Just the Sex: Erotica Shorts Read online

  Oh, and that arousal. Hard and hot, a brand against my leg, my body twisting underneath his hands in order to put that arousal where it belongs, tight against my sex, the thin material of my shorts doing nothing but increasing the pleasure when I involuntarily ground against him.

  He swears, his hand forcing my head to straighten, his mouth hesitating over mine.

  I need it, I need his lips on mine, need his passion for me, I need that hard cock in more places than against the silk of my shorts. I want his fire and energy inside of me, I need confirmation that I am still woman and I am still desired. I grind again, one small movement that confirms the size of his need. He groans, his hand gripping my ass tighter, pulling me against his cock as he thrusts against me.

  His mouth makes the final move and closes the distance, his mouth drinking of me in an agonized, desperate fashion.

  My heart beats erratically, pumping blood in wild fashion to all of the organs that are crying out. My clit is demanding an enormous amount, my core so wet, so aroused, so needy for more stimulation. My brain is screaming, a loud, unintelligible sound that wants to know WHATTHEFUCK is going on. Then he pushes off of me, one hand moving slower than the other, his bottom hand delayed in its release of my skin.

  We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a woman possessed – my hair wild from his hand, my lip gloss smeared, eyes needy, mouth panting. He is staring at me as if he is terrified of me, his hands gripping the granite of the counter’s edge, his chest heaving. He suddenly moves, holding up his hands and moving slowly away. “Just…Christ! Just stop asking questions. Please.” He moves away, a door slamming a moment later as he moves to his part of the house.

  I worked at the Crystal Palace a total of three years, three months, and twenty-one days. My empty days give me time to calculate useless statistics like that. You’d think that that length of time, spent before men, gauging their level of arousal, would have taught me something. Would have taught me the difference between harmless flirting and a danger zone. Would have given me enough life experience to steer me in a direction other than the one I am in right now, which definitely feels like danger.

  My hands are shaking. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my eyes noticing the spilt water. I took a deep drink, waiting for my heart to calm, my hands to still, my shakes to pass. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen. I need to take a shower, to lie down, take a nap. I stumble away from the counter, grabbing my tee-shirt, putting foot ahead of foot in a quest for normalcy. Out the door, into the guest house. Two steps inside the bedroom, I feel his hand grab my wrist, yank me around in one clean moment, and bend his mouth back to mine.

  There is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.

  My confused state is gaining intelligence as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bells in my mind. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.

  His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he has wanted, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft, and he closes his eyes and pulls off of my body.

  “Wait. Take off your skirt.”

  I do, shimmying the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully up, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.

  “I know what you like,” he grounds out, teasing my opening with his stiffness. “I’ve watched you fuck so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he fucks you?” He thrust fully inside, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his cock dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.

  “Do you? Do you like his cock?”

  I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth takes my nipple in, sucking it, his green eyes on me, his teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid his eyes, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his cock beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.

  “I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night. I picture your perfect mouth, sucking my cock. I think about you just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”

  I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off of his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me, has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fucks. Fast, hurried fucks, as if he is worried that I will disappear and he needs to get his fill of me first.

  He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide, there are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me, he cares. He is a living breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.

  He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.

  yearning.

  his mouth on my most private place.

  ravenous need.

  The sound of the door wakes me, the slide of glass against rubber disrupting the silence enough to cause my eyes to open. I lie still, trying to decipher what has awoken me. The room is dim, never fully dark, the many windows allowing moonlight to filter through the curtains. Then the door clicks into place, and I stiffen.

  I hear the gentle slap of bare feet, and then there is weight on the bed, the mattress adjusting as a figure moves across it. There is a tug on my blankets, a breeze as the fabric is lifted from my skin. Then warmth.

  He moves against my back, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me tightly. My body slides easily across the fine sheets, ‘til I am solid against his. His skin is so warm, his body so hard, his arm gripping me tightly, a hold that wraps me in a cocoon. I feel the scratch of stubble against my neck, and he burrows his face into my hair. “I’m sorry.”

  His whispered voice is so thick, so full of emotion and need. It matches the need in my heart. I need this so bad. I need to be held, be protected, be embraced. He nuzzles the skin on my neck, placing a soft kiss there before continuing. “I just … I couldn’t go to sleep without touching you.”

  I arch against him, sliding my legs in between his, fitting my body even tighter into the curves of his. He reacts, his hands traveling, turning, and gripping me until there is not a single place on our bodies that is unconnected. There is nothing for me to say—no words for what is a terrible idea. Words will only ruin this moment. Words mean thought, and I can’t think about what we are doing. I know what I need. I know what I want. And right now, in this one quiet moment,
I want to be selfish.

  I roll, his hands sliding and tugging to keep me close. I look into his eyes, seeing a desperation in them that matches my own. Then his eyes drop to my mouth, and I am lost. He carries such a hunger for me, his desire typically locked behind a stern, rigid exterior. But here, in the privacy of my bedroom, with Nathan’s room only three or four walls away he releases it; a storm of want, his passion breathtaking in its simplicity. He follows his line of sight, lowering his mouth to mine, his hands pulling my waist to him, a strong leg wrapping around me and drawing me close.

  Kissing him is so different than Nathan. Nathan and I have emotional expression in our kisses, our lips able to communicate in ways that we will never be able to verbally. Drew’s kiss is so different. His eyes, his mouth, his touch, his words—they tell me everything I need to know. His kiss is more of a sexual fuel, taking this sweet, needy moment and pouring the kerosene of passion onto it. It starts off slow, the need of us both flickering in our half-asleep states. But it continues, his hands moving quicker, pulling me upright, yanking at the silk of my camisole until it is over my head and I am half naked before him. He moves to his knees, our kisses frantic, our hands twisting into each other’s hair, tugging and pulling. Then I am pushed back and I feel the slide of silk against skin as my boy shorts take the long journey down my legs and off my body.

  He kneels on the bed between my legs, my body naked before him. He pulls up my legs, placing my feet on his bare chest, his hands running softly along my legs, a look of drugged arousal heavy in his eyes. And there before me, lit by the moonlight, I can’t help but compare them.

  He is rugged where Nathan is finely cut, scruffy where Nathan is smooth. They have the same messy hair—hair that is short enough to be professional but long enough to grip in my hand and pull. His chest is covered in a thin layer of dark hair where Nathan’s is smooth, his abs thicker where Nathan’s are thinner, his build stronger, evidencing his strength.

  I love the look of my feet on his chest; I love the contrast of my lighter skin against his darker, delicate feet against masculine strength. He leans slightly forward, digging my feet into his pectoral muscles and his hands slide down the inside of my legs, pressing gently out as he moves, my feet sliding off his chest, my breath hitching as my legs fully open, and I am spread eagle before him. His hand gently touches the silken hair that is my core.

  “Drew, I …” I stop talking, his fingers sliding along my wet slit, his eyes on mine. Then he lowers his head, moving his hands to my thighs, and his eyes are on nothing but me. My face burns, and I prop myself up, about to protest, my mouth forming the words. Then I see him and stop, my mouth dropping open slightly, the view so carnal I almost moan.

  He is examining me, his fingers sliding down my thighs and massaging the skin on either side of my pussy, opening and closing the lips, his warm breath tickling the skin, making every movement of my skin tickle in the most tantalizing way.

  He glances up, his eyes black with need. “God, I needed this,” he groans, lowering his hot mouth onto me, my back arching at the shock of his hot, wet mouth, the soft trail of his tongue as it flickers lightly over my clit, his entire mouth working in perfect coordination to bring all of my senses to that spot.

  My back hits the sheets, my hands reaching out and fisting fabric, the surrender of my body to him complete, his face buried in my most private place, doing something that is too perfect, his tongue knowing—without instruction—just how gently to sweep over my clit, just how to draw me into his mouth, how to use his entire mouth and not just his tongue. That look on his face, before he buries his mouth on me, is one a recovering alcoholic gives an ice-cold beer. Ravenous need. And it is obvious, from the sounds and expertise that he is showing below, that he loves what he is doing. It is something that I will do with him whenever—holy shit. I am about to come, my back arching, the swell of pleasure interrupting my thought processes, interrupting everything within a half mile radius, so pure and intense, swelling up the hill, small whimpers coming from me as it climbs.

  Then, pure silence, my body wracking beneath his mouth, his tongue maintaining the perfect flutter against my small bud of nerves until my breaking point—a point he somehow instinctively knows. As I fall down that hill of pleasure, his tongue gently carries me down, slowly, softening imperceptibly, until I sink into a sea of perfect, post-coital bliss, my world going dark, every sense leaving my body in one perfect moment.

  Jello has nothing on my limbs, their loose and pliable movement easily manipulated by his hands. He moves my legs, lifts my torso, and tucks my body underneath the sheets, pulling the soft weight of a down comforter over me. I murmur words of nonsense, trying to follow his movement, his soft chuckle irritating me briefly, my heavy eyes uncooperative. A sigh of relief leaves me when I feel the blanket lift, feel his heat settle in behind me, his arms stealing around my body, his lips gently touching my neck. “Sleep Candace,” he whispers.

  I should be offering to take care of him. I should be rolling over, pushing him to his back and dragging those way-too-sexy sweatpants off his hard, muscular hips. But I don’t. I grip his arm tightly across my chest and close my eyes, the relaxation of release bringing sleep to me quickly.

  “No sir.”

  “Go in my office and get on your knees.”

  “Please. Spank me again.”

  Nathan has spent the day at home, working in his office, my eyes watching the glass walls, seeing him at his desk. Visitors came at noon, two men, who went over documents and then left, Nathan returning to his seat, his hands running through his hair, frustration marring that beautiful face.

  I feel like a voyeur, watching him from the air conditioned perfection of my home, marveling at how I still find him sexy, his loosened tie and rolled up sleeves, the darkness on his face when he speaks on the phone.

  I am getting turned on, a ridiculous side effect of boredom and Nathan’s presence, and I decide to swim. I pull on the first bathing suit my fingers find and step outside.

  He is a sickness. I decide that on lap twelve. A virus that I cannot combat. Despite his incredible talent at being an asshole, I want his touch, want his approval. I want a cure but fear I would hesitate to take the medication.

  I come up for air and see him, standing at the edge of the water, his hands on his hips. “Get out.”

  I struggle with my limbs, swimming to the edge, pushing up and over the side, and stand, dripping wet before him. His eyes take in my bikini, the thin cords that run to small triangles, my breasts practically bare before him. He steps closer, his eyes flicking upward and meeting mine.

  We stare at each other, brown eyes to blue, our connection unwavering as he lowers both hands to my breasts, sliding his palms under the wet fabric and squeezing. My eyes close slightly, pleasure sweeping through me, and he rubs rough thumbs over my nipples. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

  I respond, opening my eyes and looking up, his blue depths studying me, noting the hitch in my breath when he squeezes, the slight drop of my bottom lip as need grows.

  “I was working,” he says roughly. “Working when you stepped outside. Do you have any idea how hard I get when I see your body?”

  He waits for a response, my mouth moving without sound. I clear my throat, almost whispering the words. “No sir.”

  “Feel it. Now.”

  My hands move quickly, jumping into to action, anxious for what awaits them. Wet hands on expensive fabric, unzipping and unbuttoning, reaching in and grabbing impressive, hard heat. Rock hard. Ready.

  He bats my hands away, pulling at the strings of my top and letting it fall on the pool deck, the sun hitting my swollen breasts, the nipples hard and aching from his touch, then steps back, looking my body up and down. “Go in my office and get on your knees. You’re going to finish what you started.”

  I move quickly, his presence behind me, my skin tightening as I move into the air-conditioned house. My feet cover the distance, turning corners and then stepping
onto the plush carpet of his office, my wet feet sinking.

  “Before the chair. Kneel.”

  His order comes from behind me, and I do as I am told, my knees hitting the carpet, his steps coming beside me, my eyes looking up to find him staring down at me.

  “Perfect,” he said hoarsely, sitting down and reaching in his pants, pulling out his cock and laying it out before me. “Swallow it. Deep.”

  He keeps his eyes on me, watching as I run my hands over its length, wetting my lips and inching closer, trying to keep my eyes on his but pulled to the magnificent sight before me. It twitches beneath my hands, and he pulls on the back of my head, eager to have it in my mouth.

  When I close my mouth on it, sliding my lips over his head, the veins in his cock swollen under my fingers, he groans. A long, slow groan of release, satisfaction. He cradles my hair in his hands, his head tilted, watching me suck, watching my eyes close as I gag, the width and depth of him too great to take.