When the call eventually ended, Sally had looked over at Amy with a cocked eyebrow.
“Shall I just let the two of you plan the rest of my life?” she had asked.
“Babe, with all that money, you can open your own graphic design company just like you want!”
That was true. And, Sally had considered, it would also provide a nice financial cushion for her and Amy to start their married life with.
And Max had been right. The initial meeting with the Netflix people had been a breeze. It had taken place in Bel Air over lunch in a posh hotel’s café and was, basically, just three executives—all women; all gay—treating Sally like she was a star athlete they were trying to recruit for their NCAA basketball team.
Once that was done, Max’s lawyer, Nora, handled all the negotiations—ostensibly on behalf of Sally—and a deal was eventually struck. And suddenly, Sally and Amy had helicopter money.
Now, today, Sally and Amy were due at Max’s place in Malibu—purchased with his Netflix money—in order to watch the premier of the first episode of the new show. They were then going to spend the weekend up there.
But first…
Sally arched her back as she came undone again, her pussy a chaotic orgy of pleasure.
“God, BABY!” she called out, the last coherent words she was able to speak during the entirety of the climax because after that it was just grunts, moans and high-pitched squeals.
This was all her fault, she realized as she flattened her back onto the mattress once the tidal wave passed. She had wanted to dress today with a bit of edgy sexiness and so had chosen a black lace bodysuit that was going to be paired with artfully torn skinny jeans and a black fitted blazer. But once Amy had gotten a look at her in the bodysuit, before she’d had a chance to put on her jeans, it was game over. Amy had pushed her back onto the bed, opened her legs, unsnapped the crotch of the bodysuit and proceeded to turn Sally into a molten puddle of womanliness.
“Now, we can leave,” Amy declared, getting up.
***
“Four shots of espresso?” the pretty barista asked when Sally and Amy stopped for coffee in Malibu before driving the rest of the way to Max’s place. Because Amy had delayed their departure from Carlsbad by eating her out twice—not that she was complaining—Sally had insisted that they hit the road without stopping at La Vida Mocha
for a cup of Amy’s Jet Fuel. But once in the Malibu city limits, Amy had complained of withdrawal symptoms and begged Sally to stop.
“Yes, please,” Amy told the barista. “And make it really hot, too.”
The barista, her mouth open in apparent disbelief, shook her head and rang up the order.
“Coffee with four shots, Troy!” she called out to the guy working the machines.
Troy looked up from what he was doing.
“Four?”
Sally had to laugh. But with her drink in hand a few moments later, Amy seemed perfectly content and they completed the trek to Max’s house, which was only another five minutes away.
“Hiiiiii!” Tiffany greeted, opening the door of the beach house and hugging both Sally and Amy.
Sally had to marvel at this turn of events. When she had first pestered Max about calling Tiffany, she figured one or two dates, tops—if he even called. Now, Tiffany was a fixture in his life and had her own left hand hardware to prove it.
“Max!” Amy called out as soon as they entered the house. “You’d better have my special drink ready! It was a long drive!”
Max appeared from somewhere—Sally still hadn’t quite mapped out in her head the layout of this new place of his. She seemed to remember, though, that the bar was somewhere in that general direction. He was carrying two margarita glasses of Amy’s special drink, which he still hadn’t given up the recipe for and which Sally now drank as well.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, handing the cocktails to his guests. “By the way, what took you so long?”
“She refused to call a helicopter,” Amy stated.
Sally laughed.
“Oh my god, you two!”
Max stared at her.