Suite Encounters

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  It sounded like a bum deal…except that Ty knew how much she’d loved sucking him off. She’d gone to her knees for him in clubs, airplane bathrooms, at the last Emmys in New York and the one after that in L.A. She’d loved knowing he was helpless to do anything but pull at her hair and beg her to let him come. Sometimes it was all it took to get her off, too. Her breath came out in a ragged shot. “Y-you’re a stranger all right, Tyler. I don’t know you at all.”

  He grasped her face in his free hand while his other continued its seductive journey. “That’s horseshit. You’ve always known me. You’re the only one who’s really known me,” he swore. “You’ve gotta believe me. Felicity was a mistake.”

  “So is this.” But instead of pushing him away, she leaned into him, bracing her hands on his shoulders as he worked his hand past the elastic of her panties. “You’re going to end up blind itemed: ‘What daytime hunk was canoodling in public?’”

  “Fuck ’em. I don’t care, Anna,” he growled. He’d been in the States a long time, but when he was frustrated his accent came out thick. “Anner,” he called her now, sinking knuckle-deep into her wet heat. “They can all bloody watch me.”

  As if Ty had willed it into being, the punk kid bartender reappeared from the back…and promptly stalled in his tracks, all big-eyed and stunned. Anna knew she should say something, make Ty stop, but this felt too good. It felt too right. The bar was chest high. Surely it hid exactly what Ty was doing to her. Leaving her face, her muted moans, and Ty’s victorious “Fuck yeah” as the only giveaway.

  We can’t do this, she thought. We shouldn’t. But another part of her was thinking that if Angry Birds Boy didn’t like the floorshow, he could call hotel security. They could kick her out, and her whole problem of being stuck in a confined space with soap stars would be solved. Making her remaining problem this. Her ex-husband’s hand between her legs, his gorgeous blue eyes daring her to resist him.

  “Ty…this is crazy. You’re crazy.”

  “The show put us up at the Wynn. It’s either here or your suite, Anna.”

  Here, cried a voice that wasn’t her mother and wasn’t Abby. It was the voice that only belonged in her bedroom, saying things like “please” and “yes” and “harder.” Anna gave into it just long enough to come. Just long enough to ride Ty’s palm and muffle her gasps against his throat. He tasted like salt and oranges. Like a reckless Sunday afternoon in a hotel lounge with an audience of one. She was still shaking, still catching her breath, as Ty swung her off the bar stool and grabbed her purse. “Upstairs,” she whispered, blushing as she caught the bartender’s gaze over his shoulder. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  During the ride up to Anna’s suite, stuck in the elevator with a couple of tourists fresh from the pool and a few writers from “General Hospital,” it was all Tyler could do to keep from touching her again. He could smell her on his skin, still taste her, and he wanted to shove her against the wall, hike up her prim little skirt and show everybody who she belonged to. Who she’d always belonged to.

  Anna. Here, of all places. Tyler couldn’t wrap his brain around it. Christ, it was unbelievable, but here she was standing beside him, pretending to watch the floors go by. She looked amazing. Like she hadn’t aged a day since he first met her. Like it hadn’t been months since the last time he saw her. And not five minutes ago, he’d gotten her off with some stupid voyeuristic kid watching. She was so ready, so open, and they hadn’t even kissed yet. He knew her mouth would still be spectacular. Soft and smart and spicy. No screen kisses had ever stood up to the way she gave him her tongue. She’d given him everything, and he’d wasted it. But Ty wasn’t going to waste a single moment now.

  Award show be damned. He hadn’t wanted to fly out to Vegas with Desi, Felicity and the others. He preferred spending his Sundays watching rugby, to be honest. But now, with Anna so close, brushing up against his side every so often, the twentieth floor of the Hilton couldn’t come soon enough. Neither could he. When the doors opened, he practically carried her out of the lift and down the hall.

  “Ty, for god’s sake, you can put me down. I know how to walk.” She elbowed him in the ribs, too, but that was the sum total of her resistance. She melted into him like butter, her hair wrapping around his neck and her leg rubbing against his. Her voice was husky with need, and if he had to place bets—which he very well could, given that there was a casino downstairs—he’d say she hadn’t been with anyone else since him. How could she, when his name was still etched on her skin?

  Anna had always been the strong one, the independent one, knowing what she wanted from her career from the very beginning. When he’d still been answering every casting call his agent sent his way, she’d been putting together a business plan for the bar she wanted to open. She was so in charge. But in bed with him, she’d happily handed him the keys and let him drive.

  Tonight, she had the key. And they were barely over the threshold with the door locked safely behind them when she murmured, “Okay, Ty. Strip.”

  No muss, no fuss. She’d been promised a little thunder from his down under and she wanted it now. She hadn’t changed a bit. Laughter exploded out of him like a cannonball. “What, you’re not even going to pay the admission price? I’m hurt.”

  “Isn’t that what I did downstairs?” Her perfect black eyebrows arched up in amusement. He wanted to lick them. To lick all of her. “Or do you want me to shell out for the two-drink minimum, too?” She glanced down, making it absolutely clear what she would knock back a shot of.

  He was already hard, but that just made him harder, until he was chafing against his boxer briefs, feeling every ridge on his zipper fly. He couldn’t have scripted this moment any better. Anna, who got him hard with a look, with a promise, was the best scene partner he’d ever had. He just had to show her.

  He started with his shirt burtons, going slow as he backed her farther into the room. She urged him on, his own personal director. Her big, brown eyes telling him just how slow to go, her sighs telling him she liked it when he touched himself.

  He was the one who’d gotten her all obsessed with that idiotic Australian strip show at the Excalibur. He was just egotistical enough to think that the only reason she wanted to see a bunch of boys from Brisbane parade around in leather was because she missed him.

  “I didn’t,” she murmured when he said it aloud. “I didn’t miss you at all, and when I realized the goddamn Emmys were here, it was the last place I wanted to be.” But she was rubbing her throat, fiddling with her jacket like it was itchy. When she shrugged it off and it joined his shirt on the floor, he knew she was lying.

  “I think you hoped you would see me, Anna.” Tyler moved toward her, unbuttoning his jeans and undoing the fly. “I think you knew exactly what you’d find when you got here. Who books a room at the Hilton when you could have the Bellagio or the Mirage?”

  She made a face—a scowling, frowning, beautiful face. “That’s funny. I feel like I’m seeing a mirage right now. It looks like the boy I married.” Then she reached for him, hooking one hand around the back of his neck and tugging him to her. Finally, said a voice in the back of his mind as she kissed him. It was fierce, sloppy and abso-fucking-lutely perfect. She tasted like apples, cheap vodka and the girl who’d given him one wild weekend in Rio when he turned twenty-five.

  She pulled back just long enough to breathe, to trail words along his jaw with damp, fruity lips. “You really missed me? You really missed this?” There was still that hint of disbelief in her voice, and he couldn’t blame her. All he could do was try to drown it out, slanting his lips against hers.

  She slid her hand into the undone V of his jeans, diving into his briefs and stroking him like he’d stroked her in the bar. “Christ, Anna,” he swore into her mouth. “Way to take things in hand.” He didn’t have her name tattooed along his groin, but he was her property just the same. He helped her shuck his jeans and briefs and when he was throbbing, slick with precome, against her palm, she all but
confirmed it. She cupped him, barely even squeezing his cock, and he practically spilled right then. Like a boy with his first hard-on. He laughed, raggedly, leaning into her. “Darlin’, if you’re looking for that blow job I promised…I don’t think I’m going to last.”

  Her eyes were wide open, dark and pure like the absolute center of a flame. Her hand fisted him up and down in slow, torturous strokes. “You were never one for keeping your promises, Ty. That was always my territory.”

  Tyler accepted it like a choreographed slap, as his due. Then he walked her backward toward the bed, falling down with her and pressing naked skin to clothed. His cock was aching, begging for release, but he struggled—fought, won—to ignore it as he tugged her skirt up around her hips and tore at her staid, white blouse. “Then keep the biggest one: to have me and to hold me, from this day forward.”

  She spread her knees for him, rising up just slightly so he could slide her panties down her legs. “Like I said before, Ty. Not if you were the last man on earth.” Her words were clipped, closed, cynical, but the rest of her was flushed, soft and honeyed…

  Property of Tyler St. Cloud. “Anna, when it comes to you, I am the last man on earth.” He set his tongue to the swirling letters, tracing each one, lingering until she was moving restlessly beneath him. Only when she gasped out, “Ty, please,” did he crawl back up and settle between her legs. He was painfully hard, ready to bury himself deep inside her. Ready, except… “Dammit, Anna. I don’t have anything with me. Are you safe?”

  “Does it matter?” Her fingers were in his hair now, clutching him tight. “If you’re going to leave again…I might as well have a part of you, right? Something to remember you by besides alimony?”

  For someone who was a consummate planner, who’d kept him buying condoms for nine years, that was the most ridiculous logic. He was 90 percent certain she was being sarcastic. But Ty couldn’t care. Not when he was so close and she was so close and…and she would look so damn gorgeous carrying his baby, added the breathless, horny voice from the addled part of his brain. “I won’t leave you. Not ever again. Definitely not if you have my kid.” It wasn’t the sexiest of declarations, not something any writer would win an Emmy for, but Tyler meant it. And he meant it when he thrust into her in one, smooth movement. “Property of Anna Chan St. Cloud,” he whispered as he sank in to the hilt. “Do you hear me?”

  She took him like a glove, sheathing him in wet silk. “I’ve never needed to hear you, Tyler. I feel you. I always feel you.”

  Something snapped within them at the same time. He grasped her hips, pounding into her like fucking her was the equivalent to breathing. She met him, matched him and echoed him with her kisses, tongue moving against his, licking the inside of his mouth. Her feet beat a rhythm against his lower back, her nails dug into his shoulders. Ty hadn’t earned this, hadn’t worked for it, but he couldn’t let it go. Not until he was spilling deep inside her and she was following him into sticky, sweaty oblivion. It lasted forever…and not nearly long enough.

  It was like coming home—coming home to a house wrecked by storm and hearing nothing but thunder. He was broken, too, by the end of it. Sprawled across her, smiling like an idiot. “Well, Anna. What d’you think? Best Performance by a Lead Actor or what?”

  She reached up and palmed his face, touching him with more tenderness than he would ever deserve. “If I wasn’t lying down, I’d give it a standing O.”

  It wasn’t forgiveness. It was better. It was a chance.

  UNBOUND AT THE HOLIDAY INN

  Lily K. Cho

  I’m a quiet girl; people think I’m shy. I’m not, but the sarcastic and awesomely witty comments running through my mind usually aren’t appropriate for polite conversation or small talk, so I tend to keep them to myself. My Asian features and petite stature conspire with my silence so that I am constantly underestimated or overlooked. This has worked well for me in the past, as I don’t really like people anyway, but sometimes I do long to let my inner self out to play.

  Most of my adult life has been spent being a supportive wife as my husband chased his career goals and traveled across the country, and being a doting mother as I raised our children. I packed lunches and made dinners and never complained, but I always felt there was something missing from my life, some adventure that was slowly slipping out of reach as I got older.

  I came to realize that the ingredient missing from my life was passion. I loved my husband; I loved my kids. I loved my house with the tile entryway and granite kitchen counters. I had a good life. But what was I really passionate about? When was the last time I had felt that fire inside?

  Mark and I had a successful marriage. We were friends and partners, and Mark was a good husband, provider and father to our kids. But sometimes we both felt like the spark just wasn’t there, preoccupied as we were with the daily routines that were both stifling and comforting. We’d been working on it, though, trying to add a little spice here and there. Now that the kids were a bit older, we’d started leaving them with my mother and taking the occasional weekend trips to Napa Valley, indulging in a bit of romance and luxury at a lovely old Victorian hotel. The rosewood furniture and antique decor were quite charming, and after a nice meal at a quaint restaurant, we’d take a bottle of California wine back to our suite and make love for hours. He’d lay me back on the soft Egyptian cotton sheets and pleasure me gently and patiently with his tongue until I’d climax with a soft whimper, then he’d climb on top and take his own pleasure.

  I’d surprised him on his birthday a few months back with some naughty little toys. Blushing furiously in the privacy of our hotel suite, I’d presented him with two packages. The first was a vibrator, a pink jelly rabbit model, which wasn’t so shocking, after all, as the motor had finally burned out on Old Faithful a while ago. It was the second item that made his jaw drop in surprise, and I think he was blushing, too. It was a bondage set, all black nylon straps, Velcro, and shiny metal hooks like the ones on dog leashes. It even came with a blindfold.

  That was a night to remember, as we experimented with the straps, carefully fastening them so they wouldn’t scrape the heavy wooden posts of the bed frame. I remember lying on the bed, cold and vulnerable in my nakedness, as he tied me down. First my right wrist, tenderly wrapped and secured in the soft cuff, then my start of surprise as he quickly shortened the tether, pulling my arm toward the corner of the bed. I laughed a little, enjoying the thrill. I’d never been tied down before! My right ankle was next, the Velcro cuff, the sharp tug to remove the slack. Testing, I tried to pull free, but I was caught fast. I could feel my breathing quicken as I realized just how helpless I was going to be, and I was shaking just a bit as my other leg was tied. I must have let out a little whimper, because Mark stopped and asked if I was okay. I nodded, speechless, my mouth dry. I started to panic as he came around to my left arm, my last free limb, and I gave an involuntary jerk as he reached for me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself how much I loved and trusted this man, and lifted my arm so he could slip the cuff around my wrist. My entire body was trembling by then, and I could barely lift my head for him to get the blindfold on me.

  He used me well that night, slowly at first, the vibrator playing around my clit before dipping inside, then plunging deeply, relentless, until I came with a cry that surprised us both. He didn’t stop, though, instead turning up the vibrations until I thought I couldn’t take any more. My clit was so sensitive in that postorgasmic state. I couldn’t stop him, couldn’t close my thighs, though I tried, couldn’t escape the pleasure/pain, though my hips bucked and twisted, and it wasn’t until my cries became shrill and frantic that he stopped that delightful torture, freed my legs from their ties, and fucked my quivering pussy mercilessly until he came.

  We kept the cuffs for special occasions when we had the time and privacy to indulge. There was something magical about being bound and blindfolded, something that released my inhibitions in a way I had never been able to before. I loved having n
o choice but to climax at his will, as many times as he’d make me. Still, in the back of my mind, I wondered what it would be like to be the one in charge. I enjoyed being a little submissive, but there was that private part of me that wanted to be in control for once.

  When my birthday came around, Mark suggested we go on our typical Napa getaway. It was my fortieth, and he wanted to make it special for me—a weekend of being spoiled, complete with champagne, a chocolate tasting and a spa day for two. He was a little surprised when I declined, knowing how well I liked to be pampered, but I was hungry for something different.

  I made the arrangements for my own getaway. Mark wanted to help, but I insisted on doing it myself. I made reservations and packed a special bag for the night. The children were sent off to their grandmother’s, and I spent the afternoon alone with a hot bath, soaking in skin-softening oils. My hands drifted down under the surface of the water, fingers slowly making their way to my pussy, playing with the curls there. I had an idea suddenly, and with a wicked grin I reached for the towel and the razor.

  I climbed out of the tub and hastily dried myself, then spread a fresh towel on the floor in front of the full-length mirror. I brought a large bowl from the kitchen, filled it with warm water, and placed it carefully on the towel, then arranged scissors, razor and shaving cream nearby. I sat down nude in front of the mirror, legs spread, and really looked at the mound of my sex. I clipped the hair short with the scissors then rubbed some shaving cream over the fuzz. It was cold, but the metal of the razor was more so as I carefully shaved every curve and fold, rinsing with the warm water. The velvety soft texture of the virgin skin and the cool sensation of air caressing my most private parts fascinated me. As I got dressed, the whispery feel of the smooth satin panties both tickled and aroused me.