And just when Liz thought perhaps their private little Bacchanal would draw to a close, her lover surprised her one last time. Withdrawing his erection, he walked to an easy chair across the room, picked up the wide ottoman in front of it, and carried it out onto the balcony.
Although the street below was not abuzz with crowds like the red light end of Bourbon, it was Saturday night in the Quarter and a few people were strolling the sidewalks beneath them. Liz stood watching her masked, naked lover standing unabashedly out on the balcony, his dark eyes beckoning to her, his hand motioning her to join him.
Somehow this was different than the other times they’d fucked on the balcony, even more hedonistic-feeling than when she’d ridden him in the Pussycat’s Claw, where they might have been seen, but likely were not. Even so, she walked slowly toward her Mardi Gras king, who said in a deep, low voice, “This is your float. Your parade. This is where the revelers get to watch me fuck your pretty pink pussy.”
There was a part of her that actually thought of protesting—the knowledge that they would certainly be seen, perhaps were already being noticed in their masks and beads and nudity—seemed to go a step too far into her fantasy. Even so, her pussy pulsed with maddening intensity, wanting still more of the sweet, hot fucking he’d been delivering to her so well. And indeed, as she glanced to the street below and realized at least one couple and a trio of guys were pausing to look up at the balcony, nothing as petty as propriety mattered any longer—nothing mattered but being fucked by her king while the crowd watched.
Biting her lip, she gave Jack a come-hither look, then climbed onto the ottoman, positioning herself on hands and knees, just like in her fantasy.
Jack approached behind her, placing his palms on her hips, sliding his enormous hard-on smoothly into her welcoming cunt. “Oooh, God, yes, baby,” she purred at the filling entry.
His strokes came hard and deep and fast and pummeling, and Liz let herself cry out at each brutal thrust. She wanted the people on the street to hear—wanted more of them to stop and watch, to see her lover sliding his slick cock in and out of her while she screamed her bliss.
“So fuckin’ wet, baby,” Jack murmured as he continued driving his dick into her pussy. “So fuckin’ incredible.”
Liz kept her eyes open, focusing on the intricate wrought iron railing directly in front of her, the old brick of the building across the narrow street. Eventually, though, she dared to glance down and take in the scene below them—where she found a small crowd of at least fifteen people peering up at their show. Some looked shocked, others aroused. One man let out a deep throaty cheer of, “Oooh, baby! Yeah!”
In that moment of forbidden fucking, Liz became the strippers at Club Venus and the woman in ponytails she’d seen fucked at the Pussycat’s Claw. She became Felicia, and Lynda, and every other woman who drank in the pure joys of unabashed sex without fear or hesitation. She became the woman in her parade fantasy, a sexual being who lived only for pleasure. She became Jack’s Mardi Gras Queen.
The beads around her neck clicked and clanked against each other with each rough stroke Jack delivered. Another guy, somewhere below, let out a wolfish howl while another whistled. Jack’s cock pounded her into oblivion, making her thighs weak, her entire body basking in a nearly overwhelming pleasure.
“They’re watching us,” she panted over her shoulder to her lover. “They’re watching you fuck me.”
“That’s right, darlin’—they’re watchin’ you take my big cock, watchin’ your pussy take it all the way in, watchin’ me fuck you so hard.”
And just as she’d imagined in her fantasy, the mask gave her just enough anonymity to make her feel safe in her glorious hedonism.
Even without stimulation to her clit, she felt so ready, so close to orgasm, that she could barely fathom it. So when Jack reached around to press his fingertips into the top of her cleft, she came instantly. The climax broke over her hard, wild, and she cried out even louder. “Yes, baby! Yes! I’m coming for you! I’m coming!” The intensity of it was nearly overwhelming, the length of it staggering as the spectators witnessed her ultimate pleasure.
“Baby, I can’t take much more,” Jack breathed in her ear as the waves of heat finally eased to ripples.
“That’s okay, because I want you to come. I want you to explode inside me while they all watch.”
That was all it took—then he was moaning, gripping tighter to her hips, saying, “I’m gonna come, chere, I’m gonna come in you!” His strokes grew longer, more forceful as he groaned, emptying himself inside her. “God, I love you,” he murmured in her ear.
The words nearly paralyzed her. Even through his sweet apology earlier, even when he’d started talking about them still being together next year for Mardi Gras, she’d still never thought…never expected… He just didn’t seem like a man who would say those words. And yet he had.
As in her fantasy, the people gathered below were applauding and cheering their performance, but Liz had already forgotten they were there. The moment he withdrew from her, she got to her feet, grabbed his arm, and pulled him inside, shutting the French doors, closing out the sultry night, for something that had to be private.
“I love you, too, Jack. So much.”
Reaching up, Jack slipped the mask from her head, and then removed his own. Using the crook of one finger, he tilted her chin and leaned down for a long, sweet kiss that truly felt like a gesture of love, and she knew he meant his words.
“I think it’s time you move in with me once and for all, chere. Not because of Todd, but because I want you here, morning and night. Forever.”
She looked into the dark eyes of the man who had loosed the wildness hidden deep in her soul, and thought about that last word—forever. The rest of her life. He wanted her that long. In his world. A world where she wanted to stay.
Yet even in the sweet sanctity of the moment, she decided to tease him—just a little. “Maybe if we’re settling down, you and I, we should get respectable, move out to the Garden District.”
He laughed, seeming to know instantly that she was joking. “No, chere, you’re a French Quarter girl, no doubt about it. You belong here, where things are just as wild and hot as you.”
“Actually, I couldn’t agree more. Although…”
“What?”
How would he take this? Maybe it wasn’t even the right time to bring it up, but … she missed being honest with him, and she wasn’t going to hold back her thoughts. “How would you feel, Jack, if I said I didn’t want to…bring other people into our sex anymore?”
His eyes softly closed, but when he opened them, they glimmered with joy. “I was gonna ask you the same thing. I’ve missed you so much, love you so much, that I kinda want it to be just us from now on.”
She smiled in reply.
“Of course,” he said, turning playful, “that doesn’t mean we can’t pop into Club Venus sometimes, or fuck on the balcony, or that I can’t get out your special toys, but…”
“You don’t have to explain,” she told him. “From the very beginning, I only wanted to have all those new, exciting experiences because they involved you. And now that I’ve done all that, well…you’re more than enough man for me.”
He grinned. “Is that so? Does that mean I should throw your special toys away?” He teasingly grabbed up the new mini-vibrator and held it out over the waste can next to them.
“Wait a minute,” she said, laughing as she slapped her palms against his chest. “Let’s not be hasty. That’s going too far.”
The smile he flashed was sexy and knowing. “That’s what I thought. You’re still gonna be wild and adventurous for me.” Wrapping his arms around her, he nudged the gold toy gently into the center of her ass.
She let out a hot little sigh in reply. “I don’t think I can help myself.”
“Don’t worry, chere. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“And if you can arrange that little float scenario next Mardi Gras�
�”
He grinned. “Yeah?”
“I would love to let the whole world see how well you fuck me.”
About the author:
Lacey Alexander is the pseudonym of an award-winning author whose romance novels have been published by Harlequin and Kensington. Additionally, over forty of her short stories and articles have seen publication. Lacey lives in Kentucky with her husband of fifteen years and she loves being a full-time writer. When not creating romance and romantica, she enjoys crafts, American history, and travel, and she particularly likes incorporating her favorite destinations into her work. She is an active member of Romance Writers of America and Novelists, Inc.
Lacey welcomes mail from readers. You can write to her c/o Ellora’s Cave Publishing at P.O. Box 787, Hudson, Ohio 44236-0787.
Also by Lacey Alexander:
Hot For Santa!
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