“Do you think I am, “ she paused, smiling, and in mischief touched her teeth, “a carnivorous angler-fish?”
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“No way, Achsahlee,” the Captain said.
“Do you want to play then?”
“You call the shots, cap’n.”
“All right. I’m Ward Cleaver, and you, June.”
She invited his hand to stroke her slick teeth, and her lips held on to his fingers.
She squatted down, his fingers still between her lips. She looked up at him.
“You like it when I squat like this?”
His gaze met her eyes, blue and bottomless as a dream.
“That’s an air-brushed, porno-glamour squat. It’s beautiful.”
“With a torpedo like that, you should be in submarines!”
“I am,” he said with a left-leaning grin.
To which June said in a measured, luring voice: “How about this – the smooth, rocking rhythm, calves pressed to thighs, you holding me by the hair?”
Her never-tiring, seducing eyes were looking up at him. She smiled. The tip of her hide-and-seek, ill-disciplined and almost prehensile tongue licked her lips.
“Dazzling. You’re quite like June,” he said, smiling. “Enthralling.”
“You’re quite like Ward, eloquent even when you’re downright carnal.”
She swept her hair back and served him faithfully and shamelessly.