Nymphomania (Erotic Romance Bundle)

by Dalia Daudelin

  I let my eyes drift shut, savoring the warm, wet feeling enveloping my cock. I could feel myself pressing up against her involuntarily. She started to bob her head slowly, taking me deeper with each time, and I moaned quietly, letting my fingers intertwine with her hair.

  I didn’t push her, just felt the softness of her hair accentuating the softness of her mouth, of her tongue, of her lips. I begged her not to stop but she did, settling back onto her hands and pushing herself up.

  She turned around to take her skirt the rest of the way off and I got quite a show of her assets, her butt and pussy on full display, and then she turned back to me and was on top of me and in a flurry of kisses and love bites and touching she eased me into her folds, sighing when I was all the way inside, giving me those bedroom eyes that I knew she used to drive men wild.

  I let her start to move at her own pace, and she started at just the right one. Slow, tantalizing, infuriating. I wanted to kiss her and I did, tasting myself just slightly on her tongue. She started to speed up, rocking back and forth, still gentle and sweet and so warm and tight.

  I put my hands on her ass, kneading her cheeks and pushing her harder and faster.

  I could see the struggle on her face, that she was getting close and I pulled her close, biting her neck softly, and then when she mewled into my ear I bit harder, and she tightened around me. I started bucking against her, letting her ride out her orgasm, and I told her I was getting close.

  She sped up more, pressing down on me, and she purred to come inside her. I let it loose, finally, deep inside her. I nestled my face into the crook of her neck and pressed my cock into her and came into her unprotected pussy, one long ropey strand of cum after another.

  I was holding her tight for what felt like an eternity, and when I sat back and let her go she stepped lightly to my desk and grabbed my pack, pulling two cigarettes out and offering one to me wordlessly, lighting it when I had put it in my mouth. We sat there on the couch without our modesty, saying nothing, then she put her smoke out and pulled on her coat, long, and tied it at the waist. Didn’t even bother to pick up her clothes, which was queer as a three dollar bill, and as she left she turned back and looked at me picking up my slacks:“Don’t forget. Seven o’clock.”

  She left a card on the table with the address, and then she left, nude but for her shoes and her coat, and even though that was enough to keep her covered I could feel myself getting hard again just thinking about it.

  I needed a shower and a shave: I had a date to keep.

  I was at the address at six fifty-five dressed to the nines.

  I made decent arm candy if I say so myself. I almost wondered, if the dame wasn’t married, why she had to pay someone to come when she could clearly get a date if she needed it, what with her looks and that voice of hers, that made promises you could only hope she was going to keep. She was on the curb ready for me even though I knew full well that I was early, got into the car wordlessly and shut the door without slamming it--you’d think it would be common knowledge, but most folks just can’t manage it.

  You have to practice, and only people from money think of it as worth practicing. Or people who wanted to seem like they were from money. She didn’t talk during the ride over, not even simple pleasantries, just directions given as-needed.

  We got to the party and I wasn’t surprised to find that the clientele was upscale, and the goods were on display. My date gave her invitation to the guy at the door and we were escorted in. She gladhanded with a few older folks she seemed to know and for a minute I thought there wasn’t anything but the pick-me-up to make this story worth telling.

  Then things went south.

  I heard a shout go up and while I was looking to see where it had come from I saw the dame pull a piece of out of her handbag, a little thing made of plastic that wouldn’t have been caught by a metal detector as long as the guards didn’t look inside the bag with their eyes.

  She turned to me and that velvety alto had hardened a bit:

  “Follow my lead.”

  She started off towards the west wall and I followed, keeping my head ducked while the rest of the room stared at what must have been something very interesting or scandalous in the other direction. The girl pulled a key out of her dress and unlocked a heavy wooden door, stepping through with a sure, practiced hand.

  She made a bee-line for the stairs and was up them in two shakes, and when I got to the top I wasn’t breathing hard but I was feeling the burn in my thighs and she just kept on going like there was nothing. I could hear a few voices, soft with distance and muffled by closed doors, and she was headed right for them.

  Finally we were at another heavy-looking door, important looking with a copper name plate I didn’t bother to read because I was too busy trying to keep my head down. She materialized another key out of her tits and turned it, finally stopping and looking at me. I hoped I’d get some kind of explanation but I didn’t.

  “Go in. I’ll be right behind you.” I gave her a look that said she was crazy I felt the barrel of the gun in my ribs, a feeling I’d hoped to avoid since I figured out what guns were.

  I nodded silently, my eyes wide and sweat just beginning to form on my brow. I opened the door and stepped inside.

  There were three guys, tall and built like trucks. I tried not to piss myself and I froze, about three steps in.

  It was almost beautiful, like synchronized swimming, the way they all turned at the same time, and in a cleverly shifting formation they surrounded me and that’s when things went from bad to worse for me.

  I felt a punch nudge my cheek and my head whipped around on its suggestion, a knee hit my kidneys, and everything else was just a blur of pain and fear. I heard a shot ring out, then another, and I’m not sure how many there were after that but when I opened my eyes the girl was kneeling in front of me, going through the pockets of one of the mooks, and after a second her eyes flickered to my face to check on me, and when she saw I’d woken up she pulled her hand out of his coat and walked over to me.

  I was still in the fetal position, trying to protect my vital organs from a booted foot, and she reached her hand in and touched my face tenderly.

  She helped me up, I’ll give her that much. She might’ve thrown me to the wolves but once the hard part was over she helped me recover.

  I was dizzy and I spent a solid few moments trying to get my vision to stop swimming, and when I did I was looking at a big mess that used to be a guy’s head and I sicked up on the carpet.

  The dame pulled out her cell, punched a number in, and said a few lines to someone. I didn’t catch any of it on account of being so disoriented and so scared. I wish I had, looking back.

  I’m sure everything would’ve made a hell of a lot more sense. She reached into her clutch, which I now saw had been empty save for the gun and the envelope that she handed me. It was money, and when I counted I saw it was a little more than we’d agreed on. Pain and suffering, I suppose.

  I took her arm and she led me out, trembling and with the taste of vomit lingering.

  A big guy, a guard, stopped us, and she leaned up to him and said something into his ear and he nodded, said something cryptic into his earpiece, and we were escorted back out onto the cold concrete curb, with a valet bringing the car around.

  The girl reached into my pocket, pulled out the keys to the car, and drove me back to the office.

  This car ride was quieter even than the last as I stared out the window and tried to think straight, but the thoughts wouldn’t come. The next thing I knew I was laying on my couch and the dame was sitting in one of my chairs with a glass of water and an aspirin ready for me. I took them and went back to sleep.

  I woke up two days later, feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. I suppose I should’ve gone to the hospital that first night but I hoped the worst was past, since the mistake was already made. An envelope was on my desk with my name on it.

  No return address; hell, no mailing address. I
opened it and inside was a single piece of paper, with a message written in what looked like marker.

  It said: “Good work. Welcome to the company.”

  There was no signature, and in spite of the conversational tone, I knew I hadn’t asked to be invited and I knew that ‘no’ wasn’t going to happen.

  I set the note down and looked for a bottle of gin to crawl into.

  Stallion

  Contemporary Erotic Romance

  Ivanna Roze

  Here's a glimpse of the hot sex you can find in this steamy standalone novel:

  Morgan Lowe knows exactly how much of a mistake she's making. Some small voice in the back of her head is telling her how it's all going to be fine. How this is building up a relationship with him.

  Not a business relationship, of course. That part of her is lying its ass off. This isn't going to turn into anything. If it does, then whatever it turns into isn't going to be what she came here for.

  She'd been wanting a sense of camaraderie. A sense that she was friendly, that she wasn't just a blood-sucking harpy who was out to steal his land. After all, that was what men thought of her, right? Just some kind of bitch.

  Instead, she's building up a very different sense. His hands run across her skin, sensitive from the cold. Like little spots of warmth, wherever he touches. This is a mistake, and it's a mistake she's decided to make anyways.

  Her lips press against his neck and then her teeth bite down. Philip lets out a little gasp and lowers his weight a little, turning and pressing her back into the wall. She lets go of his neck and takes a deep breath.

  She can see the way that his eyes drop to watch her breasts heaving as she breathes. He pulls the thin cotton fabric away from them and looks. She resists the urge to cover them up. She's already resisted it long enough as it is.

  She'd never been happy with her body in the past. Why should that be any different now? But something about the way that he looks at her, hungry, needing something that neither of them are entirely prepared to explain to the other—

  It makes her feel like a woman, in a way she's never felt before. In a way that makes it feel less like she's at a disadvantage to every man she's ever met.

  His head dips and his hot mouth engulfs a dusky nipple. The heat, surrounding her most sensitive parts, makes her head feel fuzzy. She only knows what she feels, and she knows that her hips are pressed against something very hard.

  Her hands decide to go on their own little exploratory mission to find out exactly what it is that he's hiding down there. Morgan has a good idea of what she'll find when her fingers undo the button fly.

  She wraps those fingers around his hardness, through the paper-thin fabric of his boxers, and it reacts to the touch, jumping and twitching in her hand. She gives it an experimental tug and even through the boxers she can tell that the experiment is a complete success.

  When she starts to pull the boxers down, sinking to her knees, it reacts again, twitching almost in a gleeful response to its new-found freedom. The shaft is almost too thick to wrap her hand around.

  She might be making another mistake thinking that she could take it all in her mouth, never mind inside her. But she's not going to stop herself now. Not going to be stopped by anything.

  She presses her lips against the head, a gentle kiss that almost certainly isn't exactly what he's looking for. The sigh that he lets out tells her that she's on the right track, though. Her mouth opens wide, and she takes him inside.

  His hardness fills her mouth, and she's forced to use her tongue as much as she can, because she's not taking it near as deep as some of the women in those videos she's seen.

  The way his fingers snake into her hair, pulling just enough to let her know that he probably can't stop himself from doing it, though, says that she's not doing so badly.

  She starts to move, and his hands tighten, trying to softly and subtly guide her mouth up and down his shaft. He must be enjoying it. Everything about the way he's acting suggests he does. But even still, she's amazed.

  Morgan looks up at him. The look of complete rapture on his face, an inescapable bliss, is surprising. She must be doing something right after all.

  His hips rock in to meet her mouth, his cock pressing itself dangerously toward the back of her mouth. The soft moan that escapes his lips stops her from telling him that she can't, though.

  Instead, she continues. She ignores whatever reflexes her throat tries to throw ay her. She can't overcome them, not with sheer force of will, but she can try to pretend that she doesn't notice it.

  Finally he pulls her off. His breaths are coming hard and ragged. "Fuck that was good."

  Something inside her, something she can't explain and will deny in the morning, feels a little bit sad that he didn't cum. Her pussy tingles at the thought of him shooting it down her throat, of taking her and making her give him whatever he wants.

  "Did you like that?" She shouldn't ask. She can see on his face that he does. His eyes flutter shut at the memory.

  "Fuck yes." He reaches down, one of his big, meaty hands wrapping around her arm and lifting her up a little. "Get up."

  She gets up, and as soon as she's got her balance, she's being turned around, bent over the countertop. Her trousers slip down easily over her skin, wetness forcing him to peel them off of her.

  "I'm going to fuck you," he growls. Morgan presses back against him. Deep in the pit of her stomach, she wants this. Needs it. It's been—God, it's been forever since she had anyone do this to her.

  Never like this. Never a raw, primal lust. Never this bad of an idea. Never with a man ten years her elder. As he lines himself up with her slick entrance and pushes inside, she feels herself already starting to clamp down on him, her body tensing up a little and then relaxing.

  Her eyes go wide. He pulls back out a ways and then pushes in again. Somehow, though it seems impossible, he goes in deeper this time.

  He rocks his hips back once again, and with the third thrust he pulls himself in, using her hips like a handle, until he slams all the way home. His balls slap against her in a way she never realized would feel as hot as it does.

  "Fuck me," she says. She's not sure why she says it, not sure if any of this is a good idea. The idea that she shouldn't be doing it only makes her want to keep going more. The need overtaking her senses keeps her on the edge of orgasm, always threatening to go over the edge once more.

  He does what she asks. He pulls out and then slams himself home once more, his body moving in perfect time, filling her up to the breaking point. She's close. She feels as if she's been close the entire time, every thrust threatening to send her over the edge.

  But something holds her back. Something that she can't name, something she can't explain. Something that she wants very badly to go away. When his hand comes down hard on her round ass, unleashing a resounding clapping sound, and then he thrusts in again, it's like the veil has been lifted.

  Her entire body goes tight, her fingers scrabbling on the countertop for grip that she can't find. Her body is moving on its own, now, her pussy squeezing to drain out every last drop of his essence.

  And when he explodes inside her, the mistakes are complete, and she falls deeper and deeper into the orgasm, down to depths that she didn't know could exist, but now that she's got them, she's not giving them up for anything.

  Chapter One

  Philip Callahan swallows down his morning coffee, looking out at the morning sunrise. He shouldn't have indulged by letting himself sleep in. It's too hard already to get the work done that the day has in store for him.

  The second he gets slack is the second that the rest of the world eats him up. It's threatened to twice now already, only days apart, and the damn ranch is the only thing he's got left at this point.

  He tries not to look over his shoulder at the thought of his wife. He doesn't succeed. He can't see the little hill that she always loved to sit on through the house, and he can't see the little tree that he planted beside
her.

  But that doesn't mean that he doesn't know what he's looking at. Too many hours in the day, and too much time to feel sorry for himself.

  Time that he could have spent fixing the fence, time that he could have been writing his damn congressman to stop sending their guys around trying to buy up the ranch.

  He takes a deep breath. The boys will be there soon, and he'd better be at work when they get to the ranch, or they might think he's getting old.

  The big stallion's broken a hole in the fence again. He's an ornery son of a bitch, and he likes to smash things. But he's got good racing blood in him, if anyone could get him reined in.

  It was a project that he'd thought about, when the yearling had first shown some talent for running. The breeding was all there, but that doesn't always mean anything. It's a risk you take, raising horses.

  The risk had paid off. The big, ornery, black-haired stallion was every bit the racing champ that you would want him to be. He could outrun damn near anything. Then again, so could any of them.

  But once Sara had died, it didn't seem that important any more. It was hard to want to hurt for the work when everything already hurt so bad to start with.

  So even though he should have done the breaking already, should have sold the stallion off to a proper owner, now he was letting a champion horse in its prime years lie around and waste away and turn into nothing.

  Philip pulled the frown off his face. He didn't have time to be angry. There was work to do, and the boys would notice right away. He heard the sound of their truck pulling up as he shifted a stack of fence-ties onto his shoulder.

  He'd make an impressive figure with that hundred-pound bundle on his shoulder alone there in the morning light, when they pulled up. Not such an old man, now, huh?

  Philip wasn't that old, but when you're nineteen and full of dumb ideas, a man closer to his forties than his thirties must seem pretty damn old to be doing this kind of work.