A few dozen skaters circled the rink, most wearing simple costumes that probably weren’t entered in the competition. The Green Hornet and Kato. Captain Hammer and Dr. Horrible. A grandmotherly type doing cool jumps and spins, dressed as Little Bo Peep. But there were some impressive costumes as well. A two–person dragon whose occupants somehow managed to skate in decent tandem. A chick in a barely–there steampunk get–up skating backwards with ease.
Boudreaux heaved a sigh beside me. “It’s too bad neither of us can skate worth a damn.”
I grimaced. “Fuck it. Second place ain’t bad.” First place was five grand, plus a week in Cabo for two, all expenses paid, but I knew our chances of winning that were slim to none, even with costumes as kickass as ours. Problem was, it was a goddamn skating rink, which meant that you lost major points if you couldn’t actually skate in the costume.
I’d tried. That was three weeks ago, and my ass still felt bruised to hell and back.
“Yeah, Second place would be okay,” he replied. “Two grand would cover the costume costs, plus some.”
My gaze skimmed the crowd. The majority of the people milled, drank, and posed in the carpeted area. Only a handful of patrons in contest–worthy costumes weren’t skating at all — including us, a pair of zombies who looked so real I could damn near smell them, a yeti, and a Minotaur with ingeniously constructed hooves.
“Or third place,” I suggested, my wince hidden by my mask. More likely we’d manage to score one of the lesser prizes — Best Duo, or Most Original. The cash prizes for those were a lot smaller, but at this point we’d take what we could get. This was a tough hobby to pursue on a cop’s salary.
The French woman passed by, face twisted in anxiety and frustration, craning her neck and looking around as if trying to find someone. An abysmal Rocky Horror followed her, then the zombie couple I’d seen earlier. Damn. Their makeup, facial prosthetics, and tattered Mardi Gras partygoer outfits were seriously impressive. Better than ours, maybe.
A strangled cry yanked my attention from the zombies, and I turned in time to see the Rocky Horror guy drag the cheap black wig from his head and rip at it as though determined to tear it to pieces. Not even three seconds later he stopped and stared at the shredded wig in his hands as if wondering what happened to it.
Boudreaux let out a low snort. “Someone found the good drugs.”
“I’d do the same thing if I had a wig that bad,” I replied with a chuckle.
We moved through the crowd while I carefully used the gliding stride that was so important for the overall effect of the costume. Now that we were in the midst of the throng I saw heads turning our way. Relief mingled with pleasure at the approving nods and appreciative smiles. Boudreaux made the perfect counterpoint to my sinister height and bulk. Small and lean, he carried off the white spandex and sparkle flawlessly. Who woulda ever thunk that scrawny Boudreaux, who looked more like a meth head than a cop, would look so damn good in glitter?
I did, I thought with a grin. That’s who.
We continued to work through the crowd, pausing frequently to pose for photos, and finally managed to stake out a good spot by the rink where we could size up the competition. Steampunk girl skated by again, followed closely by someone dressed like a giant raccoon. A dark–haired, well–muscled man wearing devil horns, a red jacket and no shirt skated the perimeter of the rink as he watched the others. Maybe a judge? Recognition stirred sluggishly, but I couldn’t place him for the life of me, and his red makeup didn’t help either.
“How the hell does she keep her tits in that top?” Boudreaux murmured, eyes on Steampunk Girl.
“Double–sided duct tape, probably,” I offered. “Maybe she didn’t use enough and we’ll get a show later.” I allowed my imagination to explore that possibility for a few seconds. Devil Horn Guy skated past again, and I nudged my partner with an elbow. “Hey, Boudreaux. Does that devil guy look…” I trailed off, all thoughts of steampunk or devil horns vanishing at the sight of the new skater. “Jesus fuck all, check out Butterfly Girl.”
Her costume was simple, but devastatingly effective. Diaphanous fabric of shimmering blues and purple flowed from the underside of her arms and connected to thin straps around her perfect thighs, giving the impression of wings when she lifted her arms. Body paint covered her toned but lusciously curved body from head to toe in beautiful swirls of color accented with glitter.
“Holy shit!” Boudreaux said, voice somewhat strangled. “Does she have on anything except body paint?”
“Thong,” I managed, eyes following her. “And skates. Doesn’t look like much more.” Exhaling a shuddering breath, I nudged Boudreaux. “C’mon, we need to keep moving so all the judges can see us.”
We continued through the crowd, pausing repeatedly for more photo requests, but my eyes kept going back to Butterfly Girl. She skated past, spun, skated backwards, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have been sure she was looking straight at me.
I wasn’t the only one watching her, either. Devil Horn Guy leaned against the far rail talking to a couple of men wearing suits and sparkly Mardi Gras hats. The devil’s gaze followed Butterfly Girl, and he gestured toward her a couple of times. I couldn’t fault him for that. She made a great conversation piece.
She glided toward the gap in the rink railing and exited, but to my shock she moved directly toward us. Her eyes traveled over me, from floor to the top of my wings, her full lips parted slightly.
“Jesus,” I muttered, suddenly glad the folds of the robe would hide my growing boner.
Before I could think, she stumbled and fell into me. By some miracle I kept my balance on the platform shoes as I caught her, and even got a handful of boob in the process. Yeah, there was nothing but bodypaint over those puppies.
She clung to me as she got her skates under her, not shifting away from my hand on her boob. Hell, if she wasn’t gonna pull away, I sure as hell wouldn’t either. I breathed silent thanks for the last–minute decision to use makeup on my hands and forego gloves.
“I’m so sorry!” she breathed. “The mat caught my skate. Can you forgive me… my Lord?” Her green eyes gazed up at me through long lashes tipped with gold as her meaning slid through me. It was the costume. The whole Dark Angel thing was a turn–on for her.
My boner was fine with that. And so was I, for that matter. I could play this game.
Even though my voice was naturally deep, I consciously lowered it even more. “All is forgiven.”
She continued to keep her amazing tit pressed into my hand. “I was coming over to see you,” she murmured, tipping her head back to look fully at the mask, dark hair tumbling in waves down her back. I stifled a groan as she shifted her hip to slide against my erection. Mouth dry, I ran my thumb over her nipple, then had to hold back a shudder as she pressed closer. It had been a long… long time since anyone had shown even the slightest sexual interest in me, and even longer since I’d had actual physical contact — with anything other than my right hand.
And yeah, I knew it wasn’t middle–aged, overweight Vincent Pellini she was coming on to, but what the hell. The Dark Angel had landed me an arm full of something I wouldn’t get any other way.
“You have captured my attention, little butterfly,” I said, keeping my voice deep.
She undulated her hip against me. “Maybe I could capture something else later.”
Oh, Christ Jesus! Was she offering to fuck me?
But before I had the chance to question or agree or anything else, the music suddenly faded.
“All contestants to the rink for line–up, please!” a cheery voice announced over the PA.
I hesitated. Swear to God, I seriously considered tossing a year of work and well over a grand in expenses in order to pursue my chance to bang this chick.
Then I sighed. There was no fucking way she would go through with it. At the most I might get to cop a few more feels and, even as amazing as her tits were, they weren’t worth throwing away all the work Bou
dreaux and I had done.
I gave her boob a gentle parting squeeze. “Find me after this, and I will allow you to capture much more.” Hey, it was worth a try, right?
Her hand found my cock, squeezed lightly. “Promise, my Lord?”
I almost forgot to answer. “You have my word,” I said, willfully managing to keep my voice steady.
Butterfly Girl looked over at Boudreaux, then back up at me. “And your friend too.” With a final stroke of my cock, she pulled back then turned and headed onto the rink.
I stared after her, mouth hanging open, thankful for the cover of the mask.
“What the hell just happened?” Boudreaux asked.
Swallowing hard, I found my voice. “A goddamn sexy as hell butterfly wants to fuck an angel and a demon. Jesus! I ain’t never taking this thing off.”
My partner stared after the painted ass until it disappeared in the throng. “Let’s go win this thing so we can get to what happens after.”
I made a few final adjustments to both costumes, then walk–glided out to the rink with Boudreaux and found our place in the line between the two person dragon and the Minotaur. A shimmer of purple near the other end of the line caught my eye, and I smiled as Butterfly Girl did a cute little spin before settling between Robin Hood and a Bird–thing in an elaborate feather mask. Now that my dick had calmed down I could ruefully admit to myself it was unlikely anything would happen later. Girls like that didn’t come on for real to guys like me — costume or not. Didn’t matter. She’d given me one hell of a fantasy to take home. Not quite as good as a week in Cabo, but still pretty damn nice.
As soon as the lineup and posing was complete I turned to go, then paused as I saw the French lady approach Butterfly Girl. For a brief moment I allowed my fantasy to expand to include her. Hell, it was a fantasy, right?
But Butterfly Girl didn’t seem very pleased when Frenchy took her wrist. She wrenched her arm away and stepped back, her chopping hand motions and angry face telling me she didn’t want anything to do with whatever Frenchy was saying. Behind them, Robin Hood abruptly turned and yanked the feather mask from Bird Lady, then viciously stripped the plumes from it and threw it all to the floor. A shoving and shouting match ensued, and Butterfly Girl took advantage of the distraction to push her way past the zombie couple and disappear into the crowd.
“And that completes our judging!” the announcer cried before I had a chance to track where Butterfly Girl went or why the hell Robin Hood seemed to hate feathers. I shifted my focus back to the announcer, but he simply went on to say that the prizes would be presented in an hour.
Figured, I thought as the music returned to its earlier volume. They wanted people to stick around and continue to drink. I hated waiting, but at least I could just relax and enjoy posing for pictures.
Shouts from across the rink drew my attention to a scuffle that had spilled out onto the skating floor. Yeah, I thought sourly. Keep feeding everyone alcohol. For an instant I thought Frenchy was involved in the altercation, but she stalked away with a scowl to reveal that the fight appeared to be between a ballerina and Rapunzel. The zombie couple and the dragon people quickly broke them up, but Rapunzel’s wig had been trampled and the ballerina’s tutu lay in shreds.
“Chicks fight dirty,” Boudreaux said, snorting.
“That’s why I don’t get involved in that shit,” I shot back. Frowning, my gaze sought Frenchy in the crowd. The guy who broke his pencil. Rocky Horror and his wig. Robin Hood and the plumes. And now this. “Did you see where the French chick went? Sure seems like trouble follows her. I wonder if she’s instigating it.”
A hand touched my arm and I turned, prepared to pose for a photo. My breath caught as Butterfly Girl smiled up at me, looking beautiful, sexy, and utterly fuckable.
“I am yours, my Lord.”
Blood pounded in my ears. All of my police training, all of my life experience, all of the fantasizing I’d done since she made her proposal earlier hadn’t prepared me for this moment. I stared at her, mouth hanging open behind the mask, feeling as though her hand had squeezed the power of thought and speech from my brain. Then I groaned. A hand squeezed something all right, but it wasn’t my brain.
I drew a breath and remembered in the last instant to deepen my voice and play her game. “I will make use of you now, little butterfly.”
“Yes, my Lord,” she said in a breathless way that made me harder than her touch had. “I think I know a place. Come through the green door on the back wall in about five minutes. Your friend, too.”
“Go. Prepare for your Lord.” I knew it sounded cheesy, but if it made her hotter, I was all for it.
She backed off and turned away, all beautiful bare tits and ass, made even more alluring by the thin layer of body paint that masqueraded as cover. And to my delight, she’d exchanged the skates for sky high stilettos.
I turned to Boudreaux. “Dude,” I said, voice slightly strangled. “We’re gonna fuck a butterfly.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Okay, I just gotta ask it. You sure she’s not a hooker?”
It was a question I’d avoided asking myself. “No, not sure at all,” I said, suppressing the sigh. Damn, it would suck shit if she was. I just wasn’t at all into buying sex. “But she hasn’t asked for any money or favors,” I continued. “If she does, we’ll deal with it then. I think the costumes turn her on, and we just happen to be the lucky sons of bitches wearing them. I’m not gonna look too hard at it.”
“Gotcha.” Boudreaux pressed a packet into my hand. “Good to go. Or come,” he added with a snort of amusement.
Grinning, I tucked the condom under my belt and spent the next few minutes fidgeting and posing for more pictures. Who’d have thought sequins and platform shoes would get me laid?
I finally nudged Boudreaux. “Green door. Let’s go.”
Butterfly Girl waited in the hallway on the other side. “I know where we won’t be disturbed.”
I glanced around, a little wary. Light shone from side doors far down the hallway to the right, but the left looked quiet and vacant. What if she’d made us as cops and was leading us into a setup? I had my ID and phone on me, but Boudreaux and I had left our guns in the van. My eyes went back to her, and my horniness won out over wariness. “Lead on, little butterfly,” I commanded.
“As you wish, my Lord.” She turned left then went down another corridor and led us to the door at the very end. We followed her into what appeared to be a seldom–used storeroom, though I was so busy watching her ass it could’ve been the food court of a mall and I wouldn’t have batted an eye. She stopped and turned around by a desk near the far wall, dropped her tiny thong to the floor and leaned back, legs spread enough to make the invitation obvious.
“Sweet Jesus,” I muttered under my breath as I moved to her, then cleared my throat. “Are you certain you wish to offer yourself to the Dark Lord?” Godalmighty, I sounded like an idiot, but I also wasn’t about to bang this chick without one hundred percent consent.
She slid a hand down my cock through the robes. “Please fuck your slut, my Lord.”
Sure as hell sounded like consent to me. I put a hand on her gorgeous tit, gave it a light squeeze, then pulled the condom from where I’d tucked it in my belt. She was hot as all hell, but I didn’t want kids or diseases. To my surprise, she took it from me, opened it, then looked up with her head in an I’m waiting tilt.
I quickly lifted my robes, and in a matter of seconds she had her hands on my boxers, my cock out, and the condom on me. With that accomplished, she reclined on the desk in a sensuous slow move, and drew her legs up to rest those lovely stilettos on my shoulders. Sweet Jesus!
She shifted her head to the side, looked beyond me, and gestured for Boudreaux to move around to the other side of the desk. I almost laughed imagining his face behind the mask when he realized she intended to give him a BJ at the same time.
I stroked my hands down her thighs as Boudreaux scrambled to the other side of t
he desk. This is really happening! I thought as I rubbed my cock against her wet heat. This gorgeous chick really wants me to fuck her!
The click–thwack of the door opening startled me like a teenager caught under the bleachers. I tried to take a step back and ended up in an arm–windmilling stumble as I fought to stay upright on the goddamn shoes, and only an awkward grab at a set of shelves kept me from falling on my ass. I finally managed to look toward the door, only to see Frenchy struggling to get her wide skirts through the doorway.
Butterfly Girl sat up to stare at the intruder, anger and shock warring on her face. “Brigitte! I told you I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Who is this?” I demanded, drawing myself up straight again.
Butterfly Girl glared at Frenchy a.k.a Brigitte. “Someone who I thought was my friend until she ditched me with no explanation. Caused big time trouble for me and others.” Her mouth tightened. “I swear I’ll call David in if you don’t get the hell out of here,” she told the other woman. “I probably should anyway.”
What the hell? I glanced at Boudreaux, but he could only give me a baffled shrug in answer. I sighed. Just my luck. So much for scoring with a very willing hot chick.
Brigitte finally made it through the door and closed it behind her. “Jasmine, I swear I didn’t ditch you. Please don’t call David.” Her face twisted with what looked like desperation. “You have to open your eyes and see that he’s not so damn wonderful! He’s the one who set me up with the john who… who messed me up. And he wants to sell you. That’s what I came here to warn you about.”
Shit. Not what I wanted to hear.
Butterfly Girl a.k.a. Jasmine lifted her chin. “Newsflash. He sells me every damn day. And that’s okay with me. More than okay!” She narrowed her eyes. “No one fucked you up. I saw you the next morning, and you ran from me. You know he’ll kill you if he finds you here.”
Brigitte gave a humorless laugh. “Kill me? That’s one thing he’d have a really hard time doing now.”
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