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"Tonight was nice," Anita said, leaning against Bruce's arm in the back of the limo.

"I'm glad you had a good time." He was watching the darkening sky through the tinted windows.

"This is a friend date, right? Not a date-date?"

He mentally unpacked the statement to determine why exactly she was asking. Most likely answer: she wanted it to be a more-than-friends date. Potential to get awkward. Didn't want to hurt her feelings, also didn't want to lead her on. She should have known better, though. Temporary solution: feign ignorance, hope for the best.

"It... usually is? Why?"

"Could it be a date-date?" Anita asked.


He scratched his chin. "That's kind of a fraught question."

"I don't mean a date-date in a feelings way," she clarified. "I mean in a physical way."

"Oh." That was significantly less problematic. Getting late, though. Necessary time commitment was going to be a factor.

He didn't think he was taking that long to mull it over, but Anita seemed to disagree. "I want to suck your dick," she said more bluntly.

"Is that an offer, or are we just sharing fun facts about ourselves?"

She huffed. "It was an offer, Bruce. Honestly."

Anita Garcia: approximately one hundred seventy-two centimeters, most of which was leg; bottle-blonde; avoided red lipstick because she was self-conscious about her mouth; never wore black because she owned a cat; eyes were a light sort of a brown, very expressive eyebrows; breast implants, done skillfully enough to suit her; seven years younger than Bruce; last boyfriend was another model, dumped him for cheating on her.

Overall verdict: ethical grey area.

"I'm a little old for you, aren't I?"

"No," she said immediately, "because if I was, you'd have said I was too young for you. I've dated men much older than you."

"That doesn't mean I'm not a creep. It just means they were creepier."

"Obviously you're not a creep."

"I'm not convinced that's obvious."

"I like you," she said. "I've always kind of wanted to get in your pants, I want to do something nice for you, and sucking dick in the back of a limo is on my bucket list."

He found her aesthetically pleasing, but that was true of most people. He wasn't actually attracted to her, but that was also true of most people. Objectively speaking, she was a very attractive woman. Orgasms were nice, as a general rule. Could help take the edge off sometimes.

"You should really get a better bucket list," he said, before tapping the button on the intercom. "Carl, could you roll up the partition and drive in circles a while?"

"Sure thing, boss."


Anita looked entirely too delighted. She hadn't asked for a kiss, nor did she seem to expect one, but he kissed her anyway. He didn't want to be the sort of person that wouldn't kiss her. She was soft and warm and eager, and tasted like red wine. He had a vague concern that she might ruin her makeup. It looked like she'd spent a lot of time on it.

He reached into his inner coat pocket, and offered her a condom in what was probably too non-committal a way. That did not stop her from giggling gleefully as she snatched it away from him and slid down to the floor. Her first priority was arranging herself, pulling the hem of her skirt half up her thighs and pushing her breasts higher to make her cleavage even more impressive. She tousled her hair just-so, then posed. "How do I look?"

"You looked good before."

"But now I look extra fuckable, right?"

"Right." Not particularly, but this was not a situation for constructive criticism. And Bruce wasn't sure what he would consider to be more attractive. He tried not to think about it. Things got weird. Somewhere along the line he'd crossed some wires that he shouldn't have. Maybe if he left them well enough alone they'd uncross themselves.

Getting head was, psychologically speaking, kind of uncomfortable. A little like being an audience to a show he was also a part of. He rested his elbow against the door and leaned against his hand to watch her. Because she was, without a doubt, trying to put on a show. Not all models had exhibitionist tendencies, but this one certainly did. She nuzzled against his thigh, stroked his cock through his pants. She touched him like she had a routine, running through familiar choreography. He could practically see her running through beats in her head, when to start on his zipper and when to look up at him through her lashes and when to use her mouth to slide latex over skin.

There was something enjoyable about watching someone do something they were good at. Not that it was what he was supposed to be appreciating when she had his dick in her mouth, but so it went.

She gave the length of him a long lick, looked up at him as her fingers worked along his shaft. "You're very quiet," she said, and he shrugged. "Am I doing something wrong?"

"You're fine."

Anita pouted faintly, but didn't argue, wrapped her lips around him and resumed what she'd been doing. The head of his cock pressed against the back of her throat, again and again as she bobbed in his lap. A careful rhythm, working to take him deeper, and it really wasn't her fault that he didn't make a sound. Force of habit. He ran idle fingers through her hair; her hum might have been appreciative. More when he toyed with it a little, twisted it loose around his fingers and let it fall.

She looked up at him, held her hands behind her back just to prove that she could. His hand still in her hair, and he felt the briefest stirring of genuine interest. Hands bound and kneeling and disheveled and helpless.

Crossed wires. Best to avoid.

He took his hands off her. "Up," he ordered, a beckoning gesture with two fingers.

Her mouth left his skin, hesitant. "Do you mean...?" He waited. She braced her hands on his knees to raise herself up, and he took her by the waist to pull her onto his lap. He adjusted them both so that she'd have room to straddle him, pushing her dress nearly up to her hips. She gripped his shoulders, harder when his hand went between her legs, moved flimsy lace out of the way to push fingers inside of her. She gasped, ground against his hand; it wasn't long before he took it away to pull her down onto his cock instead.

She sank down slowly, thighs spreading wider. He slid his fingers into her open mouth, and she started sucking them clean automatically. Rocked her hips, until she was impaled on his cock and grinding against him with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and muffled moans.

Bruce liked her mouth, but probably for the same reason she was self-conscious about it. Kind of a shame.

The dress she'd chosen had a bow at the back of her neck, possibly because it was so easy to pull loose and let fall. It seemed like something she'd do deliberately. He'd always appreciated her optimism. Teardrop breasts that rested high on her ribcage, carefully cultivated perfection. Look, don't touch.

He thrust upward, held her by her hips to move her how he wanted. Which was cheating. He should have been letting her take care of herself, set her own pace. It wasn't that he was trying to rush her; it was just more efficient.

Still rude. He'd make it up to her later. Flowers or cunnilingus or something.

Anita was noisy. Which was her prerogative. The driver could definitely hear her. Awkward. Still: flattering. A good sign when her brow furrowed, arched and squirmed and generally looked less like she was trying to pose. He coaxed her closer so he could kiss her again, muffle some of those sounds with his mouth. Fingers slid between her thighs again, slick enough that his suit might be in trouble. He stroked her clit, and the sounds she made were almost worrying in their intensity, even if they never met the air.

When she came she nearly fell out of his lap, drama in every single thing she did, the shake of her limbs and the curve of her spine and strangled sounds like he'd fucked all the air out of her. Not deliberately dramatic, because all of her showmanship had always been very genuine. It was a thing people misinterpreted about her, assuming her excesses were about anything other than being the most herself.

He really did like her. She was nicer than she thought she was. It was the least he could do, giving her something she'd been wanting.

He kept thrusting upward as she tightened around his cock, focused on nothing more than pressure and heat and friction. Hardly selfless, this. Less convenient than taking care of himself, but more satisfying. He pulled her down hard to slam her hips against his, bury himself as deep inside her as he could before he came. Not as nice as he could have been, but he didn't think she'd believe him if he was. She wanted to do something nice for him, and she thought kindness needed to hurt.

She collapsed panting against his chest, wanting more intimacy than she was willing to ask for and more than he was capable of giving. But he could wrap his arms around her and kiss her cheek as he started to fix her dress, and that would have to be enough.

"Was that good?" she asked. A genuine question, her voice breathless and pitched too high.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Perfect."