"What?" she replied angrily. "You think I'm carrying or I'm wired? You don't fuckin' trust me?" "I don't fuckin' trust anybody," I replied, motionin... with my forty-five. "That's why I'm still alive. It pays not to trust anybody in this line of business. Especially the broads." "Fuck you, Micky," she hissed, anger flaring in her eyes. "Strip," I said. She did. Slowly and sensuously she unbuttoned her jacket. She placed it on the back of the chair. She turned and stood before me and she. His hands slid south over her belly, her mons and down the triangle of neat hair, her legs opened, to his amazement he was confronted with lips that he had only seen in a magazine behind the cycle shed. This one real, soft, wet, smelling of woman, a smell he knew he would always remember, his to feel, his to sniff, his to play with, lick, taste and love. She lay quivering, as he asked if he could “feel inside her body?” silently she nodded, his finger slid over the slick and slippery lips,. More

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