Sweet Love

by Violet Blue

  Joe walked forward, backing me up until I was flat against a rough stone wall. He leaned into me, and I could feel him from chest to thigh against my body. And against my thigh pressed a very aroused cock.

  I got giddy for a second, and only his hands holding me, and my own threading through his hair and pulling him in closer, kept me on my feet. Hell, my feet were almost leaving the ground; I was on tiptoes trying to match him kiss for kiss, insistent grind for insistent grind. My stabilizing core was my abdomen—my aching nipples, my pulsing clit.

  “I love you,” he muttered against the curve of my neck as he nipped with his teeth, soothed with his tongue. “I want you. I need you,” he said as he repeated the action, throwing me off guard with tiny flashes of erotic pain.

  This was not normal Joe. Whether he’d read my mind, whether it was the magic of Pencraig, or whether finding me gone in the middle of the night had snapped something in him, I didn’t know. Maybe all three, maybe none of the above.

  I simply did. Not. Care.

  I pressed my head back, arching against him, opening my throat to him. The stars swam in the night sky in my unfocused gaze.

  “We…” I tried, and lost my breath when he ducked his head and fastened onto my left nipple right through my T-shirt. The cotton soaked with his saliva, and when he pulled back for a moment, the air against the wet fabric felt icy cold against my heated, sensitive flesh.

  “We…” I tried again, gulping for air. “We should…get back to the…B&B.”

  “No,” he said, his voice sounding as strained as mine.

  For a moment I couldn’t even process what he’d said. He now had my right nipple in his mouth, his fingers working the other one, tweaking and pinching harder than he ever had, pushing me right to the edge of my limit. Or maybe my limit was greater than I thought. I thought I would very much like to find out.

  Some part of my brain coughed up the reminder that I’d made a suggestion and he’d nixed it.

  “No?” He didn’t want to go back and have sex?

  “No. Want you now. Here. Can’t wait.”

  “But…someone might…might see.” It took so much effort to form the thoughts. My cunt was throbbing, so sensitized that I could feel my swollen lips pressing against the seam of my jeans.

  The fact was, Pencraig had a caretaker, a local man who came by at random times to make sure no hoodlum kids were holding a rave or, well, having sex in the great hall.

  Not to mention that the land was bordered by other farms, and there was no telling who might wander by. Farmers. Neighbors. Hoodlum kids in search of a rave site.

  “Don’t care,” Joe said. “It’s dark. Nobody’ll see.”

  Wow. I would’ve figured he’d care more than I did.

  “What if they hear?”

  “Guess you’ll just have to keep quiet,” Joe said.

  For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t actually a screamer (to be honest, Joe had never inspired me to those heights), but I was unthinkingly vocal. The idea that I’d have to deliberately silence myself flashed like an electrical impulse right down to my core. I heard my own whimper before I was even aware of making a sound.

  Joe chuckled. “That’s it, baby.” He pulled the T-shirt over my head, tossed it somewhere. The stones were rough and cold against my back. I didn’t care. My fingers were plucking at Joe’s shirt, hauling it from his waistband, and he leaned away from me just long enough to peel it off.

  I ran my fingers over his chest, the scattering of dark hair tickling my palms. His nipples were hard beneath my skimming touch.

  Emboldened, needy, I reached down and pressed my hand against the hard, insistent length of him beneath his fly. He groaned, his hips flexing so he ground against my questing grasp.

  My shower fantasy about the Tudor lord wasn’t far off from this reality.

  We had a brief moment of fumbling as I unlaced my damn hiking boots and stepped out of them (leaving my thick socks on to protect my tender soles from the gravel) so I could strip off my jeans. Joe’s hand between my legs, his hoarse “Your panties are soaked” startled and thrilled me to the point that I almost pitched over.

  Then he was on his knees in front of me, urging my stance wider so he could nuzzle the insides of my thighs. It was all I could do to keep from screaming—with impatience—as he took his own sweet time getting to my crotch.

  When he finally pressed his mouth against my cunt, it wasn’t with the careful solicitousness that he usually gave the task. It was with rapacious hunger, as if he hadn’t eaten in days and I contained the sweetest nectar.

  I stuffed my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming, because I really did want to when the orgasm slammed into me, wringing me until I was left limp and gasping.

  Joe didn’t leave me time to recover. He was on his feet, spinning me around so I faced the stone wall. I’d almost forgotten where we were and now I was reminded: in the open courtyard of a crumbling manor house, enacting our version of a passion that had flamed through generations back to the dawn of time.

  Open to the night. Open to passersby. I no longer cared about that.

  My cunt was still spasming from my first orgasm when Joe drove his cock into me. That definitely brought me up onto my toes.

  We froze like that, with his cock buried in me, with me pulsing around him, the only sound that of our harsh breath. He buried his face in my shoulder and groaned something I couldn’t decipher.

  Then he curled his hands around my hips, and I had the presence of mind to grab the wall and hold on.

  I bent over, arched my back so my ass thrust up, and met him lunge for lunge. His hips and belly slapped against my butt as we met again and again. The pressure was building for me again, from the feel of the hard length of him in me, from the urgent way he took me, from the vulnerable position I was in. From the open sky and looming ghostly walls and the possibility of eyes, live or ghostly, witnessing our frenzied union.

  I was peaking, urging Joe on through hissed breath, when he broke and came, his thrusts turning short and staccato and my name tumbling from his lips.

  Afterward, it occurred to me that I didn’t think he’d ever made a sound before when he’d come.

  We had sleeping bags in the car, and camping pads, for those digs when we were too far from civilization to go for a real bed every night, and Joe got them from the car. We curled up together, propped against the wall, both of us loath to leave Pencraig just yet; saying good-bye in our own way.

  Good-bye to the house, hello to each other.

  We talked about everything and nothing. About our jobs, about preservation of historic sites, about our relationship, about sex, about how it was a good thing the pub was far enough away that the landlady wouldn’t have wandered by because surely we would have given her a heart attack.

  At some point we must have dozed off. I don’t know what woke me, at the first light of dawn, but suddenly I was awake, alert. The sky was gray, the stars fading. A wren sang nearby.

  And a small cluster of dark objects were darting overhead, dipping and wheeling almost faster than I could follow, before shooting into the black window of the north tower.

  “Bats,” I said aloud in wonder.

  “What?” Joe stirred, blinked. Then he took my head in his hands and gave me a toe-curling kiss. “Morning.”

  “Morning.” What had we been talking about? “Bats! I saw bats—they’re roosting in the north tower.”

  “I had no idea you had a vampiric bent,” Joe said.

  I swatted at him. “Bats are protected in Wales,” I said. “Remember that seminar we took? By law you can’t disturb their roosting place.”

  “Oookay.” Joe wasn’t a fast waker. Hey, he’d had a rough night. I took sympathy on him.

  “If Pencraig’s a roost for bats, it can’t be disturbed or damaged.” A knot in my stomach, one I hadn’t really been aware of until now, began to loosen. “It can’t be developed in any way that would affect the bats.”

 
They weren’t, we learned after we sent in our report and a bat expert had been dispatched to examine the evidence, just any old bats. They were greater horseshoe bats, and only about a thousand were left in Wales. Fewer than ten lived at Pencraig, and could easily have been overlooked.

  Take that, luxury resort developer!

  We’d saved Pencraig.

  Time would tell about the status of the rest of things. But the number one skill you learn as an archeologist is patience.

  Except, of course, when it comes to sex. With that, impatience can be a virtue.

  (S)PAN(K)CAKES

  Kristina Wright

  Know what I want for breakfast?”

  Adam nuzzled my neck, still half asleep on a Sunday morning. “Mmm…sex?”

  “Pancakes,” I said.

  “Then sex?”

  I laughed at his eagerness and tousled his hair. “Maybe. C’mon. I’ll make you pancakes and then we’ll see.”

  We padded out to the kitchen, Adam in his boxer briefs and me in just a T-shirt and boyshorts. Adam swatted my ass when I bent to get out the mixing bowl from the cabinet.

  “Hey!”

  “Just trying to help,” he said with a sleepy grin. “I’m getting hungry.”

  His leer told me he was hungry for more than pancakes.

  “If you want to help, why don’t you get the milk and butter out of the fridge?”

  He gave me another smack. “I’d rather bend you over the counter—”

  “Milk and butter!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He saluted, rumple-haired and bare-chested, looking so delicious in the morning light streaming in the window.

  I put the cast-iron skillet on the stove and added a quarter-sized dollop of oil. Then I assembled the dry ingredients in a glass bowl. Flour, sugar, baking powder, a little salt, some spices. Adam put the quart of milk and a stick of butter on the counter next to me and nuzzled my neck before swatting my ass again.

  “I need an egg, too.”

  “You’re a demanding wench.”

  “Hardly,” I laughed, as I measured off three tablespoons of butter and put it in a coffee mug. I popped it in the microwave for thirty seconds. “I’m cooking for you, not the other way around. I am but your obedient serving wench.”

  “Obedient, huh?”

  I ignored the suggestive tone in his voice as I took the melted butter out of the microwave. He got an egg from the refrigerator and handed it to me without a word. I could feel him standing behind me as I poured the milk into another bowl and added the egg and butter. I whisked the ingredients together slowly as I added a splash of vanilla, almost willing him to do what I knew he was going to do.

  “You want it, don’t you?” he whispered behind me.

  I halted, midwhisk. “Hmm? What are you talking about?”

  “You’re practically sticking your ass out for it.”

  I stood up straight. “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. You were waiting for me to spank you.”

  “Only because you’ve been smacking me since we got up,” I argued, pouring the wet ingredients over the dry ingredients and returning to my whisking with increased vigor.

  “So, you don’t want it?”

  “No.” I didn’t sound terribly convincing even to myself. “I’m trying to make pancakes.”

  Adam moved away to stand against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. His bare, sexy chest. “I see. And I’m distracting you?”

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard. “You are.”

  He shrugged. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I looked at the pancake batter, well mixed and ready to be put on a hot pan.

  Adam watched as I carried the bowl to the stove. I tried not to look at him. I was annoyed, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. My ass was still tingling from that last slap and I wanted more. I wanted a lot more. He knew that and knew I was just playing coy, but he’d called my bluff and I was too rebellious to tell him what I wanted.

  I scooped pancake batter from the bowl with a measuring cup and carefully poured it into the hot skillet. The batter sizzled, sending up that floury-sweet smell of pancakes that’s so perfect on a Sunday morning.

  “You’re mad.”

  I ignored him, scooping and pouring more batter into the pan. When I had three pancakes cooking, I said, “I’m not mad. I just need the spatula. Would you get it for me?”

  I heard him rummaging around in the gadget drawer behind me. “You want it?”

  “Yes, I want it.”

  He smacked me with the spatula. “All you had to do was ask.”

  I yelped. “Hey! Knock it off. I’m cooking.”

  “Oh, sorry. I thought you wanted it.”

  I bit my lip. The last time I told him to stop he had…well… stopped. The pancakes were just beginning to bubble and would need to be flipped in a minute or two.

  “I want it,” I said, very deliberately. “I want it now.”

  Even though I was expecting it, the slap of the plastic spatula made me jump. He spanked each cheek once, hard enough that I whimpered.

  “How was that?”

  I kept my eyes on the pancakes. Another thirty seconds and they would definitely need to be flipped or they would burn.

  “I said, I want it.” I leaned over the stove, as if to get a closer look at my bubbling pancakes. “I really want it now.”

  “Your ass looks delicious,” he said, giving it another slap with the spatula.

  “I need to flip the pancakes now.” I was a little breathless as I reached behind me for the spatula.

  Adam handed it over and I quickly turned each of the pancakes. They were perfect, golden brown. “Mmm. They look good.”

  “Mmm, you look good,” Adam said, applying his hand to my ass.

  I whimpered at the warm slap of his hand, so different from the cold spatula. He smacked me again and I closed my eyes, breathing in the sweet scent of pancakes and reveling in the tingling heat spreading through my bottom.

  “I think your pancakes are done,” he said.

  I opened my eyes and saw that he was right. The edges were perfectly brown. I sighed, completely disinterested in pancakes now, and slid the three pancakes off onto a plate.

  “Why don’t you let me hold that spatula while you pour the batter?” Adam asked, his voice telling me exactly what to expect.

  I tried not to appear too eager as I handed over the spatula. Tried and failed. Adam spanked me with it before I had even scooped more batter. I yelped and jumped, leaving a trail of batter down the side of the mixing bowl.

  “Messy girl,” he growled, spanking me again.

  My goal was to pour the batter as quickly as possible. I succeeded in pouring batter into three misshapen circles as the spanking continued. I whimpered with every slap, watching my sad little pancakes sizzle in the hot skillet. A trickle of perspiration—as much from leaning into the stove as from the heat radiating from my ass to my pussy—trickled between my breasts.

  “Harder,” I said breathlessly, hanging on to the edge of the stovetop and thrusting my ass out for it.

  Adam obliged my demand, smacking me hard with the flat part of the spatula until I moaned. My eyes fluttered closed again as I gave myself over to the spanking. My pussy throbbed with every smack and heat spiraled through me. I ached to stroke my clit until I came.

  “Pull your panties down.”

  I trembled as I obeyed. I was in a different world now, willing to do whatever Adam asked in order to get the satisfaction I needed. I tugged my panties down my thighs until they fell to the floor.

  “Good,” Adam said. “Now I can see what I’m doing to you.”

  “You like this, don’t you?”

  I felt him press against me, his erection hard against my hot ass. “What do you think?”

  I moaned as I pressed against him, the fabric of his boxer briefs feeling rough against my tender flesh.

  He stepped back and quickly administered a ser
ies of hard whacks with the spatula, stopping as suddenly as he started.

  I whimpered, wanting more.

  “Time to flip your pancakes, bad girl.”

  I fumbled to take the spatula from him, feeling clumsy and slow. I wasn’t thinking about cooking anymore. I awkwardly flipped the pancakes while he rubbed my ass, taking away some of the sting. He knelt behind me and I felt him kiss each enflamed cheek.

  “Mmm. You smell like pancakes,” he murmured. The lick of his tongue between my cheeks made me shiver. “I wonder how you’d taste with maple syrup?”

  “The pancakes are flipped.” I handed him the spatula and bent over again.

  Adam chuckled. “Anxious little wench, aren’t you?”

  I nodded, thrusting my bottom out for him. “Please?”

  “Whatever you want, baby.” He slapped me hard and I nearly screamed.

  “I want to come,” I murmured.

  “Touch yourself.”

  It was all the encouragement I needed. With one hand gripping the stove, I pressed two fingers against my pussy and dragged my wetness up to my swollen clit. I stroked myself as Adam spanked me, each slap sending a tremor through me. I wouldn’t last long. I was so hot with wanting, it would only take a moment or two until I was coming. I closed my eyes, absorbed in the feeling of my clit between my fingers, so wet and hard, and the stinging slaps on my ass that were sending me over the edge.

  “Your pancakes are burning.”

  I nearly growled my frustration. Without a word, I took the spatula from Adam and slipped three more pancakes onto the plate. I handed him the spatula again, eagerly returning to my spanking pose and intent on getting off, but he had other ideas.

  “I think there’s enough batter for a couple more pancakes.”

  “Seriously?”

  He whacked me, hard. “Don’t be sarcastic. This was your idea.”

  I was cursing my clever idea as I poured the last two pancakes. “There. Happy?”

  Another whack, as hard as the previous one. “Clearly, being spanked makes you more rebellious.”

  I slipped my hand down between my thighs again. “Do it. Spank me,” I said urgently. “I’m so fucking hot.”