One Twisted Valentine (5 page)

Eva climbed to stand on wavering legs. Brooke took
her hand, guiding her around the coffee table even while she stayed
rooted in her leather chair. Sitting there with her devious
approval, directing tonight’s carnal delights, Eva had the feeling
something about Brooke’s shiny red half-corset gave her an impetus
to dictate. But now was not the time to question.

Free in the field of carpet between the fireplace and
coffee table, Eva got down on her knees. The feeling of settling to
her final satisfaction, of waiting for Peter to shift into
position, gave Eva almost as much ecstasy as the approaching climax
his taking of her promised.

On all fours, Eva looked into Brooke’s eyes as she
sat in her chair with an expression of contentment. Over her
shoulder, Eva watched as Peter swept around the table from the
other end and came to rest behind her.

“Stop,” Brooke said. The words hit Eva like an iron
hand clutching her heart. But the smile on Brooke’s face was
serene. “I want to hold you while he fucks you. Come to me.”

Eva crawled forward, placing her hands on Brooke’s
thighs to part them. Brooke took one of her hands and pulled
gently, guiding her up until Eva’s head was level with her breasts
and she could feel Brooke’s wetness press her stomach. Lacing her
fingers in Eva’s hair, Brooke settled Eva against her chest,
feeling the anticipating breath flow over her nipples. Gently,
Brooke brushed back Eva’s glossy black strands.

In position, Eva unconsciously arched her back,
bringing her ass higher as an offering to the man who was her
husband and who was not her husband.

Eva rested her head, the heat from Brooke’s body
flowing into her while Brooke’s eyes gazed down softly. Under her,
with the feeling of Brooke’s smooth skin, the glossy plastic of the
half-corset pressing her stomach, Eva felt like she was resting in
a heavenly bed.

After another lifetime of anticipation, she could
feel Peter settling in. Again feeling the silken skin of Brooke
before her and the masculine energy of Peter behind gave her a kind
of drunk excitement.

“Close your eyes,” Brooke whispered. Eva did. All she
could hear was the snap of the fire, the beating of Brooke’s heart
and Peter’s breath rising in excitement.

Then there was nothing but Peter’s hand on her hips,
shifting her, his legs between her own and the luscious press of
his perfect cock opening her and filling her in a single stroke.
Behind her eyelids, there was an avalanche of light as every
tenderness in her body was stroked and caressed by the feeling of
Peter’s glorious hardness moving through her.

Eyes still shut, Eva relished every dark sensation;
the feel of Peter’s fingers pinching her flesh, the swelling
sensation of her lips opening to his spearing thrusts, the fullness
she felt in her pelvis and mound when he bottomed out. Everything
he was doing felt good. His needful grunts and groans were a
pleasure to her ears. The hard jolts of his motions giving her
rough, loving reminders of his passion. His very hardness, in hands
and muscle, in cock and manner, felt so good it seemed she would
delight in this one moment for the rest of her life.

Then, like a shock, came the trembling approach of
her sharp release.

“Oh, God,” Eva cried. “Oh, Peter. Peter. Peter!”

“Show me,” Brooke whispered against Eva’s cries. “I
want to hear you. I want to see you.

Eva could say nothing more, but eyes opened and fixed
on Brooke’s. In that moment, there was nothing else in the world
but Brooke’s benevolent eyes and Peter’s masterful cock. Eva’s
lungs opened and she cried out over and over with each of Peter’s
thrusts. In the maelstrom of sensations, she could feel his fingers
squeeze the joint of her hips and legs and knew he was going to
explode in her.

“I love you, baby,” he said between gritted teeth as
his lunges slowed but somehow intensified. Then his words were gone
too as he plunged in and out.

Beyond her cries, Eva could hear the beautiful wet
sound he made with her as his cock entered her over and over. Just
as her mind returned, just as she could comprehend the world again,
she felt Brooke’s hand slide down between them and her finger brush
across her Eva’s clit. With the single stroke, her orgasm flared
anew, higher, harder as Peter sank in for one final push.

In a heartbeat, his body came to rest as deep and
hard into her as she could remember feeling. He cried out, a harsh,
barking scream which filled the room and Eva could feel his shaft
ripple and pulse inside of her. Deep within, she could feel a new,
foreign heat and wetness as he released himself into her.

As she felt him finish within her, Eva’s screams and
groans turned to near sobs. She could feel wetness fall from her
eyes, tears, sweat, every wonderful emotion tumbling down her face
and body. Along with her final surrender, Eva felt Brooke’s finger
trace the path of the tear down Eva’s cheek.

Eva opened her eyes as she felt Peter’s body curl
behind her, his loving kiss pressing her spine. Above her, Brooke
leaned in just so and kissed her cheek.

Loved from both sides, Eva’s tears flowed in a
liberating release she could not define.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” Peter said.

In unison, still play acting and yet not, Eva and
Brooke said, “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

Please enjoy this preview of:

Watching the frosty haze outside her office window,
the snow pouring down on Chicago as the workday ground through its
finishing minutes, Lane sat fighting temptation. It was a fight she
wanted to lose.

From the ninth floor of the Exeter Building, in the
offices of McGavin and Trent, her office window was less a window
and more a solid wall of glass. It looked out from downtown to Lake
Michigan, open to the slow curtain of falling snow powdering the
city. The streetlights were winking on, giving the white canyons of
the city a soft orange hue. Lane looked out at the cold beauty and
saw none of it.

What ran through her mind was a dream, wonderful and
dangerous. It could wreck the professional reputation she had been
building since college, get her sued and surely get her fired.
Still, she could not stop her mind from spinning images so
delicious and taboo work became impossible. Twenty yards from her
office door sat a cluster of McGavin and Trent’s fall semester
interns. Most of them were the pale young men and women one would
expect to find their way into accounting, which is a nice way of
saying the kind you would see once and forget forever.

But among them sat Kyle Berman, the young man she
wanted. She hungered for nothing less than for Kyle to march into
her office after the last of the staff had left, press her spread
eagled, ass out, against her wide window and fuck her into
delirium. Imagining his dark brown hair messed from her clawing
hands, his trim body working her from behind, Lane fixed on the
image of his grey eyes, reflected in the glass, staring at her as
his cock slid along the clenching walls of her pussy. The image
made her clench her legs shut.

Even as she stared at spreadsheets and tried her best
to think about accounting, Lane’s mind churned with imagined
scenarios; Kyle on her couch as she straddled him, feeding him her
nipples as her hips gyrated in grinding circles; Kyle in her car’s
back seat, parked at the lowest level of the building’s garage, his
hand stroking her hair as she sucked him into a steel hardness;
Kyle kneeling before Lane’s desk, pressing his mouth to her wet
mound, licking her up and down, enclosing her clit between his
lips.

Lane sat there electrified and deeply afraid. She
wasn’t a young girl anymore. At 34, Lane was able to pick out her
destructive behaviors when they arose. Usually she was able to hold
them at bay. But not always. Not when they felt like this.

As a generation of men had learned in the last 30
years, a quick way to unemployment was a hard romp with an intern.
The days of chasing secretaries around desks were lost to the
distant past.

Even the best-case scenario for getting caught, even
without losing a job, would be a guaranteed distraction from a
promising career. While women weren’t hit as hard from sexual
harassment suits, the cost of getting a reputation could be so much
worse. No matter her talent, once word spread she was fucking in
the office, the whispers would spread and no amount of talent would
wash a way the scarlet letters ‘Office Slut.’

Entertaining even these thoughts was an absurdity. No
one ever got to the top fucking by an intern. But good Lord did she
want it. Lane wanted it so much she felt like she needed it.

The devil on her shoulder was sketching out a hundred
schemes, all ending with Lane bent over her desk with Kyle’s
perfect cock hammering her from behind. Yesterday, the devil had
taken the form of her best friend from down the block on Garland
Street, Eva Ravenwood.

The road to temptation began with the best of
intentions, a cup of tea between friends, a chat for one woman to
get help and advice from another.

- [ - - - ] -

For months, Lane had been in the eye of a horrible
depression.

Waiting for Eva in the booth on the edge of the
Sicilian Forest Café’s dining room, Lane was a desperate woman.
Desperate for a break, desperate for a change, desperate for a wisp
of hope in the whiteout of a Chicago winter.

Lane idled, waiting for Eva, stirring her tea with
slow strokes, hoping for her mind to rest. Here she was, looking
forward to a pleasant lunch, taking a moment to allow the tasks and
worries of work and a ruptured home life to settle. Of course, she
could not. A sullenness and doubt consumed her, everything inside
an unpleasant, curdled emotion. She needed help.

It was her curse of late. Any open moment, where in
earlier years she could daydream or simply watch the world go by,
Lane’s mind would turn in on itself, worrying over the same
depressing landscape, wondering where her life had cart-wheeled off
the tracks. Wondering how she had found herself at this stage
locked in a colorless job in the field she once loved. Wondering
why Charles had decided to cheat on her and set a fire of their
marriage.

By the time she came to sit in this café, Lane wanted
to shake off the crust of sorrow accrued from a year dealing with
lawyers, divorce papers and the shock of being single again at the
lip of middle age. Eva had promised her a divorce party when the
final papers came through, but that was still months away. Still
Lane wanted hope and suspected Eva could provide it.

A year ago, it seemed Lane and Eva were both on the
same horrible glide path to heartbreak. Their home lives were
filled with tension when they were not ringing with sour shouting.
Their husbands were both consumed by work. Every week Lane and Eva
would come to the Sicilian Forest, commiserate, seek advice and
buoy each other in the storm.

Then at the beginning of summer, the course of both
of their lives had snapped. Eva’s rebounded to a loving, stable,
satisfying relationship. She had even called it a second honeymoon.
For Lane, June began with the discovery Charles had chosen to deal
with the frustrations of suburban life by fucking a woman he had
met at their local bar. The bar he went to with Lane.

A month later, he was moving out of their pleasant
Garland Street home while the neighbors pretended not to watch.
Lane remembered seeing Charles drive down the street, into his new
life and as his car turned the corner, Lane found herself staring
at Eva looking back at her. As Lane turned to go into her empty
house, Eva returned to washing her Mini Cooper.

It had been six long months from that day to this.
Six months of her right hand on her clit while two fingers from her
left hand pushed inside. Six months filled with worthless fantasies
of Brad Pitt, Chris Pine and Ryan Gosling.

Her need for release was so fraught with anguish and
doubt Lane’s fantasies would take absurd turns. In most, Pitt and
Gosling somehow discovered McGavin and Trent’s reputation for
dependable, inventive accounting. No matter that she specialized in
the pitfalls of Fortune 500 companies and not the details of
Hollywood stars buying Beverly Hills estates. No, in her fantasy
Pitt and Gosling had to have McGavin and Trent and they had to have
Lane handle them alone.

Absurdity built on absurdity as Pitt’s yacht moored
at the Burnham Park Yacht Club just a few miles from Lane’s office.
With his I’ve-got-a-secret grin, Pitt would welcome her aboard,
handing her a Champaign flute. She would juggle it with his thick
file folder and her computer bag.

Then, as fantasies go, her mind would skip from the
scenario to the main event. In some dim bedroom facing the lake,
Pitt reclined on a curving bench as Lane impaled herself on him.
His wonderful voice, a boy’s voice crossed with the sound of
leather stretching, would call to Lane as he thrust into her,
cutting off her own words. Strong hands she had seen sweeping
across 40-foot movie screens would hold her breasts, squeezing with
pleasant pressure, twisting her nipples with a few flicks of his
index fingers.

“Fuck this Lane,” Pitt would say, thrusting on the
word ‘this.’ Then he would whisper between kisses,
conspiratorially, “Jesus your pussy feels amazing. So much better
than Angelina’s.”

Behind her, Gosling would be pressing his perfect
lips to her back, moving up her spine, his hands on her hips, until
his open mouth closed over the back of her neck, biting and sucking
with a focused intensity. Then Pitt’s mouth was pulling at her
nipple. While lost in a paroxysm of sharp pleasure, Gossling’s iron
hard shaft would slide down the cleft of her ass. His fingers would
bite as he adjusted her.