Show Me How

by Harley Slate

  Anyway, Dario's soon out on his elbow, and I'm here to enjoy my Friday night. There's legs everywhere. Handkerchief halters, crotch-high mini skirts, and spike heels. Lots of skin. Lots of eye candy. And yet there's always that one girl who stands out as something special.

  Tonight, that one girl is Emma Bourne. Or so says the fake driver's license in her pocket. Quentin got that much directly from the bouncers on the front door.

  I adjust the nude gloss on my lips. The elevator pings open.

  Gorgeous as she is across a crowded club floor, she's even more striking up close in the mirror-glass frame of the open VIP elevator. Her curves look soft and squeezable. Natural. The undyed, unhighlighted, un-fussed-with brunette hair looks natural too. She looks like somebody who can tumble across a mattress without flying apart into a million pieces.

  She holds her chocolate martini two-handed like she's afraid somebody's gonna yank it away from her. A defensive posture. She isn't used to the club environment, and she looks like she expects someone to call her out on it at any moment.

  Hmm. I'm right about the fake license. Emma Bourne is twenty-one, but this girl's an eighteen-year-old fresh out of high school. Fresh. Interesting. Too fresh?

  Quentin waves at the wide space on the booth seat next to me. She wiggles her butt‒ does she know she's doing it?‒ and then slides in. The martini sloshes as she sets the glass on the table. She's been sipping slowly. Trying to keep her wits about her.

  Wits are better than witless, as far as I'm concerned. I've never understood what's attractive about a girl playing dumb. This one is playing, oh, make no fucking mistake, she's playing... but dumb isn't the game she's playing.

  “I'm Jessica.” I don't give her a last name. Either she knows who I am or she doesn't.

  “Nice to meet you, Jessica.” There's no flutter of recognition in her eyes as she offers her hand. A southern accent. I suppose she expects me to shake the hand.

  Instead, I pull it to my lips and give it a butterfly kiss. A tease. More like I'm breathing on it than actually touching it.

  She inhales, a sharp breath we can all hear. She didn't expect that.

  A lot of girls come out to Vegas from Los Angeles but she isn't one of them. She thinks she's hard, but she's sweet. A candy with syrup in the center.

  “A Southern girl,” I say.

  She hesitates, as if she's trying to remember where she came from. The hesitation of the inexperienced liar or maybe just somebody who's lived in too many towns. “Biloxi.”

  Probably not a lie, considering her ease with the club scene and the greedy way she clutches a fancy drink. Biloxi's a tough town, but maybe that's true of every town in the south. Hell, it's true of every town everywhere that has casinos.

  “I'm Emma.” Another hesitation, as she wonders whether she should add a last name and decides not to. She fills the moment by crossing her legs, which makes her skirt ride up higher on her curvaceous thighs.

  As a result, her naked leg can't help brushing against my leg. My silk crepe Carolina Herrera trousers do nothing to stop me from feeling the spark of contact between us. It's electric, but I don't blink or look down. It's mission critical to hold her eyes. To let her know I see her, not just a pair of shapely thighs.

  “It's a pleasure to meet you, Emma.”

  She smiles, then swallows the smile. She's just scored a visit to the club owner's private VIP room. Even if she doesn't know who I am, she knows where she is. This little velvet box of a room smells like money. And me? I smell like super-money as I sip my seventeen-year-old bourbon.

  She was one year old when it went into the cask, and now it's going down all smooth and dangerous. Almost as smooth and dangerous as a chocolate martini. Almost as smooth and dangerous as her.

  We're talking about nothing, and I kind of hold myself apart a little, and then all of a sudden I put my empty glass down on the table with a bang.

  “Come closer,” I say. My leg shifts against her leg, silk against bare skin that might as well be silk.

  She shivers, although she doesn't realize I see her shiver. “Aren't you moving kind of fast? I'm just a country girl from Biloxi.”

  “You must think I've never been to Biloxi.” It's the kind of place where casinos are perched one right after another in a string along the beach. Not the kind of beach where you go swimming either. If you're looking for blue water, head on east to Panama City. Biloxi is dirty water, dirtier money. A night town where human sharks swim indoors.

  She's fresh but she isn't naive. That just isn't possible, starting from where she started. A point in her favor. Smart girls are more fun than airheads.

  “How old were you when you started sneaking into the casinos?” I ask.

  “Honestly, Jessica, I don't know what you take me for. I would never, ever sneak into a casino.” She bats her eyes. She plays the game. And she's scooting closer to me, which is the main thing. Her long bare leg presses harder against my leg, and I can feel the heat through my tailored fabric.

  “I spank little girls who lie,” I say.

  “Ooh, I'm so scared.”

  We're alone. My people know when to materialize to provide a service and when to fade away, and right now it's fade-away time. Nobody behind the bar, nobody at the piano. Quentin will have posted a guard so nobody comes up on the elevator.

  My quick hands reach for her purse. She shrugs, trying not to look too sheepish, as I whisk both of her licenses out of her wallet. The one I believe says she's Emily Dearborn, formerly of Mobile, Alabama. Eighteen years old. Mobile must have been the city before Biloxi.

  “Eighteen is old enough,” Emily says. “The laws are stupid.”

  “Eighteen is old enough for some things,” I say. “But you're done drinking chocolate martinis in my club.” Dropping her wallet into her purse and tossing the purse to the back of the booth, I grasp each of her wrists to pull her right into my lap. Her skirt wiggles up a little too high, and the firm curves of her generous ass began to wiggle against my thigh.

  She drapes her arms around my neck and wiggles some more. “Maybe I want something even sweeter.”

  “You think you can test me, little girl?”

  “I know I can test you.” Her words say she's playing hard to get, but her wiggly ass is saying something else.

  She tilts her head back enough to keep gazing into my eyes. The arctic blue tends to fascinate people. Are they real, or are they contacts? That's an actual question I've gotten. But this one knows they're real. She just likes looking at them.

  We sit there close like that for a minute, and then her mouth moves a skinch closer but not quite close enough to touch, and it's up to me to seal the deal. I plant my mouth hard on her mouth, taking the kiss from her, taking the breath from her. The hands draped loosely around my neck suddenly clutch on tight, and her fingers dig into my back, and there's a lot of tongue that keeps going deeper. Her breath is sweet from the chocolate martini, a lot sweeter than even the rarest of rare bourbons.

  A lot more intoxicating too.

  My blouse is tailored from expensive fabric with some heft to it, but her cheap dress is flimsy, and I can't help feeling the spike of her diamond-tipped nipples through our clothes. She's excited. Breathless.

  It's one of those kisses that go on and on until you forget how to breathe. Until you assume you don't even need to breathe. It isn't like I'm kissing her or she's kissing me. It's like we're both caught up in this kiss that's bigger than our own day-to-day reality.

  Then she's wiggling out of my lap again and somehow she's jumping out of the booth and heading for the elevator. She's walking very, very slowly, which means she either isn't used to strutting her stuff in those high heels or she's deliberately making her ass sway from side to side like that. Probably a little of both.

  “Don't touch that button,” I say. The last thing we want is for that damn elevator to come back up with Quentin on it.

  She turns. The doors are some kind of silvery metal with a mirror p
olish. I can see her backside reflected in that mirror. “Then give me something sweet to make me stay.”

  I walk right up to her and plant a hand on either side of her body, so I can feel the coolness of that shiny surface. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  Her eyes spark. I bet mine are sparking too. And now I've got her in my arms again, and now I'm sliding down, down, down to the carpet in front of her. “Brace yourself on that door, but don't touch that button.”

  She folds her arms beneath her curvy boobs, which lifts them up and up. After a moment, she backs up an inch or two to prop her round butt against the door. “What the fuck you doing down there?”

  “You want to test me, then test me. First test is to prove I know what to do with my tongue.”

  “Is that the first test?”

  Those high heels have got to go. I lift one foot and pull off a shoe and lick with the tip of my tongue between her toes. It tickles, and she lets out a little gasp of shock. I move to the other foot and do it all over again.

  “You're, um, sucking my toes. Is that a thing?” She has no fucking clue how young she sounds when she says that.

  A virgin, I'm thinking. An eighteen-year-old virgin. Probably the only one in Vegas.

  There's a nerve that runs from the big toe straight up to a woman's clit. Don't take my word for it. Ask your doctor. The more I suck on that pampered foot, the more she has to brace herself against the elevator door. The cold metal must be getting all hot and sweaty from the way she's waggling her ass against the silvered surface.

  Pink polish on the toes. A hint of candy flavor. Girls, even virgin girls, know all kinds of crazy things.

  I'm too far away down here. I need to start slipsliding the tongue action up and up and up. Silky smooth legs, well-shaped calves. The backs of her knees are as ticklish as her toes, and she's gasping a little louder as I flick my tongue in the direction of her generous thighs. So easy to imagine those thighs wrapped around my thighs, grabbing me, tugging me, insisting...

  “You're mine,” I say. “All fucking mine, and nobody else's.”

  “Mmmm.” Is she purring? Fuck me, she's purring. Her pelvis tilts, and the hem of the skirt drifts even higher, leaving the undercurve of her ass exposed.

  Thong panties. A triangle of candy-pink over a waxed mound. A string no wider than a strand of pink embroidery thread running between her delectable cheeks. I reach and grab and squeeze. “Leaving your ass hanging out like that is crying out for a spanking.”

  She dances her bottom against the palm of my hands. My face is all up in her pussy now, the better to use my teeth to grasp that triangle of flimsy fabric and yank it halfway to her knees.

  There. That's the way I need her. I roll my whole head against the satiny-smooth delta, all the better to let her feel my pampered skin against her tender places.

  “Ooh.” Her voice is so tiny, like she's surprised. You don't often encounter innocence in Vegas, but here it is, and it tastes delicious. “Ooh, that's so good.”

  I put out my tongue again and begin to swirl it around like she's a melting ice cream cone. The silky folds invite me deeper, but I focus on using just the tippy-tip of my tongue.

  “Hurry. What if somebody comes?”

  “Nobody would dare.” I breathe the words into her tender flesh.

  “This door could open at any minute.”

  “Nobody would dare.” I don't often repeat myself, but I'll make an exception for her. My mouth seals itself around her folds, and my tongue spears in more deeply. My upper lip presses hard on the tiny button, and it pulsates back at me. Damn, she's responsive. I begin to tongue-fuck in and out, slowly but surely.

  It would be fun to leap all over her. Use my knee to spread her knees. The heat in my blood is telling me to do just that. Hump, finger, probe, grind... clit to clit and pelvis to pelvis. I have a lot of experience with standing fucks, with bringing both me and my partner off together in a matter of seconds.

  Somehow, I don't want to hurry. Not this time. I want to string things out. The longer you ache, the hotter you burn, and, the hotter you burn, the better it is in the end.

  “Don't rush me, sweet Emma,” I tell her. “Don't think you can hurry me. I'm going to make every minute last a thousand years.”

  Her ass rotates so hard against the door that it's crushing my hand into the metal. I love the warmth of it. The firmness. Her eyes roll back, seeing nothing. All the focus is on the feeling.

  For me too. Fuck, yes. I make my tongue all pointy, the way I do when I'm trying to pick out specific nerve endings. She jerks, squeals, jerks again.

  This is so much like being in a dirty movie, and yet it's all so fucking real. How can something so flavorful be so real? Her very skin salts seem to melt into my taste buds.

  “Ohhhhhh.”

  Is she the one moaning, or is it me? My nose buries itself in her slit, the better to memorize her intoxicating scent. My tongue stretches and thrusts and lunges, and her hips dance from side to side. Her pelvis tilts and twists. I'm stretching my tongue out long with every thrust, then pulling it out slowly to focus on the taste of the juices flowing over my taste buds.

  This is too much too soon, and yet it's everything.

  “I'm going to...” She's afraid to say what she's going to do, but I know.

  I can taste it.

  So close. And then closer yet.

  I'm nose-deep in her again, my tongue probing all the hidden places, my upper lip pressing her clitty button over and over and over.

  She's wet and wide and open, and I could take her now standing against this door, but somehow I find the self-control to keep the focus where it belongs. On her. It's all for her.

  “Ohhhh. Oh!” She sounds surprised, as if she hadn't known how good it could feel.

  Definitely a virgin, I think. Diddling yourself in the dark doesn't prepare you for an experienced tongue like mine.

  I feel the contractions around my tongue, and I hold myself there, my face wedged between her thighs, my mouth sucking the luscious juices from the core of her.

  Ping.

  The fucking elevator. Fucking hell. Everybody's getting their happy ass fired tonight. Quentin, the guard, the club manager, every-fucking-body.

  Somehow, I'm on my feet, and she's got her skirt smoothed down over her ass. A little hop and a twist, and she's got the spike heels on too.

  Ping. The door comes open, and there's Quentin and a couple of other guys I recognize.

  Quentin doesn't have to say he's sorry or that it's urgent or anything at all. The fact that Nick Fucking Gavrolovic is there in my club says everything.

  Ping.

  The fuck. Emma Bourne― Emily Dearborn― is on her way down.

  The only evidence she was ever there is the crumpled candy-pink thong left behind on the floor. That, and the taste of her juices on my tongue.

  Chapter Four

  Emily

  I run like a scared little girl. I know it even when I'm doing it, but I don't know how I can sit in Jessica's lap in a booth while she does business with the kind of guys who look like they carry guns. The assistant is checking me out in a way that lets me know he can smell it on me what we've been doing. It isn't like he gives a fuck. He thinks of me as just an another service to provide for his boss.

  Being evaluated like that gives me a funny feeling. I'm more than that. More than just a party girl. Or maybe I'm less than that, because what do I really know about being a player?

  She's the club owner. The notorious Jessica Blaire. I know that now. And this is what we want, this is what we're looking for, this is the whole purpose of the little Sugar Mama Seekers club I formed, except... I don't want to be the girl of the night, taken and discarded and forgotten. It sounded fun in theory. In and out. Get some fun, get the chase started. Except now I'm running like a scared rabbit with a claws-out owl about to scoop me up into its big spiky clutches.

  Nobody can know I'm a virgin. Nobody. Eighteen is too fucking old for that. Jes
sica thinks I'm a party girl, and that's what I want her to think. It's bad enough she saw right through me and figured out I was in the club on a fake ID in like, ten seconds flat. I'm young, but I'm not some bubble-brained little girl. I'm inexperienced, but I'm not a dumb-ass.

  How does a virgin hold the attention of a power player like her? Jessica's too smart for me. She'll figure me out. And then she won't want me anymore.

  I need to forget that magic tongue and start again with somebody who isn't quite so high-powered. Get some experience. Work my way up.

  Bottom line: I lack the confidence to start at the top. Getting lucky too soon is as fatal as never getting lucky at all.

  This club is farther from the strip than it looked when I went in. Vegas is a night town, and there's a lot of cars going up and down. A lot of lights. It's a warm night, but not as miserably hot as it was in the daytime. It's safe to walk. Just because the sun set is no reason to be all silly and nervous.

  My thighs flex as I walk, and I feel the wetness there. Jessica's tongue. My own juices. She licked a lot of it away, but I'm still damp. It's a tingly feeling. My panties... fuck. I left my fucking panties.

  My face flames red at the thought of going back for them. Nope. A hard nope. Not gonna happen. My only option is to keep moving without 'em.

  My whole body feels so vulnerable under my tight skirt. Maybe I shouldn't really risk the walk, even a short walk like this one. I could pick up one of the cabs in the string parked across the street from the club. But the cabs look gross, and I don't feel right about getting in some stranger's dirty car without my panties. It's only a couple of blocks to one of the big resorts.

  Plenty of lights. Plenty of people. Plenty enough, anyway.

  There's a big group coming from the other direction, couples carrying drinks and making noise. A wedding party, I assume, since one of the girls is wearing an ankle-length white dress.