“How do you like to lick it?”

Caitlyn Thomas raised an eyebrow before responding to the man’s question.

“I love to lick it up and down. Top to bottom. Tip to base.”

She licked her full, deeply tinted scarlet lips in emphasis. “Sometimes I like to start at the base and work up. It depends on how I feel.”

“And how do you feel today?”

The man’s question was casual but she had time to tease him with a hesitant answer. They were alone—for the moment.

“I feel like mouthing the whole thing in one deep swallow.” Caitlyn allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch as she watched the man fidget. She had no sympathy for him. These were not the kinds of questions she was used to answering so early in the day. “Of course there are moments when I like to swirl my tongue around the base, which has nothing, really, to do with the way I’m feeling.”

“You haven’t said anything about size and shape. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters! Who wants to waste their time on anything short and skinny? Thick and tall. That’s what I enjoy the most.”

“Well, it is the biggest seller.”

“You’ve done your research. I like a man who knows his business, who knows exactly how to please.”

“And what about hunger?”

A fair question, she thought, given his position. Caitlyn shifted her weight and leaned forward, giving her admirer a clear view of her ample cleavage. “Screw hunger. Sometimes it’s a matter of all out need.”

“So, I guess the heat’s really building.”

“I’ve been hotter. I like a slow build up before I go diving in for any immediate satisfaction. I like to draw out the experience.”

He stared at her for a moment, and Caitlyn knew he was trying to gauge the depth of the mystery of the woman in designer sunglasses and Hermes scarf covering her head. She would have thought a man in his position went for youngish, wasp-waisted blondes, not thirty-something redheads. Still you could never really read a man on the fine points.

“Now for the biggie, pretty lady. Vanilla or chocolate, and would that be dark, Caribbean-type chocolate or the lighter, mixed breed stuff?”

Caitlyn didn’t flinch as she dumped her reply on him. “You know what they say…once you go black, you never go back. It’s another trite expression, up there with ‘size matters.’” That should put a dent in his ego! She wished he’d get to the goddamned point. She didn’t have all day and this ménage a deux was becoming tiresome. Of course this time it wasn’t a matter of the customer asking the questions. Once more the man adjusted his stance.

“All right. One final question before we get down to business.”

“And that is….”

“Will that be one scoop or two?”

Cait heaved a bored sigh. The banter was over. Time to get back to reality. “Just one. And I’ll have the low-carb, sugar-free, fat-free, mango-soy ice.”

Jason Maguire drew his ice-cream scoop out of an imitation leather holster-style apron and murmured, “Riiight.” He flipped the scoop in the air where it somersaulted twice before he caught it by the handle. Then he did a fast hand-to-hand pass as if he were brandishing a switchblade. “Anything for charity.” Jason found the mango-soy ice in the dairy counter display and began to fill the woman’s cone.

“Hold it,” she interrupted. “I’ll have that in a cup, please.”

“Cost you extra.”

“Anything for charity,” she mimicked.

Jason tossed the cone in a nearby trash container and grabbed a plastic cup. Such was the price of being a celebrity. Jason Maguire, the popular voice of Drummond After Dark, a risqué radio show featuring songs with questionable lyrics, excerpts from erotic blogs, and the occasional low-key phone sex with a coached guest. Jason received mail, good and bad, from all over the continent. His show was carried on the Internet. He was called out to do the odd emcee duty for a local concert. This was what his scholarship to Juilliard had prepared him for.

Hardly.

Yet he didn’t want to ostracize his home community or bite the sponsored hands that fed him, so when the Roosevelt High School Alumni Committee contacted him to do some fund-raising for this year’s twentieth anniversary reunion, he couldn’t say no. So, in conjunction with the Dreamy-Creamy, “Get Dipped By A Celeb” was born. After all, it was good old Roosevelt that started him on his path to the world high-ratings and seedy voyeurism.

But until five minutes ago, he’d thought he’d had his hottest conversation on air. He handed the filled plastic cup to his mystery woman, the lithe redhead with her dark glasses and black and white patterned scarf covering her head, which matched a short-sleeved one-piece dress and Bolero-style jacket. The two colors made him think of the keys on his Steinway baby grand. She paid him and turned to leave the ice-cream shop, her black stiletto heels clicking across the tile as she headed out the door.

Her movements were like a song. Her hips swinging a silent rhythm in tune with his own primal desires. The staccato beat of her heels tapping in time with his heart. The graceful line of her bare legs leading up from her ankles, along the shapely calves, into the delicate arch of her rear knee; an enticing trio building upward along her thighs, then effectively curtained by the dress. Behind the curtain, the song continued. Jason imagined the magic behind that curtain. The sweet strains of her inner…

Chamber music. That’s what he’d studied at Juilliard. Not this late night talk show bullshit. Still, it paid the bills.

A tiny bell attached to the frame tinkled as the woman opened the door. Even that ordinary movement was orchestral. Classical. She was a classic woman, from the top of her silk head scarf to the tips of her polished toes in the black-patent high heel sandals. From the sultry way she spoke when he first baited her into the witty repartee of innuendo to the scent of her perfume still clinging to the money she handed him. Classic in every way. For a faint, heart stopping instant, she reminded him of…her.

Then she stopped in the doorway, turned and gave him a pouty half-smile. That was a smile from a woman ready to rock n’ roll!