by Artemis Hunt
She twists her head left and right. Her hips are snagged beneath his pumping ones, trapped in a vise grip around the anchor of his penis, unable to move.
“You sure?” he says.
“Y-yes.”
“Been a while, huh?”
“Not for you, I suppose.”
“I could barely get through the weekend without thinking of doing this to you every five minutes.”
She can’t believe what she’s hearing.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I wanted you bad. Couldn’t you tell by the way my cock hardens up every time I flash it before you?”
He pummels his way vigorously, going so deep that his cock head grinds and knocks against the little puckered orifice of her cervical mouth. The energy of his hips slamming against hers astounds her. She has never had such a frenetic lover before, let alone one who knows how to angle his head in such a way that it hits a spot just below her cervix – the very spot that sends curling tingles all over her pelvic region and up her spine into her fevered brain.
“Oh, oh, oh,” she cries.
“What? You like it here?” He pinions her hips and concentrates on that spot. “They say ‘G’ is the target.”
“Bullseye,” she replies faintly.
Oh, she’s going to miss him after this. After being fucked by Brian Morton, what other guy can possibly compare?
He drives himself floridly onto her G-spot – coring it, rubbing it until she writhes and screams in delirious pleasure. Her orgasm is blinding, coming on almost without her giving it permission. She arches her back from the floor and screams with all the sound and fury in her body. Paeans and paeans of sensation whiplash and crash through her sensory fibers.
And still he does not give her respite. He goes on and on, fucking and squeezing herself within her smooth passage while his lips dip down to kiss her savagely on her mouth. Again and again. Wet tongues laving wet tongues. Moist groins bumping and squishing with squelchy, love-struck noises. She has never felt so desired before. Or so horny. Even as her first orgasm abates, a second one blossoms and crests.
He trawls her through three mind-blowing orgasms before he lets himself have one. And even then, he keeps on going. She can feel him softening inside her, and then hardening again. Does this man ever stop? He’s more than an incredible fuck. And when he looks into her eyes so deeply the way he is doing now – with gold flecks in his brown irises – she can imagine herself falling in love.
God forbid.
Never, ever, ever must she allow this. Because he won’t be reciprocating it any time soon, she can be certain.
He doesn’t do encores. Better take what he has to offer right now.
He finally collapses on top of her, his body shuddering with deep breaths. His skin is flushed and beaded with sweat. A drop actually falls upon her lips, and she licks its salty tang away. She can almost imagine it to be one of her tears.
His chest heaves with several deep breaths, and then he settles on top of her, sinking comfortably into every curve she possesses.
“Now I know why you’re so slim,” she says. “You must get thorough workouts every day.”
He laughs. “Let me catch my breath, and then it’s one more for the road.”
Yes, she’s going to miss this. Miss him laughing with her. Miss his snarky sense of humor. Miss his vivid smiles and the snap of fire in his dazzling eyes. Miss discovering more about him – those endless, boundless undulations and complexities of his mind that she has yet to explore.
She strokes his cheek.
“Goodbye, Brian.”
He sighs as he smiles winningly. “Gawd, I hope you’re not going to get all weird on me.”
“No, I promised I wouldn’t. And I won’t.”
“I believe you.”
He kisses her again. A loving deep kiss that is layered with regret and emotion and hidden meaning that she would like to read in between his lip nuances.
I’ll make myself un-miss him.
He smiles again. “Now what do you say to us grabbing a bite to eat . . . and then fucking our brains out one more time?”
*
They made love throughout the evening, and then through the night, stopping now and again to drink wine or nibble at snacks. He falls asleep on her bed for the second night in a row. This time, they are entwined. Limbs curled around each other’s, her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.
It is . . . almost romantic.
He reminds himself he doesn’t do romance.
When dawn snakes through the cracks in her curtains, he puts his hand on her hair and tugs at it gently.
“Wakey, wakey. I’ve got to be getting back to the Evil Day Job.”
“Oh right,” she groans, “it’s Monday. Two nights of partying. I can’t believe it. It’s so not me.”
Yeah, but it’s me, he thinks. Time to get back to his old life. Why does he feel heavy all of a sudden, like there’s a lead anchor dragging down his chest?
He vaults out of bed for a shower.
“I thought you were the boss,” she calls from the bed.
“Yeah, well, somebody’s got to play the devil.” He has got to work back his razor edge. He has been uncharacteristically mellow last night. Any more of this and he will be losing his touch.
When he has finished showering, she stands by the bathroom door, watching him as he towels his hair dry. They are both silent. He hates goodbyes and he knows she senses that he doesn’t want her to create a scene. And so she doesn’t. She just stands there, her hair mussed up – that sexy, been-fucked-all-night, out-of-bed hair that he finds so alluring. Her eyes are soft and accepting, and he’s grateful that she doesn’t try to talk him out of leaving.
After he has dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she watches him walk to the front door.
“Have a good life,” she says.
“You too, sweetheart.”
He turns to go before he can say something he’s going to regret, which is basically the story of his life. He avoids the elevators and bolts down the stairs, fleeing the carapace of emotions he left behind.
14
Sam finds herself thinking of Brian from time to time. She plays their lovemaking over and over again in her mind.
She’s not in love with him, she sternly tells herself. He is just a wonderful memory. A keepsake in her little box of secrets. She will never see him again, but take him out from her drawer from time to time to fantasize about – like a high school yearbook photo of a great-looking boy who took her to the prom.
She doesn’t tell Cassie about her night with Brian. She would like to keep it to herself, hug it warmly to her chest.
“So are you going to call Caleb?” she casually asks Cassie.
Her best friend stirs the froth on her cappuccino, despoiling the carefully shaped chocolate powder heart. She makes a face.
“I’d rather he call me first.”
“And has he?”
“No.”
“Maybe he’s waiting for you to call.”
“Maybe he’s too indoctrinated in the Brian Morton school of one night stands.”
Sam winces at the mention of Brian’s name.
‘Ah well,” Cassie says in a singsong voice, “back to the old daily grind of waiting by the phone. Only we don’t have to technically wait by the phone anymore, seeing as we are all equipped with text, Viber, What’s App and a million other ways to get dumped.”
“He did not dump you.”
“He didn’t exactly jump all over on seeing me again either. I mean, it’s understandable for Brian, but I thought Caleb and I had a connection. At least . . . we talked. And talked and talked and talked while we fucked.”
That’s more than I can say for Brian, Sam thinks in chagrin.
Still, what is a girl to do but carry on with the precious mementoes in her life?
*
Brian finds himself thinking of Sam when he’s supposed to be concentrating on something else. Like
this really boring ad presentation, for example.
“And so, it’s PERFECT,” the enthusiastic young exec says, tapping the mockup, “the perfect cream for the perfect woman.”
He beams as though he has just found a shortcut to the fountain of youth.
Brian feels like burying his face in his hands. Or better still, burying the young exec under a mountain of PERFECT cream. Who the hell copyrights a name like PERFECT anyway?
“And that’s supposed to make me run out to Nordstrom, throw down my credit card and shell three hundred dollars out for it?” he says caustically.
“Uh, sir, with all due respect, you’re not the target audience for this copy.”
“I’ll tell you who the target audience is for this synthetic tub of goo that’s the chemical composition of something you don’t really want to know. It’s the imperfect woman. Where the fuck did you get the idea that women are perfect anyway?”
“Uh, sir . . . they do strive for an ideal – ”
“I take it that you’ve never lived with a woman before?” Neither has Brian, but he’s not going to let that on to the gap-toothed kid who obviously hasn’t started shaving yet.
“I live with my mother, sir. And I’m gay.”
Brian rolls his eyes. “Astounding. Take it from me, kid. Women aren’t perfect.”
In fact, he has known that all along. It’s just something which has never really occurred to him before, kind of like a thesis on the air he is breathing that he suddenly has to write about.
He takes a deep breath and goes on, “They’re highly strung, sometimes whiny and they do impractical, irrational things . . . such as asking their ex-school bully to be their pretend boyfriend to their sister’s engagement party over the weekend.”
The young ad exec blinks, clearly lost in this thread of conversation.
“Or taking the dance floor by storm even when they can’t distinguish somebody else’s toes from their own.”
He’s aware that Sam’s face has invaded his mind now, pretty much in the manner of alien thought control.
“Or fussing over their hair and worrying about it being too curly when it’s the most glorious thing on the planet. Or throwing a hissy fit when you’ve masturbated in your shared bed the night before and exploded your cum all over your sheets.”
The young exec’s jaw is on the table. “Oh wow, I never knew women were like that, sir.”
“Yeah.” Brian shoves the pile of prints across the table. “Go back to school, kid, and come back when you’ve fucked a woman. And if you can’t get your dick up for one, try living with her for a weekend.”
Fuck. Now he’s getting all weird.
It’s all Sam’s fault. She has gotten under his skin somehow. Wormed in when he least expected it.
Now if only he can get Samantha Fox and her imperfect life out of his head.
15
THREE MONTHS LATER
The club music’s thumpa-thumpa-thumpa drowns everything out except the throbbing of Brian’s alcohol-soaked brain. Gawd. Don’t tell me I’m getting too old for this, he thinks.
He lifts his beer bottle to Caleb. They are at the blue-lighted bar.
“To new beginnings.”
“What? I can’t hear you.”
“I said ‘That cute guy is grinning at you.”
“What cute guy? Where?” Caleb appears outraged.
Brian throws his head back and laughs.
“That one.” He jabs at the middle of the dance floor, where people are jumping, whirling, writhing in severe contortions (possibly of pain?) and basically doing their primal pre-mating ritual.
There’s a bobbing head that looks painfully familiar. Brown untamed curls. Pert cute smiling face. Zumba-like dance moves.
No shit.
He’s aware that he’s looking at Sam. And her dancing has been taken up yet another notch since they last were together. She’s wearing . . . not a bandeau top . . . but close. A hot red little number that shows off her curves and with more confidence than he has ever seen on her. Her skirt is definitely flirty – a tie-dyed parasol number that twirls prettily as she spins.
She is dancing with Cassie, who is looking marvelous in a shiny black number. Several guys are looking over longingly at the two of them.
Brian’s smile stretches wide.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” Caleb yells above the din.
“Yeah. Kismet.”
“It’s almost like you described it back at the party. Only Sam is not dancing with a dude with greasy hair and a T-shirt that says – ”
“‘FUCK ME GENTLY’,” they chorus.
And laugh.
Brian shrugs. “What can we do?”
His feet are still rooted to the spot.
“I don’t know about you,” Caleb says, “but I’m going down there.”
Brian watches his best friend weave through the throng to go to Cassie. Caleb taps a delighted Cassie on the shoulder. She swings and registers genuine surprise. They hug and begin to dance together.
Sam is left floundering, but not for long. A dude with a shock of hair – which is unfortunately not greasy – cuts in to dance with her instead.
To hell if he’s going to let that happen.
Brian takes a long swig of his beer and slaps it down on the bar. Then he elbows his way through the sweaty, shiny bodies until he reaches Sam.
“Take a hike,” he says to the dude. “I wanna dance with my former girlfriend.”
The smile that lights Sam’s face up brings a pang to his heart.
She puts one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand, and together, they dance the night away.
WORKS BY ARTEMIS HUNT
EROTIC ROMANCES
The ‘Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male’ series
A Virgin Enslaved
The Pretend Boyfriend
The ‘Maid for the Billionaire Prince’ series
Mysterious Desire
Forbidden Desire
Infamous Desire
Royal Desire
ROMANCES
The Body Snatcher Wears Lipstick
Snow White and the Alien
EROTICA BY APHRODITE HUNT
The ‘Bound and Shackled to the Billionaire’ series
His Indecent Proposition
His Indecent Demands
His Indecent Desires
His Indecent Secrets
The ‘Initiation’ series
Open Your Legs for Me
Blindfolded and Spread-eagled
Thighs Wide Apart
Teacher, Please Spread my Pussy
The Final Initiation
The Initiation: A Bundle of 5 Stories
The ‘Initiation 2’ series
Open Your Legs for my Family
Bend Over for my Family
Publicly Display Yourself for Me
Sex Slave at Sea
Paraded before the Billionaires
Sex Slave at the Auction
The ‘Initiation 3’ series
Sex Slave to the Dictator
‘The Royal Captive’ series
Prince Miro’s Capture
Prince Miro’s Submission
Prince Miro’s Enslavement
Prince Miro’s Punishment
Prince Miro’s Escape
Prince Miro’s Final Confrontation
The Royal Captive: Vol 1 to 3
The Royal Captive: Vol 4 to 6
The ‘Naughty Nymphomaniac’ series
I was a Naughty Nymphomaniac
Officer, Please Spread and Cuff Me
Gang Banged by the Chain Gang
Tempting the Hot Navy SEAL
The ‘Delicate Piercings’ series
Her First Clit Ring
Her First Clit Ring 2: Menage
Her First Clit Ring 3: Desensitization
The ‘Undercover’ series
Undercover: Exposing the Bad Doctor
Undercover: Stealing from the Sexy CEO
The ‘Alien’ series
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens
Trapped with Sex-Starved Aliens 2
Hot, Wet and Steamy (individual stories)
When He’s Inside You
My Stepson is a Naughty Stripper
The Gorgeous Naked Man in my Storm Shelter (Erotic Suspense)
Dear reader, as this list is not always comprehensive due to more stories being churned out after this point in publishing, please visit http://artemishunt.blogspot.com/ and http://aphroditehunt.blogspot.com/ for more stories and updates. I write as Artemis Hunt for erotic romances with a more romance feel and Aphrodite Hunt for pure erotica and erotic romances which are slightly kinkier. So please be aware of what you’re getting into, dear reader, when you read one of my stories. Thank you so much for your support.
Table of Contents
The Pretend Boyfriend (Inhumanly Handsome, Humanly Flawed Alpha Male Erotic Romance)
Midpoint