Devi's Bliss: Bools 1-3 Read online

  Up and back she went, swaying into the curvature of his spine until his breathing matched her rhythm. As he fell into the massage’s meditative state, she zeroed in on his shoulders, her fingers finding tense knots. She dug into them until he squirmed.

  “Ouch!”

  “You doing okay, Mr. P?”

  “Yeah. You just got a sensitive spot.”

  “I’m sorry. You have a lot tension in your shoulders. But then, most people do.”

  Without warning, he flipped to his back, placing a light hand on Isabella’s arm. Their eyes met and that zing got her again. “I’m wondering if you could, um…”

  A glance to his lower half showed the massage was working its magic. The sheet draping over Mr. P had formed a nice tent around an erection growing larger by the second. This outward display of unadulterated sexuality, combined with his rugged good looks, left Isabella fighting for composure while a rousing tingle bounced from her belly button to her toes, and back again.

  “I’d be delighted.” Time for some fun.

  Smiling, he lay back, placed his hands behind his head, and watched as she added another dribble of massage oil onto her palms.

  Placing a knee on the edge of the massage table, she boosted herself up, swinging her other leg over so she sat above him in a straddle. Surprised by the sudden movement, his eyes popped open and he smiled as if pleased with the view. Isabella followed his gaze and found that her kimono had fallen open, exposing a sheer swath of black lace panty between her legs, as well as the inner swell of her breasts.

  From her new position above him, Isabella’s leverage for massage was much improved. With the heels of her hands, she pressed her weight hard into the muscles of his chest and stroked up toward his shoulders. She fanned her fingers around them, stopping to knead his pressure points until he sucked his breath and winced, her nimble fingers working him in preparation for the deep pleasures to come.

  From his shoulders, Isabella worked her way down his arms until her fingers reached his wrists. She scooped one of his hands to her lips for a light kiss, brushing her soft mouth across his fingers, kissing each one at a time.

  Under his hooded gaze, she drew the tip of his forefinger into her mouth, letting her teeth graze his skin until she reached his knuckle. Her tongue swirled his finger in a tease, causing his breath to deepen as the dance of intimacy, for which Devi’s Bliss was legendary, shifted into high gear.

  Isabella withdrew the finger from her lips and with a kiss to its tip, lowered his arm back to the table. Glancing at his groin, beneath the V of her straddling legs, she realized his erection was struggling for more room under the white sheet. Pulling it to the side, she released him from the choking fabric. He heaved a deep sigh of relief.

  His cock was beautiful—long and thick with a slight bend to the left. The skin was smooth as velvet and its head jutted prominently over its shaft. To be honest, it was flawless.

  But it wasn’t time to touch. Not yet.

  She moved her attention to his muscled chest, wandering her hands over the hills of his hard pecs, circling his erect brown nipples, and tickling the perfect splay of hair tapering down to a narrow line beneath his navel. Running her fingers along the sides of his abdomen, she brushed her fingers over his ribs and tilted her head to admire the tautness of his stomach. These light touches inflamed Isabella; her nipples hardened as if begging to be invited to the party and moisture gathered in her panties.

  His now fully erect cock twitched reflexively, and she scooted an inch closer to increase the friction of its bouncing against her panty-covered crotch. As he knocked against her tingling sex, she shuddered and moved her hips to feel him more completely.

  His back arched, and he freed the first of what would be many groans.

  As Mr. P got louder, Isabella’s eyes closed, and she smiled while vigorously running her hands up his chest, over and around his shoulders, and back down his arms where she again stopped at his hands. Pausing for a moment, she laced her fingers in his and brought them to her breasts.

  “How are you feeling?” she whispered as she pressed his fingers into her flesh.

  “Mmmm. Nice,” he answered in a breathy tone, shifting as though to make room between his legs for expanding testicles. His hands quickly found her brown nipples and pulled them until she gasped with sweet pain, the sensation shooting straight to her throbbing core and causing her to rub against his erection more urgently.

  In one swift movement, she yanked the sheet between them out of the way, treating her to her first full view of this man with the world-worn face and hard-as-rock build. Her gaze swung to his lower abdomen, just north of the base of his cock. Sliding her hand to make circles around it, she teased and admired the tight black curls framing his erect flesh, now as hard as a rocket ready to launch. She was dying to taste the clear precum on his tip, but this was about his pleasure, not hers.

  At least, for the moment.

  Finally, she let her hand hover along his length, not quite able to grip its entire circumference with her fingers.

  Grimacing, perhaps in anticipation, he sucked a deep breath, holding the side of the massage table with a grip so tight his knuckles turned white. Mumbling something unintelligible, his eyes opened just enough to witness Isabella work his raging hard-on.

  Emboldened by her audience, her fingers stretched to the sensitive tip of his cock to smear precum with the residual massage oil on her palm. With her free hand, she reached inside her robe and ran a flat palm over her nipple. She squeezed and pulled, then dropped her hand between her legs to slide her fingers in her drenched panties. His cock throbbed in her other hand and grew even harder.

  As Mr. P’s arousal surged, so did Isabella’s. Eyes squeezed tight, he moved his hands to her thighs as his chest heaved and his moans turned to rasping growls. The fingers she’d run through the folds of her pussy zeroed in on her sensitive clit, kneading faster and faster over her hard nub, bringing her breath in gasps. Their eyes met, and she acknowledged him with a slow lick of her lips.

  Gripping her thighs tighter, he lifted his own hips to fuck her hand more furiously. Her topknot of hair unfurled, sending her waves plummeting, the ends falling into Mr. P’s face. Their rhythms matched as she carried them both to the release they were so thirsty for, her sharp breath joining his rasping one as he slammed his head back against the massage table, shaking it violently.

  “Fuck yeah. Oh god…”

  She tightened her hold on the bulb of his cock and as his length pulsed, she aimed it toward her stomach.

  “Yeah,” he shouted, his entire body shuddering.

  That was when his cum blasted her, coating her tummy with warm, glistening drops that she dragged her fingers through, pushing her closer to her own edge. She tasted it, one finger at a time, as he shook ferociously and groaned with utter satisfaction—it wasn’t often a man met a woman enthusiastic about tasting his cum, and Isabella knew this well.

  She pounded her clit one last time and joined him in a resounding orgasm, head bucking, hair flying. Fingers thick with her own cream, she reached forward and offered them to Mr. P, who greedily sucked them clean.

  With her hand on his cock, she shifted her weight to one knee, dismounting Mr. P as if getting down from a horse. His large palm closed around hers, squeezing the last few drops of cum until it dripped through their entwined fingers. Their gazes remained locked until she reached for a warm towel and began drying him.

  “Hi,” she said to him in a whisper.

  From his back, he rolled over to prop himself on one arm, taking the towel to finish washing away the remaining oil and cum. Whistling, he shook his head as if to clear cobwebs and slid the towel farther south to give his groin a thorough going over. “Whew. That was something. You are freaking hot, Miss Isabella. Thank you.”

  Uh, no. It’s you who are hot, Mr. P.

  She stepped back to take his features in, one by one. To be honest, there wasn’t much of note—busted nose, lined skin, a
touch of grey in his beard. But put them all together like the pieces in a Picasso cubist painting, and the whole just magically worked.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I hope you’ll come back to see me,” she said, absently folding and unfolding the same towel. “I enjoyed it, too.” She sighed with satisfaction.

  He swung his legs over the side of the table. “Oh yes, Miss Isabella. I’ll be back. Very soon.”

  Satisfied he was clean enough to dress, he pulled on his jeans and a faded concert T-shirt. As he sat to tug on his boots, he asked, “So. What is it you do for fun?”

  Surprised by his interest, she stopped tidying the room and faced him. “I have a lot of interests. But my favorite is probably riding my FZ1.” She nodded toward his helmet. “Looks like you ride, too?”

  His face brightened. “Yeah, I do. Been riding all my life. And you have an FZ1! That’s pretty badass. I don’t think my bike could keep up with yours.” He laughed, shaking his head.

  “You never know,” she said breezily.

  He stood up and stepped toward the door. “Maybe we should ride someday, Miss Isabella.”

  “Yes, Mr. P. Maybe we should.”

  Chapter 2

  After Mr. P’s massage, Isabella returned to the staff room to find her fellow masseuse, Aurora, prepping for her first client of the day. She stood next to her in front of the large vanity mirror and watched her dark, exotic friend gather her tight curls into pigtails and place small, flowered bobby pin beside each to keep ever-present stray tendrils out of her face. Dark nipples pressed against the white fabric of her kimono, and she smeared on nude lip-gloss to complete her look. A bona-fide hippy girl, she was always earthy and natural.

  But hippy cred aside, her words were straight and to the point. “Good lord,” Aurora said, looking over her friend from head to toe. “Were you hit by a truck or something?”

  Isabella considered her reflection in the vanity mirror and compared herself to her tidier coworker. Her long hair had nearly all come out of the loose knot it had started in, a rubber band holding just enough to make her look like the eccentric bird lady who fed pigeons in front of her apartment building. She hadn’t fully closed her robe after her session with Mr. P, baring her panties and half of one breast.

  “Geez, you’re right.” She pulled her robe closed. “Glad no one saw me in the hallway. I need to grab a quick shower before my next client.”

  “How was Mr. P? New client, right?”

  “He was…quite hot.” Isabella felt herself heating up all over again. Time for a cold shower. “Handsome, but not pretty. More like rugged, in a ‘been-around-the-block’ sort of way. And he rides.”

  Boy does he ride.

  Aurora put her hand on her hip and faced her friend. “No kidding. A kindred spirit.” Looking at the clock, she headed for the door. “Gotta get going.”

  “Yup. Have a good sesh, Pigtail Girl.”

  Before disappearing into the hallway to meet her client, Aurora glanced back over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at her best friend.

  Alone in the staff room, Isabella dug through her locker to retrieve the IRS letter that had threatened to ruin her day. She found an eight hundred number in small print and, taking a deep breath, dialed it from her cell phone. Of course, a recording answered. Holding on the line, the music playing during the wait cranked her anxiety. She imagined it mocking her, and any other unfortunate caller at the mercy of the IRS, with the simple fact that they didn’t give a shit about her, or her tax problem.

  C’mon bitches. I’m ready for you.

  Leaving her phone on speaker, Isabella prepared for her next client with a quick shower and change of clothes. She took a bit of styling mousse and finger-combed her big waves, not wanting to pull them out of shape with her hairbrush. Then she twisted the mass of hair into another poufy topknot, this time secured with extra pins so it might last longer than it had with Mr. P. Thinking of him made her smile.

  Some activities are just not conducive to neat hair.

  As the dreadful IRS hold music filled the staff room, Isabella plopped onto a teak stool and flipped through a magazine to remain calm. She’d been paying down her IRS debt for over five years, which had been tough enough. But the agency’s lousy recordkeeping and frequent employee turnover made things exponentially worse. She would develop a relationship with one agent who she could call when an issue arose, like when one of her payments hadn’t been credited. Then she’d find that, a few months later, the person was long gone and their replacement was completely unfamiliar with the details of her case.

  And the letter she’d just received was further insult to an already agonizing injury. Since the week the IRS had changed the address where she was to send her checks, they’d not credited her balance by a single payment. Their threatening letters left her shaking with rage—it was so easy to see why people “went postal.”

  The music came to an abrupt stop and there was a click on the line, followed by a tired voice.

  “Thank you for calling the Internal Revenue Service. This is Miss Jones speaking.” Isabella dropped the magazine and she lunged for the phone.

  Miss Jones, my ass.

  “Hi. Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for calling the Internal Revenue Service,” Miss Jones repeated. “May I help you today?”

  “Yes, you can. My name is Isabella Raven.” She provided her social security number so the agent could pull up her record. “Are you finding my information?”

  “Yes, Ms. Raven. It looks like your account is in arrears.”

  “That’s what I’m calling about. It shouldn’t be. I haven’t missed a single payment. The address I was sending my checks to was changed and ever since then, my payments have not been credited.” Her voice rose as her struggle to remain in control slowly withered. “I’ve been making my payments on time. I’ve never been late, not even once! But the IRS’ recordkeeping shows I’m not current with my payments. You’re cashing my checks. I have proof from my bank.”

  She heard a slow intake of breath through the phone line. These people must get yelled at all day long.

  They probably don’t even notice after awhile.

  “Okay, ma’am. Let me try to help you with this.”

  Isabella’s pulse calmed. But only for a moment. Someone clicked on a keyboard on the other end of the line.

  “Ms. Raven, our records show you have not sent a payment in six months. Did you know your property could be seized?”

  “Miss Jones, did you hear what I just said? I have not missed a single payment. I can provide the cancelled checks. Why aren’t you listening to me?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Raven. People call here all day long, claiming they make their payments on time. It’s a common story.”

  Isabella sucked in her breath and pulled together every last crumb of patience she could gather.

  “I understand it’s a common story. But that’s not my story. I have made my payments, and I can show you the cancelled checks. Can you help me resolve this?”

  “Ms. Raven, if you have the cancelled checks, you’ll need to provide them to us. Do you have our address?”

  Isabella confirmed the address she’d been sending her payments to.

  “Yes, Ms. Raven, that’s our address. Please send your proof of payment to us.”

  “Okay. I’ll send them directly to you to make sure a real person there gets my paperwork.”

  “My name is Miss Jones.”

  “Yes, Miss Jones, I have your name. I’m going to send my proof of payment directly to you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Ms. Raven?”

  “No. I guess not. Thank you.”

  She swiped her phone closed.

  Miss Jones is not going to do shit.

  Chapter 3

  Isabella rolled her bike onto the sidewalk in front of her apartment building and shut it down, pulling out her orange security cord to lock the front wheel. She was never to
o careful about protecting her bike. Motorcycles were notoriously easy to steal, and a bike like Isabella’s sleek Yamaha FZ1 was in great demand among bike thieves. Shaking off her helmet, she pulled her bone-tired self up the front stoop to her door.

  While she fumbled with the lock, Taboo scurried and whined on the other side of the door, excited for his walk.

  “Coming, Taboo. Give me a sec.”

  Once inside, Isabelle’s little mutt yelped and jumped all over her, tripping her twice while blocking the entry to the living room.

  “Taboo! Settle down,” she yelled.

  Isabella’s rising voice signaled the only warning that would work on the mutt, and he suddenly ceased his theatrics. Instead, he followed closely on her heels as she dropped her helmet on the sofa and went to her room.

  As she approached her bed, her heart stopped. She froze in place. “Taboo! What. Have. You. Done?”

  Her fury from earlier smacked her in the face like a giant wave as she stared at the brand new leather jacket she’d left on the bed to wear out that night. The latest addition to her wardrobe—her most expensive clothing splurge ever, thanks to the help of Saks Fifth Avenue—was now full of little Taboo-sized chew holes.

  No, no, no.

  She reached for the jacket, hoping her eyes were playing tricks and that the garment was unharmed. Maybe the light was just hitting it from an odd angle. But when she pulled it toward her to examine it from all sides, it was full of the spiky holes that only a little dog could inflict, and was more than a little soggy from having been used as a chew toy. A very expensive chew toy. A lump in Isabella’s throat expanded as she held the jacket at eye level.

  She collapsed on the bed. Tears surged and her face grew hot as she assessed the damage. A fist-sized, Swiss cheese hole lay dead center in the back panel of the ruined leather. One sleeve dangled by a thin scrap, but the other was fine, as if Taboo had lost interest and abandoned his complete obliteration.