Best Erotic Romance

by Kristina Wright (ed)

  And he did fuck her—until she was screaming his name and he pinched her clit so hard that she couldn’t breathe and couldn’t see for the pleasure. After a short while, and a visit to the bathroom, she managed to undress him completely and ride his cock again until he was the one begging and pleading with her never to stop.

  She lay sprawled over him, her eyes half-closed, and listened to the steady beat of his heart. The shrill tones of her cell phone had her reaching instinctively for her purse. As she scrabbled to find her cell on the messed-up bed, the screen lit up and Jodi’s stomach did a peculiar flip.

  Before she could answer the phone, it was plucked from her grasp.

  “Why the hell is he calling? Can’t we get any peace?”

  Jodi tried to grab the cell back, but it was too late.

  “What’s up, Mikey?”

  She tried to understand the excited chatter on the other end of the line, but it was too fast. His face softened and he raised his eyebrows at her.

  “Do you want to speak to Mom?”

  He handed her the phone and lay back down on the pillows, his expression resigned.

  “What’s up honey?” Jodi asked.

  “The babysitter wants to know if I can play Dark Warriors in Peril. Can you tell her its okay?”

  “Is that why you called, Mikey? You’re thirteen—you should be able to work this out yourself.”

  “Mom, she says it’s for teens only and Darla and Tom aren’t old enough.”

  “Then you get to play it when they’ve gone to bed. Why aren’t they in bed anyway?”

  She waited while Mikey conferred in muffled tones with someone else. “They are just going now. When will you and Dad be back?”

  Jodi glanced at her husband. “When we’re ready.”

  “Haven’t you guys finished celebrating your anniversary yet? Jeez, how long does it take?”

  “As long as we want. Fifteen years is a big deal, okay?”

  He sighed. “Okay, we’ll see you later then.”

  The phone went dead, and Jodi stared at the now blank screen. She turned to the large naked man stretched out on the bed beside her, and he took her hand.

  “I told you to turn that off.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “I just couldn’t.”

  He sighed, “I know how you feel, but is one night away from the kids a year too much to ask?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Jodi held up her cell so he could see it and turned it off. He deserved this night. They deserved it. Having three kids had definitely inhibited their sex life. Perhaps this would help them get back into their sexual groove on the ranch—now that they’d fitted that new lock to their bedroom door.

  He smiled and ran a hand down his growing cock. “Then come here and fuck me.”

  She crawled toward him and bent to lick his already wet crown. “That will be my pleasure.”

  OUR OWN PRIVATE CHAMPAGNE ROOM

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  I can’t believe I’d been married to Derek for two years before I found out about his history in strip clubs. Perhaps that sounds a little too grandiose for what amounts to a handful of visits, but it feels like a secret past that I’d known nothing about, and I am, I’ll admit, a little jealous. Maybe more than a little bit. Even though I believe him when he says he hasn’t been to one since before we started dating, it’s the secrecy that sets me off more than the idea of beautiful, almost-naked women all over him. I’m jealous and turned on and confused by the intersection of the two. Plus it’s the present I’m more concerned about than the past, and the fact that I won’t be there. He’s heading off to his best friend Greg’s bachelor party, and suddenly I’m turning into the stereotypical wife, suspicious of what antics these men, and more specifically, my man, might get up to.

  But even more than jealousy, what lurks inside me is curiosity. So when Derek tells me that in his single days, when he’d been horny but hard up for dates, he’d spent some of his fancy Wall Street bonuses in the back rooms, the champagne rooms, of strip clubs, I start to picture what exactly had gone down in those mysterious havens of sexuality. Immediately, I get an image in my mind: my big, strapping man sitting down against a plush leather seat, while a beautiful, petite (except for her breasts) naked girl, glistening with sweat and desire, and maybe some glitter, writhes against him. Sometimes in my fantasies she’s bottle-blonde, sometimes brunette like me, but with shiny, glossy, gorgeous hair, sometimes a wild redhead. I can practically see her bare pussy pressing its heat against his thigh, her perfect nipples bouncing in the air while he restrains himself from taking a lick. The more I think about it, the more turned on I am, the momentary flickers of jealousy fading into a throbbing deep inside. I wonder if she teased him, running her finger along his cheek, or maybe his arm, or even, if she were the extra-naughty type, along his cock, knowing he couldn’t touch her. That’s what I would do if I were in her incredibly tall, probably clear Lucite shoes. The more I think about it, the more I realize I don’t just want to see the girl shaking her moneymaker for my man; I want to be that girl in all her hedonistic glory.

  I keep these visions to myself, though, because I’m still not quite sure what to make of them. I chat with him nonchalantly, and smile as best I can, but as soon as Derek leaves for his boys’ weekend, I’m not sure what to do. Tell a friend? Get wasted? Go to a strip club full of men myself? More than anything, I wish I were there with him, watching him, enjoying his sexy fun by proxy.

  Since joining him is not an option, I settle on that last option in my mind, then go into our bathroom, strip, and stare at myself in the full-length mirror. I start to preen, then realize something is missing, and race into my closet to peruse my shoe rack, which is organized by height, from tallest to lowest, stripper shoes to kitten heels. Today definitely calls for stripper shoes, and I select the highest pair, six-inch stunners that I’ve never worn outdoors. They were sort of a joke when I bought them, but when I slip my naked, thirty-five-year-old feet into them, I’m not laughing. I’m plotting.

  Because more than anything, I want to know what it was like for Derek in the champagne room. I want to feel like I’m a part of it, even though that’s his past. But isn’t the point of marrying someone to merge past with present with future, to become, as best as two people can, one? No, I haven’t asked him about every previous relationship, and he hasn’t asked me, but I love the way I can be telling a story about something that happened in high school, a decade before I met him, and he’ll finish it for me like he was there. He’ll remind me of things I’d not only forgotten I’d told him, but just plain forgotten.

  So it’s not the stripping so much as the being left out that I object to. Sure, we could go to a strip club ourselves, but as much as I keep fixating on the image of a beautiful, naked woman rubbing up against all six feet, 220 pounds of him, I know the fact that she’ll surely be younger, thinner, and less jiggly in the ass and thighs than I am will haunt me, and not in a good way. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something about it. I reach for the shower radio and tune it to the Top 40 station, and soon I’m dancing with myself in front of the full-length mirror while Britney Spears urges me on.

  I look myself up and down, critically but compassionately. I like my long, silky brown hair, shot through at the top with streaks of blonde, and am grateful that I’ve found the best hairdresser in the world, who can keep it feeling smooth and shiny even when I don’t take the best care of it myself. My breasts have always been the feature I’m most proud of, big enough that I need a sports bra when I go jogging but not big enough to look obscene in my tightest sweaters. I’ve got hips, yes, and a belly, and thighs, and an ass, all of which I’m constantly trying to slim down even though Derek loves to kiss and lick and grab me there. Sometimes he clings to my hips so tightly he leaves bruises, but I don’t mind. I have my good days and my bad days when it comes to liking my body, but today is going to be one of the good ones, and tomorrow, when Derek gets home, is going to b
e one of the best ever.

  I hold on to the sink for a moment to make sure I’ve got my balance, swing my hair down in front of me, then back up, shimmy down as low as I can go, and when I finally reach between my legs, staring deep into my eyes the whole time, I’m soaking wet. I kick off the shoes as the song ends, exhilarated and aroused. I get rid of my clothes and slip into the shower, where I blast the spray as hot as I can stand it, so hot my pale skin will be juicy red. When I shower with Derek, I tone it down, but since he’s not here, I go a little wild, and while the spray beats down on my face, I touch myself and picture what I will do, how I will move against him, imagine the noises he’ll make when I take the champagne and spray it all over both of us. That image is what makes me come hard, trembling in the shower, and I waste more than a little water simply absorbing that feeling deep into my core. I need it to build me up in case I get nervous when it’s time to go for the real thing.

  Shopping for liquor has never felt so risqué, but on this trip, while I search for the perfect bottle of champagne, it feels illicit, like I’m cheating somehow. Maybe it’s because I didn’t give Derek a clue when he called to check up on me that I was planning this. Too much anticipation could spoil it. We rarely surprise each other anymore, even with flowers or naughty notes. It’s not that we don’t have a great sex life; it’s more that we each know exactly what to expect. Even asking for the high-end champagne feels like flirting. I wonder if the clerk sees my nipples harden; I chose a sheer bra rather than a padded one.

  I buy two large bottles and a few glass flutes, then bring them home and set them on ice. I strip off all my clothes and walk around the house naked to get in the mood. I have no idea if real strippers like to be au natural or not, but I know for me it takes a little getting used to. Even when we’re on vacation, at resorts where everyone is letting it all hang out, I still cling not just to my bathing suit but a cover-up too. Even a sheer one is better than nothing. But this time I have a little Britney Spears, a little Christina Aguilera, and a lot of courage racing through my blood. I don’t plan to drink the champagne myself; that would defeat my purpose if I used it to spur me on.

  The champagne is for Derek to enjoy…when I pour it all over myself. I get through a few Britney tracks, a few Christina, a little Rihanna, shaking my ass, my hair, my breasts, every part of me. I do it barefoot and in heels, and I get used to bending over, flashing myself, running my hands over my body. I’m flushed and filled with a new kind of sexual energy by the time I’m done. I slip into the deep peach silky nightie and start to curl my hair. Even though I plan to shake it all over, I have an hour to kill and want to make sure I look stunning for him. I want to make sure Derek knows how much I want him, not just tonight, but always, how much I’d do for him, with him, to him.

  The curling iron heats up quickly, and in only a few minutes my hair looks elegant. I pin some of it up and let the warm curls fall around my neck. Normally I’m a lip gloss and maybe dash of blush kind of girl; my weekly manicures and pedicures are my big concession to glamour. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t raided Sephora a few times, and I discover a treasure trove of barely used makeup. Though I don’t wear it often, I didn’t grow up with two older sisters and walk away not knowing how to do a perfect smoky eye. I layer on the liquid liner, then a glittery purple shadow, then add false eyelashes I’ve been saving for a special occasion. This damn well better qualify.

  I lotion myself up then prance around the house in my favorite heels as I try not to touch myself again. That would deprive Derek of the sex-starved, nympho side of me. When I hear his keys jingling in the door, I compose myself. I’m the good wife gone bad, and a quick glance in the hallway mirror confirms I look the part. He starts to say, “I’m home,” but stops at “I’m” when I walk toward him and give him a big hug. Is it me, or does he look even hotter than when he left?

  “Honey, I…” He just stands there with his jaw open, unable to say anything else.

  “How was the bachelor party?” I ask.

  “It was fun,” he says with a cautious note in his voice as he looks around. “Am I…interrupting something?”

  I realize he thinks he’s walked in on me in the midst of some clandestine affair. He has, in a way, but not in the way he thinks. “No, you’re right on time. The show’s about to start,” I purr, running my hand up his chest.

  “Show…?” he asks in a bewildered voice, but I tug him up the stairs, facing him and walking backward, ensuring that he’ll want to follow me. Derek is still staring at me like he’s not quite sure where his wife has gone, but when I suck on one of my manicured fingers, then trace that finger over my nipple, letting it pebble against my nightie, all while I hold on to the banister with my other hand and take slow, deliberate steps upward in my heels, I know I have his attention. I can make out that he’s hard, but even more than the erection I can see, I like the sense of adventure I can taste in the air between us, something that’s been missing for far too long.

  I’ve dragged our favorite giant plush chair, the one I know will hold both of us because I’ve sat in his lap on it plenty of times, from the guest room into our room, and I pull Derek inside and plop him down there. “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. No touching though; you might get kicked out. I can touch you if I want to though,” I say in a sex-kitten voice I’m not sure I’ve ever used with him or anyone. It seems to come out of me, or rather, Ginger, the girl I’m channeling, the one I imagine has danced for my husband dozens of times. I start up the playlist I’ve created, saving the champagne for later. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails starts to boom through our elegant bedroom, and I can only hope the loud rock takes him to a slightly more edgy headspace. I lift my leg and place the sole of my five-inch shoe on the edge of the chair.

  Derek swallows hard. “Sar—,” he tries to say, but I silence him with a finger over my lips. I flash him my bare pussy, then flip the nightie down, put my leg down and turn around. I dance for him, for me, for us. I dance for all the times before I met him when I wish I’d been with him rather than with everyone who came before him. I dance for Trent Reznor, pouring every ounce of myself into the song. Keeping with the theme, “I’m a Slave 4 U” by Britney comes on, and I grab the little purple suede flogger I bought yesterday and whip it all around. I stroke it over my breasts and lash it against my arm. I hold out his palm and strike it against him, smiling as he moans. I slap it against my ass, but when Derek reaches to touch me, I push his hands away. Britney might be a slave for someone, but I’m in charge right now.

  As the song ends, I toss the flogger on the floor and climb up onto the chair with him, pressing my bare sex directly against him, designer pants be damned. I breathe against his neck, purr into his ear, lick the stubble along his cheek. I sacrifice the nightie and rip the delicate lace at the top so my breasts can spill out as Madonna launches into “Justify My Love.” That’s not exactly what I’m doing right now; I’m not justifying it, I don’t think, I’m exploring it. I’m telling him that he doesn’t have to hide anything from me. I placed my hand on his forehead and stroke downward, and when I lift it, his eyes are closed. That’s when I slide my hand under the bed and unearth the giant Veuve Clicquot Brut Yellow Label bottle I’ve chilled in our freezer. I bring it toward him and hold the frosty glass against his wrist.

  Derek’s so-beautiful-I-want-to-melt-into-them hazel eyes flutter open and he stares at me with a look that I think means, “You’re crazy, woman, but I want to fuck you so badly.” I pop the top and pull out the cork, watching the steam rise and hiss its way into the air and then the bubbles exploding upward out of the bottle’s mouth. Neither of us can miss the sexual overtones of that. Then I look up at him before leaning down and, in another nod to Madonna, wrap my lips around the bottle. I use both hands to raise it, then swallow a little, letting most of it dribble down my chest, wetting what’s left of my nightie, slithering down past my pussy, onto him. I toss my head back, my hair spilling down my back, then pour the chilly liquid
directly down my front.

  I put down the bottle and again climb up next to my husband, straddling him, and offer him a champagne-soaked nipple. He greedily takes it in his mouth. I reach for his hands and place them on my ass. He grabs me like he hasn’t grabbed me in years. His lips, his hands, his cock pressing up against me, are all reminders of what I want us to be like again. The fire didn’t exactly go out, but it has fizzled, and only when I hear the roar release from his lips, then feel Derek tearing my nightie right down the middle, do I realize exactly how much I’ve missed it.

  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to reassure me with words. Instead he lifts me up, my legs wrapped around him, the wet filmy fabric clinging to me. He doesn’t bring me to the bed, but instead slams me up against the wall. He keeps me pinned there while undoing his pants. “Is this what you want, Sarah? You want me right here, like this?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I cry when he shifts me just so and places the tip of his cock inside me. He is lighting the spark that is making our relationship explode, making it crackle and sizzle and burn the way it should have been all along. I know as he plunges inside me, holding me tight, his face buried in my neck, that no matter what happened in those champagne rooms, it was never like this. Derek pounds into me, overtaking me, and I cling to him, my thighs straining, my nails digging into his back.

  He is fucking me, that’s the only way to describe this, yet in its way, his fucking is lovemaking too. It’s the kind of fucking a couple can engage in who knows that there is no one else they’d rather be with, so they can slam and rock and thrust and claw, scream and pound and yell and bite, and be assured that the other person wants every ounce of ferocious, almost violent energy they have to share. He doesn’t say anything, not even my name, just growls into my ear, a sound that’s so beautiful I start to cry a little when I come. He used to tell me not to cry, but now he knows that when it happens, it means I’m so overwhelmed with not just love and lust but destiny, rightness, perfection, that I can do nothing else. I squeeze him hard, and then I come again when he starts to fill me with his passion. He stops thrusting and simply lets himself be inside me, making me his and telling me he’s mine.