by Radclyffe
“The kind that has nothing to do with winning and losing.” She pressed her mouth to the side of my neck and traced the tip of her tongue over the pulse that beat frantically beneath my skin. “Passion is the true power.” Her fingers danced up my fly to my stomach, where she tugged my T-shirt from my pants and slid her hand underneath. “Shared passion.”
My stomach went rigid, my thighs stiffened, and I had to concentrate not to press down on the gas pedal and rocket us up Sixth Avenue. Her hand was so hot my skin burned. When she massaged me in slow circles, the pressure went straight into my clit. If my legs hadn’t already been spread, I would have had to part them, just to make room for it as it promptly swelled and twitched. I groaned softly, and I swear she laughed.
“Take me through Central Park.”
“You won’t...see much at night.”
“Mmm, I’m not thinking of the scenery outside.”
As she spoke, she drew my hand beneath the hem of her dress. While she leaned against me, still stroking my stomach, she guided the backs of my fingers up and down the inside of her thigh. When I felt the subtle lift of her hips beside me, I knew I was lost.
“I can’t drive like this,” I whispered.
“Find a place to pull over.” The hint of command was still in her voice, but the faint tremor there now went right to my head.
My vision blurred for an instant and reflections from neighboring headlights became dancing moonbeams. I struggled to keep the cab in the lane. “Oh God—”
“Steady. There’s time.”
I drew a tremulous breath and squeezed down hard on the steering wheel with my left hand, blinking to clear my eyes. “I can’t...I can’t think. I want to touch you so much.”
Her laughter held a note of triumph. “Will that help your concentration?”
To emphasize her point, she brushed my fingers higher between her thighs, the silk of her dress sliding up my arm as my fingertips slid over silken skin. I touched slick wet heat and gave a sharp cry of shock.
“No,” she murmured throatily, “I didn’t think so.”
Mercifully, I’d just reached the entrance to the park where the traffic at least would be thinner. I made the mistake of glancing down into her lap and saw our arms disappearing beneath the silvery blackness of her dress, even as my fingers beneath it parted her ready flesh. I veered into a tiny turnaround and with my left hand awkwardly jammed the transmission into park while in the same motion turning toward her. In less than a second my mouth was against her ear, my fingers spread over the cleft between her thighs, cupping all of her, hot and wet and swollen. “I can’t wait. Please, may I touch you?”
“Yes,” she breathed, “I give you leave.”
Abruptly, she released her hold on my hand where she held it between her legs and pushed both of hers beneath my T-shirt to grasp my bare breasts. The force of her fingers closing on my tense nipples and swollen breasts wrenched another cry from my throat. Before the sound died, her mouth was on my neck, the weight of her body forcing me back against the seat.
Even as her lips and teeth and mouth nipped at my skin, I fumbled with my left hand between the seat and the door, found the seat release lever, and pulled it. The front seat slid back away from the steering wheel, enough at least to allow us to turn and face each other. I arched my neck, offering myself, as she sucked on the tender flesh just below my jaw. Gently, I eased my fingers into her depths, marveling at the heat and softness. She moaned and pressed down against my hand.
“We can’t—” My body bowed from the seat as she lowered her head and caught a nipple in her teeth through my T-shirt. Tugging at it, making the blood roar in my head, she adroitly opened the button on my chinos and flicked down the zipper. “Police...could come.”
“They won’t,” she said fiercely, rolling her hips in my palm. “Come deeper inside me. Fill me up, make me come.”
I gazed down through clouded eyes and saw her push her hand down my pants. The sight alone nearly made me come. I knew as soon as she touched me I would explode, and I wanted her to come first. Her fingers glided through the dampness between my legs just as I entered her. As I filled her, holding her in my palm, I worked my thumb back and forth over her clitoris. The muscles spasming around my fingers signaled she was nearing her climax.
“That’s right,” she murmured, “that’s right. I’m coming.”
Her fingers closed around my clitoris as the first wave of her orgasm rolled through her. She pressed her face to my breasts, rocked her hips convulsively against my hand and arm, and even though she shuddered and moaned, still managed to jerk me to a shattering climax.
For minutes, possibly hours, I was blind and deaf and barely breathing. The engine idled quietly in the background, a soothing contrast to our hoarse cries and desperate moans. When at last I fell back against the seat, limp and thoroughly sated, she raised her head and kissed the corner of my mouth.
“Wherever this spot is, it should get four stars in the guidebook.”
“It’s not on my usual tour route,” I rejoined lazily.
She caught my wrist as I was about to slip out of her and held my fingers inside, undulating her hips slowly. “No, not yet. You feel so good filling me.”
“We have to get moving.” My neck muscles were so weak I wasn’t sure I would be able to sit up, but I managed to turn my head on the seat. Her eyes as they held mine were liquid, so dark and satisfied they appeared black. “We haven’t finished our tour.”
The corner of her mouth lifted and she squeezed down around my fingers one more time before gently guiding me out. “You mean there’s more?”
“Uh-huh. Lots.”
“Do you have time?”
“All the time in the world.” I smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. “I’m off the meter, remember?”
OASIS
I’d worked all night—an emergency call-out. By the time I stumbled in just after dawn, she was already up. I muttered hello; she gave me a sympathetic smile. Then I showered to wash away the lingering scent of stress and sweat and fell into bed. When I awoke, it was late in the day—one of those still, sultry summer afternoons. I’d kicked off the sheet and lay on my stomach, naked. The air was heavy and hot in the bedroom, despite the open windows, and the desultory breeze carried teasing hints of barbeque, laughter, and simple pleasures long forgotten. As I floated on the cusp of sleep and awareness, I had the sense of being very old, or very young—and I ached to drift forever in that timeless womb where life was safe and easy.
The house was silent, but I knew she was in her shop working. If I lay very still and concentrated, I could just make out the distant sound of a phonograph. Not a stereo, but an old-fashioned record player with a tone arm and a diamond-tipped needle playing 45s from an era long past. Patsy Cline, walking after midnight and crying over sweet dreams of faded love. We had that in common, she and I—that melancholy even in the midst of happiness.
I shifted onto my back and the tiny breath of air from the window skimmed across my breasts, my belly. Stretching lazily, I brushed a hand over my stomach. Eyes closed, I could see her, bent over her worktable, absorbed in her latest project, humming unconsciously to the anthems of heartbreak and loss as her swift, sure hands manipulated a tiny tool and her laser-sharp blue eyes focused intently. I’d felt those eyes scorch my skin, those hands ignite my flesh. I knew what power, what passion, she conjured with a look, with a touch, when I lay beneath her.
My clitoris was suddenly hard.
The first tiny pulse of pleasure, the tingling rush of electricity, grew steadily more insistent until it was all I felt. Legs tensing, twisting slightly amidst the crumpled cotton sheets, I brushed my fingertips through the triangle of soft hair at the base of my belly. I could call her to me now, and she would come willingly. I could tell her of my needs, and she would answer them gladly. I could whisper my secret desires, and she would honor them reverently. And if I asked for nothing more than her hot mouth and her clever fingers to assu
age my hunger, she would toss me that lazy grin and settle between my thighs and give herself to my pleasure.
I could call her to me, and knowing that truth was enough to make me leave her to her private contentment, for the moment.
But my body had stirred, and the need rode hard now between my thighs. It was the perfect setting for a slow, easy climb to satisfaction—sunlight dappled my skin in soft warm patches, a faint mist of sweat dampened my skin, and the languid swelling of desire thudded in the pit of my stomach. I lifted my hips, cupped a hand between my legs. As I caressed swollen, sensitive lips—ever so lightly—my clitoris, still hidden, twitched. A quiet moan drifted away on the air.
I dipped a fingertip into the satiny moisture and deliberately coated the length of my clitoris. The feather-light touch, all I allowed myself, sent pleasure rippling through my belly. My legs stiffened, and I sighed. I knew this song—sweet dreams of you...
So good.
Slowly, I stroked and circled and pressed until the clench of muscles deep inside, the sweet ache of blood rushing into tender tissues, the steady beat of desire that kept time with my heart brought another cry from my throat.
Oh God.
My hips rose and fell with each long, smooth glide of my fingers. I struggled to prolong the wanting, forcing my hand to still when the pressure built too high, even though my body screamed for me to drive myself fast and hard to orgasm. Then a rush of passion flooded my hand, and the first flutter of release whispered along my inner thighs. I bit down on my lip, a futile effort to hold back the tide.
Oh, not yet.
Carefully, I grasped my stiff clitoris between thumb and forefinger and squeezed, temporarily forestalling my climax. But I couldn’t help but pump my hips as I cupped my sex. The control I prided myself on was slipping.
Close. Close now.
I whimpered brokenly, needing desperately to let go. If I just rubbed the hea—
“Please wait.”
The gentle plea pierced the roaring in my head, and I struggled to open my eyes. Turning my head, I saw her leaning in the doorway across from the bed, her eyes on me, her hand moving slowly beneath her gray cotton T-shirt, fingers tugging at the hard ball of her nipple.
“Hi,” I said, my voice husky with lust. I stopped the motion of my hand, but my fingers still trembled against my wet, pulsating flesh. “Finished...work?”
Her smile was lopsided, her eyes heavy lidded as her gaze drifted down my body and lingered on my hand. “Yeah—did you finish yours?”
I rolled my hips, the pressure on my distended clitoris making me gasp. “Almost.”
“Want company, or should I just watch?”
I heard the hunger in her voice and knew that the flush of sex on my neck and breasts signaled how near I was to coming. I knew what she wanted, and I knew that she would do whatever I asked. Smiling, I drew my damp, shining fingers up the center of my abdomen and circled a nipple, leaving the hard nub glistening.
“Jesus,” she whispered reverently.
“Your choice...but tell me soon. I need to come really bad.”
“Turn over,” she said sharply, pushing away from the wall. “And don’t touch yourself again unless I tell you to.”
Rolling onto my stomach and closing my eyes, I cradled my head in my arms. I could smell my arousal and knew she would, too. My clitoris beat a frantic rhythm between my thighs. “I’m going to come right away. As soon as you touch me.”
“No,” she said from somewhere behind me. “You’re not.”
All of my senses were heightened. The sound of a drawer opening cracked like thunder, the snick of a zipper sliding down sliced through me like a knife. The snap of a buckle struck my depths like a fist. I ached to come. When her weight settled carefully onto the foot of the bed, I very slowly pulled one knee up toward my chest, letting her see the rosy dew of my excitement. Then I waited, poised to explode.
She moved slowly, carefully, between my legs. When she touched my swollen inner lips, I jumped, uttering a soft moan.
“You’re so wet,” she murmured, painting the sensitive folds and valleys of my sex with a fingertip dipped in my own desire. She drew the wetness to my anus and circled the opening. The tiny muscle contracted, and I felt the pressure straight through to my clit.
“You’ll make me come,” I gasped.
“Shh. I won’t.”
She lingered for a moment as I lifted my hips, supplicant and silent. I moaned when she moved away, denying me, then sighed as her fingers slid forward, teased my clit for a tantalizing instant, then glided between my labia. Slowly, she entered, stretching me gently, moving her fingers in and out a fraction of an inch at a time. The tension pulled the hood tight around my clit. Oh, yes. Wanting more, I pushed back and forth between her hand behind and the bed below.
“Stop that,” she warned, a hint of laughter in her voice.
“Feels so good...touch my clit, honey. Please.”
“Maybe,” she whispered, deep inside me now, “if you’re good.”
She shifted closer, up on her knees, withdrawing her fingers to circle my clit for just one final second—teasing me, making me cry out. She knew how much I loved to have her rub her fingers over my wet clit.
“Make me come,” I begged.
“Like this?” She pressed harder and my whole body jerked.
“Oh yeah.” The roaring in my head was back. I couldn’t breathe. She brought me almost to the edge, then stopped. I collapsed, gasping. “Please...I’m almost there.”
“Mmm. I know.” She cupped my hips with both hands and lifted. “Get up on your knees.”
Trembling, I obeyed. I pressed my face to my bent arms, supporting myself, and waited. Hurry. Oh God, hurry.
The head of her cock slid between my wet lips, back to front, rubbing the undersurface of my exposed clitoris. The pressure made me want to come instantly.
“I can’t take that,” I gasped.
“Jesus, neither can I.”
Her breathing grew harsher, faster. The hand she kept on my back to guide me trembled. I knew the cock was pressing against her clit as she steadied it in the harness with her hand. As she teased me with it, she teased herself. I wanted to make her need to come the way she made me. Aching, begging for it. I thrust back against her cock and pushed it hard into her crotch.
She groaned and worked the head inside me. My clit twitched, grew larger. She rocked her hips, carefully. She was so careful with her cock. I didn’t want her careful. I wanted her inside. I wanted her to come inside me. I wanted to come. My clit was so hard now, I had to touch it. I started to slide a hand under my belly, but she stopped me.
“Not until I come.”
“I can’t wait. I can’t.”
Wordlessly, she pushed all the way in, her belly against my butt now, the cock filling me. Finally, she reached around with one hand and found my clit. When she pulled it gently, I screamed.
My words came out a plea, a litany of supplication. “I want to come. Please, can I come. Please, honey...”
She was moaning softly, working her cock in and out, faster and faster—enough for her to jerk off her clit, but not enough to hurt me. Her fingers slid up and down the shaft of my clitoris, then rolled over the tip.
“I’m gonna come soon,” she whispered unevenly, her damp forehead pressed to my shoulder. “You ready?”
“God, yes.”
I bucked on her cock and ground against her fingers the way I needed to come. The more I moved, the more the cock worked her clit. Her hips pumped wildly now, her teeth bruising the skin at the back of my shoulder. We were both moaning.
“I’m coming,” I cried, humping her hand as her hips beat against my ass. As my clit exploded, she cried out, pushed her cock all the way inside me, and came on it.
I collapsed, shuddering, onto the bed. Even as she jerked with the last spasms of her orgasm, she was careful not to hurt me. She eased down on my back, still inside me.
“Glad I happened by,” sh
e murmured contentedly, her hands curled around my forearms, her cheek to my neck.
I sighed, still contracting around her cock, the final waves of pleasure spreading through me like warm sunlight. Outside the window life went on, but here, there was only us. “Me too, honey. Me too.”
ONLY A WORD AWAY
The rookie officer sat at a crowded desk in a cramped corner of the station house, her back to the room, her surprisingly delicate, long-fingered hands moving gracefully over the keyboard. With her head tilted to one side as she studied the computer monitor, her red-gold hair—cropped close at the back of her neck and cut slightly longer on the top and sides—fell onto her forehead in a careless wave.
“Yo, Reynolds. You ’bout done with those reports?”
Tap, tap.
“If you get it done before six, we can catch a beer with the rest of the guys from the day shift,” her training officer, an ex-football player who still looked the part, called from across the room in an aggrieved tone. “Jesus, if I’d known it was going to take you this long to finish the paperwork...” He fell silent, as if suddenly realizing that the only alternative would be to do it himself, and that was a far from satisfactory choice. After all, what were rookie partners for?
“Reynolds?”
Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap...tap.
“Man, you can really type.” His tone was reverent as he shoved himself up from the desk where he had parked his butt to talk over the events of the day with his buddies. As he wended his way between chairs abandoned haphazardly and desks angled askew, he asked, “How much longer, Rey?”
Reynolds jumped as the deep male voice, close by now, finally penetrated her consciousness. Heart racing, she rocketed the cursor arrow to the minimize box.
Click.
The ever-so-tasteful Miss July Penthouse centerfold screensaver appeared. The uplifted, rose-tipped breasts and airbrushed hint of down at the cleft between the full voluptuous thighs didn’t even register in Reynolds’s mind. Closing her fists to hide the faint trembling in her hands, she snapped, “What?”