No Holds Barred

by Paris Brandon

  He was only supposed to have been her fortieth birthday present to herself, a guilty pleasure she shared with no one else. She’d never been the kind of woman men pursued but Jake Truhorn stood in front of her now, smiling that Viking marauder you’re mine smile that still made her wet and crazy.

  “You’re still wearing too many clothes,” he whispered, his warm breath fanning across her cheek as his lips traced a path to her mouth. “I see your mouth in my dreams Ella. If I close my eyes I can still taste you.” She opened her mouth and breathed him in, welcoming his tongue, his mouth, his instant fervor.

  His clever hands unhooked her bra and in a deft move he lifted her breasts, tested their weight against his palms, teased her nipples with a flick of his fingertips before he bent his head and sucked first one and then the other into his warm, wet mouth. She arched into him, reaching for his mouth, his hands, the mind-drugging essence of the man himself.

  This was what she’d missed. The freedom of letting go, of just enjoying Jake Truhorn and his immense talent for embracing life. He held her up as if she’d been made of air, strong hands cupping her ribs, her back. The rasp of her zipper sent a delicious shiver down her spine and back up it when he drew her jeans down over her bare hips.

  “When…did you start shaving?”

  She chuckled at his wonder. “I thought that I might enjoy the sensation of silk rubbing against my bare lips. It was this year’s birthday present to myself.”

  She smiled at his sharp intake of breath and the first swipe of his tongue against the smooth lips of her pussy. “Did you do it—or did you have it done?”

  “Two margaritas, a very serious Brazilian technician and some lovely hot wax that smelled like mangoes were my recipe of choice.” Her jeans were puddled around her ankles and a beautiful naked man was lapping at her pussy as if it was the finest delicacy offered in this marvelous outdoor café full of sunshine and the smell of warm meadows and sex. She moaned, already wet, greedy for more.

  She toed off her canvas sneakers, felt him slide her jeans over her feet, taking her socks with the heavy denim, dropping them onto the pile of her already discarded blouse and bra.

  And then he was back at her mouth, kissing her, devouring her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, mindless, wondering where the nearest bed was when he bent his knees, grabbed her ass with both hands and lifted her against him.

  “Not concerned about your back or conserving your strength?” Her voice shook and she didn’t care.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Stop fishing—I don’t think you’re too tall, too fat, or too curvy. I want all of you. Now, tell me you want me. Tell me this week is mine. Nothing is off-limits.”

  She nodded and he tightened his hold, his fingers digging into her. “Say it!”

  “I want you—nothing is off-limits for this week,” she whispered breathily, shaking.

  His smile was predatory and for the first time she felt a little tremor of fear slide up her spine. He wants more than a week. Now was not the time to argue. Her body had never been so tight, so needy, so very desperate for someone else’s touch. Not someone else’s—his.

  Where did a naked man get a condom? She barely had time to register the bowl full of packets on the small table beside them before he ripped one open and covered himself.

  She felt him probe her, slide inside, inch by delicious inch until she was filled. And then he began to thrust and she wanted to scream at him to hurry, to not let this feeling get away. He held her still, his grip as possessive as his icy gray-blue gaze.

  Sweat slicked the corded muscles of his neck and powerful arms and she gripped him tighter, sipped a drop of perspiration from his cheek. He shuddered but he didn’t speed the slow, steady thrust of his cock, torturing her inner muscles with every rolling, rhythmic push of his hips.

  She whimpered and arched, stretching, undulating, anything to increase the tempo but he only raised her against his mouth and laved her nipples, one after the other, drawing lazy circles with the tip of his tongue, flicking the hard little beads until she thought she would go mad.

  “Jake, please….”

  A triumphant grin crooked the corner of his mouth but instead of thrusting harder he gripped her waist and ground himself against her, swiveling her pussy around his cock in a slow circular motion that hit every quivering, sensitive nerve until she was panting, moaning, cursing as the pressure built.

  “This is only the beginning Ella,” he whispered, sending a shiver through her as her muscles clenched drawing her tighter and the first fluttering of her orgasm sank its tiny hooks into her middle. He growled, slid his arms completely around her, bent forward and started fucking her hard. All she could do was hold on, grinding against him every time his cock hit the underside of her clit. She screamed as her orgasm ripped through her, shuddering until she hung limp, suspended in his grip.

  “Neither one of us will survive five days of this,” she groaned against his shoulder, nipping at the sweat-slicked muscle. “We won’t be able to walk.” His arms shifted until he cradled her head in his hands.

  “Seven. There are seven days in a week, Ella. And if I can’t walk, I’ll crawl.” The velvet threat sent the second shiver of the morning through her.

  “Seven days—if there’s food and a shower in this paradise.” She laughed, exhausted, euphoric. “And I thought I’d surprise you when I arrived early.” He slipped out of her, holding her while she tried to find her footing.

  “What will it be first, food or a shower?” He stripped off the condom, disposing of it in the small waste basket that she also hadn’t noticed.

  She was standing naked on his wooden deck, shaking and sweat-slicked and she felt like laughing out loud. “Shower,” was all she managed.

  He gathered her clothes and hefted the large designer knapsack. “This is packing light?”

  She shrugged and shook her head, marveling that he wasn’t even breathing hard. “It takes a lot to make me look this good.”

  “You looked good when you showed up,” he snorted. “Orgasms make everyone look better.”

  She did laugh then because she knew what she must look like. “Can I list that as a beauty secret in my memoirs?”

  “Trust me, you’ll be able to list this whole week in your memoirs,” he said in a dark voice that held a hint of the velvet threat.

  “And what’s title of this particular chapter?”

  “Sex Makes You Beautiful 101.” She spared him a sidelong glance when he tucked her under his other arm and let his hand drift over the top of her breast. He kissed her, open-mouthed, hungry, while leading her into the rambling, weathered cedar, shingled two-story house and the promise of pleasure. A week of unbridled-no-holds-barred-anything-goes sex.

  Chapter Three

  The interior of the house was full of light from the tall windows that surrounded it, illuminating the spacious, open floor plan. The living-dining area was carpeted in different sized, soft, sand-colored wool rugs over bleached wooden floors. A cushy fawn-colored man-sized couch and a sleek, black-lacquered Japanese-inspired coffee table that looked large enough to dine on and the perfect height for propping feet, faced the stacked stone fireplace. The see-through galley kitchen was Spartan, functional and definitely male. A set of carpeted wooden stairs led to a loft bedroom.

  The bathroom was about the size of her apartment’s master bedroom, very Zen functional and aesthetically pleasing with its pale sand-washed walls, dark oriental rugs that would chase away the chill of the flagstone floor on winter mornings and porcelain fixtures. Small bamboo wind chimes hung from one of the cedar ceiling beams. Candles sat in wall niches around the room and would provide added light when the sun stopped illuminating the room through the glass doors that led to a walled garden complete with a waterfall and pond. The shower was separate from the large round sunken tub in the center of the room but you could see a glimpse of each in the cheval glass angled opposite them.

  Her stomach growled and she grabbed a fluff
y white towel and the bottle of shampoo-body wash she’d pulled from her knapsack. Jake Truhorn might think everyone looked great after an orgasm but she suspected he had a warped sense of humor. The three styling products it took to keep her curly hair manageable had melded her hair into a sticky mess, her makeup had dissolved and she had raccoon eyes. It was all coming off.

  It was time he faced the reality of what forty-one really looked like. She hung her fluffy white bath sheet on a peg outside the shower, stepped into the pale stone enclosure and adjusted the water coming out of the sunflower shaped head. She squirted gel into her palm and started sudsing from her hair down and blessed the day she’d found the all-in-one product years ago while backpacking through Europe. Jake would have been a kid.

  Well, he wasn’t a kid now and she wasn’t twenty. But her body ached like she was every time she imagined sex with him. And that hadn’t happened in a long time. Jake hadn’t forgotten an important part of sex. How to play. He hadn’t lost his passion for life or what he did. That was part of his allure. Of course, the fact that he was dead sexy didn’t hurt.

  She toweled off in the shower and walked naked to the mirror over the sink, giving it a good swipe with the towel. Her hair was already waving around her face, caramel highlights disguising the few gray hairs she did have. She had a Sicilian grandmother to thank for both her hair and her strong bone structure. Hell, her entire structure including her generous breasts and hips. Not to mention the little rounded belly that no amount of exercise had ever flattened.

  The days were still warm so, going with the “commando” dress code for the week, she slipped a yellow knit sundress over her bare skin. The soft, clingy fabric brushing against her breasts and hips almost made her purr and anticipation puckered her nipples. Her fingers shook as she fluffed her hair and slicked on some gloss. Opening the door she closed her eyes as instructed to tell him she was ready. She felt body heat and smelled a woodsy soap that definitely wasn’t hers.

  “Jake?” She trembled when he put his hands on her shoulders. He slipped behind her and tied something velvety soft and dark around her eyes, cutting off any light. His voice beside her ear was just as velvety and dark.

  “People say you eat first with your eyes but you don’t. It’s the smell that triggers your taste buds, your memories.”

  She remembered the sand-colored carpet, so soft beneath her feet as she shuffled along beside him until he stopped and pulled her down to sit on a pillow, her elbows coming to rest on a smooth, flat surface. She was in the living room—the pillows were turquoise and gold, the long, low coffee table, black.

  He held something at mouth level and she could feel the slight chill of his fingers.

  “What do you smell?”

  She inhaled. “Salt—and water. I smell the sea. Oyster?”

  “And the lady wins a taste. Open your lovely mouth, Ella.”

  Ella opened, felt the edge of the shell on her lips and anticipated the musky saltiness on the back of her tongue, then swallowed the small orb, the liqueur. “Ummm,” she breathed when she felt his tongue at the corner of her mouth slip through the seam and spear into her.

  “You taste like oysters,” she murmured when he drew away.

  They shared half a dozen oysters, each one sampled from the other’s mouth, before she felt the edge of the glass at her lips. Following the same instructions as before she sniffed, inhaled. “It smells like blackberries and some kind of wood, earthy like mushrooms, but clean. I smell alcohol,” she chuckled. “What time is it?”

  “There’s no such thing as controlled decadence, Ella. This is a feast for lovers. We don’t have any rules but I’ll give you a concession. Always drink red wine with raw seafood, it lessens the chance of any toxicity. Feel better?”

  She nodded and couldn’t keep the grin from her face. “No controlled decadence. Got it.”

  They shared the glass of red wine carefully a mouthful at a time. With each sip Jake dribbled a small drop or two somewhere besides the inside of her mouth. He seemed to especially like the corner of her lips, flicking away the drops with his nimble tongue.

  Next was a buttery smooth avocado. They ate the entire thing a bite at a time. Raphaella didn’t think she’d ever tasted anything so wonderful. The flavor was as rich and velvety as the inside of Jake’s mouth. The image made her shudder, the sensation intensified behind her soft dark blindfold.

  Bubbles tickled her nose as she inhaled. “More wine—and something fruity, not citrus fruity, soft, earthy, sweet—peaches?”

  “You’re very good at this.” He kissed her then, just a soft brush of lips.

  She sighed. “What can I say? As you might have guessed, I enjoy good food.”

  “I couldn’t trust a woman who didn’t enjoy food,” he said, kissed the corner of her mouth, “wine,” he whispered against her lips, “sex.”

  And then a firm champagne-soaked wedge of peach slid between her lips along with a deft fingertip that she couldn’t resist sucking on for just a moment before she released him. She was rewarded with his groan and couldn’t keep the smile from her face as she chewed. They shared the peach, Raphaella using only her lips to feed him, nibbling his, tasting the lingering scented remnants, a feast of the senses.

  The green tea ice cream was the messiest, it melted on contact with their heated mouths and they dueled for the last bright taste. By the time they got to the hazelnut liqueur in a small chocolate cup they were both shaking, spilling the sticky treat, lapping it from each other’s mouth and chin.

  Raphaella, immersed in the scents and tastes, her body humming with anticipation reached for her blindfold but Jake stilled her hands. She groaned, only moments away from true frustration. It must have taken an hour to feed her everything. An hour of foreplay. She was ready to come apart.

  “I can’t possibly eat or drink another thing before I tear your clothes off,” she panted.

  “But I’m still hungry,” he said in that soft dark voice that grabbed her middle, vibrated her insides.

  “You eat, I’ll tear.” She squirmed beneath his hands, unable to make up her mind whether to laugh or cry.

  “I plan on doing both,” he said and just that quickly her dress was over her head, her blindfold still intact. She shivered when he slid her bare bottom onto the cool lacquer table and again when he eased her down. She actually squeaked when he spread her legs. She felt the warm rush of his breath between her thighs.

  “How do you manage to smell like oranges?” He swiped the tip of his tongue along her slit and she groaned. She was already wet, soaked with desire. “My eyes are closed Ella, want to know what I taste?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, the word a hiss of barely contained lust.

  “A picnic in Tuscany—warm and sweet, like oranges under the hot sun.” The image burned through her brain, right before a trickle of something cold and wet hit the top of her slit, sliding downward. She felt his tongue flatten but instead of meeting the liquid in an upward slide he waited for it and sipped it from her. She writhed as his arms held her thighs tightly. His mouth closed over her pussy, nibbling, savoring. She whimpered, arching her hips as the ache inside her built.

  He released her thighs, slipping his hands beneath them, widening her. Using his thumbs to open her, he speared inside with his lovely, dexterous tongue, working her like a velvet covered piston before he covered her aching clit with his lips. The first tug tightened her like a bowstring and then he was sucking her clit, working a finger inside her, driving her wild until her orgasm lifted her hips off the table. She collapsed, sated and still shaking, reaching for him.

  She tasted herself on his lips, stronger than any flavor they’d sampled together and she still couldn’t stop shaking. “Still hungry?” she managed to ask.

  “Ravenous,” he answered against her lips and she could feel his erection against her stomach. “I think it’s time for the mask to come off. I want you to see us together.”

  She blinked when he slipped the blindfold
off, closed her eyes and opened them more slowly until she could focus on his face. “I find I’m still hungry—I didn’t expect that,” she said, surprised by the fierceness of her own desire.

  He looked almost relieved the moment before he smiled and said, “I’ve been hungry a very long time Ella. What do you want? Ask me for anything.”

  She didn’t hesitate, just reached between them and wrapped her hand around the smooth firmness of his erection. “Why don’t you just start feeding me that lovely cock of yours and we’ll see where it leads?”

  His smile bordered on evil—absent-minded-mad-scientist-B-movie evil. “I hate eating alone, how about you?”

  “I don’t mind eating alone but I’m a polite guest,” she said primly even as he was twisting around, descending toward her spread thighs.

  She couldn’t resist testing the heft, the weight of his cock, brushing over the smooth plum-colored tip before she trailed her fingertips along the vein that spiraled down to his balls. She caressed them lightly as she lifted her head, took him between her lips, savoring the silky smoothness of taut skin, the pulse that beat against her tongue.

  His hips jerked and he tensed until she slid her hand up over his muscular flank, massaging, encouraging. He pumped slowly and she swallowed more of him, wetting him, working her hand around his thick shaft, slicking his balls while he lapped at her, finding her rhythm. He tried to pull away when his body tightened. She wouldn’t let him. She clamped her lips around him, and anticipated his release. She knew the moment he realized what was happening. He arched into the slide and twist of her lips and hands. Let her draw him deeper until he came, pumping all that salty sweetness down her throat. His tremors and strangled cry sent her crashing into her own orgasm and the flickering blurry edge of conscious fear. It would be so easy to lose herself completely.