by Liz K. Lorde
And that’s how he makes me come for him. With my clit rubbing up and down against my fingers, so wet that it slips and slides deliciously against anything it touches. So sensitive that it doesn’t even take much to make me explode with pleasure.
“Aah!” I cry out as my whole body shakes.
I’m trembling. Jittering. Like a bobble head on top of a washing machine filled with bricks. I bounce up and down on Aaron’s cock with my ass while I come, and suddenly, it’s too much even for him.
He pushes me face down into the mattress and spreads my ass with both of his hands. It lets him fuck me even deeper, and my body falls more and more in love with him with every trust.
“Chloe,” Aaron growls as my fingers twitch against the sheets. “I didn’t tell you to stop touching yourself.”
I exhale in disbelief. It’s all I can do. The rose between my teeth prevents me from talking back to him, so for once, I don’t have a snarky comeback prepared. I’m so lost in pleasure that I’m not sure that my head could even pull one together if I wanted to. In that sense, I’m thankful.
I don’t have to be smart right now. I don’t have to be clever or charming or seductive. Being with Aaron simplifies my world infinitely. It’s why it’s so fucking good.
He already knows that I’m fucking amazing. And when we’re done fucking, I know we’ll pick up exactly where we left off: being madly in love with each other.
But right now, all I have to do is enjoy myself, take cock, and come.
I can’t think of a greater luxury anywhere in the whole fucking world.
He smacks my ass again. This time, I’m quick to respond. My clit is still so sensitive from the last orgasm that touching it is like playing with fire. I can feel the pathway of every nerve ending on my clit branching all the way up through my womb, prickling and bristling with every touch. My cunt feels white-hot. It’s burning so intensely, it almost feels cold.
Aaron makes me burn for him. It’s the most visceral thing I’ve ever felt. He makes my body respond to him like I was programmed to take pleasure from his touch. When he smacks my ass again, I do exactly that.
The orgasm erupts against my fingers like a goddamn volcano. My cunt is gushing sweet, hot honey and my whole body is spasming again, so hard that tomorrow morning, more than just my ass is going to be sore.
“Don’t stop,” Aaron commands, slamming into my ass as I come for him.
“P-please,” I say through the rose in my teeth.
I can’t come for him again. There’s no fucking way. The orgasms I’ve already had have left my head swimming and my body drunk on pleasure. My clit is so sensitive and swollen and sore that even the slightest touch will send me over the edge all over again.
“You’ll come when I say you come,” Aaron growls. “And you’ll stop when I tell you to stop.”
With what few wits I still have about me, I fucking laugh. I shake my head against the mattress and, like the good slut I am, I slip my fingers between my legs and get back to work.
Goddamn, I love this man. When it comes to Aaron, there’s no pleasure too great. No luxury worth denying. And no such thing as an orgasm too many.
I don’t know if he comes in my ass during the eighth orgasm or the fifteenth. Could be the twentieth. Honestly, after a certain number, it’s just too much to count, so I stop trying. I just ride the pleasure. Let it hit me, take me, pull me under and hold me there until I forget my own name.
But I don’t forget Aaron’s. It’s his name that I’m moaning when he pumps me full of his hot, creamy cum. It’s his name that I’m still whimpering, half-giggling, half-sobbing as he pulls out of my ass, wipes the cum still coating his rod on my thigh, and gathers me up in his arms.
I don’t start thinking again for long while after. Instead, I just lay there. Basking in the glow. Luxuriating in his warmth. Aaron has the thick, muscular arms of an Olympic athlete and the warm, sexy mouth of the man I love.
After an indefinite amount of time, he gently eases the rose out from between my teeth and tucks it behind my ear instead. We spoon, watching the room pass us by as the bed continues to spin.
Roses along one wall. Roses along the other. Roses piled up against the third, and on the fourth, a big floor-to-ceiling window with roses reflected into it. On the other side of that window, New York City sprawls out before us. Bright little lights, glowing through the night.
“You okay, Chloe?” Aaron asks me.
His lips press against my shoulder, trailing kisses from my neck to my arm. I take a deep breath and wait for something clever to come out, but for once, there’s no witty comeback to snap him with.
Instead, I just burrow deeper into his embrace.
“I’m good,” I reassure him. “Just, y’know. Thinking.”
“Thinking about what?”
I laugh, pressing a kiss into his forearm.
“It’s silly. It’s just…for once, I’m not actually thinking about anything. No Mr. BadBoy.”
“No Ms. Winters,” Aaron adds with a chuckle.
“Not work or clients, nothing at all.” I furrow my brow a little. “I’m not quite sure what to make of it.”
“Is it so bad? Feeling like that?”
I consider it for a second and shake my head.
“Actually, it feels pretty good. Weird, but good.”
“Weird but good,” Aaron repeats. “That pretty much sums up our entire relationship.”
I smile against his arm as he shifts behind me. Every place where my skin touches his is warm and happy and light.
“You know, Chloe…you haven’t even seen the bathroom this room has yet.” There’s a little playfulness in Aaron’s voice that makes me wonder what he’s getting at. “The bathtub is supposed to be pretty magnificent…but I hear writers do some of their best thinking in the shower.”
He moves against me, and I feel his cock hardening again already.
My smile widens even more.
“That sounds like a theory that I’d like to test out.”
Painting Her
A Bad Boy Artist Romance
By Natalie Knight
Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Blake
Call it a universal truth. All men want sex, myself included. But why then—with this hot, naked woman in front of me—am I feeling…uninspired? I’m in my studio, mixing paint and brushing it across a canvas in fast strokes. I’ve even found the perfect pink to brush on a nipple. It’s night, and the lights of New York City can be seen just outside of my window.
The model—Mia, or Marissa, or Melanie—has one hand shoved down my pants, and she’s petting me and parting her legs, and all I can think about is how pathetic this art is. It feels like something I’ve done a million times already.
“Blake, baby, you feel so good,” she purrs. “Give me that one-eyed python.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what, baby?”
“Give it a pet name,” I say.
“But it’s so impressive,” she purrs again, “that it deserves its own name.”
She slides her hand down further, and I don’t stop her, but I ignore her advances.
Why? Because this painting can’t wait.
When I start a new piece, I’m compelled to finish it, and like a fish on a hook, I have no choice but to be pulled in and see it through.
Art is as much a part of me as breathing, or eating. It’s my life.
I place the long, wooden handle of the paintbrush between my teeth and sit back.
Something is missing…
It’s flat.
I decide to bring in white paint, mixing it with my current palette and hoping to add light to the piece. Maybe give it some depth and dimension.
I use a palette knife to scrape on rolls of paint for texture. I use a thin brush for details, and work with the concentration of a greyhound eyeing a rabbit—my focus is singular.
I drag the brush against the canvas again, adding color here and there, then finally finishing the last of the model’s curves—her legs and the curve of her inner thighs. I just need to get those right. There’s something about legs that can be so expressive.
“It’s perfect,” she coos, looking up at the canvas.
The truth is, it’s far from perfect. Sure, it’s good, but it looks like every other piece I’ve painted.
I want something new. I want something more.
No, it’s more than a want; it’s a need—to elevate my art.
The media will tell you that what all men only care about are a woman’s physical attributes—her scent, what she’s wearing, whether or not her push-up bra is bringing her tits front and center. Don’t get me wrong—I’m more than happy to sleep with a hot woman with any of those attributes, but what the media doesn’t tell you is that guys also like a woman who is confident and independent.
And this model here in front of me? She isn’t showing me any of that.
I walk away from the canvas, and the model stops me.
“Should I stay?” she says, with one hand on my arm.
“For what?”
I can tell that my answer disappoints her.
“I could stay and pose some more,” she says, “so you can finish the painting.”
“It’s done. I don’t want to look at it any more.”
“In that case,” she says, “we can have a little fun now.”
Her mouth curves into a suggestive smile.
She walks over to me, swaying her hips, and presses her lips to my neck, giving it a playful nibble.
Then she brings her mouth to my ear and whispers, “Tell me, baby…what’s your biggest fantasy? Do you like it rough or romantic? Did you dream about me last night?”
Those words send a thrill down my body but I resist the urge to react, and when I don’t respond, she continues.
“Where should I put my mouth next?” Her eyes wait for an answer, but when I don’t give one, she returns to my body, both of her hands on my chest.
“Here? Or maybe here?” she asks, moving her mouth down my bare chest in slow circles.
I still don’t respond.
“No? Well, how about here?” she says, moving her warm lips down until they are resting at the top of my waistband. My cock is now standing stiffer than any of the tools in this studio, and she smiles.
“I think I’m getting warmer,” she purrs. She starts to unbutton my pants. “Now let me kiss that big, hard—”
But I stop her. I need a woman that inspires me in this studio. Not another nameless model eager to get into my pants.
Been there, done that…and more than just a few times.
“Maybe some other time,” I say.
Her surprise turns to shock, and I watch as she gathers her things, still in disbelief. As soon as she leaves and I hear the door to the studio shut behind her, I walk back over to the painting.
It’s not a bad portrait, but it’s not great either.
There’s simply no emotion. It doesn’t evoke anything in me.
The longer I stare at the painting, the angrier I become. I can feel a new sense of irritation wash over me.
I can’t hold back. I ball my hand into a fist and punch it through the canvas. The material rips open, and where the model should be, there’s now a gaping hole.
There. Now no one will be able to look at this.
Then I grab a can of black paint, along with a wide brush. I dip it into the paint and in big angry strokes I destroy the remaining canvas, painting obscene Xs over my work.
I’m destroying the canvas so hard and fast that I feel a bead of sweat zigzag down my face.
I look down at the destroyed art and kick it away in disgust.
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I need to be creating great art, not mastering mediocrity.
I need a new muse.
Katherine
Writer’s block.
I’ve heard about it. But for all the years I struggled to become a published writer and even after my first book sold, I was never at a loss for words. Until now. They say this happens after you’ve had a bestseller.
Well, I’m not only blocked, I’m paralyzed, motionless, incapable of putting one word next to another.
My agent called today. Just like every other day for the last two weeks. I’m behind with the first draft. I’ve sent every call to voice mail. I just can’t face her.
“Katherine, I know you’re listening to these. At least send me a text. Let me know you’re alive.” The messages are beginning to sound frantic. But I still can’t respond.
What would I tell her? That I feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining? That I don’t have a first chapter, let alone a first draft.
No, it’s better for everyone concerned that I let it go to voice mail.
Maybe she’ll get the hint, and tell the publishers I’m dead, or at the very least I’m in a coma.
That’s the bad news.
The good news is, Dale is coming home tonight and I’m planning on holding on to all six feet, two inches of his deliciousness. His light-green eyes pull me in every time. And tonight will be no exception.
Besides, I have writer’s block. And I personally know of no better way to unstick the flows than to, well… sometimes a girl just needs a good release…or two…or three.
My best friend Robin thinks I should leave him.
Robin and I have been bffs since forever. Well, actually since we were both kicked out of Mr. Stubbin’s ninth grade science class for giggling uncontrollably while he explained the reproductive system of a frog. We just couldn’t image kissing a frog no matter what they say in fairy tales.
Anyway, from that day in detention until now, we’ve been besties, and pretty much agreed on everything.
Except when it comes to Dale.
She called the other day and when I told her he was out of town, she made some cryptic comment about him staying away longer. I didn’t respond so she took it as a sign to launch into one of her infamous diatribes.
“Look, girl. I’ve held my tongue for two years. But you’ve gone past my threshold of watching what is surely going to be a future train wreck. He’s not the one. He’s a player. He thinks the world is in love with him. And he’s never going to ask you to marry him.”
Robin was never one to mince words. But I couldn’t agree on this.
“Dale is the guy I want to spend my life with,” I said, sounding just a tad too whiney. “I want to be married to him. I want children, the seven-thousand-square-foot loft in SoHo. I want the whole thing.”
Robin just sighed. Loudly.
Yes, I know Dale could be arrogant. But his attributes outweighed his arrogance. As the owner of the hottest gallery in New York, a little haughtiness is sometimes necessary. It’s gotten us on everyone’s opening night guest list and the best tables at all the must-be-seen-in restaurants.
Okay, so the sex isn’t completely mind-blowing. But after two years, you’re likely to hit a bit of a dry spell. Like my writing.
But tonight’s going to be different. It’s a surprise. Dinner and a show.
Oh, and I’m the show.
His plane lands at seven and he’ll be home by eight. Just enough time for me to get to his apartment, cook his favorite steak dinner, open a bottle of red, get the candles going and slip into that barely-there slip I got at La Perla. A little red-laced thingy that will reignite the spark. And hopefully spur my creative juices. A girl can hope, can’t she?
Checking to make sure I have everything, including those three-inch red numbers
I couldn’t say no to at Manolo Blanik’s last month–yet another ding in my book advance money–I hail a taxi and within 20 minutes I’m at Dale’s on Christopher Street. I’m humming in all the right places as I waltz into the loft.
Except for the bedroom, the place has no other doors. The floor-to-ceiling windows along the north wall offer a spectacular view of the Hudson. Putting the groceries on the kitchen island, I make my way to the windows to take in the last rays of a most remarkable sunset.
I’ve always thought the one disadvantage to this ridiculously beautiful space is the constant drone of city traffic below. Only tonight, I’m not hearing traffic. I’m hearing…wait, could that be…
“Well shit.” I say loud enough to be heard over the moaning.
Stomping over, I fling open the bedroom door.
What’s behind it? Dale’s naked butt.
It’s not as if I haven’t seen his bare ass before. It’s just that I’ve never seen it from this angle, banging back and forth like a hammer on a stubborn nail.
“What the fuck!” I yell.
Dale looks over his shoulder and I can see he’s searching for something to say.
I can’t believe it. His first reaction isn’t to immediately stop what he’s doing with a woman whose every body part has been enhanced.
From the dyed platinum hair (top and bottom), to the implanted ginormous breasts. And I will bet large sums of money that flat stomach is the result of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“We are sooo done!” I say, in my most outraged voice. In fact, I can’t get out of there fast enough. I’m stunned.
Stunned because he’s with another woman. Stunned because Robin was right, he had no plans to marry me. Stunned because he hurt me.
Really hurt me.
“Hey, baby. Don’t go,” Dale calls out.
I’m moving as fast as I can, gathering up my stuff as I go. There is no way I’m leaving behind a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and a hundred dollars’ worth of steaks for this asshole.
As I pack up, Dale is hopping up and down on one foot, trying to get his other leg into his trousers, while attempting to explain that this little romp means nothing.
“We met on the plane, baby,” hop, hop, hop. “ It’s just sex.”