Devi's Bliss: Bools 1-3

by Mika Lane

She managed to whisper, “Sorry. Didn’t mean…to…to hurt you.”

  He brushed his lips to her ear. “Yes you did, Butterfly.”

  Boone’s hands ran along Isabella’s inner thighs until he reached fabric, where his thumbs worked their way inside the elastic leg of her panties. He stroked the lips of her pussy and their wet inner folds, all swollen with lust. His fingers dipped in and out of her moisture, making sure she was fully wet. Moaning, she ground her sex harder into his hand.

  His fingers withdrew and he slid them up to her mouth. She tasted her own natural saltiness, sucking his fingers dry and then licking her lips for more.

  It did not look like anyone was getting a massage today…

  He laid her back on the massage table and lifted her ass to slip off her panties, leaving her shaved pussy fully exposed. One hand reached under her knee and pushed her leg up until it touched her chest. His fingers returned to her slick folds, slowly stroking her from clit to ass and back again. Drawing on her moisture, he slipped two fingers inside her, leaving her to gasp at the invasion. He dragged his fingers upward over her G spot, causing her to writhe in a frenzy, kneading and pulling her hard nipples until they were tight and aching.

  As Boone pumped, he slipped a third finger inside, and she squirmed with a mix of pleasure and pain as she stretched wider open for him. In a few moments, she was bucking her hips for more, her head spinning, her thoughts all but wiped out by her building pleasure. When he suddenly withdrew, she thrashed.

  “Nooo…don’t…stop,” she said in a whispered plea as her hand flew to work her clit.

  He ran a finger over her mouth to give her another taste of her excitement, and then touched it to his own, closing his eyes as he savored her essence. His fingers returned to raiding her needy sex. When he bent to run his tongue the length of her pussy, he shoved her hand aside to nuzzle the sensitive flesh between her soaked and swollen lips. He immediately found her hard clit and flicked it between his lips.

  She convulsed and threw her head back, imprisoned by sensation. Her grip on the sides of the massage table tightened until her knuckles turned white and her cries grew louder.

  Increasing his sucking, his fingers pumped her with relentless power. As he slid a fourth finger in her tightening opening, she writhed and pushed her hips lower, engulfing his invading hand.

  The burning pain and sheer pleasure of being opened like this, combined with his mouthing her clit, nearly pushed her to the threshold of her sanity.

  “Breathe, Butterfly, breathe.”

  Several deep breaths helped her relax, and she accepted him readily. His thrusts moved in and out in a steady rhythm, which her hips followed by bucking and grinding. Her hands released the sides of the table and found his hair, grabbing it by the fistful as she drank in the pleasure pouring over her. His fierce licks drove her over the edge, and a desperate cry escaped her throat as she came in wave after wave.

  Following her signals, Boone increased his sucking, sending her into another crashing orgasm. Her vision was blinded by bright light and she gasped for air as her thoughts went blank.

  She shook with after-shudders as he met her lips to share more of her, kissing her like a lover, and not like a client.

  “Love your pussy,” he said between kisses. “Tastes so good.”

  He gently gathered her to sitting, climbing onto the massage table and lowering her to rest on his lap. He stroked her hair as she floated through her trance.

  “Mmmm.” It was all she could manage.

  She was happy and relaxed but as her head cleared, her doubts sneaked back like annoying ants at a picnic. Now that she’d encouraged him, what would happen? Yes, he was gorgeous, sexy as hell, and yes, he rode. But the lawyer thing was a deal-breaker...wasn’t it? They were all just a bunch of scumbags and she couldn’t spend time with one. Could she?

  She sat up on the massage table and eased her robe back up to her shoulders. Her uncomfortable smile must not have gone unnoticed. Boone bent to pick up the sheet that had fallen, balling it onto his lap at an attempt at modesty.

  “Isabella, I get it that you don’t like lawyers. And maybe you don’t like me. Although your body sure doesn’t act like it,” he added with a weary expression. “And you don’t act like it. Look. I can help with your IRS problem. Why don’t you let me?”

  Ugh. Resolve weakening. Dammit. She did need the freaking IRS to go away, though…

  Could she put some of the nagging remnants of both her sad childhood and disastrous divorce behind her? When she allowed herself to listen to it, her logical mind told her, yes, of course she could.

  How would she like it if someone lumped all massage therapists together?

  She looked at him. “I’ll think about it. But thank you.”

  “Let me take you to dinner. We can dive into the particulars, and I’ll come up with a plan.” He jumped off the table to grab his clothes.

  As he dressed, she sat on her hands so she wouldn’t wring them in front of him. She struggled to look cool and casual. Don’t let him see the turmoil.

  “Dinner sounds nice, Boone. I don’t know about the IRS stuff, but dinner would be good.”

  “Okay, then.” He kissed her cheek and headed for the door. “Enjoy the jacket. You’re gonna be gorgeous in it, Butterfly.”

  And he was gone.

  Collecting her thoughts, Isabella slid off the table onto wobbly legs. She was gathering sheets and towels when she spotted the shopping bag on the floor where Boone had thrown it. Of course he’d not taken it with him. He’d known she’d love the gift, and as much as she had protested, he’d also known she’d accept it. Who wouldn’t?

  She stripped off her kimono and slid her arms into the heavenly-smelling, buttery leather. It fit as if made for her, and she had to admit, she looked pretty damned good in it. Zipped to the neck, she snapped the cuffs, and it was all over. This exquisite piece of clothing was going nowhere but home with her.

  The question was, would Boone also be going home with her?

  Chapter 5

  Several days and a half dozen calls to the IRS later, Isabella cruised into the corner gas station to fuel up before heading home from a half day at work. She popped her debit card in the fuel pump as the afternoon’s light breeze blew through her helmet’s open face shield. She’d left work early to take the misbehaved Taboo to a trainer to start his anti-chewing lessons. To be honest, she couldn’t be more skeptical about the potential results, but one of her clients swore by this “behavioral coach.”

  A beeping sound came from the gas pump and she turned to see what it was. The card reader’s message window said:

  NOT APPROVED

  Huh. Strange. She pulled her card out of the reader, re-set the pump, and inserted it again. Same message. The cashier inside the station tried her card, too, but to no avail. To speed things along, she paid with a twenty pulled from the pocket of the new jacket Boone had given her, but she still couldn’t figure out why her card should be denied. She’d used it for coffee that morning, and it had worked just fine.

  She replaced the cap on the motorcycle’s gas tank and was on her way. But before she reached home, she decided to stop by the bank to inquire about her debit card. On the busy street out front, she found a ten-minute parking spot—perfect. She had no doubt she’d be in and out with the matter resolved in minutes. With the bike parked, she shook her hair out of her helmet and went inside.

  Elevator music filled the bank’s lobby. Tellers serviced a couple customers in the cavernous space while the rest of the staff looked terribly bored, with their perfectly coifed hair, straight white teeth, and huge smiles. Isabella hated banks almost as much as she hated lawyers. They shared the same phony facades behind which lived merciless indifference and greed.

  She nevertheless smiled at the robotic greeter. When Isabella explained the reason for her visit, she was directed to someone sitting behind a desk, rather than the teller window. She grabbed a lollipop from a bowl as she followed the gre
eter.

  “Our banker here will take care of you, Ms. Raven. Have a good day.” With that, the greeter floated off to wait until she had someone else to say hello to.

  Isabella settled into the chair in front of the banker’s desk. Behind it, a young man shuffled some papers. He looked up at her with a smile. “What may I do for you today, Ms. Raven?”

  “Yes, thank you. I just went to use my debit card, and it was denied. Can you check on it for me? Maybe it’s been compromised, and no one called me?” She handed him the card and her ID.

  “Certainly, Ms. Raven. Give me just a second here.” The banker entered her info into his computer and continued to tap for several more minutes on the keyboard, reading screens that, to her dismay, were all out of her view.

  Isabella let her gaze wander through the sterile bank with its cookie-cutter cubes and carpet that smelled like chemicals. Certain that enough time had passed for him to do his part, she turned her attention back to the banker. She had questions, several of them.

  “Has there been fraud on my card?” she asked. “I can’t imagine why it was denied. Unless there is some kind of mistake. I have plenty of money in my account.”

  The banker continued to tap on his keyboard without a word, and Isabella could swear the two little lines in the middle of the man’s eyebrows deepened, despite his forced smile.

  He picked up his phone and muttered something too quiet to hear while he looked at both sides of Isabella’s driver license. As he cleared his throat, it was beginning to look like this might not be the simple matter she was hoping for. An acidic pain twisted her stomach and the taste in her mouth turned sour.

  What’s going on?

  The banker excused himself and walked over to a woman sitting behind another desk. By the authoritative way she looked around the bank, she must have been some sort of manager. Speaking in a whisper, they turned at the same time and glanced over their shoulders at Isabella. When they saw her watching, they whipped their heads right back around, leaving her stomach to drop to the floor. Something was wrong. When they began walking over to her, she rose to her feet to fight the prickly sensation of becoming smaller and smaller.

  The manager-like woman introduced herself, shaking Isabella’s hand. “Um, Ms. Raven, it seems your account is frozen.”

  The churn in Isabella’s tummy sped to triple time.

  Did she say what I thought she did?

  “Excuse me?” Isabella forced a small smile but her tight voice was anything but happy.

  “Ms. Raven, your account has been frozen.”

  Yes, I heard that the first time.

  “I don’t understand. Frozen? How? Why?”

  “The IRS has seized your account. You’ll have to contact them for details.”

  Fury launched itself through Isabella, exploding out of her mouth. “Well, fucking unfreeze it.”

  “Ms. Raven, there’s no need to raise your voice.”

  Manager Lady and her employee looked around. Isabella followed their gaze to see the one customer in the bank looking their way, and the other bank employees stealing looks at each other. Perhaps they were trying to recall the “Dealing with an Irate Customer” part of their training.

  Good. Let them look.

  “I’m sorry, but there is a need to raise my voice. Because you are not listening. I need access to my account. I demand access to my account. My money is in it.” She was reaching a panic level. Or maybe, she already had.

  “Ma’am, when the IRS freezes an asset, we as the bank have no choice but to comply with their instructions. Maybe you should call them? In fact, why don’t you use this office over—”

  “I do not need your office. I need access to my account.” Her hands clenched so tightly her fingernails drew blood from her palms.

  “Ms. Raven, if you do not lower your voice, we will be forced to ask you to leave.”

  All the frustration of the IRS’ incompetence, and her efforts to resolve their mistakes, hit her like a truck. A truck full of something flammable that was going to explode. Driving at top speed. With no brakes.

  “If you do not get me access to my account, you will be the one leaving. And it won’t be on your own two feet.”

  Manager Lady’s eyes bulged at the warning. She looked frightened until she realized all her employees were watching to see how she handled Irate Customer. She hitched her shoulders and attempted to match Isabella’s tone. “Ms. Raven. You will need to leave right now. We can offer you no further help.”

  The manager glanced toward the security guard, who shrugged his shoulders at her. She tilted her head as if telling him do something.

  Someone better do something.

  Isabella watched him reluctantly approach them.

  “Please show Ms. Raven to the door,” Manager Lady said, holding her chin high.

  The security guard gestured toward the exit, and when Isabella didn’t budge, he looked confused. He regarded the manager, whose face was now bright red. Grabbing Isabella’s arm, he tried to guide her toward the door. When his polite approach had no effect, he resorted to pulling her. Everyone in the bank continued to stare at the show.

  “Get your fucking hands off me and get me my fucking money.” Isabella thrashed in the guard’s grip, but he continued to propel her forward.

  “Ms. Raven, we will call the police if you don’t leave peacefully.”

  “FUCK YOU!” Isabella screamed as she struggled against the guard’s grip all the way across the bank’s floor.

  The guard pulled the door open with his free hand and moved her to the other side of it. As it swung closed, she looked back through the glass in utter disbelief. Blinking in the bright sunlight, she fought back the tears created by her burning frenzy. In her rage, she wanted to slam her helmet to the ground, but stopped short. Helmets were expensive and god knows without access to her accounts she didn’t want to face having to buy a new one.

  “Goddamn bank, fucking IRS…” she mumbled as she returned to her bike.

  Huh.

  No bike. The space where she’d left it was empty, except for a couple old oil stains. She looked up and down the street as if it might magically appear, but all she saw was heavy afternoon traffic, some city buses, and a lot of Uber drivers.

  Then she felt a hand on her arm.

  “Ma’am. Excuse me. Ma’am, you’re going to need to come with us.”

  Isabella whirled around to face two cops. One male, one female.

  “What the—why?”

  They grabbed her, and her helmet dropped to the ground, bouncing across the bumpy sidewalk, leaving the plastic face guard with an ugly crack. As she tried to reach for it, she was stopped, hands pinned behind her. There was an audible click, and she was all but immobilized.

  “My helmet—” she started. And reality set in.

  Were those handcuffs? Am I being arrested?

  “Wait a minute. What is going on here? Hey, I think my motorcycle was stolen.” For the second time in a day, she had been restrained by a strong hold on her upper arm. “What are you doing? You should be arresting the person who stole my bike.”

  But all she got were her Miranda rights delivered in a slow monotone.

  “Ma’am,” the female cop added. “You’re under arrest for harassment.”

  “What? I’m the one being harassed. By the IRS! And now my motorcycle is missing!”

  The cop emitted a long sigh and looked to her partner. They exchanged knowing glances, and the male cop scooped up Isabella’s helmet as they ushered her toward their cruiser, flashing lights and all.

  With the car door open, Isabella heard the radio crackling with energy. How she had not discerned the impending shit show? It was likely a testament to her distraught emotional state.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re coming with us right now.”

  This can’t be happening…

  When she had been delivered to a detention room, Isabella’s handcuffs were removed, leaving angry red indentations
around her wrists. She instinctively rubbed them to restore circulation. A different cop brought her a Coke and told her to feel free to use the phone. A Diet Coke would have been preferred, but it seemed that in jail, the options were limited. She dialed her best friend’s cell number.

  “Aurora? Aurora, you won’t believe this, but I’m in jail.” Tears dribbled down her cheeks, and she fought to steady her voice. Not even Aurora had ever seen her cry.

  “It’s a total mess, and I’m trying not to lose my shit. It all has to do with the IRS. My bank account is frozen. Plus my bike has been stolen. I need you to go pick up Taboo. He needs to be fed and walked. Will you do that for me…?”

  When Aurora agreed, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay, thank you. I owe you. I’ll call you later. I may need you to bail me out.”

  I’m not even sure where I am. She’d not paid attention during the ride, she was so distraught by the past hour’s events.

  She put her head down on the table where she sat. Alone at last to face her unmatched fury and frustration, she let the sobs roll. Years of sadness and frustration came like a tsunami. But with a flood there is usually an end, and this one seemed infinite. It scared her to death.

  “Ms. Raven. Ms. Raven, wake up.” A firm hand shook Isabella’s shoulder.

  She jumped with a swift inhale and lifted her head to look around as the room came into focus. Oh, right. Jail.

  It was actually nothing like she thought a jail would be. Where were the scrawny bunks and cold, hard bars separating the law-abiding from the criminally minded? This place looked like nothing more than a small conference room with a couple lopsided chairs and the scars of cigarette burns on the linoleum floor.

  “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing a stiff neck.

  “It’s eleven p.m. and someone has come to get you. The bank is not pressing charges.”

  Eleven p.m.? Holy shit.

  As she followed the officer out of the detention area, she spotted Aurora. She ran to her friend, throwing her arms around her neck.

  “Oh, Aurora, you will not believe what’s been going on.” Her voice trembled and again she fought tears.