Page 11 of Service Included

He groaned from deep in his chest, a rumble like an engine straining in low gear, and dropped his hands to my waist so he could yank me hard against his face. I luxuriated in the way his afternoon stubble scraped my curves, but then he soothed the abrasions with his silky mustache and wet tongue. Winding my fingers deep into his hair, I pulled him so close, his nose dented my flesh, and he breathed from my skin. I moved his head to scuff his cheek against me, needing more of that abrasion to counter the softness of his lips. When this ended, I wanted visible proof that he and I had been here in this moment.

His hands clasped my hip bones. Then I felt his thumbs stroke up the creases from deep between my inner thighs and arc out toward my hips. I could feel every pressure point, every connection, and what I wanted was to drape myself all over him. Then my fireman—I never did learn his name—became unexpectedly creative and produced a radio. It was nothing but a black box with a stubby antenna, not a metal whip-stick like cars have, but a rubber-coated probe about six inches long that wiggled back and forth when it bumped something solid. You can imagine what that could be used for, can’t you? It was thinner than a you-know-what, completely unintimidating, and his mouth and mustache were all over my skin, so I didn’t think about it the first time he ran the antenna along the center seam of my jeans. But then—then—holy cow, he rubbed it back and forth right next to the stitching that covered my little button, pressing hard through the layers of fabric. Suddenly, my knees were as liquid as the rest of me. I could barely stand.

At least rescue was here. He settled me sideways on his thigh, with one of his hands supporting my back to lift my breasts closer to that soft lip shag. His other hand stayed between my legs, stroking through the denim and making me want to touch him just as intimately. I wanted to give as much as I received, so I twisted on his lap, but his uniform blocked my quest. Sliding the suspenders off his shoulders was easy, and I tore through those shirt buttons faster than a Corvette. His white T-shirt shifted across his chest as my fingers kneaded through the cotton, echoing how he pushed his own big fingers against my jeans. I found the pips of his nipples under the much-washed fabric, but we weren’t close enough yet. I hadn’t reached his skin.

When I thumbed open the snap at his waist, I discovered that underneath, he wore a pair of regular dark blue pants. It’s possible I muttered a profanity upon encountering another barrier between my hands and his body. No more nice girl fumbling around; I braced on the floor, yanked all those shirts out of his waistband, and shoved the top layer off his shoulders and down his arms, while he twisted free. Then it was the undershirt. Struggling against the fabric that separated us, I wanted those clothes off him, but I also wanted to stop and touch him, an impulse that hindered me from reaching my goal.

The dressing room was loud with our breathing. Maybe we should have worried about someone coming in and catching us, but at last, his chest was bare. His curly hair, a lush trail swirling down across his stomach and gathering like a concert crowd at the top of his pants, drew my palms all over his body. The contrast of that wall of muscle covered with that springy hair is what makes everything between a man and a woman so delicious. Skin to skin, finally, I circled my swinging breasts around and against his chest. I swear I could feel every single bit of the hair furring his tight-packed muscles.

The only barriers between us now were our pants. Clearly, his cock didn’t want to be confined, because when my hands dropped to his waist, his grunt urged me to go faster. He was sucking my breasts, pulling and licking and nipping and so much sucking, so much rubbing. A man’s hands are big and can claim a woman’s territory, but my hands are small and took too long to open his inner fly. When I finally reached my goal, he was as hard as an axe handle. His cock strained to escape both pairs of pants, showing me more length than my hand could cover. Like my engorged tits, his tip was swollen and fiercely blushing. When I stroked him, drops from the end leaked on my palm, matching the liquid I could feel between my own legs. I used my thumb to spread it, and each time I crossed over the hole on his sensitive tip, he hummed into my breasts.

I’ve always loved the shape of a cock in my hand. The way the skin slides up and down separately from the swollen flesh inside the package. The way small movements make a hard man humble. I stroked his cock, driving myself as much as him, until he gripped my knees and repositioned me straddling one of his thighs. I don’t think I could have spread myself across both his legs, not with my jeans already strained at the seams, but I rode that one thigh while he controlled my hips, moving my pussy up and down his tensed muscle, setting our tempo. I heard myself moan like he did. We were falling deeper into the rhythm, both of us. Every time I slid my fist up and down his cock, his mouth suckled and swirled my nipple. The harder he pulled at me, the tighter I closed my fist and dragged on him. Harder suckle, and a tighter squeeze, our pattern was that simple.

It was all too much, but at the same time, not enough. I was circling close, but not getting where I wanted to go. I must have gasped out my need, because then he lifted me to my feet and tackled my jeans. I’ve always been more Tanya Roberts curves than Michelle Pfeiffer skinny, but at least it wasn’t a jaws-of-lifejob to get that denim over my ass. I wiggled, and he peeled, and then I was naked, even the damp scrap of my panties dropped with the jeans until I stood nude in front of him. His hand cupped my pussy, and he looked up at my face with his flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked, making my heart jump in my chest because it had been so long since we’d spoken.

Looking down in the gap between his forearms, I saw his cock standing full against his bare stomach. Beads of cum dotted the curling hair. The only word I could say wasmore.

He slicked one of those big fingers along my opening, slipping right over the wet button.

“Want this?” His voice made me think of drizzled chocolate sauce, liquid and flowing and so full of sweetness that it could make all your clothes too tight from nothing but listening.

I grabbed his shoulders and pushed my hips toward the finger-fuck.

“Or do you want a bigger ride?” He thrust his hips, and that cock rose off his stomach into the air, slick and ready. When he looked into my eyes, I knew it would be the ride of my life.

He hadn’t mentioned the third choice, me sucking him down my throat. That was a mighty temptation too, and the fact that he was so focused on what I wanted that he hadn’t even suggested it made me hunger for him. There I was, facing a dilemma. Standing in front of my fireman while he asked what I wanted, I didn’t know what to choose: drop to my knees and worship the fireman’s pole, straddle him like a stallion, or let his fingers find my treasure? Could I have it all? I wish I’d had someone to ask for advice.

What doyouthink I should have chosen?

Signed, Barbra in Chicago

Looking at several blanklines after that final question, Megan felt disbelief inflate her lungs and press her ribs higher in her chest.

“Readers,” a large typeface below the gap of white space announced, “return this postcard to receive the ending of your choice! Apply the sticker that represents your preferred ending, andHot Shortzwill send you a free personal copy of the rest of Barbra’s letter. Absolutely free and customized for you!”

Fucking exclamation points.

“No postage necessary if mailed in the United States.”

Her underwear felt nearly as sticky as Barbra in Chicago’s while she flipped pages searching for the rest of the story. Nothing, nothing, nothing, fuck that. She returned to the stupid postcard.

“Apply the sticker that represents your preferred ending.” At the top of the white cardstock insert, three reflective silver stickers—she tilted the magazine andof coursethey were holograms—showed images of a rearing horse, a hand with a pointing finger, and—it took her a moment to process that the third design, a spiral-decorated circular shape with a stick at the bottom, was a lollipop. A fucking lollipop.

Stickers were for preschool, not for adulting. Sending in a hologram lollipop to get a brief ending about a blowjob might have been brilliant marketing in an era of delayed gratification, but this wasn’t the 1980s, wasn’t even the twentieth century. Pick-the-ending stories had seemed clever when she was nine, but she was thirty-five and busy. Besides, the internet meant nobody had to wait for anything, certainly not smut.Shewasn’t going to wait. She reached into the box to grab another magazine.

Two strong raps on the door that connected the garage to the house froze her with her hand buried wrist-deep in slick paper.

“Megan?”

Chapter 4

Not a girl wizard's outfit

“Megan?” Nico repeated. “Areyou in there?” Clearly, her personal choose-your-own-romance sticker featured a man with a truck.

“Just a sec.” She yanked her hand out of the box and slammed the lid into place. “Come on in.” Her breathing and her pulse both felt too fast for a woman who had merely been leaning on a tool bench, but at least her voice sounded composed, not like a woman left nearly undone by a fictional fireman.

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