Sexy Shorts

by Kathryn Nolan

I gasp—because I can’t help it—and Baron’s lips twitch in the firelight.

  “I do it because it makes me feel alive,” he rasps. “And I brought you here because I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.” He presses his lips to the inside of my wrist. “I brought you here because I needed somewhere private to do this.” Another caress of his lips, firmer this time, and his hand is gliding beneath my petticoat. Past my garter and the tops of my stockings. I have never had a man’s hand on me like this before.

  Although I had… thought about it.

  Thought about it in the same way I thought about boxing.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask, voice trembling. Baron’s tongue darts out and gives a hot, wet lick along the inside of my wrist. I make a sound, something primal, and he glances behind him. The room is almost empty, and its patrons seem otherwise indisposed, but still. We are in public. With my sister’s fiancé.

  “Stay quiet, my darling,” he says, kissing and licking my wrist as his fingers dive beneath the oceans of fabric that enclose my most secret area. “I realized something the other day, you see.” Two fingers land on my sex, land on an area I’d discovered the other night. A small button that made me jump when I brushed against it.

  Baron wasn’t brushing against it… he was lightly, gently, circling it. Like it was a delicate bud about to blossom.

  “I realized I made a terrible mistake because I’ve become betrothed to the wrong sister.” His smile was wide and loving, and I smile broadly back. “And I have an idea, a plan, to change the course of our situation, but I wanted to give you something first. A gift. So that you could see the kind of husband I’d be for you.”

  Baron’s eyes close as he kisses my pulse point again—kisses it deeply, tongue swirling. At the same time his fingers increase their pressure, moving beneath my bountiful skirts, and the room feels like it’s tilting. Or spinning. My breath is coming faster, and I feel quite like I’m running somewhere—but unable to see the finish line.

  “I don’t expect much,” I say, flirting, “I just expect my husband to love me as much as he loves books. And to let me dress his boxing wounds, of course.” Baron chuckles against my wrist but then pins me with a greedy gaze. Holding it, his tongue roves around my wrist wetly, fingers working with speed. “So what…” I am panting now. “What gift did you have in mind?”

  Baron leans forward daringly, pressing a kiss to the swell of my breasts above my corset. One, two, three kisses, and I have to swallow a high moan. The finish line, the cliff, whatever I am racing toward, seems to be… appearing. Quickly. Baron’s lips trail up the swell… up the column of my throat… along my jaw. He smells musky. Bloody. Like man and sweat.

  “Pleasure, darling,” he says, rasping against my ear, and I… I… climax. Writhing like an electric wire, grasping at his shirt, wailing into his shoulder. The feeling is better than books and dancing and music and moonlight. The feeling is… indescribable. Pure ecstasy. When I finally pull back, his mouth is an inch from mine, ghosting over my lips. So handsome I could cry. “If we wed, Alice, I will give you that gift every day of your life. As often as you ask for it. I promise you that.”

  “Can I do that for you?” I ask, uncertain. He swallows roughly, eyes dark.

  “Yes, my darling. Yes, you can. We can do it together, I promise.”

  The ceremony in the church had been splendid; Baron truly dashing in his attire, dark eyes bright with laughter. When he’d kissed me at the appropriate time, his lips had been light and sincere. But his hand had curled around my neck, holding me in place, and something about that touch had felt thrilling and indecent. A claiming—my body yielding itself to a new master.

  My sister (newly, and happily, married to Baron’s friend) had spoken to me in furtive tones about tonight’s “obligations.” Eyes down, cheeks pink, she’d spoken of a man’s desires. The fear some women felt when they first saw a man’s sex organ. My sister had gripped my hand, reminding me that sensual pleasure was not always part of every marriage and to not view our union as anything less if that was the case.

  Except I’d already been given The Gift. Just once, six months earlier, and since then, Baron and I had not strayed back to that dark, alluring club. Since then, our interactions had been free from scandal. But as my female relations scurried off, fans over their faces, I couldn’t help but feel wise beyond their years.

  Wise and… aching. Every time Baron caught my eye across the room, there was a pulsing—steady as a drumbeat—right between my legs. An awareness on my skin.

  Did all newlyweds feel this way before their honeymoon night?

  Or was this Baron’s doing?

  It was past midnight before our guests had cause to excuse themselves, and by then, every touch of Baron’s seemed to accelerate that drum-beat pulse. His hand on my elbow. His palm low on my back. The feel of his gravelly voice at my ear, whispering sweet words. My new husband was watched hungrily by the women in the room, and I feel a smug satisfaction at their yearning. Tilt my chin higher, lean back into his touch.

  Because Baron is mine now.

  And as I stare into the fireplace, room finally silent and empty, it is Baron’s solid weight against my back. His lips on my neck, trailing teasing kisses from my shoulder to my ear.

  “Husband,” I gasp, body arching into his. Arching and feeling for the first time, even through my many layers, the hard length of his… cock. A word I’d just learned and quite liked the sound of.

  “Wife,” he whispers, hands sliding down my arms to clasp my fingers. I arch again, and my new husband groans against my skin.

  It is utterly thrilling.

  “My sister told me I would be afraid of this night, but I’m finding it hard to fear something that feels so…” I trail off. Baron is sliding the fabric of my dress down the smooth curve of my shoulder. Hot mouth on my skin, the wet point of his tongue.

  And then… his teeth.

  “Something so what?” he asks softly.

  “Delicious,” I finally manage. Feeling suddenly bold, I reach my hand between our bodies, grasp a cock that feels like thick steel. My husband curses, voice ragged, and I feel power.

  “Do you fear your husband, my darling?” he asks, rocking a bit into my hand. The two of us are warmed by flickering firelight, eyes half-open, mouths already gasping.

  “No,” I sigh, half-laughing. “I want my husband.” I turn my head, and our lips meet in a passionate, searing kiss. Behind me, his fingers work the buttons of my heavy gown, and I am suddenly desperate to be rid of it. Baron’s mouth stays on mine, and a minute later, my wedding dress drops to a colorful pool at my feet. I step out, gingerly aware that in the light my shift and petticoat are practically transparent.

  “And I very much want my wife,” Baron says, eyes roaming my body. I smile at him, and his answering grin has my heart beating at a reckless pace. He turns me again, back toward the fire, lips landing at the base of my neck. “Every inch of you pleases me,” he says, silently working the stays of my shift. Exposing small gaps of my skin. “Every inch of you makes me delirious with desire.”

  I feel quite delirious myself with my dashing husband peeling off my clothing like skin from a fruit. Reverently, like I was a sacred object to be worshipped. I was unaware that the curve of my spine was such an erogenous area, but his lips kissing every inch are making The Gift feel close.

  Baron’s large palm rests between my now-bare shoulder blades, and he pushes me forward gently. My hands land on the fireplace mantle, layers falling open. The curve and swell of my backside is now exposed, and when his mouth lands there, it grows hungry and greedy.

  “Look at this,” he says, stroking the round globes, caressing, mouth tasting. “Look at how gorgeous you are here.”

  I realize that I’ve been making a keening sound, eyes shut. Baron spreads the globes apart, and the feeling is truly indecent. Indecent and electrifying.

  My sex keeps clenching, and I’m not sure why that is. And as Baron lick
s his way closer, he starts to chuckle.

  “Something funny, husband?” I ask, although it’s more of a pant. His fingers stroke along my inner thighs, which are wet with God-knows-what.

  “This wetness,” he rasps, “is your body telling me you are aroused.” His tongue flattens, laps it up, and I shiver. “You taste like peaches on a summer day. So ripe.” Fingers wrap around my thighs, holding me in place, and then Baron’s tongue touches me there. Inside.

  Inside.

  I cry out at the shock of it, the ecstasy, his tongue moving in some ancient rhythm set by the gods of pleasure—because how else would my husband know what to do? Both of us—husband and wife—are groaning, and when his tongue slows down, I press back shamelessly, seeking more.

  “Baron please,” I beg, but I’m not sure what I’m begging for. But then his gentle thumb lands on my greedy button—the spot where The Gift springs from—and pleasure surges forth like water from a fountain. I cry out again, bucking against his mouth, and then I am cresting like that day in the parlor. Cresting and racing and reaching and—

  Ecstasy.

  I don’t even have time to really descend from the mountain before Baron—my husband—is lifting me in his strong arms and carrying me to the marriage bed. His handsome face holds a slight smirk, and when I pull him in for a kiss, he tastes like… like the earth. And a bit like peaches.

  “What was that?” I ask, giggling slightly as Baron tosses my naked body backward onto the bed.

  “That, my darling, was my mouth on your cunt,” he says, and I thrill at the sound of that word. Cunt. Hard, like the word cock. It was untoward—filthy—and I wanted him to say it again. But I’m distracted by his disrobing. Jacket. Cravat. Vest. Undershirt unbuttoned, exposing that dark, thick hair of his chest. His strong belly. When his pants slide off and his… cock… juts forward, I find myself swallowing. Licking my lips like I’m about to enjoy a splendid feast. Baron notices and then touches himself there.

  “I want… your cock,” I say, spreading my legs further, and Baron all-but-snarls as his face lands between my legs again. I jump, sensitive, but he’s merely inhaling my scent. Inhaling and lightly teasing that bud with the tip of his tongue. I’m entranced by the look of his dark, curly head buried there, and after only a few moments, my hips are thrusting off the bed. Up into his mouth. Baron looks up at me, eyes dancing with mischief.

  “My wife is quite greedy for pleasure,” he says, nipping my hip bone, and I am. I want to be… to be filled somehow, and what he’s doing isn’t enough.

  “More,” I demand, chin tilted, and Baron arches a brow.

  “As you wish, my darling,” he says, crawling up my body, the hot, naked weight of him the most beautiful sensation I’ve ever experienced. He spits into his hand, reaching between his legs, head of his sex rubbing in my wetness.

  “Will it hurt?” I ask, wrapping my legs around him.

  “A little,” he says. “But I’ll be right here with you, wife. Keep your eyes on my face.”

  I do, kissing him senseless, as his cock slides an inch inside of me. I am tight, so tight, but some muscle in me is opening for him. A bead of sweat drips down Baron’s temple, and I want to taste it.

  “More,” I say, and he bites my lip playfully. Another inch. Another. There is pain, a stretching, but beneath that is a pleasure so rich it stops my breath. Baron continues that way, working himself in, and when he is fully seated, I am so full I can feel him in my throat.

  “Tell me how you feel,” he says, kissing my cheek.

  “Happy,” I say. “Filled with… filled with your cock.” Baron’s lip curls, and he moves out of me, just a little, and thrusts back in.

  “Oh my God,” I moan, the surge of pleasure unexpected. “What was that?”

  “That was me fucking you,” he groans then does it again—more roughly this time. My fingernails dig into his back, scratching.

  “Do that again,” I beg, and then for a while, we are unable to talk. Baron holds me down, drives between my legs, and it feels so good I am delirious again.

  And then Baron rolls onto his back, taking me with him.

  “Ride me, wife,” he says, gasping, and my body seems to know what to do. Know how to seek and chase a second climax that is so close I can taste it. His thumb lands between my legs, pressing, and I throw my head back and scream.

  There is no other worthy response—and I should have felt some embarrassment that our neighbors would hear me—but instead I embrace the ecstasy yet again. Embrace a feeling that has me bucking against my husband like a rider on a horse—clawing at his chest and watching with joy as he experiences his own.

  I am tender, and sore, but none of that stops me from pursuing my husband’s cock for the entire night and well into the dawn. I take him between my lips and discover the power that comes from having a handsome man gasping on his back for you. He takes me from behind, and it makes me feel alive. In the morning hours, bodies exhausted, he puts his head back between my thighs, and I experience The Gift so many times I feel as if I’m levitating.

  “Is this what marriage is like?” I ask, falling asleep on Baron’s chest as the dawn sky erupts in pinks and oranges.

  “This is what our marriage is like,” he says, kissing my hair. Drifting off to sleep.

  Although not an hour later, my dashing husband is rocking inside me again—the beginning of many, many gifts I would receive.

  He was Luke Skywalker (not Han Solo)

  I can’t believe Oliver is at this party.

  He's standing there with a red solo cup, thick-rimmed glasses, and a messy mop of hair my fingers itch to run through.

  And he looks about as nervous as I do.

  Nerds like us aren't regular attendees at the frat parties. The room is hot and heavy with booze and dancing bodies and the kind of desperation college students wear like a cloak. But suddenly, watching Oliver attempt conversation with two drunk fraternity brothers, I’m no longer angry at my roommate for dragging me out here.

  Even though I’m drowning in deadlines.

  Even though the end of my senior year, with its daunting decisions, is just around the corner.

  Instead I remove my jacket, trying to find a coat room, because my shirt is cute and I curled my hair and I'd very much like for Oliver to see it. We first met in freshman Biology—a class we aced. He sat one row in front of me, and I memorized the back of his neck, the fine hairs there, the careful way he took notes.

  He'd smile timidly at me every morning, and over time, we talked more. Laughed more. He had a dry sense of humor, just like me, and a love of Star Trek: Next Generation (while I was more of a Battlestar Galactica girl).

  He was Luke Skywalker, not Han Solo, and for the last four years, we’d taken the exact same classes. Aced the same labs, both on our way to pre-med. He felt called to help cancer patients while I was drawn to the heart—that bloody, ferocious thing that pounded like a herd of horses whenever Oliver blushed.

  Or when he tripped over his words.

  Or answered a question brilliantly.

  Because Oliver was brilliant. And now here he was, outside of class, and as I hang my jacket in the small coat closet, I can hear his voice behind me.

  "You're here," he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. A lock of hair falls over his eyes, and without thinking I reach forward and brush it back.

  "I am. Didn't expect to see you here. Thought you'd be at the library."

  He grins and reaches past me, grabbing a hanger. It brings his face close to mine, and he doesn't move away. "Library was lonely. I don't know. I've been in college four years and have never partied properly."

  I shiver at his slight British accent, picked up from his London-born father.

  "Really?" I ask and instinctively step back.

  He follows.

  "So you're here to study the mating habits of drunken seniors?"

  He laughs softly. "It does seem a bit ludicrous, don't you think?" He indicates his solo cup.
"Get yourself completely sauced, have sloppy, unsatisfying sex, forget in the morning."

  A pause as he steps even closer. My back brushes against the jackets, light darkening.

  "Unsatisfying?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow. "How can you prove that?"

  Another soft laugh, huskier this time.

  "Maybe I can't," he says, tilting his head. "But I just think sex is better when both people are passionate. You know. Fierce. Almost desperate for each other."

  And then he reaches forward, cupping my face, rough palm against my soft skin.

  I have fantasized about this moment for four years. His thumb traces my bottom lip.

  "I'd have to agree," I breathe. "Although without empirical research, I'd have to say my opinion on hot, animalistic fucking is based purely on gut instinct."

  Another step, and I am through the coats, against a firm wall.

  "Is that so?" he asks, and he is leaning forward, ghosting his lips over mine. I try to capture his mouth, but he is teasing me. Keeping me waiting.

  "That's my expert opinion, yes," I moan, remembering all the fantasies I’d entertained where Oliver rips my underwear in half and fucks me for hours.

  In reality, we both hear the door close behind us. A jolting slam.

  Oliver jolts, swearing under his breath.

  "What was that?" I ask, but he is already at the door, investigating. He turns the knob to no avail. Again. A sliver of light shines through, illuminating his bespectacled face.

  And a hint of mischief.

  He turns, shrugging. A sly grin. "I think we're locked in."

  "It's stuck?" I ask, still backed against the wall, still shuddering from the light brush of his lips. Oliver gives another hard yank, pounding on the door.

  But the party's too loud, and everyone's smashed.

  "Well," he says, ambling back to me. "This certainly gives us more time to finish our experiment."

  He steps in front of me, sliding his foot between my legs, widening them. Reaches down, grasps the bottom of my skirt in his left hand.

  "What's that?" I sigh. He drags his fingers up my inner thighs.