Jennifer stepped out of the dressing room and turned to face me. She tugged against the hem of the dress and wiggled her hips from side to side. For giving birth to two children and living on a planet where gravity worked against them, her boobs looked great.

The little black dress she wore was just that, little. Her breasts heaved out of the plunging neckline, leaving nothing but her nipples to the imagination. In fact, the areola of her left breast was one breath away from bursting from its confines.

“Well?” she asked.

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Tell me why you think you need this?”

She turned a quarter of the way around and gave me a side-eyed look. “Because it’s sexy.”

“And, you need a sexy dress…why?”

She shrugged. “Because I want one.”

“You have some.”

“I don’t have any like this.”

I glanced over each shoulder, and then looked at her. “You’re hanging out of both ends of it,” I whispered.

She looked down her nose at me. “It fits perfectly.”

When she tugged at the hem, her boobs all but fell out. When she adjusted the neckline, her ass cheeks were exposed. The miniscule piece of black fabric was clearly meant to be worn by someone much younger – and much more promiscuous – than my fifty-year-old neighbor.

“You don’t need one like that.”

She looked in the full-length mirror and grinned. “I think I do.”

I let out a sigh. “What’s going on?”

She adjusted the shoulders, and then looked at the reflection of her exposed butt cheek.

“Nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

She faced me. For being fifty, she looked damned good, I had to give her that. Wearing that dress, however, she looked like an overzealous short, blonde, tan, prostitute with oversized boobs.

“Have you got another Match dot com date?” I asked.

“I told you, I’m done with that.” She exhaled, allowing most of her exposed breast flesh to settle behind the skin-tight black fabric. “I want a well-hung biker to come over and give me some dick.”

“Go stand in the street wearing that, and you’ll have the entire block trying to give you some dick,” I said with a laugh. “Is that what you’re after?”

She glanced in the mirror. “That’s what I want, yeah. But, not from just anyone. From a biker.”

Her relationship with Frank was an on again-off again affair that had spanned over a decade. They couldn’t get along for more than ten minutes but couldn’t go six months without fucking one another. The five months and thirty days of inactivity that separated their sexual sessions were difficult for her.

She needed to meet someone else, no doubt. She didn’t need to use the postage stamp sized dress to do so.

I looked her over for amusement’s sake, and then shook my head lightly. “What is the deal with this sudden fascination with bikers? You’ve been watching that ridiculous show, and now you’re obsessed with them. You’ve spent four years bitching about the guy down the street. What changed?”

“I met one face to face,” she said. “He looks like trouble, walks like he fears no one, and smells like pure adrenaline. What’s not to like?”

I couldn’t agree with her more, but I wasn’t about to agree with her out loud.

“He’s okay,” I said. “But that doesn’t explain the dress.”

“Biker like skimpy dresses, so I want to have one.” She sucked in a deep breath, caused her breasts to heave, and stole a look in the mirror. “Just in case.”

“I think the dress is too much. Too little, I mean. There’s not a time or a place that you can put it to good use.”

“I’ll wear it the next time he comes over.”

I couldn’t believe she said it out loud. Thinking about it was one thing, but saying it was another. If there wasn’t a girl code to address wearing undersized clothing in front of a woman’s sexual interest, there should be.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I wrinkled my nose at the thought. “It’s just some weird fascination you have. It’ll pass, no differently than the surfers you lusted after, and the businessmen that were before them.”

“No, this one’s going to last.”

I glared. “Since when?”

“Since I met Dolla Bill,” she said with a laugh. “Watching him walk gives me hot flashes.”

“It’s not him, it’s menopause.”

She gave me the stink eye. “It’s not menopause. He’s mysterious, and it makes me sweat.”

“He’s far from mysterious. He puts it all out there. There’s not much left to the imagination.”

“I was imagining being force-fucked by him last night,” she cooed. “Under the car port, of all places.”

I gave her a look. Enough was enough, and it was time I put my foot down.

I cleared my throat. “He’s off limits.”

“Settle down.” She glanced at the mirror, and then tugged against the hem of the dress. “I’m not even sure if it was him. It was a pretty weird dream, and it was hard to tell. Everything he was wearing made it seem like him, but he was faceless. I never got a good look at him.”

“So, it wasn’t him?”

“Hard to say. I don’t think so.”

“What’s it mean to be ‘force-fucked’?” I asked.

She took another admiring glance at her reflection. “Being fucked really hard.”

I was puzzled. “There’s a name for it? I thought that’s what adults did when they had sex.”

“No, really hard,” she said. “He was stuffing me so full of dick that we pushed his motorcycle from the carport to the fence. I was grabbing for something to hold on to, and he was fucking me so hard I couldn’t keep my footing. I’m not sure, but I think my feet were coming off the ground. Then, when the motorcycle tipped over, he didn’t even stop. Just smashed my face up against the fence and kept pounding away. Gas and oil were pouring out of it like mad.”

I chuckled a laugh. “A biker would stop and pick up his motorcycle. He’d never keep fucking after his bike tipped over. That’s how you know it was a bullshit dream.”

“Yeah. That, and it was raining. It never rains here.”

“Rain? You were doing it in the rain?”

She nodded. “Purple raindrops. I woke up drenched.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

She turned toward the dressing room. “I need to know if Dolla Bill has friends.”

“He’s got friends,” I said. “They ride up and down the block once a week.”

She pulled the door closed behind her. “I need to know if he’s got friends that are willing to force-fuck me under the carport.”

“I have no idea,” I said under my breath.

I didn’t want whatever I had with Cash to turn into nothing more than a fuck-fest. Having Jennifer offer no-holds-barred sex to his friends would do nothing but complicate matters. He’d undoubtedly expect the same from me.

I had no intention of being that girl.

He and his biker brethren would look at us as if we were nothing more than the whores who lived down the street. I wanted more than that from any man who was actively participating in my life.

Much more.

I simply didn’t know if he was willing to give more. If he wasn’t, I’d enjoy his company when he was willing to give it. I wouldn’t, however, agree to sex under the carport while purple rain fell from the sky unless he’d expressed a different level of interest in me.

So far, he hadn’t done anything wrong, but his level of sincerity was currently in question.

Jennifer came out of the dressing room with the dress draped over her shoulder. “What do you think?”

“About the dress?”

“I’m getting the dress,” she said. “I meant about seeing if he has any willing friends.”

He may have had friends who would fuck Jennifer until she limped when she walked, but I wasn’t willing to find out. At least not yet. Cash had my undivided attention, but until he took a few steps in my direction, I wasn’t going to have sex with him, nor was I going to do anything to lead him to believe women like me – or my neighbor – were easy prey.

“When he comes by the next time – if there’s a next time – I’ll see what he says.”

She shouldered her purse and gave me a look. “If? I thought you sucked his dick until he went blind?”

“I did.”

“Bikers like blowjobs more than barbeque, beer, or billiards.” She walked past me. “You swallowed, right?”

“Sure did.”

“There’ll be a next time,” she said over her shoulder.

I clutched my purse and followed her down the hallway. “Barbeque, beer, and billiards? Did you learn that on Netflix?”

“No, I’m done with that series. I’ve seen them all, twice. I’m on to reading biker books now.”

“Biker books?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Biker romance novels.”

“There’s biker romance novels?”

“Thousands of them,” she said.

“I’m sure they’re accurate,” I said in a sarcastic tone.

“As long as they keep bringing on dreams like the one I had last night, who cares?”

I followed her to the register without saying another word. I had my doubts that biker romance novels would be accurate, but I had further doubts I’d be able to go the next twenty-four hours without at least taking a look at one.