I mutter.

Those pretty lips glide back up like she's playing a slide guitar with her tongue, and while her hand works my balls, the other strokes. Then she releases my cock with a smack—a sound aging like bourbon in an oak cask.

"And when that's over, we'll kill your wife." She smiles before my flesh disappears, and she's stroking and sucking like she's drilling for come.

Watching her work so diligently has my head rolling into another dimension, and then I feel it. The sensation crawls up my balls like greedy Black Friday shoppers, and I explode in her mouth.

"Mmraaah!" I latch onto her hair to steady myself because my skin has practically peeled off from morphing into a werewolf or something. I've needed this for so long, and holy shit, I feel her swallow.

My ex never swallowed.

She stands, wiping her mouth, leaving a smile behind, and then slides my pants up before gently tucking my dick inside like it's ready for a nap. Maybe it is? Leaning on tiptoes, she kisses me, and I don’t even care that I can taste myself on her because right now I feel like Leonardo DiCaprio shouting he’s the king of the world. She pats my abdomen as everything fades into place, and yep, we're still in the bathroom at Bruno's.

"Let's meet for coffee tomorrow," she says.

"Name the place."

"Muddy's, at ten. What's your number?" She whips out her pink bedazzled phone, so I rattle it off to her. Then my pocket buzzes, and she bats her long dark lashes at me. "There. Now you have my number."

"Sweet."

Those honey-brown eyes do a little roll as she places her hand on the doorknob. "You're corny but cute, and lucky for me, you're going to kill my ex-husband."

"Wait, what?" I reel back.

The metal door swings open with a squeak, causing reggae music to invade as she steps into the crowd, where people are patiently waiting to take a piss. Clearly, my head is still spinning from blowing my load, and I heard her wrong? She must be teasing me again.

Right?

"Angie, wait!" I rush after her, but she disappears into the swaying bodies jiving to the beat.

Laser beams blind my view as I push through the fog oozing across the dancefloor. I almost give up when a hand grazes mine, and then she's in front of me, grinding her hips. I'm so confused by what she said, and my feet don't move. She grabs my hands and places them on her hips, yet I still can't find the rhythm, which is a first for me.

"That was just weird kinky sex talk, back there, right? A joke?" I search her eyes, but her mouth devours mine with a kiss that disrupts my balance.

This woman is napalm.

After a few tongue strokes, she releases the possessive suction hold. "Don't be late tomorrow, handsome."

I reach out, but her fingers slip through mine like water through a sieve as she backs away, hips swaying. Then, she spins on her heels and just like that, disappears for real this time. Meanwhile, I remain standing there like some sorry sack of shit. Is this how it feels to be used for sex? I slap a hand to my forehead, wondering what the hell type of chaos I just invited into my life?

Because it has to be a joke. 

It just has to be.