“Conn,” she gasped into his open, wet mouth. “Conn, fuck me.”
He pulled back just enough to chuckle against her jaw. “Wrong demand, señorita. Try it one more time.”
“Fuck you,” she gasped, only partially kidding.
His tongue teased the shell of her ear, his teeth nipping at the lobe. “Wrong again.”
They necked for a few more minutes, hands wandering and wanting, and then she relented. “Take me home.”
They were probably only gone for five minutes, but it felt like a year had passed since she came out for air. They each paid their tabs as quickly as possible, trying to ignore John’s knowing look and Liam’s smug laughter. Conn made a show of tapping his smokes like she was only following him out the front door for a light. She doubted anyone would buy the charade, but it was a certainty that he would be lighting something.
Her apartment wasn’t far. Too close, she’d thought earlier, but now the walk seemed perfect. They headed there in tacit agreement, hands linked like lovers instead of polar opposites who had just decided to hook up on a whim. Conn looked at her like she was beautiful, and she felt the weight of his affectionate gaze like they were still chest to chest and thigh to thigh against the wall. The question why thrummed through her veins. She knew why she was doing this. But why was he doing this? Because she was a warm, willing body? Because she’d gotten one over on him in the bar? Because he had nothing better to do tonight?
“Are you sure you’re up for this? You had a lot to drink.”
“You worried about taking advantage of me?” He laughed. When he looked at her, it was with remarkably clear eyes. “I know what I’m doin’. I’m up for it,” he added with a suggestive nod toward the rise in his jeans.
“Conn . . . ” She didn’t even know what she was asking, what reply she wanted.
“Shut up, darlin’.” It was a gentle rebuke, without sting, and he tugged her close for a quick kiss before they crossed the street to her building. As they followed each other through the front door and up the stairs, she understood what he was trying to tell her without so many words. This filthy, funny unsung hero was rescuing her, too—carrying her out of the fire. No . . . carrying her into the fire.
Her keys felt like a jumbled mess in her suddenly damp palms. Conn took them from her, sifting through until she nodded at the right one. They were barely over the threshold, barely behind the safety of a locked door, when the keys hit the floor and he was lifting her into his arms, locking her legs around his hips. He shoved up her dress, cupped her ass through the thin cotton of her underwear, and cradled her flush against his groin. She looped her arms around his neck, bringing his head down to hers for a sloppy openmouthed kiss. It was only a few short steps from her door to the rest of her tiny studio, and he navigated the obstacles of her furniture in the darkness with ease.
Her queen-size bed took up almost the entire space, but it was her one indulgence. Falling onto the mattress with Conn told her it had been the right one. He braced himself above her, kissing her lips, her jaw, and the column of her throat. He licked at the hollow between her breasts before yanking down the bodice of her dress and tugging it with him as he worked his way down her body. The material caught at her hips. She raised herself up just enough for him to pull her dress and panties all the way off.
His beard stubble rasped against her inner thigh. She was so wet, so hot, that it was entirely possible she was going to come before he even really touched her. But he didn’t allow for that possibility. He teased her with his fingers, letting them grow slick with her juices as he opened her up. He lowered his head and nipped at the sensitive bud of her clit before licking into her deep and thorough. As if he had nothing planned for the rest of the night except this slow, sensual torment.
“Conn . . . ” His name was a high keening noise that she barely recognized as language, and she said it over and over, thrashing under him like she was being tossed around in a storm. He stroked her clit and took her higher, until the tension was too much to bear and her entire body went taut like a thread about to snap. She heard Conn whispering over the pounding in her ears, over the ragged sound of her gasping for air.
“That’s it,” he soothed. “That’s a love, just let it happen.” And then she did snap, her breath stopping, her blood stopping, everything surrendering to pleasure.
Afterward, she felt limp and boneless, barely able to move. “I was right. You did have enough hot air to breathe life into your date,” she said weakly.
Conn dropped a cocky kiss on her hip. “I should hope so, considering it’s my job.” At her confused frown, he elaborated. “I’m a paramedic.” His red-blond brows quirked with mirth. “My mum wanted me to be a doctor, but I hated all the schoolin’.”
“No wonder you saved me tonight.” Because he had. He’d shaken her out of her solitude and her status quo. A margarita was a temporary high, tart and sweet on her tongue. Being with Conn was better. She urged him back to her mouth, tasting herself on his lips. This time his tongue didn’t battle. It seduced, leisurely and languidly tangoing with hers. The kiss lasted for minutes, until they were both breathless.
“Fuck,” he whispered, imbuing the single syllable with a surprising amount of eloquence. She echoed it, fisting her fingers in the cloth of his T-shirt and tugging at it. He needed to be as naked as she was. It was only fair. He rocked back on his heels, obliging her by stripping off his shirt and jeans, stopping for a moment to rifle in his wallet for a foil square that he laid just within reach. Thank God at least one of them was thinking about protection. It had been so long for Aleja that she had nothing. Least of all any defenses.
Conn was long and lean everywhere but his cock. She closed her fingers around his thick shaft, stroking up from the base, and more swear words flew from his lips. A jumble of English and Gaelic, it sounded like poetry to her. A laundry list would probably sound like poetry to her right now. He moved over her and tore at the condom wrapper. Once covered, he nudged her already spread legs wider and settled himself between them. “Last chance to back out, little girl,” he warned.
“I had my chance to back out at the bar.” She caressed every part of him she could reach, trailing her fingers through the sparse hairs on his chest. “Here . . . ? Here all I want is you.”
Aleja rose, hooking one arm around his neck as she slid onto his cock, taking him inch by precious inch. He was so wide it almost hurt. When she winced, Conn steadied her with a palm splayed across her ass, keeping her still until her body acclimated itself to his girth. He distracted her with kisses, rough ones that belied how gentle he was determined to be with her. They were fierce assaults on her mouth that made her clutch him and try to give back the fervor a thousandfold. She anchored her hands in his hair, cradling the back of his head, and tugged at his lower lip with her teeth. Until she tasted copper. Until she didn’t even realize that his cock was buried in her to the hilt. She glanced down to where they were joined, and the visual of him so deep inside her was enough to spike her arousal. A whimpering moan escaped her lips. She wrapped her legs around his waist, meeting each of his steady staccato thrusts with a roll of her hips.
“Oh, fuck, darlin’. Yes. Let’s have more of that,” he panted in her ear, his fingertips digging into the backs of her thighs.
It could have been minutes. It could have been an hour. All Aleja knew was that they were sweat-slick with exertion and her nerves were overloaded. She wanted to come right now, and then she didn’t, because it would end the exquisite sensation of being stretched and filled and taken. The decision was out of her hands. His cock found that perfect little coil of tension, the spot that made everything go white behind her eyelids, and she went hurtling into free fall. Don’t let this pass you by. As he gave into his own release, coming so hard she felt it deep inside her, she clung to him. She buried her face in his neck until the last vestiges of her orgasm and her doubt faded.
“Why?” she gasped against his cheek. “Why me, Conn?”
<
br /> He traced a line across her eyebrows and then veered down the bridge of her nose, tapping the tip. “Why else does a man pick up a girl in a pub? Because you looked like you needed a stiff one.” When she yelped in mock-outrage and drove her elbow into his gut, his breath expelled in a huff. He stopped chuckling, leaning his forehead against hers. He stared at her with utterly serious eyes that, even in pitch dark, were the color of the midday sky. “Because you looked like you needed a friend,” he corrected, softly.
She kissed the corner of his mouth, tasting sex and sweetness. “I think I found one.” I think I found more. But she wasn’t going to tell him that yet. She’d wait till he needed rescuing some night at the bar, and let him figure it out for himself.
BELONGING
Tamsen Parker
I’m not sure what I thought a kink club would be like, but this wasn’t it. The places you read about in books are either luxurious palaces with room upon room of carnal delights and delectable tortures, or they’re seedy hellholes with a dirty mattress in the corner, all but indistinguishable from a drug-infested squatter’s paradise. This place is definitely more on the crack den end of things, but quirkier and more comfortable than I would’ve thought.
Not that I’m comfortable here, because I’m not. My heart is beating in a nervous skittery rhythm because wouldn’t anyone’s? I want to be excited, and I am, but it’s like there’s a snare drum being played poorly in my chest. It should make me feel like dancing, but instead my feet are glued to the ground and the guy behind the counter is looking at me with his brows knitted together and the corners of his mouth pulled down.
“You don’t have to come in, you know.”
Right.
But I already paid my thirty-five-dollar guest fee and filled out all their paperwork, bile churning in my stomach when I handed over my license for this stranger to inspect. Mutually assured destruction, that’s what I’m relying on. It worked out okay for the Soviets and the Americans given there wasn’t a World War III, but I don’t know that I’ll be able to sleep at night with that as my only assurance that no one will find out about this. Like my friends. My bible study group. My parents. The aunties of my mom’s barkada.
That’s enough to make my heart seize. On the other hand, if I’m going to die of humiliation and shame for disappointing my family, I may as well actually do something to deserve it. Not just stand in the cinder-block lobby of this club listening to the muted noises of people having a really good time wafting out of the open hallway.
I nod at the guy, and the corner of his mouth turns up, making him look less intimidating. Guyliner rims his pale blue eyes and he’s got so many piercings I can’t count them all without staring. He must be used to that if he goes out in public like this, but for all I know he’s a straitlaced accountant who wears khakis and a tie to work every day. Maybe I should’ve done a better job disguising myself?
“I like your corset.”
He blinks at me and my blurted words because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and then laughs, a short huff. “Thanks. I like yours too. Your cleavage is phenomenal.”
It totally is. Unlike his pale, flat chest inside the tube of black leather, mine is practically spilling out of this red-and-black brocade number. It’s new. I don’t dress like this, but it seemed appropriate. Not to mention usually I wouldn’t take kindly to someone commenting on my body—as things are, it sets my cheeks to simmer—but I don’t mind it coming from this guy. He’s not leering and he’s still sitting behind his desk, waving by people who are far more decisive than I am. Members. People who belong here.
I squeeze my eyes shut and think again of having to confess this tomorrow. To Father Gabriel, with nothing but a latticed metal screen between us. It’s never seemed flimsy before, but I bet it will tomorrow. Especially if my skin gets so hot and prickly that it melts the stupid thing. That must’ve happened before, right? Maybe they keep spares in the back? This can’t possibly be the worst thing he’ll have ever heard . . . .
“Thanks.” That’s what you’re supposed to say when people give you a compliment. I can hear my mother’s psst in my ear to get me to mind my manners. Even here. I definitely do not need to be thinking about my mother in a kink club. If I keep this up, my brain will be melting out of my ears.
The goth guy holds out a hand, his nails painted black, which stands out against his skin—it’s so pale I have to wonder if he ever goes outside. I shake instinctually, and his grip is firm.
“It’s your first time, right? I work most nights, and I’ve never seen you.”
I bite my lip in a habit I thought I’d kicked, but apparently being this freaked out has dredged it up. “Yeah.”
“You know everyone had a first time, right?”
It’s so obvious, but of course he’s right. My head bobbles on my neck and I swallow. Somehow it doesn’t make me feel much better.
“I can’t abandon my post, but I’ll—”
His gaze snaps to a point over my shoulder and his face transforms from compassionate to impish—his mouth purses tightly. It looks like a rose so dark red it’s verging on black.
“Hey, Mistress. How are you this evening?”
“Fine, Raven. You?”
Her voice sends prickles up my spine. It’s all I can do not to shiver.
“Busy, but good. You meeting anyone?”
“Nah.” Her words are casual, but her deep voice is round, full, elegant. Makes me think of timpani. “Should’ve set something up, but I got caught up in my thesis.”
Thesis? Is she a PhD student like me? The thought excites and terrifies me at the same time. Does she go to my university? She’s not in my department. I would remember if I’d heard that voice before.
Raven shakes his head and tsks. “All work and no play makes Constance a dull girl.”
She laughs in response, and the sound makes my knees weak. Is that a standard reaction to hearing a voice that turns you on? That you can perceive the potential in? Or is this my own peculiar brand of desire, the piece of me that aches to hand myself over and be used? That gets hot and sticky between my thighs at the idea of being on my knees before someone who commands my respect and adoration but treasures me in return?
These are the things I’ve fantasized about since . . . It doesn’t matter how long. What matters is that this is my first chance to see if these are things that only appeal in fantasy or if there’s a kernel of truth to the reveries I’ve entertained for so long.
“Maybe you could help me out? I don’t have backup tonight, and I’ve got a guest who could use a tour. You game?”
“Sure.”
It could be my overly zealous imagination, but I fancy her tone has slid closer to a flirty purr and I squeeze my thighs together.
Raven looks at me, his eyes expectantly wide, and gestures with his eyebrows. I can practically hear him. “Turn around, you fool girl. I’m doing you a favor.”
So I do, and the thin grip I have on reality about snaps.
She’s beautiful. Tall—probably approaching six feet, and on a good day, I’m five even. The boots she’s wearing probably don’t help, but they’re smallish heels. Black leather pants hug her thick thighs and her generous hips and don’t nip in much for her waist. She’s wearing a crisp white collared shirt, the front unbuttoned until it reaches a black underbust corset. Talk about phenomenal cleavage. The whole thing is framed by an open, off-purple, short velvet blazer I want to run my hands over. Her dark-brown skin looks powder dry, not sweaty with nerves like mine, and her black hair is in braids that are somehow fashioned into a roll on the top of her head, making her even taller.
If I’ve ever seen a woman who I’ve been more attracted to, I can’t remember her. I have to take a hard swallow, but then I stick out my hand and offer a bright “Hi.”
Was that too perky? That might’ve been too perky.
But Constance . . . Mistress? . . . doesn’t seem offended or put off. No, she reaches a big hand out and the cor
ner of her mouth curls up as her chest rises.
“Hello yourself,” she says, that voice doing things to my body I didn’t know were possible in response to a voice. It’s blasphemous to say it’s almost a religious experience, but that’s as close as I can describe it. It’s different, but the intensity is the same. It makes the colors of her brighter, so distinct, that looking at her almost hurts my eyes and the rest of the room fades away. “I’m Constance. And who are you?”
“Glory.” My voice is a squeak next to hers, the one high-pitched tone of a triangle.
One of her dark eyebrows kicks up and she looks like a cat about to eat a canary. I wish I were wearing yellow. “Well Glory glory hallelujah.”
Her hand is warm and huge around mine, and I want for her to give me more. To stroke a fingertip over the sensitive skin of the underside of my wrist, lift my hand to her mouth to brush a kiss over the knuckles, use her firm grip to pull me in so that our still-joined hands would be the only thing between us.
Actually, if she did any of those things, I’d be wary. I’ve read up on how I’m supposed to behave here and about how other people are supposed to behave. Coming on that strong would be frowned upon. So I’ll just have to wish for it. Come to think of it, I don’t know anything about this woman. Besides that I like the way she smells, the way she looks, and I very, very much like how she’s still gripping my hand.
Mistress? At least I know that much. And from the expression on her face, I’m guessing she likes women. I do too. Though I like men almost as well. Not that I have a ton of experience with either one. Some people would be embarrassed about that, but I’ve learned not to be. If you’re not a sanctimonious jackass about it, most people are respectful, and some people even think it’s cool. What would Constance think? Is she religious? Or has she replaced church with . . . this?
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 Page 8