Santa Monica and Ocean has to be the slowest damn light in LA County. My Mustang’s been in the right lane for, like, ten minutes, when her shiny red ‘67 ‘Vette roars up beside me. Can’t help but check her out, right?
Long gray hair snaps in the wind as she brakes. Over-sized shades hide her eyes. Her lipstick and her bikini exactly match her car. If she’s got wrinkles (seems she must, with that hair), I can’t see ‘em. Some seventies movie star, maybe? Gorgeous, anyway.
She flashes a naughty smile. My jeans are instantly tight. One pull behind her neck and her swimsuit tumbles, revealing an awesome set of tits. Not firm as Anna’s, but when she cups them, pinching the fat, coffee-colored tips, I almost come in my pants.
A hand disappears into her lap. Now she’s sucking her fingers. Holy crap! She points left, yells. I can’t hear over our engines but I get the gist.
Green light. She waves, then peels away south on Ocean Ave. I turn my pony north, cock aching as I speed along the beach. First chance I get, I hang a uey.
No way I’m letting this one get away.