Best Erotic Romance 2014 (8 page)

“No, I'm not embarrassed to be seen with you. I'm a little jumpy because you look so fucking hot that I feel like a teenager about to blow a load in my pants just looking at you, and I want to fuck you up against the wall of this elevator right now. Feeling any part of you touch any part of me isn't helping the restraint it's taking not to do that. So what anybody downstairs thought about you or me or the stock market in Asia is just about the farthest thing from my mind right now.”

Joyce's jaw dropped. She had never heard Pete talk quite that way before—nor had she heard the tone of voice with which he had said it. The energy she'd felt in the lobby came flooding back—a mix of arousal, self-possession, power and freedom. It was a way she was unused to feeling in the last decade, and for a second she was almost light-headed.

The elevator dinged as it halted. Pete grabbed her waist and pulled her close, but just as he seemed about to kiss her, he
turned her roughly around and nudged her through the doors, his long strides behind her as they walked down the hall single file. Apparently she wasn't moving quite fast enough for him, because a second later Pete had stopped and scooped her up in his arms, eliciting a gasp of surprise from Joyce, who was aware that anyone they met in the hall now was going to get a clear look of just how few undergarments she had on.

As they reached their door, Pete maneuvered his arm to hand her the key cards he'd been carrying. Joyce pulled one out of the small envelope and slid it into the metal door handle. When the little light turned green, she pulled down on the handle, and Pete shoved the door wide open with one foot.

Somehow it wasn't until that moment that Joyce realized she was breathless, that she had been since the elevator and that she was all but panting now as her body reminded her she needed to breathe. At the same time she became acutely aware of the swelling in her clit and how much she wanted her husband—any part of him—to touch her there. Now.

She was surprised when Pete set her on her feet at the foot of the bed rather than directly on it. Before she could question the move, he launched himself at her and she fell backward onto it anyway, startled—though by this time not surprised—by her husband's urgent carnality. He grabbed her knees and spread her legs, looking at her naked flesh beneath the miniskirt, which had ridden up to her hips without any coaxing. Joyce could feel her wetness as her husband stared at her, and suddenly her impatience matched his.

“Fuck me,” she whispered. The purple wig tickled her jawline, but she quickly stopped noticing as Pete struggled out of his pants and crawled back on top of her, his hard cock positioned at the slippery entrance to her pussy. She could feel the tension in his body as he held back, and knowing the effect she was having
on him made a rush of arousal spill onto his waiting cock.

Pete sucked in a breath. “I need to be in you now, baby,” he panted in her ear. “And I'm going to come fast. Is that okay?”

Joyce was already undulating her hips desperately trying to coax him inside her. She would have thought that would be a sufficient answer, but since he seemed to be waiting for one, she hissed out an urgent “Yes,” as she spread her legs wider beneath him.

Pete plummeted into her, and she cried out, meeting his thrusts as he fucked her harder, faster, deeper. His hand snaked up and twisted into the purple strands against her cheek, and the way he grunted made her not even mind that he wasn't actually pulling her hair. Though not as satisfying as a true tug on her blonde locks, it was obviously having an effect on him, and it was one with which she wasn't about to argue.

Joyce's core felt a constant jolt of arousal as Pete hammered into her, the feeling of taking her husband's cock more satisfying than it had felt for a long time. His strangled cry indicating that he couldn't hold back anymore almost pushed Joyce over the edge, and she gripped his body with her legs as he came deep inside her. She squeezed him tight, reveling in the power she had to affect him that way.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out and rolled over onto his back, reaching for her immediately. He grabbed her waist and pulled her on top of him so she was straddling his torso.

“I'm sorry,” he panted.

“Why?”

“Because I didn't let you come first, of course. That's against the rules, isn't it?” He winked even as his hand slid forward to meet the sheen of sweat and arousal that graced her inner thigh.

“Fuck the rules,” she said—and meant it.

She'd looked the way she had in that picture because she had done something she wanted—and had felt, for once, that she truly had the freedom to. The arbitrary orders of someone else didn't apply to her anymore.

That novelty had worn off, it seemed, without her even noticing it. She'd been back in the world of rules now for more than a decade, and she'd forgotten what it felt like to know something she wanted and own the freedom to follow it, to remember she wasn't indebted to somebody's arbitrary rules telling her she couldn't have it. Like wearing vinyl and purple hair into one of the most upscale hotels in the area. Or loving the feeling of her husband's cock in her so much she didn't even care that she hadn't had an orgasm yet. Or, she felt on behalf of all who did, getting paid to fuck if that's what she chose to do.

Pete looked in her eyes, and Joyce's grin was involuntary. For a moment neither of them moved, and even if she hadn't seen the recognition in her husband's face, she knew her eyes looked the exact same way they had in the picture that was the reason they were there. For the first time in a long while, she felt it again. It was exhilarating.

She shrieked in surprise as Pete grasped her waist and pulled her forward, the urgency in his forearms not relaxing until she was straddling his face. Before she could catch her breath, she felt the warmth of his tongue connect with her clit. A low moan broke from her throat, and the tremor that started in her body was electrified by the energy that felt like it was embracing her every cell.

It was joy. Pure, simple joy.

MORE LIGHT

Laila Blake

Broken glass crunches under my feet, however carefully I try to move. I remembered to wear heavy boots; I'm not worried about getting hurt, but disturbing the silence in this place seems like a crime in itself. Like shouting in a church or jumping on a tomb. I almost want to hold my breath—first impressions are important. I look around, follow gilded stucco pillars up to a high, decorated ceiling. It might have borne a mural once, but all it has to show now is the natural water-painting of mold and stains, of moisture leaking through the visible cracks. It is eerily beautiful, and instinctively, I raise my camera but the lens is wrong. I need something far more light sensitive. Instead, I imagine the fabulous parties thrown here once upon a time; I see flapper dresses and thighs, energetic dancing, twinkling lights, and a small brass orchestra. In one of the dark corners, a couple could have stood, catching their breath, hands gliding under fabric. A shiver runs down my spine, and I am back to seeing dust and ruins.

Some shafts of sunlight manage to fall through the shattered windows; where the glass remains, though, the milky-gray grime of too many years shields against them all too effectively. I snap a picture of the infinitesimal dust particles glinting there, smile and follow the shaft of light through the viewfinder.

“You need these?” George calls from behind me. I jump at the volume and turn around. He was being manly, herding me away from the trunk so that he could carry in the equipment. Now, he is struggling to balance two lighting tripods.

“Definitely later,” I say, nodding with a vague motion at the dim interior. “And the softbox and the reflectors,” I add with a sheepish grin. I take the tripods off him and store them in a less photogenic corner, then I reach for the light meter in my bag and start to walk around the room again. His shouting seems to have shattered something and the atmosphere feels less sacred, less stifling. There is dust and crumbled debris everywhere.

George is the more finicky of the two of us—although, by long tradition, he would say that I am just messy. When he comes back, he carries a foldout table for the equipment, gives me a look and picks my bag up from the floor. He dusts it off and puts it on the table. I poke my tongue out at him and push middle and ring finger under my thumb in the universal rock-and-roll sign. He sighs, shakes his head and leaves for more stuff.

We were in college together. Back then, we just happened to hang with the same group of people—photography is impossible to do on your own. He was the handsome, jock type although he never played sports; he just looked like that with his tall physique and his naturally broad shoulders, the wavy dirty-blond hair. He still does. I was the chubby, nerdy one with the glasses and the shy, quiet voice, which I tried to make authoritatively deep. We weren't close but somehow we both ended up in Boston after college. His studio is just ten minutes away from mine and
it's good to have friends who get it, friends who actually enjoy spending an hour driving around Connecticut to sneak into a long-abandoned building. Neither of us can afford an assistant.

I can hear him pottering around with the equipment behind me, but I'm still walking around, looking at the walls in the different rooms. From time to time, a little bit of dust falls from the ceiling and my heart beats a little faster. I try to be more graceful.

“First impression?” George asks coming up behind me. Less body conscious, he touches everything, hangs against the moldy doorjamb in a way I would never dare.

“There's something here,” I say slowly and shrug. We both know that we've been to more impressively abandoned places, but this one has a solemn quality all its own that will be difficult to catch on camera. George hums in assent and we start to walk around, to try and find these special spots in which the natural light provides enough eerie illumination. Too much artificial light would ruin it, I think. I stroll back to the table and exchange my lens for a more light-sensitive one. It lies heavy in my hand and I almost drop it when I hear a loud crunching, dragging sound from somewhere in the bowels of the building. Just for a moment, I am sure this is when the zombies finally attack, but then I come back to reality, screw the lens on my camera and go to investigate.

George is dragging something over the floor, with a sound like a hundred tiny bells, and when he emerges from the shadow I see his broad grin and the ancient chandelier he's dug up from somewhere. It is dusty and broken in many places but it's still gorgeous, some herald of older times.

“Wow,” I say—if just because it makes him grin with self-satisfaction as he gently drapes it into a shaft of sunlight.

We start shooting, find the best angle, the one that contrasts
glittering light against squalor. My heart is beating faster; finally something is coming together.

If I wasn't used to George, he would be distracting to the point of annoyance. As it is, I smile and let him get on with his athleticism. I have long found that George just enjoys using his body—it makes him feel better about his photos. He crouches on the floor, then lies down completely, moving over the debris like a war-zone journalist through the sand. I am more stationary; I squat in place, fumble with the controls, find the perfect aperture settings. I am more given to placing the camera on the floor and snapping away with a remote than performing acrobatics. But I find myself momentarily entranced. From my vantage point, he is half hidden by the sparkling bits of polished glass and he stares at them with such a concentrated intensity, I just have to take a picture. He doesn't resist. Years of training and spending time with other photographers have ground photo shyness out of both of us. I find a different angle and click again, check the image on the screen. It is a beautiful portrait. I feel that rarely reoccurring flash of affection, the memory of a long-abandoned crush. When I let the camera sink, he smiles at me and returns the gesture, click, my thoughtful, aching face. I have that sudden childish urge to throw my hands in front of my face and launch myself in his direction to grab the camera and delete all evidence, but I stay there, squatting, hugging my knees for balance.

I give him a half smile instead and raise my camera. We regard each other through the viewfinders, only seeing shiny black surfaces where eyes and nose should be. Photography robots. The two clicks are almost simultaneous. Just like back in college.

“You know what would make this better?” he asks, carefully raising himself from the ground, mindful of the expensive equipment in his hand. I raise my brows, encourage him to go on.

“Nudity.”

I snort and roll my eyes.

“Right, because the only real contribution women can make to photography is to take their clothes off…”

George just grins, above me now, my face at the level of his crotch, and he touches the tip of my nose. Just for a moment I want to be a different me, in a different body, and go right ahead. But then he shakes his head.

“You and your assumptions,” he chides with that naughty schoolboy grin on his face. “Who said I was talking about you?”

My mouth falls open, just for a second, and my eyebrows seem intent on trying to disappear under my hairline. George laughs and offers me a hand to pull myself up from the floor. I accept. His hand is warm and I bite at the side of my lip, feeling lumpy in my long, shapeless sweater-dress and tights I'm wearing for comfort of movements.