Every time I glanced at him, I saw a new detail, one that was opposite of the detail I’d noticed earlier. The soft linen of his white shirt. How his biceps filled out the arms of that shirt. His full, sensual mouth curling at the corners, and what I suspected was a dimple underneath his whiskers. Eyes that were the color of a Nordic lake.
A lock tumbled over his forehead when our drinks came. I was captivated when the thick, angled fingers of his hand swept the soft, silver strand away.
“To words.” He held up his wineglass.
“Cheers. To words. May there be more of them.”
We sipped and grinned at each other. I started to talk. He did too, at the exact time.
“I’m sorry, this is a bit—”
“Awkward?” I interrupted.
“Yeah.”
I nodded, relieved. “It’s just . . . ” I waved my hand in the air. Should I bother telling him about my nervousness? My ex had always criticized me for talking too much, revealing everything, asking for more. I’d planned on being cool and mysterious tonight. Instead, I was a sweaty, heart-pumping mess.
“I haven’t been on a date in decades, so I don’t know how to do all this,” I blurted. “Not since I married my husband twenty-six years ago. We’re divorced. Two years ago.”
He blew out a breath and visibly relaxed. “Thank god you admitted that. I haven’t been on a date since my wife died. I don’t know the rules, either.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I murmured, while in my brain I pictured myself punching the air and screaming, YES HE’S SINGLE!
“I’m sorry about your divorce.”
I raised my glass. “To first dates. And no rules.”
From there, the evening flowed. We talked about school, teaching, our grown children, the usual. All the while, we grinned at each other as sexual tension crackled around us. He mentioned the night we’d met at the party.
“You remembered me.” I shot him a coy smile.
“You’re hard to forget.”
As flirtatious minutes ticked past, a delicious warmth spread first in my face then down my throat and into my stomach. It settled somewhere around my clit, and as we were talking about my knitting—knitting, for christ’s sake—I stared at his hands, wondering what it would feel like for him to hold my wrists tight, the weight of his muscular body atop mine.
“I’d wanted to stop by your craft fair but I had a department meeting. Saw it on your Instagram. I especially liked the knit kitty.”
“Which kitty? I knit a lot of them.” Cringing inwardly, I took out my phone. When he wrapped his hand around mine, to angle the phone in his direction, my skin shimmered.
He pointed with a thick finger at a cute knit cat.
“Oh, that one.” I’d fashioned a black harness around the cat’s gray body then wrote “Hello Kinky” as the pithy caption. “I’m obviously a teenage boy trapped in a fifty-two-year-old’s body.”
He chuckled, and our eyes held each other’s, unblinking. I was trying to be cool, but my insides quivered. Was it possible he could discern that my secret fantasy was to be restrained? Of course not. He made a joke about a knit toy. I laughed and he tilted his head. His lazy smile was seemingly attached to my pussy by an invisible thread. I shifted in my seat, hyper-aware of the dampness on my panties against my swollen labia.
My clit pulsed from the sight of his huge hand, still covering mine. An image of two of his fingers roughly sliding into me dominated my thoughts.
“I’m so boring. Knitting.”
He squeezed my hand lightly and released it. “Never apologize for being creative. Everyone should do something outside their job to fan the flames of creativity.” He paused. “Want to see my hobby?”
“Very much so.”
He motioned for the waiter, asked for the check, and paid with cash.
“It’s right over there.” As we walked outside, he pointed toward the nearby marina.
“A sailboat?”
“I live on a sailboat. My hobby’s my entire house.”
My kitten heels tapped on the sidewalk; I’d been so sensible, wearing low heels, a sky-blue silk dress, and even a strand of pearls. He slipped his arm around my waist. To any passerby, we looked like a refined older couple.
Inside, I churned with giddy, burning anticipation of skin-on-skin raw fucking.
At the marina, he unlocked a gate. With his hand on my lower back, he guided me down a wooden dock. We stopped at a long sailboat.
“Welcome to my floating house. I bought this after my wife died.” He extended his hand, and I stepped daintily aboard. He slipped off his shoes, and I did the same. The cool, smooth wood caressed the soles of my feet. As he explained the boat’s specifics, I took in the wooden handles, the steel cleats and all the coiled, sleek ropes.
At the front of the boat, he pointed to a couple of large cushions.
“Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll get us some drinks?”
As I sank to my knees, my eyes landed on a weathered nautical rope, coiled nearby and lying idly on deck. I ran an index finger over the smooth braid and shivered. I uncoiled one end and wound it twice around my hand, my heart pounding. I pictured myself spread-eagled and tied up. Struggling against restraints. Gabriel sliding his index finger into the wetness of my cunt.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve moved that line.”
Startled, I looked up. “Oh! It’s okay. I was admiring the tactile sensation of the rope. Fabric fascinates me. What’s it made of?”
“Hemp.” Gabriel eased himself onto the cushion and handed me a plastic cup. With one hand, I drank my wine and pretended to look at the stars.
“What do you use this rope for?” I held up my hand, the braid still wrapped around my knuckles.
“Lots. Tying the boat to the dock. Tying down sails so they don’t flap around. Tying things up.”
I was sure there must be a damp spot on my dress by now. I swallowed and unwound the line from my hand. “You must know all about tying, and knots.”
Was that a little smile on his face? Setting his glass onto the bow, he took the rope and with quick hands looped, crossed, and twisted the line. He handed it to me and shrugged. “Practice makes perfect.”
The rope was in a figure-eight configuration, with an intricate knot at the middle. Kind of like a knotted pair of handcuffs. A fresh surge of wetness flooded my pussy and my thighs clenched.
I steeled myself with a gulp of wine and put my glass down. “It’s a pretty knot.” I slipped a hand through one of the loops and moved from side to side, as if I were a hand model wearing a diamond tennis bracelet. “Guess it can be used for other things.”
“I’ve never used it for non-nautical things.” His voice was rough, with undertones of stark desire. “But I’d be interested in experimenting.”
His lock of silver hair and blue eyes shone in the moonlight. My clit resumed its insistent pulse. This was the closest I’d been to a man in years, and I ached to taste him.
But I knew it would be more satisfying to wait.
“I’ve always wanted to experiment.” My voice trembled.
Shifting closer, he took the other loop and slipped it over my free hand, then tightened the knot around my wrists. I sucked in an audible breath as my stomach clenched with excitement.
“Too much?” he asked.
“Just right.”
I glanced at the rope, which was now only half coiled on the deck.
“It’s not attached to anything, Jennifer. You’re not restrained.”
By now I was breathing hard, the sensation of the rough, cream-colored rope around my wrists and the sound of his deep voice thrumming through my body. He leaned toward me and put his lips to my ear.
“I want to kiss you. I’ve wanted to all night. Your lips are pure sin, you know that?”
He brushed my hair away from my face and put his mouth to the hot skin of my cheek. I held my restrained hands tight in my lap, and he turned my head to kiss me.
&nbs
p; I’d never kissed a man with a beard before, and I have to say, it was exquisite. His soft lips and the rough hair, all at once, made everything inside light up. He tasted like pinot noir and smelled faintly of ocean and wood. The kiss was gentle at first, then urgent. Demanding. He nipped at my bottom lip with his teeth, making me groan. Which is when he kissed me deep, with tongue.
“Lie back,” he murmured. “Raise your arms over your head.”
This is what I’d fantasized about—nothing crazy, not to start. Some mild domination, a little restraint. Enough to make me feel both submissive and desired—and safe.
Wrists together, I did. I got wetter as I shifted to make myself more comfortable, straining against the rope in the process. Gabriel studied me in the moonlight.
“That okay?”
“Sublime.”
He eased on top of me, caging me with his arms, and kissed me again. “My god, you’re beautiful, Jennifer. And you’re an incredible kisser.”
I was going to deflect with my usual stop, or no, or self-deprecating joke, but I didn’t. Not tonight, when I was finally getting exactly what I wanted.
His hand caressed my throat, then lower, past my collarbone and over my breasts.
He growled as he looked at me, still running his hand over the curves of my body. He stopped at my bare thigh and slid his fingers under my dress. Because it was Florida, and because my legs were among my best assets, I wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of lacy, skimpy panties underneath.
I spread wide and felt a fresh flood against the walls of my cunt. He trailed his fingers lightly up my inner thigh and I moaned. Probably louder than I should have.
“Oops, sorry,” I whispered.
He kissed me softly, his beard tickling my chin and making me giggle. “I’m the only liveaboard on this row. I doubt if anyone will hear you. Except me. And I want to hear you.”
With that, his fingers brushed the soaked fabric of my panties, tracing the seam of my labia with just enough pressure to make me whimper with want. Momentarily forgetting about my restraints, I moved and the rope rubbed against my skin. The braid stung my tender inner wrists, and I took a sharp inhale. Rope against flesh was a more intense feeling than I’d anticipated. But the sheer rawness flooded me with something I hadn’t felt in so long: joy.
“You’re very wet. You like to be restrained, don’t you?”
“I’ve never been. But yes, I do. And yes, I am.”
“You’re ready to be fingered?”
That elicited another moan from me.
“Seeing you tied up, Jennifer, my god. I could tie you up to so many places on this boat.” His fingers pressed harder against the soaked fabric then found the edge of the elastic, near my inner right thigh. “Let me feel how wet you are.”
Pushing aside the gusset of my panties, he dipped his middle finger into my cunt. Just to the first knuckle, and when he withdrew, I could see my wetness on his finger glisten in the moonlight. He inserted the finger into his mouth and shut his eyes, so reveling in my juices that I was left breathless, as if I were watching a god taste something delectable and rare.
He took his finger out of his mouth and kissed me fiercely, while at the same time hiking up my dress to my belly and sliding his hand down the front of my panties.
He found my clit nestled in all that wetness. I tilted my hips willingly into his hand, seeking hard contact. He circled with firm fingers, slowly, deliberately, all while plundering my mouth. He teased my swollen, sensitive bud. Until he didn’t. Until he slid two fingers deep into me.
“Gabriel!” I pleaded against his mouth, into his beard. I kissed him; I rocked against his hand, riding his powerful touch.
“Need to taste you. Don’t move.” I shuddered from his command. He dragged his lips down my neck, kissed my collarbone where the choker pearls lay, then skimmed his mouth over my breasts. I wanted to feel that beard against my bare nipples, but I knew he had other plans.
Lifting my skirt so it bunched around my waist, he stripped off my panties and tossed them aside. Almost instantly, a gust of wind kicked up, hitting my pussy with a warm breeze and sending my panties into the air and over the side of the boat.
“Oops.”
I opened my legs a little, enough to feel the cool air on my inner thighs. With his face between my legs, he chuckled, then the tip of his tongue made a languid lap around my clit. My laughing turned to a gasp. “Teasing. Gabriel, you’re tormenting me.” With every firm circle of his tongue, with each thump of my heart, I felt more of my inhibitions floating away. I opened my legs wide, wider than they’d been in years. I wanted to surrender to him, to this moment. The slapping of the water against the hull, the rope burn on my wrists, Gabriel’s slick tongue—I was hyperaware of it all and wanted to wring the life out of every second.
He hummed against my flesh and spread my folds with his fingers. He used long, circular twists of his tongue to lave my slit, making me whimper. I needed release from the insistent pulse of my clit, but I also longed to pause everything, to stay in this euphoric, perfect night.
“Oh, fuck, Gabriel.”
“That’ll come soon. Promise.”
“I’m going to come soon.”
I writhed and bucked against his mouth until he held me in place while he alternately sucked and flicked his tongue against my swollen clit.
I tried to say his name but choked on the word because my orgasm was coming hard and fast, rushing at me full speed. The rope tightened around my wrists. I struggled a little, allowing the chafing sensation against my skin to push me into a warm and wet and sparkling blue ocean of light and pleasure. I cried out, loud, not caring that I was in public, half naked, because it was the best I’d physically felt in years.
With a giant smile, Gabriel moved up my body and kissed me, his lips wet and slippery. As he pressed his hips into mine, his erection was a promise of what was to come.
He loosened the tie around my wrists, and I glanced next to me. The rope had come uncoiled during my orgasm, and it snaked across the deck, shining in the moonlight.
I took his face in my hands, the roughness of his beard against my fingertips sending a new thrill through me.
“Want to see the rest of the boat?” I could smell my musky scent on his breath.
“Only if it includes the bedroom.”
ESSENTIAL QUALITIES
Alyssa Cole
I can’t sleep, again.
I pry myself out of Ian’s embrace, careful not to wake him even though it wouldn’t matter if I did.
It’s not like he needs sleep, scoffs a small, mean facet of my mind in a voice that is unsurprisingly similar to my mother’s, though she hasn’t deigned to speak to me in years. It’s just a feature that makes it more acceptable for you to degrade yourself.
I roll to the very edge of my side of the bed and pull my knees to my chest, as if the sadness welling within me is a grenade I must wrap myself around to protect him from the blast.
I know there’s nothing wrong with me.
With us.
But I also understand that the interaction of knowledge and emotion doesn’t always result in logical reactions. I’d studied human feelings for years—obsessively, dispassionately—in an effort to replicate them. Sometimes I wonder if perhaps I’d done too good a job. Or perhaps only good enough to fool myself . . .
I tug off my silk sleep scarf and run a hand over my thick, tightly curled hair in frustration.
I shouldn’t still care about these things.
Sleep isn’t coming, so I quietly make my way out of the dark room, unable to shake the gloom that’s been magnified by my insomnia.
There was another story about us in the newsfeed last night—in the entertainment section instead of science and technology, which should have been the most odious thing about it but wasn’t—followed by the usual flood of emails. There isn’t much difference between the hate screeds I receive from the humanists and the stories of love, loss, and loneliness from those w
ho hope I can be of service to them. These days, they both leave me with a feeling of near intolerable sadness; I’m either a traitor to mankind or a miser hoarding joy all to myself.
No, I am not trying to usher in the destruction of humankind, I typed, then deleted. No, I cannot replicate your spouse/mother/child, I typed, then deleted. I filed their emails away and left my workstation feeling like I was coated with a layer of grime that even the latest full-body dermal regeneration tech couldn’t remove. There’s no point in responding; no one wants an explanation, really. They want my work, either to destroy it or to use it for their own ends. Best to stay silent.
I pad into the small room decorated in twentieth-century rustic style, with wood paneling on the walls and a fireplace with an inset telescreen instead of kindling. I call it my study, but Ian refers to it as the lion’s den. He once intruded while I was in the middle of a particularly intense neural synapse redesign session, entering without knocking, and I turned and bared my teeth at him in annoyance.
He stopped in his tracks, not because he was frightened, but because he was observing me, taking in my expression and categorizing it.
“Sometimes I forget that humans are still very much animals,” he’d said, his interest showing in the pinpoint flicker in his left eye, darkest brown to honey gold and back at a steady pulse. It was merely a statement of fact, but it had hit a sore spot. I didn’t like thinking of the differences between us, even though I was perhaps the person most aware of them.
What does it mean that I was born of a human mother and father and that he was designed to my own specifications, down to his golden brown skin and tight black curls? That his voice was tinged with a British accent because I grew up watching BBC shows on the classic television feed? What does it mean to be both creator and lover?
I sigh, leaning back in my battered leather office chair and twisting a kinky shock of hair around my index finger, a habit I’ve never been able to break. One of my exes always chastised me for the tic because he wanted me to wear my hair straightened, flat, and each anxious twirl of coarse hair reminded him that I refused to. I’d complied, eventually. He’d also insisted that I wear more makeup, and began picking out my shoes and clothing for me. He’d reshaped me in his image during our time together, changed me so that even my closest friends didn’t recognize me, but no one had shouted him down or given him pitying looks as he walked down the street with his prize.
Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4 Page 16