by Alexis Angel
I moan into his mouth, eager for him to give me release.
Chapter 8
Tanner
I’ve wanted this for so long. Not the feel of Elsa coming alive under my fingers or of my fingers moving in and out of the warm, wet heat of her pussy. I’m not an idiot—that part feels fucking great.
No, I’m talking about her surrendering to me. That’s the fucking tits.
It’s always a rush, when any woman surrenders to me, but a woman as desirable and independent and strong as Elsa? Best feeling in the world.
I haven’t even mentioned where we are—on a park bench in Central Fucking Park. How’s that for stroking my ego?
Sure, she may have started kissing me after dinner because the photographer was on our tail. In fact, he’s peaking from the bushes, the little perv.
But there’s no way she let it go on for this long—or go this far—without being as fucking horny for me as I am for her.
This isn’t just theory on my part. I’ve got the juicy evidence literally in my hand right now. As my thumb rubs back and forth over her clit, I relish in every twitch, every aroused movement from Elsa.
She lets out a low whimper as I break our kiss so I can watch her writhe under me. It’s just so the photographer can get pictures of our faces of course.
What’s the use of going through with this public spectacle if you can’t tell it’s us in the pictures? Even I don’t believe it myself.
Just like I don’t completely believe myself when I say that everything I do—from purposefully provoking Elsa to stealing her models out from under her—is because I want her to suffer. Or that it’s just business.
Bullshit.
Don’t get me wrong, that’s definitely part of it. But I can’t deny that there’s a little part of my heart that hates that she left me—that she walked away. That she’s been denying me this all this time.
We have this wonderful give and take that we always do so well. She takes as much pleasure as I can give her. And in turn, I take all the pleasure she freely gives.
As I bend down to capture her mouth in mine again, I use my right hand to spread open her pussy lips. I plunge a finger deep into her pussy at the same time that I plunge my tongue in her mouth. Our tongues and my finger play a musical trio in perfect time that would put Tchaikovsky to shame.
As our lips separate, I rest my forehead on hers for a moment. As my fingers switch from classical music to a lively banjo plucking tune, I whisper into her ear, “You always liked that move.”
“Ohhhh,” she moans into my neck, opening her legs wider to let me know she approves of my pussy music.
With satisfaction, I move back to capture her lips again, nipping at her bottom lip until she can’t take it anymore. I lean forward to close the space between our lips.
She rests her head in my other cupped hand. Her left hand is gripping my crotch while she steadies herself on the bench with her right hand. I glance up, without breaking delicious contact with either Elsa’s mouth or pussy, to see the photographer leaving his post.
He moves behind the bushes to walk a few feet away, using a tree for cover. Good, he’s getting lots of angles.
“Fuck, don’t stop doing that,” Elsa moans into my mouth.
Like she has to tell me that.
I answer back with a moan of my own and a quickening of the pace of my two fingers now moving in and out of her soaked pussy.
I bet you’re wondering how we’re getting away with practically fucking in public like this? This is New York City. Sure, people are walking by, and we may even have the odd leer here or there, but for the most part no one gives a fuck what we’re doing.
Except for the photog of course.
Her body quivers under me, and I know she’s getting close. It’s intoxicating—how I can make her move and shake based on how I’m touching her. It’s like I’m the porn version of Jim Henson, and she’s my slutty Muppet.
I slow my finger strokes and switch from deep, passionate kisses to slightly softer ones, but they’re just as deep. A moan of protest escapes her lips, but I don’t want to rush this. I know this perfect moment is fleeting.
As soon as she comes, she’ll come back to reality, too. And the reality is the two of us are at odds and grudgingly working together.
Who knows if that will ever change—or if either of us wants that to change for that matter—but for now, I’m enjoying every delicious, tantalizing moment of having her at my beck and call. Or at least having her pussy at my finger’s beck and call.
“Angel,” I whisper into her golden locks before I go in for another soul-shaking kiss.
Picking up my pace, I drop all pretenses and start fucking her with my fingers—in and out, in and out. Allowing myself just a moment to imagine my dick ramming into her pussy, I feel myself getting aroused right alongside Elsa.
That can’t happen. It’s one thing to make her come in the middle of Central Park, but I’ll be damned if I’ll lose control like that.
Especially not over something like a piece of ass. Even if it’s a sexy one, as this particular piece of ass may be.
Elsa has a lot of tells.
When she’s angry—really angry—she crosses her arms in front of her chest. When she’s nervous, she twirls her hair around her finger. And when she’s about to come, she grabs on and holds on for dear life.
Like she’s doing now, grabbing my neck and pulling me into an even deeper kiss.
I plunge my fingers even deeper, pumping in and out at a furious pace until I feel the unmistakable spasms that start at her pussy and undulate like waves crashing throughout her body. Forget our musical trio, we’ve got the whole damn symphony playing in beautiful harmony.
If we were at my penthouse, there’s no doubt I’d be plunging my throbbing dick into her wet pussy right now. The park cops might be a little lenient on some heavy petting, but I imagine they’d draw the line at all-out fucking. And going all-out in bed with Elsa is the only way to go.
I satisfy myself by thoroughly reveling in her pleasure, as she’s starting to come down from the orgasm high I so expertly gave her. I know this sounds crazy, but watching her come is almost as satisfying as my own orgasm. Almost.
I continue to kiss her as the spasms subside in her pussy. Once the vice-like grip on my fingers loosen, I reluctantly let them slip out, bringing them up to her flushed face and her swollen lips.
I place my index finger, covered in her love juices, into her mouth. She eagerly laps it up like a kid with a lollipop. The look in her eyes, hungry and satisfied all at once—it’s fucking sexy.
As I slide my second finger into her waiting mouth, I look over in the direction of my trusty photographer and throw him a little wink. He might have gotten quite a show tonight, but I’d say my view is infinitely better.
The only thing better than my view, when Elsa surrendered to her pleasure, was the heady power I had felt in getting her there. Of working her up into a frenzy to where she willingly, even eagerly, did my bidding.
Putty in my hands. Well, pussy in my hands actually.
I reluctantly pull my fingers out of Elsa’s pouting mouth. With a last kiss, I pull her skirt back to a more respectable position. Lady or not, she was certainly a Dirty Little Angel tonight.
Cupping her face in my hand, I continue to plunge my tongue into her mouth. I don’t want to break our kiss, break the spell we’re under.
But I know that real life is waiting for us as soon as we stand up.
Chapter 9
Elsa
“That went well, don’t you think?”
Tanner asks me this as if he’s been manning a PowerPoint presentation at a meeting instead of manhandling me in a public park.
I square my shoulders and try to put myself back in business mode as we walk side by side.
“Yes. Enough affection to show we’re serious, while still leaving them.”
I look down from his triumphant grin to his still-tight pants—wanting more.
We reach the entrance of the park. Our work here is done. Now would be a good time for us to go our separate ways.
Instead, Tanner grabs my hand in front of everyone and leads me through the front gates like the grand marshal in a sex parade.
I keep my head down, hiding my flushed face, as we weave through the crowd. If he sees how hot and bothered I am, I will be very bothered.
I lean in and whisper, “Is the reporter still watching us?”
“Nope.”
“Is anybody else watching us?”
Tanner laughs. “It’s New York City—no one else gives a shit what we do in public.”
“But they will when they see the pictures, right?”
He stops to inspect me from head to toe, and I squirm under his gaze.
“If the pictures look half as good as you do right now, with your rumpled clothes and your lipstick smeared all over your sexy mouth, they are going to lose their minds.”
“So, we can go then?” I’m not smiling. I’m not.
“Sure. If you’ll let me walk you home.”
And no, my heart doesn’t leap when he squeezes my hand. That’s just a street musician playing the steel drums.
As soon as we turn the corner, I try to slip my hand from his grip, but he holds tight.
“Pretend you like me. It’s only a few more blocks.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
He stops me at the crosswalk. As the cars stream by, he lets go of my hand and slips his arm around my shoulder, drawing me in. I don’t hug him back, but I don’t pull away.
“Well, for starters, when I hold you, you should lean in.”
“Like Sheryl Sandberg?”
He chuckles. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”
People are bumping into us and cursing as they fight their way to the crosswalk. But Tanner just stands there, looking down at me as if we’re the only two people on the sidewalk. He seems to enjoy being an inconvenience to me and everyone around us, his gray eyes sparkling as he gives me a half smile.
Finally, I lean in and rest my head against his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of his hard chest against my cheek and the scent of his cologne. His arm is so strong, but he holds me gently, sliding his hand from my shoulder to the curve between my waist and my hip.
My mind flashes back to my teenage years when the only way to have any sort of privacy was to leave the house. I’d take whatever affection I could get away with, wherever I could get away with it—inside a dark movie theater, in the back seat of a car, behind the claw machine at the arcade—and be home before curfew.
Except now, I’m a grown woman and I can stay out all night if I want to. And I definitely want to.
“Green light,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?”
“The street just cleared. We should cross now.”
Damn him. I knock his arm off my shoulder and charge ahead. Behind me, a yellow taxi cuts him off and leaves him waiting at the sidewalk.
“Elsa! Wait!” he yells, as I cross the street without him.
I cup my mouth with my hands and blast his words back in his face, “Pretend you like me. It’s only a few more blocks.”
“What does that mean?”
“Chase me!”
I break into a jog—best I can in heels—and put enough distance between us that he’ll have to sprint to catch up with me. I don’t dare look back. I know Tanner is following me because I can hear the pounding of his footsteps and the occasional “Watch it!” from some unfortunate pedestrian in his path.
My apartment is several blocks away, but the distance is short. I run past the doormen with fancy white gloves and the ladies with tiny, white dogs. No one seems to notice me streaking by with a gorgeous man behind me in hot pursuit.
Everyone around here is in too much of a hurry.
Finally, I stop in front of my building, panting and resting my hands on my knees.
My hair straightener has died of heat stroke, leaving my crazy hair to poof its way out of its silky straight jacket and curl up in the humid air. If I looked disheveled before, I must look insane right now.
I catch my breath and start giggling.
Tanner has slowed to a stroll and is now approaching me with his hands in his pockets. He’s pretending not to be winded, but his tie has flipped over his shoulder, and beads of sweat have formed on his brow. I hate that he’s composed and sexy even when he’s out of breath.
“There you are,” he says.
“Here I am.”
We stare at each other in silence for a brief moment, neither one of us knowing how to say goodbye or when.
Meanwhile, angry-looking clouds are forming overhead. On a humid day in New York City, the weather can change from hot and sticky to soaking wet in an instant. With a rumble and a groan, the clouds burst open.
We’re still standing there, staring silently at each other, but now, we’re doing it in the rain.
I don’t have an umbrella, and neither does he. Perfect.
“It is perfect.” Tanner lifts his face to the sky and lets the water cool him. “It’s just like that movie.”
“Which one?”
“Uh...” He stops to think. “You know, the one with the girl and the guy who are doing the thing, and then they hear thunder...”
He knows I know he’s bluffing, and he laughs. He moves toward me, puts his hands on my hips and backs me slowly up the steps, guiding me with his feet and stopping me just under the awning where the water can’t reach me. Though it’s still warm out, I shiver a bit as my wet clothes cling to my skin.
Tanner brushes my hair out of my face, cups my chin with two hands, and traces my lower lip with the tip of his thumb.
“They gaze into each other’s eyes,” he whispers a line from the non-existent movie, as he looks at me, his eyes stormy with desire. He leans in just a little. “And then they kiss in the rain.”
“Nope. I don’t think I’ve seen that one.” I’m smiling for real this time. And I don’t care if he sees it.
“Then you won’t mind if I spoil the ending for you.”
Tanner leans in even closer. I can feel his hot breath against mine. I can practically taste his lips.
My heart is pounding with excitement. My legs are wobbly. I’m going to need to lie down soon—and take his hot, wet body to bed with me.
But just before we make contact, he stops.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I want you to ask me, Elsa. Make me feel wanted. Ask me to come up.”
I know he’s toying with me, but at this point, I don’t care. I’m the kind of woman who knows how to ask for what she wants, and he’s the kind of man who knows how to give it to me.
“I...I want you.”
My voice comes out soft and plaintive, not sultry like I’d hoped. But he’s hanging on my every word.
“I want you to come up.” Because it’s true, I really do. “Please come inside.”
“Really?”
I reach behind me and push the buzzer to be let in. “Really.”
Tanner gives me a cocky smile. He backs away from me and shrugs.
“Maybe next time,” he says.
He leaves me standing on the stoop, breathless and confused.
With a click, the door unlocks. I grab the handle to keep it from closing.
I give him one more chance to say he’s kidding. To say he’s coming in. To say he’s mine.
I begin the countdown in my head: five, four, three, two…
“Goodnight, Elsa.”
I don’t bother to respond. I turn around, open the door, and head up the stairs to my apartment.
Alone.
The Capitalist Chronicle
From Brawls to Romance: Are the Lingerie Lovers reunited or is it all for show?
By Lis Langley
New York—From a night of petty, backhanded insults to a flowery, romantic night under the stars—are the Lingerie Lovers back? A
pparently, they are, as the feuding lovers, Elsa Blakely and Tanner Sharpe have been caught in another steamy, yet compromising position last night.
No less than a few day ago, we saw them tear each other apart on-stage and in a viral video seen across the world. But now, we see them necking in the woods, enjoying more than a few heated exchanges.
From verbal throw-downs to Central Park rendezvous, these lovers always know how to keep us entertained and wanting more.
The rumors in the lingerie world and in the gossip magazines claim that the two CEOs and ex-lovers were never exes at all or at least, they’ve recently rekindled their love. After last night, I can confirm that the latter is true.
Sitting by a lavish display of white and pink roses, on top of one of the most exclusive five-star restaurants New York City has to offer, I found the two lovebirds, enjoying a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, less than a breath apart.
Though I still have some speculations as to the authenticity of this blossoming relationship, I’ve always been an advocate for the duo. However, the timing does seem quite peculiar, doesn’t it?
After the Fashion Week throw-down, with Sharpe dominating the fight with his deceptive move in poaching Blakely’s models, both of their companies’ stocks took a devastating hit. Their shareholders and executive board members saw the rapid decline in sales, all of which was directly in response to the now famed feud—the Lovers’ Brawl.
One could suggest that this new relationship, which is quite an ostentatious show of love and romance, is yet another publicity stunt—especially given their overt display of affection, a type of interaction we haven’t seen since their rumored break-up.
Going from hate to love, in less than a few days, raises some red flags. It’s been claimed that such a thing happens more often than not, but this reporter is skeptical.
How can such a heated feud evolve into a loving relationship overnight? Unless...it’s being forced on them. Is this the work of their executive board, shipping the two together for the sake of both their companies? Or is this truly a revival of the Lingerie Lovers?