Devi's Bliss: Bools 1-3

by Mika Lane

  She teased, continuing light strokes through the sheet.

  “Is this what you had in mind, Mr. R?” Her coy tone elicited a quiet grunt from him. She was indeed on the right track.

  “Just relax then. I’ll take good care of you.” She pushed some stray hairs off her face.

  The sheet, which hadn’t covered much to begin with, whispered over his skin as Noelle let it spill to the floor. Mr. R now lay completely and magnificently nude, his only imperfection a small scar on his lower abdomen. A slender smile enhanced his blissful face and he spread his legs as wide as the massage table would accommodate. His uncovered cock bobbed up and down from the movement. Noelle tried to play it cool, but the truth was she couldn’t wait to get her hands on him.

  Thank god for his closed eyes.

  Before she got down to business, she filled her palms with more warm oil. Using all the weight of her body, she ran her hands up his abdomen, across his chest and back down, stopping just short of his erection. She ran a finger over the thin rope of scar that crossed his otherwise glorious skin. His oiled body was almost too much to bear, and Noelle wrestled with the distraction that was messing up her concentration. A bubble of glistening pre-cum crowned the tip of Mr. R’s cock and as she neared the base of it, he sucked in his breath, arching his back to thrust himself into her hands.

  Instead, she went back to the large muscles of his pectorals, neglecting his glorious erection and kneading his chest that was rising and falling with a quickening breath. When his cock was purple and standing at full attention, her hands finally received it, the anticipation having made the connection so much sweeter. Encircling him, her hand slipped up the length of his shaft, her grip widening to fit over the engorged head. He grit his teeth and shuddered as the massage oil mixed with drops of his fluid. Goosebumps puckered his skin, and she smiled in satisfaction as the throbbing in her pussy left her panties even more warm and slick.

  She slid first one hand and then both up and down the shaft of his cock, rigid and smooth, like velvet over stone. His hips bucked to meet her strokes, and as his light moans made way for more guttural sounds, she tightened her grip, shivering when her own sex clenched with hunger.

  He bent one knee, placing his foot on the table to push himself deeper into her hand, and his fists pounded the massage table. His balls pulled in tight, his breathing labored, and his groans grew still louder. Throwing his head back, he pumped his cock into her tight grip. She smiled as she traveled with him through his bliss, pumping her hand just fast enough to bring him to his edge.

  God was this man hot.

  “Fuck,” he bellowed when his orgasm swept over and through him, transferring the carnal energy to her as if there was too much to be contained. His body convulsed as long ropes of fluid surged onto his belly.

  As he came down, he continued to twitch as she caressed his cock with feather light strokes. His breath return to normal, and his face relaxed into a lazy, crooked smile. She grabbed for a warm wet cloth and wiped his belly and genitals clean with soft strokes to remove any remaining massage oil.

  At her touch, Mr. R’s eyes popped open and he looked around, reorienting himself. “Whoa. Holy shit, that was fucking incredible.”

  He eased up on the massage table, first on his elbows and then upright, running his hands through the dark mess of his hair. He was entirely at ease with his semi-erect cock and the fact that he had to spread his legs wide to make room for his now-relaxing balls. Noelle handed him a large, fluffy towel in case he wanted to cover up, but he only set it aside.

  He took a deep breath through his nose to calm his breath. “God, I needed that.” He rolled his head backward and forward and then side-to-side, stretching out his neck.

  “Damn,” he whispered, looking her over.

  Noelle shifted from one foot to the other, tensing under his stare. She pulled on her long braid. Something about this in-charge man unhinged her, and while his confidence was arousing, it threw her off balance. No need for him to see how hot and bothered he’d made her no matter what her inner dialogue jabbered on about.

  Like whether he’d mind if she just jumped up on the table with him…

  But before she could finish playing out her fantasy, he sprang from the table to gather his clothes.

  Those rippling muscles!

  He pulled his pants on. “Hey, Noelle, I’d like to paint you.”

  No way—he’d remembered her name.

  He flipped his T-shirt right side out. “What would you say to that? I have a great studio in Sausalito. You’d be really comfortable there.”

  Her shoulders hitched as her titillation turned into discomfort. Seeing him outside work was out of the question. It wasn’t a spa rule but a Noelle rule. Not that she was going to let him know that. She had her own reasons for the decisions she made about her social life, and hiding behind her made-up spa “rules” typically raised the fewest questions.

  Despite the dampness in her panties.

  “Oh. Well. Thank you. That’s very flattering. But I don’t think that would work. You know, I’m awfully busy with my work here, and, um, I have some family obligations.” Like her brother surviving on jail food. “Plus we’re not supposed to see clients outside of the spa.” Big fib. “It’s been known to invite trouble.”

  She turned so he couldn’t see her blush as she busied herself with putting away the massage supplies and collecting their sheets and towels.

  “I see. That’s too bad.”

  Was that disappointment in his voice?

  “I’m sorry, Mr. R.” Her voice was quiet.

  Responding to his offer with a polite no, despite the fact that she’d love nothing more than to watch this beautiful man work, was the smart way to go, even though she was tortured by his invitation. She’d not had much luck with men for a variety of reasons, probably related to her asshole dad, and hanging out with him would probably end in disappointment like all the rest. Why risk losing a great client considering the likely outcome?

  “I could pay you, you know,” he tempted. “You could look at it as a moonlighting gig.”

  Well.

  This was getting harder. Some extra dough would certainly help toward her long-term plans, not to mention alleviate the financial drain that her brother caused. Maybe they weren’t the pipe dream she’d begun to think they were. She turned back to him, now dressed in a worn rock concert T-shirt and loose jeans that revealed a strip of tanned stomach.

  Goddamn, he’s good-looking.

  “Could I let you know, Mr. R?” She pulled her long braid over her shoulder.

  “Of course.” He reached in his pocket and handed over his card. “And call me Dalt. Dalt Ruffen.”

  Chapter 2

  Noelle drove her VW toward the Sausalito waterfront where a cluster of industrial buildings had been transformed back to the captivating old structures of the town’s shipbuilding past. Dilapidated and forgotten for decades, their potential had been realized. They’d been encouraged back to life as restaurants, art studios, small playhouses, and other hip and trendy commercial spaces. So much better than just demolishing them. Thank goodness they’d not been replaced with something better suited for an unsightly suburban office park.

  The opportunity to make some extra money had overridden her concerns about spending time with a client after hours, and she’d agreed to model for Mr. R—or Dalt, now that she knew his name. The consequences, if there were any, would be dealt with as they came.

  Pea gravel crunched under Noelle’s feet as she walked through a sparse landscape of succulents and palms, searching for building nine, where Dalt’s studio was housed. After some wandering, she found her destination. A stark building rose before her, striking in its clean whiteness with black-trimmed casement windows reaching from floor to twenty-foot ceiling on each of three stories.

  Noelle rang the building’s intercom, and when she was buzzed in, was thrilled to see that industrial and nautical touches from the building’s past remai
ned. Large pulleys hung just as they had back in the day, and the cable railing on the wide stairwell looked like it came right off a ship. Even the musty, old-building smell was enchanting.

  Climbing the stairs to the third floor, she was suddenly flattened against the stair rail. A male or female—she couldn’t be sure—flew by in a blur of cameras, lighting equipment, and duffel bags. She craned her head to see back down the stairs and glimpsed a short, chubby man banging his gear into every wall, frantically pushing through the door and mumbling something about people getting in his way. Shaking her head, she mounted the last step and faced a door that said:

  DALTON RUFFEN

  The name made her insides quiver and her pulse quicken.

  She knocked.

  The unlatched door creaked open. Her face grew hot. “Hello?”

  “Oh hey! C’mon in.”

  Bare feet pattered toward her, and she peeked into the room.

  No. Way.

  She gaped at what she knew was a wet dream for any fan of industrial interiors. Polished cement floors, exposed beams, and giant pendant lamps hung from the ceiling.

  Dalt’s studio encompassed an entire floor of the building.

  “Wow.” She looked around, turning in a complete circle. “Just wow.” The dazzling light left her squinting after the dim of the hallway.

  “Yeah. I like the place, too.” Dalt followed her gaze. “First time I saw it, I knew I had to have it.”

  She wandered through the space, taking it all in. One corner held a cushy seating area with shag rugs, a fully stocked bar cart, stereo, and wide screen TV. Piles of books were in semi-disarray against a wall, some in tidy stacks, others having toppled to the floor. Something about books was always beautiful no matter how tattered, dusty, or forgotten they were. Opposite the book wall was a small but serviceable kitchenette with an assortment of wine, champagne, and martini glasses.

  A guy who entertains.

  But the best part of the cavernous room, where it would seem the magic took place, was crammed with canvases of varying dimensions, short and tall easels, shelves full of messy tubes of paint, and crusty brushes. Sketchpads lay about, some open and some closed, some new, and some with ragged pages spilling out. The faint smell of cleaning solvent stained the air, as if refusing to let the fresh air chase it away.

  Sheer curtains hung over the floor-to-ceiling windows, fluttering in the breeze. Chairs, tables, and props were piled in a far corner. A chaise stood in the middle of it all.

  “I guess that’s where I’ll be?”

  An artist’s muse. Who’d have thought.

  “Yes, that’s what I was thinking. But if you’d rather pose elsewhere, that’s fine, too.” He uncorked a bottle of red wine. “Would you like a glass?”

  Here we go, the romancing begins. So much for keeping it professional. But, hey, a little wine never hurt.

  He handed her a generous pour and held his up for a toast. “Here’s to massage and art. May they solve all the world’s problems.”

  “Cheers to that.” Their eyes met, and she nervously dribbled wine down her chin.

  Now that was one classy move.

  Mesmerized, Noelle watched as Dalt turned to make last-minute preparations. His paint-splattered jeans were split across the knees, held low on his hips by a too-big belt. Their frayed hems contrasted with his tan feet and he wore a ratty old tank top, also paint-covered, with a small tear at the bottom. It must have caught on something in its better days.

  “I look like a slob, don’t I?” He glanced down at his attire. “I’ll put on a better shirt.”

  Her face colored. Busted for staring.

  He dug into a battered armoire where he grabbed an equally well-worn polo. The muscles of his back and shoulders were on glorious display for a too-short second as he swapped shirts. His baggy old jeans hung so low they exposed the top of his butt.

  He’s not wearing any boxers!

  Her cell phone rang, jerking Noelle from her reverie. Caller ID revealed her brother. Or at least, her brother’s phone.

  “Hey, do you mind if I take this?” She scurried to the door without waiting for an answer. “I’ll step outside for just a sec.”

  Once in the hallway, she hissed into the phone. “Please, please tell me you’re not in trouble again, Mikey.” He’d been out of jail two days, and her bank account still smarted from what she’d had to spend to get him out.

  “Everything’s fine, Noelle. Chill out.”

  She released her breath. “Then what are you calling for?”

  “I was just wondering if I could, um, borrow your bike.”

  “That’s why you’re calling?” She leaned against the wall and permitted herself a shaky laugh.

  “Yeah, I guess. Don’t get it stolen, though. Understand?”

  “I won’t. I’m not an idiot. Give me some credit.”

  “Look buddy, your credit is pretty low right now and it seems to be dropping lower every day.”

  “I know, I know. Hey, thanks, sis.”

  Her heart tugged as they hung up. While it had been years since she’d heard her father’s voice, he came through loud and clear in every word Mikey spoke. Sometimes, it was a welcome remembrance, but most times not. She pushed open the studio door to get back to work.

  While waiting on one of the plushy sofas, Dalt had started on his second glass of wine. “Everything good?” he asked.

  “Ugh. My younger brother. He’s in and out of trouble all the time and I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces. It’s not fun. And it’s not cheap, either.”

  “Ouch.” He motioned for her to take a seat. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  Noelle joined him. “Yeah. It is.” Maybe she should change the subject to something less personal to cut off the line of questioning that was sure to follow. He didn’t need to know about the abuse her father had heaped on her broken mother. No one needed to know the burden that followed her everywhere she went.

  “Our parents are gone, and it’s just the two of us. I’ve been his guardian for a few years now,” she continued.

  “Wow. What happened to your parents?” Dalt asked.

  Noelle looked to the scenery outside without really seeing it. She’d lied about this so many times she wasn’t sure she remembered the truth. And so she lied again. “Um, car accident. You know how that goes.”

  “Damn. I’m sorry,” he said with a heavy nod.

  “Thank you.” Time to ask him questions. “So what about you? Siblings, parents?”

  “No siblings,” he said. “But my parents live nearby. I see them pretty regularly.”

  “Nice,” she said. “Are you close?”

  “Eh. So-so.” Dalt looked down at his wine and an expression passed over his face that disappeared too quickly to identify.

  Enough with the personal chit-chat.

  “Hey, can I see some of your work?”

  “Sure. C’mon.” He stood and gestured toward the curtains.

  She followed him across the room where she found herself surrounded by canvases stacked against the wall, five- and six-deep. He stood so close to her she could smell his clean scent. She twirled a piece of hair as she often did when nervous.

  “Are these your cast-offs?” She pointed to a stack against the wall. Some were landscapes, some portraits, some abstract…

  “Pretty much. I reuse old canvases when I’m practicing, warming up, trying a new technique, that sort of thing. These others, the ones that are completed, I’ll roll out a couple times a year if some of my collectors want to swing by to see what I’ve been doing.”

  He led her over to the only wall in the massive space that actually displayed paintings hung on the wall.

  “Wow, are these yours? They’re so different from the others.” She studied a series of grim interpretations of everyday scenes—a bus stop in the city, a kayaker on the Bay, a ballet dancer. Gray. Disjointed. Forbidding.

  And amazing.

  “I love these. So dark and broo
ding.” she said. “I really like your work.” She continued to study them one by one as if she were reading them. Or maybe it was he who she was reading.

  “Thank you.” He studied the hangings as if he hadn’t seen them in awhile. “Since most of my paid work is portraiture, I like to do completely different things on my own time.”

  She finished her glass of wine. “So what are we going to do today?”

  “Well, let’s get you set up.” He handed her a fluffy white robe and pointed toward a changing screen.

  “What do I need this for?” Noelle asked with a smile, holding the robe with one finger.

  “In case you’re feeling shy.” He smiled. “But it’s certainly not required.”

  She ducked behind the changing screen and stripped while he arranged his paints. Not typically concerned about modesty, she donned the robe in a feeble attempt to keep things professional. He was hot, sure, but she wasn’t in the market for anything more than some fun, and she needed to make sure he knew that.

  She emerged from behind the screen with a small laugh and walked over to the easel where he was preparing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, I’m just imagining what it would have been like as a model of Picasso’s, perhaps in his early painting years, posing for hours in a dank and drafty atelier in some seedy Parisian neighborhood.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite that bad here.”

  “If it were, believe me, I wouldn’t be sticking around! Now, where shall I sit?”

  “Right here.” He took her hand and led her to the chaise. “Arrange yourself comfortably, and we’ll go from there.”

  Noelle dropped her robe to the floor, and he drew audible breath. She felt the warmth of his heated gaze and her heart skipped a beat at his approval.

  “Like this?” Noelle asked, hopping onto the velvety chaise. She rolled onto her side, head propped on hand, legs halfway bent.