Doreen DeSalvo

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Sparks fly when a trendy bike messenger meets a corporate attorney. Can this mismatched couple find their way to mutual understanding...and mutual pleasure?...
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Sparks fly when a trendy bike messenger meets a corporate attorney. Can this mismatched couple find their way to mutual understanding...and mutual pleasure?

Static blared from my radio. “Twenty-two, you out there?” my dispatcher whined.

I dragged my eyes away from the moustache and fumbled with the radio holster. “Yeah, I’m clean.”

Mr. Moustache looked amused, but “clean” is just messenger lingo for when you’ve delivered all your packages.

“You’re free then. The board’s empty,” my dispatcher announced.


I looked up and found Mr. Moustache studying me. Then he smiled that incredible smile of his, and all of a sudden I wanted him. I didn’t care that he was a total stranger. I wanted to feel that moustache on my neck, on my nipples; I wanted to feel it brushing against my pussy lips, tickling my clit. From the look in his eyes, I knew the odds were pretty good I’d get my wish.

He stood and slung off his vest, as if I’d told him. “I’m clean too.”

That sexy grin had me drop my messenger bag and radio holster to the floor. He stepped closer to me and rested his hands on my waist, testing the water before he dove in. I shrugged off my leather jacket and put my hands on his arms. Damn, his muscles were solid and bulky under that tailored shirt.

He bent down and brushed his lips across mine. I felt the first stroke of that gorgeous moustache and my knees started to wobble, so I hung onto his shoulders. He led me to the leather couch in the corner and tugged me down beside him. Before I could say a word, his big hands framed my face, his head lowered, and he gently kissed me. He was real cautious, like he was afraid of rushing me -- reverent, that’s the word.

Now, I’ve been treated a lot of different ways by a lot of different guys, but reverence was a new one. It was a real turn-on. He stroked my back, my arms, my face -- all the places guys usually forget about -- and he kept giving me these slow, deep kisses. I’ve never been with a guy so willing to take it slow. This high-powered lawyer touched me like the only thing he cared about was pleasing me. Every now and then he’d pull back and look at my face, making sure I was having a good time, giving me a chance to change my mind.

He didn’t have to worry. Those gentle touches were really getting me hot. He stroked my cheek, and I turned my head and planted my tongue in his palm. His hand shook. I guess he’d never done it in his office before, let alone with a messenger. To tell the truth, I’d never screwed a lawyer in his office, either.

His fingers poked gently at my braid; my hair’s long and really thick, so I always braid it for biking. He teased my ear with his tongue, making me shiver. “May I unbraid your hair?”

So polite. I laughed and nodded, then sat up to make it easier for him.

His fingers were quick and nimble. As soon as my hair was falling down my back, he buried his face in it, biting my neck through the curtain of hair. The sharp edge of his teeth made me shiver. His hands came around and cupped my breasts, and my nipples perked to attention. I pulled off my T-shirt, then grabbed his hand and pulled him down onto that big black leather sofa with me.

His eyes stayed glued to my bra, like he’d never imagined someone like me would wear something so sexy. I always wear lacy bras and panties under my jeans and leather jacket. I mean, sure I’m a bike messenger but I’m still a woman, right?

He found the front hook of my bra and released it. I wish I could say my breasts “spilled out,” but they’re kinda small and pretty firm, so firm I don’t really need a bra -- I just wear one to feel sexy. Anyway, Mr. Moustache didn’t look at all disappointed by my little cone-shaped boobs. He took one in each hand and squeezed, then stroked his thumbs over the hard, tingling nipples.

His hands were just a little rough. Not calloused, but very...masculine. The pads of his thumbs had me writhing, pressing into those big hands.

“Can I taste them?”

Copyright © Doreen DeSalvo


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