Russian Heat (5 page)

“Open wide, Jane.” His deep, rasping voice made it a command, and the need to be mouth-fucked must have been hard on her because she obeyed without hesitation, straining sideways so he could feed his cock into her eager mouth.

Kneeling on the mattress next to her, he worked his shaft between her lips steadily. The satin walls of her mouth caressed his swollen prick, threatening to push him over the brink. He froze, his sensitive cock a hiccup away from disaster, and a jumble of images flashed before his eyes. Jane with her arms pinned over her head, Jane gagged, Jane tied spread-eagled on his bed with silk scarves, Jane between his legs as Slava worked her with a dildo. Jane sleeping between them, Jane waking with them, Jane eating with them. Jane everywhere. Always Jane.

As she bobbed her mouth up and down his length, he sniffed in a harsh breath at the tight seal of her mouth over his dick. He imagined sinking his meat in her ass while Slava fucked her pussy, craved the act of double penetration with an intensity that flooded his mouth, but kept reminding his dick she was a virgin to anal sex.

Denying the urge to ass-fuck her nearly choked him but for once he needed the woman more than he needed to satisfy his dark cravings, and would take whatever she’d give him. He thanked whatever lucky twist of fate had brought Jane Ransom into their sphere. He and Slava would find a way to keep her, or to follow her to the ends of earth, wherever it was she was tormenting sheep and inviting trouble.

Vlad
grimaced, cursing the exquisite tightness of her mouth as his ears and neck flushed deep red and he had to recite the names of all the players in his home-town ice hockey team to keep from spilling. She ate him hungrily, swirling her tongue around his head, taking him in as deep in her mouth would allow, pausing when his cock bumped the back of her throat testing her limits. That her hands were bound behind her, unable to control his thrusts as she obediently devoured his prick, made the act all the more darkly satisfying.

Slava’s
silence made him wonder if his friend had passed out from bliss but a quick glance at his friend’s hazel eyes narrowed in intense concentration reassured him. However, Slava looked close to release and Vlad eased out of Jane’s mouth, the glistening head popping wetly from between her lips. He was happy to delay his release so he could work to bring her pleasure first, before Slava came.

He eyed Jane’s glistening swollen lips. “Ready, babe? Ready for both holes to be filled up?”

“Just shut up and fuck me, Vlad.” Jane’s body jiggled as Slava shook with soundless laughter below her.

“What a nasty mouth. Bet I can fuck that out of you.” Vlad licked her neck as he pressed her down and forward over Slava, hot, hard swipes that triggered a shiver along her spine.

“Better men than—God!” Her invective was cut off as he bored into her ass with a lubricated finger, whispering a stream of soft praise between planting soft kisses over her back.

Slava
thrashed beneath Jane and Vlad had little doubt her pussy had snapped down on him tighter than a bear trap.

“Vlad, have you got a finger in Jane’s ass?”

“Perhaps,” he said, as Jane wriggled down harder on his finger.

“Good, do your thing, because I’m about to shoot.”

~* * *~

Do your thing?

Did that mean what she thought it might mean? The thought of Vlad’s cock forging into her tight rear sent her heart skittering in equal parts of fear and excitement.

“Harder, Slava,” she urged and he obliged, thrusting hard enough to dig a trench.

Still it wasn’t enough. The image of Vlad slapping her rump stole through her brain but she denied the masochistic need whispering to her, refused to give voice to her body’s dark cravings. Instead she closed her eyes and conjured Vlad’s earlier torture of her nipples, the way he’d held her against the cold bathroom tiles, Slava’s rough demand that she suck his fingers, his hand around her throat when she refused. Her body tightened dangerously, her skin an unbearable restraint around her pulsing nerves.

Still, she couldn’t quite reach release, and if she hadn’t been a white-hot supernova of need, she might have felt shame at the way she twisted and strained, tightness pricking her skin as she burned, impaled on the end of two men, wishing Vlad would replace his finger with his cock if it would make her come.

She met his eyes as his slick, blunt digit breached her anus, sliding in and out of her. Her sphincter winked in query at the light sting and but the sting was nothing in comparison to the thick, heavy bliss of double penetration, the sensation treacle in her veins.

Gasping, she squirmed, tried to impale herself further on the stave spearing her, dimly heard Vlad’s chuckle.

“Vlad, help me.”

His eyes told her he understood. He raised a palm and brought it down smartly, smacking her sweat-slicked thigh, the wet slap knifing the air. As an angry red flower bloomed on her creamy skin, her anus convulsed around his finger and her breathing hitched. Slava’s thrusting inside her paused before he gave a final pump of his hips and came in a rush, groaning and cursing his release in Russian.

She looked to Vlad in mute appeal. As he lifted his hand, the expectation was exquisite torture. He gave her nipple a vicious twist and her mouth fell open in rapture, her eyes fluttering shut for a long moment, lids twitching as her body quivered from head to toe, her head drooping limp on the stalk of her neck as she choked out her pleasure and felt Vlad’s finger slip from her. Only Slava’s hands kept her from collapsing forward, and Vlad’s harsh breath was hot in her ear, his grip on her arms tightening as her bone-deep orgasm shook her, jerking her arms and making her muscles wrench.

As the violence of her spasms repeatedly wracked her, arching her spine, Vlad savagely jerked himself next to her, a shot of rough-edged rapture dragging a cry of release from him as his body seized and his release surged from him.

The smell of sweat and come hung heavy in the still air.

“Kiss me,” she said, breathless. Her heart swelled with an emotion somewhere between reunion and triumph when one proud head bent to take her mouth, and another rose up reaching, both their hands searching to cup the back of her head so they could press lips to hers.

Rawness suffused the gesture with tenderness, and when Vlad pulled back to brand her with a look, she could see vestiges of that rawness in his molten grey eyes. Exhaustion swamped her, and she heard rather than saw Vlad move to untie her bindings.

Boneless, she slumped forward and Vlad unpinned her arms to wrap a strong bicep around her limp body. He rubbed her tingling arms as she tried to regain her breath, planted a trail of kisses along each arm that sent a quiver running through her anew before laying her down, his body wrapped around hers.

The room was cool but she had two bodies to warm her, Vlad’s heartbeat tapping her back, his pulse echoed by Slava’s against her breast. Wanting to hear the bass of Slava’s heart, she wriggled down until her head rested on his scarred chest, rising in time with his breathing. Vlad gave a deep rumble of contentment that mirrored her own peace and the placid glow in Slava’s eyes.

Drenched and sated, they twined together, an unmoving heap shaken by the intensity of what had passed. Long after the rise and fall of their chests calmed, Jane couldn’t be bothered to move or talk, and laid there simply absorbing the weight of her limbs, the prickle of mingled sweat drying on her skin and the combined heat of their bodies. She drowsed until morning, when Vlad woke her.

“I sent a message to the apartment owner. She said we can stay another night but that’s all. Where we’re heading, we probably won’t find another room like this again.”

She blinked, not understanding his message until he waved an accusing finger in her face.

“But don’t think this is a one-off, or that you can just forget all about us after twelve weeks and write this off as some holiday romance.”

It would have to be one of the strangest romances or holidays in history but she ignored those points to focus on the issue. “Vlad, one night of sex does not equal a relationship.”

His face set in a familiar landscape of stubbornness. “You think I don’t know the difference between good sex—no, mind-blowing sex—and feelings?”

As she gaped at him, he bent and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. “And don’t think I don’t know you feel the same way. You’d have to convince me that you always go off like a Katyusha in bed.”

To Vlad, being compared with a Soviet rocket launcher was no doubt high praise but she knew she was no sex-bomb, not even a firecracker. She didn’t think she could sustain their level of sexual intensity for long.

Slava
rubbed her back, and then trailed his lips over the spot. “Vlad’s right. You should give us a chance.”

A chance? What chance would she stand if she repeated tonight’s show on a regular basis? She might as well hand them her heart in a box for detonation. Delightful as the thought of spooning with her hostile environment consultants each night was, she had her career to consider, as did they.

Not to mention the fireworks, the unpleasant kind, she imagined her independent streak would set off on a regular basis. Mind reeling, she left the warm bed to search for her clothes. The tiles were ice under her feet as she hunted down her panties and other garments. Tantalizing images of sharing a small but warm apartment with Vlad and Slava teased her as she dressed and she shook them off. Impossible.

The sensation of clothes against her tender flesh was almost unbearable but she felt more secure dressed, even if they were staying another night. Clothes, her new body armour against Vlad and Slava. Probably as effective as throwing oranges at a tank.

Much as she wanted to deny it, it would be stupid to deny herself a stab at happiness if these men were offering to take a chance also. No one had ever affected her as much as these career warriors with their earthy humour and rough tenderness.

Returning to the bedroom she paused in the doorway, stared at the sight of the Russians tucked under the blankets, strategically positioned. Vlad lay to the far left of the bed, Slava to the far right and an empty pillow rested between their shoulders. The old sandwich trick. What was she going to do with these two? Perhaps it was best just to humour them...

About The Author

A weasel-word-addicted, passive-sentence-loving public servant by day, Rhyll Biest mutates at night, moulting her shoulder-padded power suit to sprout neologisms and metaphors. She lives in the Australian penal colony of Canberra, and when not writing about horse gizzards or frog fungi at work, she can be found steaming up the keyboard with erotic romance.

Website: http://www.beestfiction.com

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TopofForm

Boys of Summer Anthology

an anthology of seven hot erotic romance stories

(two novellas are menages and one is a M/M romance)

Release Date: 07/05/2012

ISBN# 978-1-938257-17-9

Cover Art by Winterheart Design

 
http://pinkpetalbooks.com/Boys-of-Summer-Anthology.html

Personal Best by Rhyll Biest

What do cocky Olympic water polo players have in common with cranky equine surgeons? Nothing, thank heaven, as recently-divorced vet, Eve Ransom, would say. But when she decides to teach hunky athlete, Cain Nadeau, a lesson about chatting up strangers on planes, she thinks to trick him into backing off by offering a week of handyman duties. Before she knows it, he's stripping more than just her house paint—he's stripping away her resistance to him one kiss at a time...

Excerpt

She snuggled into the vinyl cushion of her front row window seat and breathed in the silence of the nearly empty business class cabin. Ahhhh. After a night spent elbows-deep in a million-dollar racehorse repairing an almost fatally twisted bowel, she deserved some comfort. And sleep. A bit of luxury before she came home to her leaky roof, peeling house paint, and lonely bed. Yes, the life of Eve Ransom, internationally renowned equine surgeon, was all glamour. No doubt that was why she felt like a soggy ball of shrink-wrap.

She shook the negative thought off to focus on her pre-take-off ritual: daypack stowed above, shoes slipped off, neck pillow at correct height, earplugs stuffed deep, light coat draped over her front like a blanket against the chill of the air conditioning. Everything was in order. She drifted.

“That’s my seat, loser.”

“You’ve been snorting too much cocaine, Nadeau, this is mine. Look—two-A.”

“Yeah, but this is row one, dip-shit.”

Voices. Fuck. Why the fuck can I hear voices
? She opened one reluctant eye and followed the progress of invading mountain-sized men built to haul fridges. Booming baritones rumbled through her earplugs and the clumsy hips and butts of passing giants fumbling with bags and overhead lockers collided with her seat rest. As they laughed at each other’s sallies, the formerly Zen-like cabin morphed into a mosh pit for honking testosterone, and the urge to grind her teeth gripped her with jaw-aching intensity.

Weren’t air stewards or air marshals meant to arrest noisy people on planes? Or shoot them? The two stewards she could see, a short, fussy man and a heavily made-up brunette, looked excited and lustful rather than disapproving.

The men around her weren’t tall enough to be basketball players or thick-set enough for footballers, but whatever their team sport, they would soon be dead sporting heroes if they didn’t shut up and let her sleep.