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performance, so no, she wouldn’t let herself come. She was sure Bette Noir hadn’t lost her discipline when she scored that skanky musician. Now it was her chance to shine, and she wasn’t going to lose her game.
    Violet turned her back to Ryan and retrieved the shaving cream with an exaggerated bend so he could get a full view of her ass.
    “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re perfect,” he said.
    That was it—she couldn’t resist. She had Ryan Ellison as a captive audience staring at her ass. When would she get an opportunity like this again? She hadn’t had a good orgasm in weeks. What would Bette do? Ah, fuck it.
    Her back still to him, she set the shaving cream aside, propped one leg up on the table, and eased her index finger inside herself. She had barely gotten three strokes in when he came up behind her and put his own hand on top of hers.
    “What are you doing? No, no, no,” she said, turning around and guiding him back to the couch. God, you’d expect more from an A-list movie star. But in the end he was just a guy, like every other guy. But it was her own fault—she was putting her pussy before professionalism. “Just watch.”
    He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it and smiled at her. The last time she had seen that particular version of his smile it had been directed at Reese Witherspoon.
    Yes, she would come tonight.
    She retrieved the shaving cream and the razor, turned back to face Ryan, and lathered up her pussy. After one sharp stroke, she languidly reached over and dipped the lathery blade in the bucket of water. The key to this act was really taking her time, almost making the razor against flesh a dance in itself.
    But she wouldn’t have that kind of time tonight, because Ryan was already off the couch again.
    “What did I tell you?” she scolded, but she couldn’t help but smile. He took the razor from her hand and knelt down. She was about to say no, but decided to simply go with it.
    Ryan pressed his left hand against her, making sure her skin was taut enough for him to slide the razor without nicking her. His movements were slow, cautious, but deliberate and confident. She closed her eyes, trying to allow herself to give up control, if only for a few minutes. It was impossible.
    “Sit,” she said, taking the razor from him. He leaned back on his heels, and she resumed her methodical stroking of the razor against her pussy. He watched her with rapt attention. When she was bare, she reached back, dipped the washcloth into the water, and then handed it to him. He took it and, on his knees, reverently wiped the last specs of shaving cream away.
    She sat down, setting her bare ass on the cool glass table. He pushed her legs apart and dipped his face to her pussy, licking her in strokes almost identical to those of the razor just moments earlier. She looked down at his shiny dark hair and let herself run her fingers through it. He was beautiful, no doubt. And she couldn’t wait to see his cock.
    He pressed his tongue against her clit, and she groaned, arching back against the wall. She put one heel up on the table, opening herself to him more fully. If he stuck his finger in me now, I would come, she thought—but of course he would not know that about her. That was the trouble with sleeping with random men—they rarely knew the right buttons to push. With women, you had a better chance of them intuiting what to do right off the bat.
    She thought of her Lola Lola, imagined her tongue inside of her. But no, not tonight. Ryan Ellison was lapping at her pussy, and she was not going to waste it.
    She cupped her hand under his jaw, tilting his face up. He stood, and she ran her hand over his erection straining against his jeans. She liked what she felt. Ryan undid his fly and pulled his pants over his hips. She slipped her hand inside the flap of his plain white boxers, her fingers circling around his thick cock. He pulled the boxers down and smiled at her. She knelt, closed her