There she is, pure honeyed gold, bang on cue. Third window from the left. First floor balcony. Light spills past her silhouette, a halo projected into the freezing night air, breath frosting ahead of her like the smoke I blow out through the crack of the Lincoln's window.
She stares out over the city, all platinum blonde perfection. Searchin’ for something but I'm fucked if I know what. Hopes and dreams, maybe? An end to the fake glitz of this godforsaken place that shatters them? P’raps she's lookin’ for that scrawny, deadbeat husband who hired me to find who she’s cheating with.
He’s a weasel. A banker, which in these times is no different from being a crook. He sure as hell don't deserve her. She's outta his league. Maybe that's why she strays? All he provides is greenbacks to keep her in the manner to which she's accustomed. Probably got no fizz in the bedroom. No stamina.
Anyone but him can see she's the kind of broad who needs a firm hand. The strong ones always do. A little restraint, a little danger, a little blush to their skin makes ‘em drip. The ones that look like angels are devils inside. Trust me.
With Francesca Heaton, the enticement is her halo, but the real crown is her smarts. Yeah, I did my homework. Where her peers might be content as housewives, she's only happy makin’ waves. Showing men how to do things proper. Fundraising for the local orphanage. Or the hospital. Or museum. Charming rich assholes outta cash for good causes is what she does best. She lets 'em take credit of course, while pulling the strings and taking her cut. Usin' the banker’s money and her connections to grease wheels.
I dunno how she does it, but she gets results. Dinners. Galas. Clandestine meetings in hotel suites to seal deals. I can see why he became suspicious. Truth is, she could be bangin’ any of ‘em. Or all of ‘em. But I doubt it. It would cheapen her methods, and she sure ain't cheap.
How she makes ‘em pony up don't really matter. I get paid regardless. And watching her’s a dream job, 'specially in that fluffy robe. The way the street light catches her curves defies description. My breath hitches when she leans over the balcony and her gown gapes. The belt swings free and she gazes first to the street, then into the distance. Contemplates. Stands and lets the garment fall to pool at her feet.
My god that lingerie is incredible. Hugs every sweeping arc. Dark, luxurious lace, tits barely contained in the generous cups. A scrap of panty material leads the eye to where she wants it.
Sweeping pizza crumbs off the passenger seat, I fumble for the camera. Zoom in, full telephoto. Frame her. Snap. When she turns to profile, I capture her faraway gaze, petite nose, and sumptuous lips that deliver promises her body can cash.
I wonder if I'll be treated to a striptease this time. Last week she remained clothed. A few days before that, she unhooked her bra and paraded the bedroom, swinging, enticing. Her tits are soft and supple, the firming caps inviting bites. I photographed them. Not for him. For me. Perk of the job.
Disappearing from the window, she returns holding a champagne flute. Sips from the edge, elegance incarnate. Places it on the glass topped coffee table just below the balcony railing and sways to a beat I can't hear. Hands skim the fluid grace of her sides and I harden as she reaches behind and frees the clasp.
The delicate brassiere falls away from her shoulders and I swear she hears my gasp, castin' a gaze down to my parked car. It don't deter her. She traces liquid curves to cup the fullness of her breasts. Squeezes, the flesh deforming, and her mouth opens. A whimper carries on the slight breeze to the car window when she pinches her nipples.
It's dark. Just one street light opposite. I could free my dick and beat off to the vision, but I don't. I watch and swell in my pants as she tugs at her flesh. Teases. A slender fingertip and thumb capture both firm tips and elongate them. The heat of the pain registers, mouth dropping open further, a gasp escaping that turns to a hiss.
When she releases the grip on her nipples, the hiss becomes a sigh, tempered by massaging those exquisite orbs. I'm surprised steam don't escape her panties into the frigid air.
The moment is interrupted by the bang of a nearby doorway, muffled jazz spilling into the street as two men exit, trilbies pulled low, suits pristine. They pause to finish cigarettes, animated conversation in full flow. Neither look up to witness Francesca playing with her tits. She carries on, carefree, cupping and squeezing and flicking and pinching, the only change being the bitten lip to stifle her moans.
I hunker down in my seat when business concludes. Spent butts are tossed to the sidewalk and ground with polished heels. The men depart in opposite directions, the one that passes my window barely acknowledging my presence.
When their footsteps fade, I take a final drag, wind down the window and flick my own cigarette to spark, roll and come to rest in the gutter. Smoke curls from my nostrils as I gaze up through the windshield. She's holdin' the handrail with one hand. The other is open. Poised above her chest.
Even though I know what's about to happen, the spank and sharp cry makes me blink and flinch in my seat like I've been shot. She scrunches her body and twists as the pain and heat roll through it, only uncoiling when her massaging palm soothes the sting.