The stigma surrounding it hadn’t mattered to her in years. Her mother’s opinion that “Ladies of quality don’t” might have meant more if Darcy knew that the woman had enjoyed even a moment’s ecstasy in her fifty-six years. Doubtful, though, of a woman who rarely put down her Bible even to hug her only daughter.

Her black-Lycra-clad bartender watched, enthralled, as Darcy worked. Darcy closed her eyes and flicked her tongue across the moistened tip of the object of her affection. Its musky aroma anointed her nostrils. Sucking gingerly, she drew its flavors between her teeth, across her tongue. Her mouth formed a tight seal born of years spent perfecting this technique. As with the difference between fucking and making love, attention to technique was vital if satisfaction was to be hers. Couldn’t spend this one too quickly.

To hell with those who wrinkled their noses over her “filthy” habit. Health risks be damned, the warm presence between her lips felt too damn good to be given up. Besides, as vices went, there were far worse things available these days to a twenty-seven-year-old single female living in New York City. But unmatched was Darcy’s skill at her chosen distraction, and having to occasionally wash its evidence from her hair and clothing posed the smallest of sacrifices. On the contrary, some delicious dirtiness about that aspect of it not only thrilled, but also amused her…