Lovehoney Erotic Fiction: Take Your Partner and Other Tales of Seduction

by Neneh Gordon

  As if Jack heard the thought, he pushed his hands under Chris’s shirt and splayed them out across the small of his back. Chris’s sigh turned into a moan as the application of gentle but persistent pressure brought their bodies flush against each other, revealing that Jack was just as hard for him as he was for Jack, and their mouths found each other again.

  There was no pause for verbal confirmation that Chris was okay with this, that this was really what he wanted. Jack was peeling away his T-shirt, and Chris let him. It was almost a relief to feel Jack’s hands stroking over his flushed and heated skin, and he was soon shoving Jack’s shirt out of the way too. There was so much skin to touch, to taste, and Chris was drinking in the scent rising off Jack’s skin as he traced the line of his collarbone with his tongue. He was so distracted by the curious texture of the dark dusting of hair on Jack’s chest, that he didn’t notice at first that he was being herded towards the door that led to Jack’s bedroom, but when he did finally notice he didn’t protest.

  The room seemed saturated with Jack’s scent: clean, masculine and intoxicating. Chris felt light-headed as Jack pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him, a knee either side of his waist as he leaned down and kissed him again. He tentatively ran his hands up Jack’s thighs, feeling the solid, unyielding muscle beneath his jeans, and coming to a rest when his thumbs hit the scrunched-up denim at the top of his thigh. Jack’s cock was a hard, thick ridge just a small stretch away from where his hands were resting, and with his blood thundering in his ears, Chris stroked one thumb along the length to its tip, adrenaline and arousal firing deep in his gut as Jack moaned, his hips involuntarily twitching forward in an attempt to maintain the fleeting contact.

  Emboldened by Jack’s response, and acutely aware that if he paused to think about what he was doing he would probably have to stop, Chris loosened Jack’s belt buckle and unfastened his fly. Jack’s mouth had migrated back to his neck, biting and sucking at the exposed skin until Chris was panting and cursing, and then suddenly, shockingly, he had Jack’s cock in his hand, hot, heavy, and wet with precum at the tip. His thoughts stuttered; he didn’t know what to do next. He was sure Jack wanted more than the frantic jerk-off sessions that were his only experience of touching another guy’s dick, but he was unsure how to proceed. Mercifully Jack wrapped his own hand over Chris’s and encouraged him to stroke back and forth in an easy, languid rhythm.

  Chris himself was agonisingly hard, the slight hint of pressure applied by Jack’s ass above him not nearly enough to provide the friction he craved. He tried to speak, to tell Jack to at least return the damn favour, but all that came from his mouth was “Jack” and “fuck”. Jack laid a trail of kisses down his chest towards a nipple, and Chris was about to tell him not to bother, that nipple play didn’t do much for him, when Jack lightly flicked his tongue across it before nipping hard with his teeth. Chris whimpered, shaken by the sharp pleasure-pain response, and Jack did it again and again, coaxing from him pathetic whining noises that would have been mortifying if Chris could bring himself to care.

  Jack lavished equal attention on his other nipple, until Chris’s back arched off the bed, the hand wrapped around Jack’s cock almost forgotten. Chris only became aware of it when Jack slipped free of his grasp while backing up to lick and kiss his belly. Chris almost mumbled an apology, but the thought was obliterated by the realisation that Jack was running his tongue beneath the waistband of his jeans as his fingers dealt with his fly.

  Jack suddenly stripped away Chris’s jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, leaving him naked and exposed on his bed. It took all his willpower not to use the bedclothes to hide his nudity and arousal, and the small part of his brain that was still insisting he did not do this screamed at him to grab his clothes and run. He forced himself to look up and meet Jack’s eyes. He smiled. That was all it took to crush Chris’s doubts and silence the frantic voice in his head: just the gentle curl upwards of Jack’s lips, and the prospect of becoming better acquainted with that mouth. His heart was still thumping hard enough to punch a hole straight through his chest as Jack took off the rest of his own clothes, but now Chris felt a bone-deep ache to wrap himself around him and soak up every sensation his body could provide.

  He got his chance when Jack lay down on the bed beside him, and soon they were a tangle of entwined limbs, mouths and tongues, grinding against each other. It was enough for Chris; he could have happily continued thrusting and rubbing against Jack’s thigh until he came, but Jack wanted more. Chris was dimly aware of Jack reaching for something from the bedside table, but his curiosity was forgotten when Jack pushed his legs apart and knelt between them. Before Chris knew what was happening, Jack had slipped a condom onto his cock, grabbed the shaft and sucked the sheathed glans into his mouth. Chris’s head snapped back, hitting the pillow with an audible thump as he groaned and surrendered himself to the wet heat of Jack’s mouth.

  Jack knew first-hand what felt good, where and when to tease with his tongue, and when to suck Chris deep into his mouth, and he made good use of that knowledge. He made no effort to stop the involuntary little thrusts Chris was making, but his hand remained gripping the base of his cock tight enough that Chris knew he could only come when Jack let him. At first he’d just laid back with his eyes screwed shut and his hands grasping the sheets so tightly that they might tear, too scared of what his reaction might be if he looked down; but when he noticed Jack was making soft humming and moaning sounds, as if he was actually getting off on sucking his cock, Chris couldn’t help himself.

  Jack was staring up at him, watching him, and if it hadn’t been for the hand still squeezing the base of his cock, Chris would have lost it right then. He cupped one hand round the back of Jack’s head and watched, hypnotised, at the sight of his cock slipping in and out of his mouth. He barely heard the small click of a cap being flicked open over the sound of his own ragged breathing, and he was too distracted to wonder what it might be. He therefore had no warning that Jack had opened the lube he’d retrieved from the bedside table, and he flinched as he suddenly felt a slick, wet finger stroking between his cheeks. His body tensed up, but Jack continued to suck him as his finger just rubbed gently against Chris’s hole, making no attempt to breach him.

  Slowly Chris began to relax, the fingertip pressed against his opening nothing more than a mild distraction. He laid back, his fingers running through Jack’s hair lazily, when slowly the finger started to slide inside him. It felt strange and a little uncomfortable, but not unbearably so, and Jack’s mouth felt so good that he didn’t want to risk telling him to stop in case he stopped sucking him too. It started to take more effort not to tense up as Jack’s finger pushed deeper, past the knuckle, but Chris endured it even when it curled inside him, feeling intrusive and uncomfortable, until it hit upon a spot that sent waves of pleasure radiating throughout his whole body.

  “Fuck! What the… fuck, do that again…”

  Jack let his cock slip from his mouth with an obscene popping sound, and grinned at Chris as he flexed his finger again.

  “Never played with your prostate, then?”

  Chris moaned and shook his head.

  “It gets even better,” Jack promised, slowly stroking Chris’s cock as he slipped his finger out.

  Chris felt a flutter of panic when Jack started pressing two fingers inside him. It burned a little as he felt his body stretch to accommodate them, but Jack took it slowly. Chris’s erection was beginning to flag, but when Jack flexed and twisted his fingers, finding that sweet spot, Chris was instantly achingly hard again, panting and grasping at Jack’s wrist, holding the fingers deep inside him.

  “God, you’ve got no idea how badly I want to fuck you,” Jack moaned, resting his head against Chris’s thigh.

  Chris was suddenly acutely aware that all he’d given Jack so far was some sloppy foreplay and an even sloppier hand-job. “Would it feel as good as this?” he asked, gripping Jack’s wrist and fucking himself slowly with his
fingers.

  “Fuck, yeah,” Jack sighed. “But then again I’m biased.” He twisted his fingers, somehow squeezing a third finger inside.

  Chris shivered almost violently, hardly even aware that he was saying “Yes” over and over again, unaware whether it was to the feeling of Jack’s fingers inside him or to the idea of his cock taking their place. He moaned when Jack suddenly withdrew his hand just as the burn was giving way to pleasure, but it was clear how Jack had interpreted his words as he rolled on a condom and slicked himself up.

  It was all happening so fast, but Chris didn’t want to break the momentum or risk backing out of something he might never get another chance at. As crazy and unexpected as the situation was, he trusted Jack. He rolled onto his side at Jack’s insistence, feeling a little relieved that he wouldn’t be pinned down by his weight and unable to move. Jack lay curled behind him, and encouraged him to draw his top leg up towards his chest.

  Jack kissed his shoulder and murmured: “Just breathe.”

  Chris felt the blunt pressure of Jack’s cock nudging slowly into him, and it seemed impossibly thick and unyielding. It was too much, and he was opening his mouth to tell Jack to stop, that he couldn’t do this, when his body gave and Jack was sinking into him. His words of protest warped into a deep moan echoed back at him from Jack’s mouth against his ear. Jack splayed one hand across Chris’s chest and they lay there for a while, their breathing synchronising until it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began.

  It was nothing like having Jack’s fingers strumming across newly discovered nerves, making them sing. It was a bigger, more profound feeling, as if Jack was pushing him past what he thought were his limits, only to find that they were an illusion, that his body had been waiting for this all along. He sighed and placed his own hand over Jack’s.

  Jack started slow, but that first thrust still made Chris curse and grip his hand so tightly that something cracked. Jack extracted his hand from the crushing grip and moved it to relative safety on Chris’s hip.

  At first the feeling of Jack surging in and out of him was just overwhelming, but then Jack shifted the angle, hooking his arm under Chris’s bent leg and holding him in a position that meant his cock was driven against his sweet spot again and again. Again the waves of pleasure washed through Chris’s body, taking him higher and higher, until he was pushing back to meet Jack’s thrusts and calling his name with a husky, broken voice.

  Jack pressed his face into Chris’s neck and panted: “Come for me. I want you to come while my cock is inside you.”

  Chris barely had time to get his hand to his dick and jerk it a couple of times before he was coming, his climax drawn out to an impossible length by his body clenching and shuddering around Jack’s cock. Jack groaned his name, pounding into him with a few last desperate thrusts before he too was spent and trembling.

  It took forever for them both to catch their breath, but eventually Jack unwrapped his arm from Chris’s leg. He carefully withdrew and disposed of his condom before sitting back on the bed with his back to Chris.

  Chris wanted to pull him back down next to him, to wallow in the afterglow together, but he wasn’t sure if that was allowed.

  “Why now?” he asked. “We’ve known each other for ages. Why did you only just make your move?”

  Jack’s shoulders sagged slightly.

  “Jack?” Chris put his hand on his shoulder, and Jack reluctantly turned to face him.

  “You’re not going to like the answer,” he said guiltily.

  “I’m exceptionally open-minded right now,” Chris smiled, “so why don’t you just tell me?”

  “I bumped into Emma.”

  What did Jack crossing paths with Chris’s ex-girlfriend have to do with anything? “So?”

  “So she asked me if you were seeing anyone.”

  Chris shook his head. He still didn’t get it.

  “So she’s still interested in you, and if you got back together with her we’d never…” Jack’s voice tailed away as he made a gesture that encompassed himself, Chris and the bed.

  Chris laughed and snaked his arms around Jack’s waist, nuzzling into his neck. “She’s not in the picture any more, Jack. Not now, not ever.”

  The tension left Jack’s body as he leaned back into Chris’s embrace. “Am I?” he said. “In the picture?”

  “It’s looking good, but you may need to fuck me again, just to be sure.”

  “Sounds fair,” Jack grinned.

  Paris By Moonlight

  by Justine Elyot

  So far I have only seen his hand, but a very fine hand it appears to be. It is sometimes clutching a document, or holding a telephone receiver, or the fingers—long fingers—tap at a keyboard. If the dove-grey jacket sleeve were a little shorter, I might be able to see his naked wrist… oh, how starved must I be that I salivate at the prospect of seeing a wrist? It will be slender yet strong, weighed down by the linkchain of an expensive watch; fine hairs will catch the golden light from the desk lamp, complementing his deep tan. The underside, though, will be pale and vulnerable and dabbed with a circle of exclusive cologne.

  How does he smell? I think he will smell of money. French money—Euro. A faint metallic tang overlaid by sumptuous scent from one of the luxury parfumiers: Guerlain, Caron, Dior. And strong coffee on his breath.

  I move away from the window, shaking my head at my own pathetic behaviour. I have been in Paris less than half an hour and already I am imagining torrid assignations with unknown Guillaumes and Jean-Claudes. I am meant to be here to heal my soul after a painful break-up, saturating it with frivolity and culture, and pain au chocolat. Not taking up with a horny French accountant, or whatever he might be.

  I blame Haussman. It was his idea to design the city so that the floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over courtyards to rows and rows of other floor-to-ceiling windows. A voyeur’s paradise, and I love nothing more than to spy into the rooms and lives of total strangers—how was I meant to resist?

  I contemplate the minibar, flick through a selection of foreign language TV channels. Perhaps I should dress and go out, sit at a pavement café, drink a beer. Surely I am not the first woman to ever holiday alone in Paris? But somehow the thought of the streets and parks full of lovers is unbearable. I should just order room service and go to bed, ready for a full day of sightseeing and gallery visiting tomorrow. Or I could just risk another swift peek at my Jean-Claude…

  He is standing with his back to the window. The cut of his jacket is elegant; his shoulders are a little narrow, but his legs are long and he has a fine abundance of dark brown hair. Maybe he is in his late thirties or early forties, I think, as he moves away from the window. He is holding something close to his face—a dictaphone, I guess? I imagine him speaking low-voiced French phrases into the mouthpiece, recording a message for me. Allez ici, mademoiselle. Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? I laugh at my own stupidity, then catch my breath as he turns in his pacing. He is too far away to see in great detail, and the lamplight casts a shadow over his face, but I can make out metal-framed spectacles and a strong jaw. I think he’s handsome.

  Wondering if the hotel will charge me a supplement for the fabulous view, I press my nose against the window pane, enjoying the hint of white cuff, ah, and now I can see his wrist, and I was right—he is wearing a watch. I bet it’s Bulgari or something equally luxurious. I squint, as if that will help me discern the brand of his timepiece, and then he stops and looks up. And sees me staring right at him.

  I hurl myself backwards on to the bed, heart thumping. The gauzy curtain drifts back over the panes. Almost as soon as it stills, my fingers itch to twitch it aside again. Is he still there? Is he looking up?

  I decide that I will count to one hundred, then I will look again.

  Ninety eight, ninety nine, a hundred… oh. He is not at the window any more, nor do I see his arm at the desk. I’ve driven him away. But perhaps if I keep looking, he will come back. I have been sta
ring moonily at the empty window for a good three minutes before I make the horrifying discovery that he has been standing smoking in the courtyard and watching me for the whole of that time.

  As if shot, I fall flat on the bed and squeal loudly. How hideously embarrassing. How exciting.

  All the same, I should stop behaving like a sex-starved maniac and get on with some tourist business. I had planned to be showered, dressed and walking through the Tuileries by now, perhaps moving on to the Louvre before finding a nice little bistro for supper. I am meant to be spoiling myself, not getting myself despoiled.

  I rein in my rampant libido and sort myself out. Washed, oiled, scented and adorned, I take the lift down to the lobby, planning to ask the concierge for restaurant recommendations. He is standing behind the desk, seemingly talking to somebody in the bar, which is linked to the lobby through an archway, this being a boutique type of hotel.

  “Bonsoir, madame,” he says, glancing over into the bar again. I follow his eyeline and exclaim, “Jesus!”

  “Jean-Claude,” corrects the Man from the Window, who is sitting in an armchair, sipping at an espresso.

  I make a sound that is a cross between a cough and a laugh, stunned into speechlessness. My eyes did not deceive. He really is very handsome. And he really is called Jean-Claude.

  He pats the chair next to him. “Please?” he says, smiling pleasantly, even a little roguishly. “Join me.”

  I can think of no reason in the world why I should not.

  “You’re here alone?” he queries, once he has ordered me a drink.

  “Yes. How did you know? Did you know?”

  “Armand, your concierge, is a friend. I might have asked him.”

  “He shouldn’t tell.”

  “He didn’t. He suggested I wait here in the bar and discover the answer. I can go if you prefer.”

  “Oh, no, that’s all right.” I peer sideways, looking for the telltale band of gold. There appears to be none. “So, um, what did you want?”