Page 64 of Misadventures of a Biker

Flick, flick, suck.

Flick, flick, suck.

The man was focused. His determination was undeniable. I shook like a silenced cell phone as he continued to tongue his way into my heart.

My body tensed. I pawed at the cold marble surface. Nearly frantic, I reached for his head. After receiving no opposition, I began fucking his mouth. He responded by sucking my clit like a man who’d received formal training on the subject.

Seconds later, a paralyzing orgasm rendered me incapable of doing anything but mindlessly staring at the ceiling while I climaxed all over his freshly shaven face.

A hint of Devin’s cologne, fresh garlic, and the aroma of sex melded together. The combined scents, the earth-shattering orgasm, and my eager anticipation of the night’s future events turned my brain to mush.

He kissed my inner thighs and then stood.

I tilted my head to the side.

Wearing a smirk, he met my glassy-eyed gaze. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “You ready to go?”

He’d sucked me stupid. I doubted I could remember how to walk, let alone drive. Nevertheless, forfeiting my plans for the night wasn’t an option.

“If you’re ready to carry me,” I said, “I’m ready to go.”

* * *

We took our assigned seats in the front of the theater, three rows from the screen. Devin surveyed the handful of empty seats behind us and then looked at me.

“Why the fuck are we sitting way up here?” he whispered. “There are a few seats back there.”

“When I looked online, it showed all those as sold.”

“Rich bastards in this town buy all these seats and then never show up,” he complained. “I swear.”

“These seats will be fine,” I whispered.

We sat side by side in the center of the aisle. The three narrow rows of seats were three steps down the stairway from the much wider rows behind us. Segregated from the rest of the moviegoers at a movie that was beginning to lose its lure, we had our own private section, of sorts.

Following the previews, the movie began. A few scenes into the show, a foul-mouthed British man was racing against many other similar cars on a racetrack that appeared to be in the desert. Everyone in attendance, including Devin, had their eyes glued to the screen. My interest wasn’t in the movie, nor would it be.

I tapped my finger against Devin’s thigh.

He glanced at me. His eyes quickly shot back to the racing scene. “What?” he asked over the sound of the speeding cars.

“Take off your pants,” I said. “And your boxers.”

He gave me a look. “What the fuck for?”

“Sex on demand,” I replied, trying not to smile.

His eyes darted to the massive screen. He chuckled.

“I’m serious,” I said. “You lost the bet. I’m demanding it.”

He glanced behind him. “There’s a hundred people back there.” He looked at me. “A hundred people with an average age of seventy.”

“On demand,” I said, wagging my finger toward his crotch. “Take ’em off.”

He studied me for a long moment before complying with my request. He mumbled protests under his breath as he removed each article of clothing.

Uncertain if his complaining was driven by a reluctance to perform in front of a theater full of elderly onlookers or the fact that he was going to miss a good part of the movie, I offered a less than heartfelt apology.