Just the Sex: Erotica Shorts Read online

  I knock gently on the unisex door. “It’s me.” My voice croaks on the last word. This is the closest my two worlds have ever come to colliding. Stewart and Paul. In the same building. My dark and my light. My dark, now seated, surrounded by finery, listening attentively to talks of profit and loss, his cock hard, hidden underneath fine linens and discussions of intellect. And my light, swinging the door open and pulling me inside, slamming it closed behind me and flipping the latch. No words spoken, his hands thrust me back, his mouth greedy on mine as he tastes champagne on my tongue, our need thick in the air. I reach for him, my hand running down his worn tee and grip the top of his jeans. He has not changed clothes since I saw him last, has not dressed up for his entrance into this hotel, and I love the contrast. His messy hair to Stewart’s combed. Five o’clock shadow to clean-shaven. The smell of sweat to cologne. I normally get a cleansing period, the twenty-minute drive between my worlds clearing my head, my skin, my palette. Now, walking instantly from one to the other, the comparisons are overwhelming. He pulls back, releasing me. Wiping a hand over his mouth, his eyes take a slow tour of my body.

  “Look at you,” he whispers. “Dressed up like you are a good girl.” He hasn’t seen me like this. With my hair conservative and a cocktail dress on, pearls at my neck. He slides my dress up, the expensive fabric stiff, staying where it is put, the black peep of lace panties exposed. I stay still, my back against the wall, legs slightly forward and spread a few feet apart. My chest heaving, need gripping me, I watch him unzip his pants and pull out his cock.

  “Suck it. On your knees in this bathroom. Suck my cock while your boyfriend sits at the table.”

  There is an edge to his voice, an anger that is not normally present. An emotion that turns my easy-going Paul into something darker. Sexier. I love it, love the bite in his voice, the possession in his hand as he grips the back of my head and pulls me fully onto his cock. He thrusts into my mouth, his eyes on mine, the connection between us unbroken as he fucks my throat, growing with every pump, the fire in his eyes making the need between my legs almost painful in its intensity.

  I pull off him, gasping for breath, his arms pulling me to my feet before I even speak, his arm pinning me to his body as his other hand wraps around, slides underneath the edge of dress and squeezes my ass. Hard. So hard I gasp, his eyes tight on mine and he releases it, running his fingers down the crack of my ass and fingering the channel of my sex, covered in lace. His fingers run back and forth over the spot, a grin stretching across his face at the dampness there.

  “Is that for me or him?”

  I don’t answer, reaching between our bodies and fist his cock, wrapping my hands tightly around it, every vein in the organ outlined in the rigidity of his arousal.

  “Answer me, Madd. Answer me while I fuck you right here. While I make you scream so loud that people walking by will hear.”

  “Make me,” I whisper, a challenge in my tone.

  His hand tightens around my waist at the words, his eyes holding mine with a fierce look as he listens to my words.

  “Make me scream your name while he conducts his business. Make me your slut, right here and now, and send me back to him with your cum dripping out of me.”

  He groans, pushing me back against the wall, spreading my legs with his knees. He reaches down with both hands, grips my panties and pulls, ripping the sheer fabric with one strong jerk. Then his body is back against me, his chest hard to mine, his bare cock rough and bobbing at my entrance, pushing for and then finding the wetness of my sex and pushing inside. “Jesus Christ, Madd,” he groans, shoving upward, his hard thighs pinning me to the wall, his hands yanking at my straps, pulling my cashmere cardigan off my shoulders and jerking the top of my dress down. He thrusts again, his thighs relaxing and then flexing, every fuck bouncing me back against the wall, his hands clasping my breasts, squeezing them into his palms.

  “Make me scream,” I grit out, my eyes on his. They are tortured blue, cloudy with arousal, latent with need. “You know that he fucked me? Before we came here. I straddled his cock and rode him. His hands rough on my skin, his cock taking my body. He was inside me, Paul, right where you are now.” He roars, his voice raw and primal, pushing me against the wall, losing control as he slams against me, faster and faster, until my body becomes a shaking sea of desire, my core rattled, breath gasping, his thrusts urgent and dominant, his breath ragged, his hands finding my face and bringing my mouth to his.

  “You are mine,” he guts out, pumping into me, the length and level of his arousal brutal. “Mine,” he swears, as he releases my mouth and turns me around, pushing me forward as he yanks my legs back, one hand hard on my back, the other gripping my ass. He doesn’t slow the movement, giving me full, hard thrusts, my breasts bouncing from the top of my dress, the mirror above the sink giving me a full view of my slutdom.

  Paul, in worn jeans, a white t-shirt, light hair mussed, mouth open, intensity over his face. His reflection pulls at my hair, tilting my head back, and I find his eyes on mine in the mirror.

  “You like what you see?” His words are terse, thick. He is conflicted, but—from the level of his erection—fully aroused at the same time, his speed increasing, his breath loud in the small space. “You like being fucked while he’s in the next room?”

  I don’t answer, my climax too close, every muscle in my body tightening in anticipation of the act, throbbing and contracting around him, his eyes closing briefly at the sensation.

  “God, Madd. You are so fucking good …” He pulls out abruptly, leaving me gasping, my chest aching as I turn to him, feeling his hands before I fully move; they shove me back, wrapping around my waist and lifting me, setting me on the low counter of the sink, and pulling me to the edge. He jacks himself, looking at my pussy, at the swollen pink lips of my sex, then glances up to meet my eyes. He steps forward, pressing himself at my base, pushing my chin up when he sees me glance down. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me what he did to you. Tell me what he did, and make me come all fucking up inside of you.”

  I close my eyes at his first thrust, the angle different, better, in its brush of my g-spot. “He sat me on his lap, in this same dress. Those panties? The ones you ripped to shreds? I wasn’t wearing those when I first saw him. Because I knew he’d take me as soon as he could.” He pulls out of me, my eyes catching sight and gluing to the image of my wet lips sliding around his cock. His hands tighten on my ass and he pushes deeper, dragging his cock in and out of me in long, deep strokes. My voice catches at the look in his eyes, the intensity of his arousal. All playfulness is gone. This man before me—he is Stewart, but with different features, their similarities never more present than right now, and I gasp when he fully buries himself inside.

  “More,” he groans. “Tell me more.”

  “I came from his fingers, my juices all over his hand, I came and I screamed his name when I did it. I told him how fucking perfect he was and how much he turned me on.” His strokes roughened with my words, increasing in speed, his competitiveness lighting a fire in my belly, and I was suddenly there again. On the brink of orgasm, need running through my limbs and pumping loud in my heart. “God, Paul, you have no idea how good his cock feels in me. How deep he goes when I straddle him and fuck him hard. How he whispers my name when I take every inch of him.”

  He roars, pulling me to the far edge of the sink, thrusting deeper and harder than he ever has, his mouth roughly taking my own, his tongue marking, branding, and drinking from my mouth. I push against his chest, my own body breaking in his arms, the orgasm whirling through me, my words tumbling out as I shudder with pleasure in his arms, his pace never slowing, his cries joining my own, the hot spread of liquid pumped deep with his cock, his name repeated over and over as he finally, with one final shuddering thrust, empties himself inside me.

  ***

  Five minutes later, I slip back into my seat, Stewart barely pausing in a lengthy explanation of market trends and their expected impact. But I
feel his eyes on me, see the casual glance at his watch. “Impressive,” he murmurs, tugging my hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on my knuckle. “I take it you are taken care of?”

  I feel drugged, heady with the release and the knowledge of what I have just done. “Until tonight,” I whisper.

  “Oh, have no doubt,” he says, staring into my eyes. “You will need every bit of energy for it.”

  I hide a grin behind a long sip of champagne, turning when I feel a soft hand on my arm.

  “My wife tells me you sell books,” the man says, a polite smile on his face. “Tell me, what authors do you enjoy?”

  I smile politely, responding to the man, and feel the rough heat of Stewart’s hand, sliding up my dress, and hear his intake of breath when he finds my lack of panties.

  touch.

  need.

  gentle.

  fullness.

  My wet dress feels like an ice pack by the time we stumble, shivering, up the steps to our home. Salt water dripping down, hitting the tile and pooling, my steps careful, a slip eminent.

  “Come here,” Paul whispers, adjusting the thermostat, leading me into our bedroom and pulling me close, rubbing his hands over my arms, stealing a quick kiss as he yanks at his shorts and drops them to the floor.

  Wow. Anyone who thinks water causes shrinkage has never met this man. At least, not this man at this moment in time. He is, despite the smile he shoots me, raring to go, and I am suddenly warm, my skin tingling, the heat between us erasing anything else.

  “Turn around, baby.” His words are soft, but I hear their directive and meet his eyes, a curl of pleasure shooting through me at the look in them. Raw need. A fire burning behind his cocky smile. This is the Paul I know, the one who expresses love best through touch, and who can barely contain his emotions in this moment.

  I turn, hearing him blow into his hands, feeling the warmth of his skin as he pulls at my dress, his hands gently lifting the wet material off, his fingers lingering on me as they trail down my arm, as if they want every bit of me they can get. A hand tugs at my zipper, pulling it slowly down, his hot breath on my neck as he exhales against my skin, planting a soft wet kiss there, my panties the next victims to his sure and unhurried movement.

  He stays close to me, unclasping my bra, his hands sliding down my back and then curving around my sides, slipping under my limp bra and cupping my cold breasts, squeezing them, pulling my body back against his chest, the hot line of his arousal hitting the top of my ass, hot to cold, my body greedy for more contact against his skin. He kisses my neck from behind, whispering my name as his hands explore my front, running over the lines of my stomach, the curve of my breasts, the hard tips of my nipples. I am suddenly needy for him in ways I have never been, needing to know that this is real, that he is mine, and we have made it through this experience intact, the proof of it hard against my backside, and I want it, him, now, in every way that I can have him. His touch slides lower, and I moan, pushing my ass back against him as his hands gently cup me, his mouth taking a delicious line across the hollows of my neck.

  “Madd, I never … you have no idea how much I love you,” he groans, grinding against me, his hands holding me in place as he pushes the hard ridge of himself antagonizingly close to where I need it.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Paul, I need to feel it. I need you inside of me.”

  “In a minute, baby.” Instead, I feel his fingers, their gentle exploration over and across my sex, and I push against him, groaning when they finally move inside, slowly sliding in and out, their maddening length and width not enough for what I need.

  I moan, my legs weakening from the delicious touch. “Please,” I beg.

  He rasps, his voice thick at the nape of my neck, his arm wrapping around and hugging me to his chest. “Tell me, Madd. Tell me that you need my cock.”

  “I do,” I pant. “I do. Please. Give it to me.” My legs buckle as he crooks his fingers, brushing them back and forth over my pleasure spot.

  “Only me,” he says firmly, brushing his digits in a way that makes me moan. “Come to the thought of my cock,” he whispers. “Then I’ll show you exactly what it can do.”

  I do. I push every thought of Stewart out of my head, physically feel as they leave my body, and focus on Paul—my love—focus on the stiff head of him that is sliding between my legs, inches from where I need it most, so hard that it is sticking straight out. I close my eyes and think about every time he has made me moan, how his face looks when he loses control, the fire in his eyes when he watches me come. The images take me …

  over the edge …

  back arching …

  stars forming …

  pleasure ripping tingling paths through my body …

  Paul’s fingers keep up the rhythm, the perfect pressure and tickle across my g-spot, every swipe bringing new life into my orgasm, until I finally sink, held up only by his hands, and look over my shoulder, into his eyes, my drugged vision putting him in a haze, a haze of gorgeous blue eyes and five o’clock shadows.

  “Fuck me,” I croak, and his eyes darken, a devious smile of carnal possibilities sweeping across his gorgeous face.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He pulls me to my feet, making sure I am steady before releasing me. I start to turn, to face him, but he stops my movement. “Face forward. Grab the foot of the bed.”

  I obey, placing my hands on the footer and arching my back, pushing my ass out and waiting, the heater blowing warm air against my skin, my nipples hardening, my legs clenching. He runs a finger over my sex, dipping inside and then continuing up, until he reaches the tight pucker of my ass, circling the spot. Tight, hard circles, pressing against the hole until I moan, the spot resisting, too tight to allow him entrance. “Please, Paul … I need you.”

  His finger moves, sliding back down, taking the temperature of my sex once again, hot wetness confirming my arousal, dragging that liquid higher, soaking my asshole, his thumb replacing the finger, a bigger, harder push, not yet inside, but enough to make my breath catch in my throat.

  “Tell me,” he says softly, each word feathery gruff, his thumb pushing harder, breaking the seal and entering my darkest place. “Tell me how you want it.”

  “Hard,” I whisper, my senses on full alert, wanting, waiting for what is coming, all of my arousal knotting and expanding from the intrusion in my ass. He pushes harder, deeper inside me—a gasp, followed by a moan, spilling out of my mouth. I grip the footboard tightly, feeling the collection and drip of moisture in my pussy.

  “Are you mine?” His voice is tight, guttural, and I smile despite myself, waiting, tense and excited, and coming apart when I feel the width of him, pressing against me, teasing the opening of my body.

  “Answer me,” his hoarse voice demands, and I hear the raw edge of desperation, his need for confirmation as great as the throbbing in my core. His thumb moves slightly, pushing and then pulling, the hard sting of his hand taking me closer and closer as his finger continues its wet exploration, heat building in my ass, my mind becoming delirious from the sensation.

  “All yours, Paul. I—oh God—love you.” The words tear from my mouth, my pussy clenching as my ass contracts, every muscle on high alert, loving the feel of his hand as he squeezes and grips my ass.

  “God, you are beautiful,” he bites out, sliding his fingers into me, dipping them in and out, giving me two, then three fingers, my core tightening around him, prompting a groan to leave his mouth. “Are you ready for me, Madd?”

  “Now,” I blurt out, the orgasm close, pleasure rolling toward the waterfall edge that will be my flight. “Please, I need you.” It is coming, a giant black hole of pleasure and his thumb pushes deeper, the dirty feel of him there so wretchedly hot, pleasure sensors go off around every inch of his thumb, his wet erection hard against my skin, his fingers sliding further, deeper and deeper, slight pain mixing with pleasure, dominance with love. I tilt back my head, can’t hold it any longer, any coheren
t thought dropping off as I dive off the edge, into my orgasm, into a perfect black sea that grips my entire body and explodes it into a thousand shards of pleasure.

  It is then, while my world caves in, while I am mindlessly oblivious to anything but my own ecstasy, that he shoves fully inside of me.

  Fullness. The long, hard ridge of him inside me, branding me as his own, his need as desperate as mine. One hand still on my ass, his thumb making the tight fit of his cock even tighter, his other hand gripping my waist, holding me firm and letting loose on my body with his cock. He doesn’t ease into the rhythm, doesn’t give either of us time to react. He just dominates me: hard, firm fucks that bury inside with every stroke, a furious rhythm of domination, his breath fast and loud, my name ripping from his lips as he takes me as his own.