Best Erotic Romance 2014

by Kristina Wright

  “Aw, come on. I’m crap at dancing too. I tell you what, we’ll make it a competition.”

  I saw a light come on in his eyes. Ian was very competitive. I’ve got him to do so many things by turning them into a contest. Cleaning, shopping, visiting my relatives. It was amazing what I could turn into a game if I had to.

  “Go on then, what kind of contest?”

  “Well, a wager,” I replied, “best of—I dunno—three games wins.”

  “Wins what?” He added.

  Often the bribery would involve the removal of a chore from his list or a promise to make his favorite dessert that night. This time, I decided on something a little more fun.

  “An orgasm.”

  “Oh,” he said, brightening up, “sounds good.”

  “Yeah, winner receives one full orgasm from the other competitor with no need to return the favor, redeemable at any time up to six months, no purchase necessary.”

  Ian chortled. It’s a great sound that gets me in the pit of my stomach still, and I must have heard it a million times over the years. My man is sexy, though. I can’t help myself.

  “Okay, Mandy, you’re on.”

  It really was a win-win situation. I would love to be showered with all his sexual prowess, but I would be equally happy to suck his cock until he came. I’m rather easy like that. Ian makes me that way; he’s hot. I want to touch him all the time; our friends are always complaining about our inappropriate touching in public. I couldn’t help it though. I wanted to wind my fingers through his or pinch his cute little bubble butt or run my fingers down his hard chest. I enjoyed reaching up to nuzzle his neck or his lips or cheek. I enjoyed being pulled into his body, snuggled beside my man.

  “Okay.” Ian’s voice woke me from my daydream. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Not a clue,” I answered.

  “Just hold your remote like this.” He held it in his hand like a relay racer holds the baton. “And move about. You don’t have to press any buttons.”

  “I can do that.” I nodded and gripped my plastic stick accordingly.

  “Right, I’ve set it to randomly pick songs for us so there’ll be no fighting.”

  “Okay, boss.” I winked cheekily, and he reached out his left hand to slap at my bottom.

  “Less of that, you,” he growled. He did it on purpose; he knew that tone of voice made me wet.

  “Sorry, sir,” I responded, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  “No distracting me, you little minx. Now, are you ready?”

  “Yes—I mean no. Not yet. Hang on.”

  I took off the zipped-up jogging top I’d put on to go outside in. Beneath it was a light, white T-shirt.

  “I’ll still be too hot,” I said. “I was dressed for the outdoors.”

  I slipped off my T-shirt and stood proudly in my plain white sports bra. I’d not reveal so much flesh to anyone else ever, but I knew Ian would appreciate it.

  “Two can play this game,” he said and set to pulling down his jeans. If he was going to bring out the arse, so was I. I kicked off my trainers and my thick cotton trousers followed. I was clad in just my underwear, all my curves revealed. I looked over to Ian. He was stripped down to his boxer-briefs, the ones with a picture of Animal from the Muppets on them that I’d bought him for Christmas. I loved to indulge his playful side.

  “Right, now are you ready?” he asked, leisurely running his gaze up and down my body.

  “Yep, I’m ready. Bring it on.” I parted my legs and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet in what I hoped was a stance similar to that engaged in by the All Blacks rugby team. It didn’t seem to intimidate Ian though. He just cocked his head to look at my arse.

  Just then the music sprang into life, and I had to concentrate on the telly. Did I mention I am just a little bit clumsy? Well I am, and I’m not so very coordinated at all. Ian effortlessly moved in time with the beat while I was still working out which foot to put forward first. Partway through the second chorus I went right when I should have gone left and bumped my hip into his.

  “Cheat,” he exclaimed.

  “Sorry,” I yelled, “I didn’t mean to.”

  I didn’t have time in the first song to appreciate the wonder of my man moving with such fluidity and rhythm clad in the bare minimum of clothing. As he bounded up and down when the screen announced the winner of the first round, I let myself indulge in a little ogling. His hard thighs, his lithe chest, even the cute little pouch of his stomach that showed how much he loved my cooking. I loved every inch of him but especially those inches hidden from my sight.

  “Ready for round two, loser?” he taunted.

  “Pride comes before a fall, mate, so watch it.” I bent myself, ready for the next challenge, and as I focused on the screen before me I felt the impact of my husband’s hand on my arse, making me totter forward.

  “Bastard,” I yelled, as the song burst onto the screen and I struggled to keep up.

  He just smirked. The sting of my buttock distracted me at first. I wanted to just turn the game off in a huff and make him spank me for being a bad girl. I nearly did it too, but then I noticed something. I knew the song and the dance moves to it. I cackled gleefully and set myself back in time to my disco days and love of the Spice Girls. Soon I was lighting up perfects on every move. Ian was not impressed.

  “Always knew my extensive knowledge of disco dance moves would prove an advantage in life.” It was my turn to smirk as I was pronounced winner.

  “A fluke,” he said. “You’re still going down, missus.”

  “Oh no, darling, you are.” I ran my fingers down my body and hooked my thumb into my cotton knickers and pulled the elastic down, just enough to show a flash of public hair. Ian was engrossed and missed the action on the telly. I snapped the knickers back and started to move along with the character on the screen.

  Ian cursed and joined in a moment later than me. I concentrated on following the action and realized that maybe I was as competitive as my husband. I pushed myself to my limit, but still I was not coordinated enough to actually successfully complete each movement. Ian’s score soared past mine so I decided desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Ian,” I cried. He looked toward me and I lifted up my bra, freeing my boobs. He stumbled, his jaw dropped and I just wiggled my right hand with the remote in it in hope that by sheer coincidence I might gain a few more points.

  He cursed and looked away from me to check the scores. I held my breath as the song finished and the little game imps or whatever it was calculated the final score, and then groaned loudly when it was revealed.

  “Yes!” Ian punched the air then wiggled his butt. “I won!”

  I growled and crossed my hands across my chest.

  “Oh, no, don’t hide ’em baby. I’m taking my prize now. Get here.”

  I dropped my arms to the side of my body and he pulled me tightly to him. He ravaged my lips with his, plundering my mouth and squeezing my breasts against his chest. I’m not a sore loser, and how could this be a bad thing anyway? I prayed the boys would sleep soundly, listening carefully for the creak of the stairs that could give away them making their way to us.

  Ian was lost in the moment so it was good that I was paying attention. He pushed down on my hips to indicate I should kneel. My pussy clenched and I gratefully sank to my knees. We’re somewhat equal in day-to-day matters, maybe even I’m slightly more dominant, but when it came to sex Ian was definitely the guy on top, even when I was riding him. He liked to be in control; I liked to let him take over although sometimes I’d protest, just to make him growl and narrow his eyes. I liked to be his naughty girl.

  But a bet was a bet, and I owed him one orgasm. When I settled on my knees in our thankfully thick-pile carpet I hooked my fingers into his pants and pulled them down to skim his knees. He was hard and straining. I loved his darkened rod, the bulbous top, the long straight lines leading down to his tight, crinkled balls. I shuffled forwa
rd a touch, rested my hands on his thighs and pressed my lips to the very tip of his cock.

  I looked up into his intense stare. He wrapped his hand in my ponytail, ready to push me if he needed to, but it was just a show of his dominance; I didn’t need any further encouragement. I slipped my lips around him and followed gravity. I took in just his head at first, swirled my tongue around its soft, rounded shape, tickling at that spot where it met the shaft, eliciting a growl from him. He tightened his fingers in my hair as I lifted up and sank down again. I took a little more of his stiffened flesh into my mouth and bobbed up and down a few times consecutively, enjoying the light friction of my lips against his dick.

  I sucked with great verve and passion and while I did, slipped my right hand from his thigh to the juncture of mine. Sometimes he’d be cruel and tell me I couldn’t masturbate while I pleased him, but still I had to try. The ache in my clit couldn’t be ignored.

  I looked up when I ran my fingers inside my knickers and saw how involved in my blow job Ian was. His head was stretched back, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight. I couldn’t count how many times I’d sucked him in the fifteen years we’d been together, but it still got to him, still aroused him to such a level that he had to fight not to come too soon. It thrilled me. When I rubbed at my wetted nether lips, they split eagerly around my finger. I found my clit and the rhythm to stroke it that pleased me most. I nodded my head in time, and Ian moaned loudly.

  I knew he was going to come; I felt the throb of his erection, the taste of his salty secretion and the tension in his leg muscles as he braced himself for that release. I rubbed my tongue down the underside of his shaft as I bobbed, and labored to keep the pace steady, eager to please him and to feel his warm come fill my mouth.

  “Fuck, Mand, gonna come.” He tightened his fist in my hair and I kept my lips around him. I wanted to taste him this time even though, ever the gentleman, he’d warned me in case I wanted it elsewhere. He grunted and stilled, and his come squirted into my mouth, coated it and sat heavily on my tongue. I lapped and sucked and relished it. He tasted musky, a hint of earthy mushroom tinged with the sweetness of apple.

  He stroked my hair, and I stroked my sticky clit. I let my mouth hang loosely around him, tasting him, feeling him soften in my mouth. I was close to coming; as my thighs tightened I prayed they wouldn’t cramp up as my orgasm blossomed.

  “Come for me,” he whispered. I knew he was watching me, knew he’d read the signs, knew he wanted me to feel pleasure too. I came, my body wracked with electrical spasms turned up so high the voltage went from pain to pleasure while my mind was wrapped up in the comfort and ecstasy of his love.

  It was the next day when I found out Ian hadn’t been quite truthful with me. When I told the boys I’d played their dance game with Daddy the night before, they both told me how good at it he was, how they often played it together when they got in from school on those nights I was on the late shift at work.

  Maybe Ian had been right; maybe it was time for me to enter the computer age and beat him at his own game. Yeah, maybe I was just a little competitive too.

  PROFESSIONAL, KNOWLEDGEABLE AND EVERY THOROUGH

  Annabeth Leong

  “Tamara, can you come out to the front?”

  Tamara Owens sighed and worked her head a little closer to the engine she was currently examining. “It’s the ’97 Civic, right? I knew that guy would be upset.”

  Her service consultant’s heels clicked against the garage’s concrete floor. Pacing. Never a good sign. “I think you should come out here. He keeps insisting he just had the timing belt serviced six months ago, and he doesn’t trust anything I say.”

  She couldn’t avoid this. Tamara emerged from the engine reluctantly, wiping grease from her fingers with a soiled rag. “Hell, Lucy, you could practically fix the damn thing yourself if you didn’t have better things to do. What am I going to tell him that you can’t?” Tamara hated talking to customers, who tended to question her and ask for the boss (sometimes even refusing to believe that she was the boss). She trained her service consultants exhaustively in customer service, parts and mechanics to avoid exactly this situation.

  Lucy shrugged helplessly, her blonde ringlets bobbing around her ears. “Would you please just come?”

  Tamara resisted the urge to growl and throw a tool to the ground. Childish behavior like that wasn’t exactly uncommon in the business—separate people worked the front desk for a very good reason—but as with all things, Tamara felt she had to hold herself to a higher standard in order to maintain respect. Not for the first time, she considered hiring a man to wear overalls and talk to customers for her. “I’ll be there in a second,” she said. Casting a longing glance over her shoulder, where the engine gleamed dully with its straightforward problems, Tamara headed to the sink to clean up and collect herself.

  The sight of the tall, sharply dressed man waiting beside the counter did nothing to improve Tamara’s mood. Everything about him spoke of precision, from his tailored suit to his obviously gym-perfected musculature to his smooth shave and gleamingly polished shoes. He was way too handsome, way too expensive and Tamara could just tell how miserable he was about to make her.

  Most of the time she could accept being halfway presentable, along with all her other halfways—halfway strong, halfway slim, halfway respected, halfway making a living with her business, halfway between her white Mississippi mother and black Massachusetts father. A man like this, who seemed to know exactly who to be and where to stand, made Tamara feel she had gotten halfway to nowhere.

  She cleared her throat and summoned her most professional voice. “Sir? My service consultant tells me you asked to speak to the mechanic who’d be working on the car.” Tamara braced for condescension—maybe he’d ask to speak to the actual mechanic, or request a different mechanic take over the job. Instead, he surprised her.

  He shook her hand with a firm grip—his palm was softer than hers—and introduced himself. “Randal Dean. Look, I’m sorry to make you leave your work. I just don’t understand this thing about the timing belt. I had service done on that six months ago, and now you guys are telling me I need to do it again. Did my other mechanic screw me over? Are you guys looking to take advantage of a guy who doesn’t know a timing belt from a…um…from a steering wheel? What’s going on here?”

  Tamara blinked. His sheepish smile revealed gorgeous dimples in his cheeks that gave boyish appeal to what might otherwise have been a clipped, businesslike tone. A very slight accent tipped her off to his Chinese heritage, making her reinterpret her initial read of his light-skinned features. He met her eyes directly, with respect, neither slipping in incredulous glances at her tool belt nor straying down to her breasts to check her out. For once, a little part of her wished he would show some awareness of her curves. She certainly noticed his refined good looks and the masculine perfection of his body’s lines.

  Pushing down her unexpected arousal, Tamara attempted to focus on the problem at hand. “Lucy should have explained the situation to you. You’ve got oil leaking from your cam seals. If that gets onto your timing belt, it doesn’t matter if it’s new. The fluid could degrade the belt—either by eating it, or just by saturating it and causing it to slip.” She stopped talking when Randal shook his head vigorously.

  “I need you to slow way, way down,” he said. “Explain it to me like I’m a three-year-old. Tell me why I need to pay hundreds of dollars for timing belt service twice in a very short time.” He paused and raked a hand through his hair, flashing a grin. “It wouldn’t hurt if you could also explain what the hell a timing belt is.”

  Tamara took a deep breath and tried again. “A timing belt helps coordinate your crank and cam shafts,” she began.

  “You lost me already.”

  Now Tamara could understand Lucy’s problem. Randal Dean might not be the kind of sexist jerk she’d been expecting, but he was a piece of work in his own right. “With all due respect, Randal, it took me a long
time to learn how a car works. I want to answer your questions and make sure you feel comfortable about how you’re spending your money with us, but at a certain point, you do have to trust my professional opinion. I’ve got a lot of other cars to fix. I can’t give you a long lesson right now.” She sighed, summoning a phrase from the customer service training she’d attended herself. “What can I do to help resolve this issue?”

  “Can I come back later?” he asked, and something about his tone heated Tamara’s cheeks. “When you’re less busy and you can spend a little time?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek. Her day was booked solid, and this wouldn’t be quick. To accommodate his request, she’d definitely have to stay late. Still, something inside her hesitated to tell him no.

  “Five o’clock,” she said. “Lucy will be closing up. The car will be ready by then, and I’ll walk you through everything I did, show you the parts I replaced, the works. We can just hang out in the garage until you’re satisfied.” She stumbled over the last word of her sentence. It conjured an image of a different sort of satisfaction, sweaty and messy and delicious. Tamara envisioned straddling Randal and running a grease-stained finger across his smooth, high cheekbone, leaving a smear behind. She wondered what it would be like to get him dirty. Coughing a little, Tamara tried to clear the fantasy from her mind.

  A faint smile spreading across his face suggested his mind had traveled to a similar place. He remained professional, however, promising to be prompt and pay for the demand on her time.

  She watched Lucy lead Randal to her car, preparing to drop him off wherever he needed to be between now and five. Tamara’s sense of foreboding hadn’t diminished in the slightest—it had only changed. That man was still much too handsome, much too expensive and much too tempting.

  Randal returned at precisely five o’clock. Tamara told Lucy to send him back to the garage, and to stick around for at least another hour in case he turned out to be a creep.