by Alexis Angel
I punish her anyway, of course.
A husband has to be firm with his word.
And oh—I’m firm. You’d better fucking believe I’m firm.
“Bad slut,” I say with a grin, nipping at her clit. I dig my fingers into her thighs as I drag her closer to me on the bed, licking her slit up and down until she cries out.
“H-hey,” she pants, chest rising and falling like she’s running a marathon. Backwards. In heels. “That’s wife-slut to you, asshole.”
“Asshole?” I say, getting the dirtiest fucking grin on my face. “You are a slutty wife, Em…but if you insist, babe.”
I love the way she squeals when I flip her over, too. It’s cute as hell, the way her knees tremble as I smack her ass and sip my tongue into it.
“Oh, you’re…you’re bad, husband,” Em moans.
That’s fucking rich. As if she’s not loving every minute of it.
I just smack her ass again and relish the way I can make her come in my hand with just a flick of her clit.
She’s orgasmic. She’s incredible.
And she’s mine. She’s all fucking mine.
I can’t get enough of her. Her taste. Her heat. The scent of her fucking skin—not just the perfume she wears, but the smell of her beneath it.
The smell of my wife.
I could breathe her in all fucking day and I still wouldn’t want to breathe out ever again.
“Evan,” she sobs as my fingers toy with her clit. I can play Em’s pussy like a video game set to easy mode at this point. I make her come again just because I can—and because I like the way it makes her entire fucking body shake. “Evan, fuck me. Please, please, please, please—”
“Who fucking knew?” I laugh, slipping my tongue back out of her ass. “I never dreamed I would have such a polite wife.”
“You don’t,” she growls. “Fucking fuck me already!”
I lick my lips as I shift back, looking her over.
“I’ll do better than just fuck you,” I tell her, grabbing her hip and pushing her onto her back again.
Seeing Em like this, all wet and wanton and slutty and still entirely, completely my bride…
I just added another item to my honeymoon checklist.
And I think it just might be my favorite to-do yet.
Five
Emilia
My husband wrestles me down, pinning me against the mattress, and (graciously, might I add)—I let him.
Okay, well, I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to…
but I don’t want him to.
I’m a fucking winner. Always have been, always will be.
But for once in my life, I actually want to lose.
His lips are burning as they crush mine. The night may be cool, but his skin is like fire. Not even the breeze coming off of the ocean can cool the heat of his body…
Or the heat of his passion. Evan is moving against me like never before.
I’ve had him steamy. This is far from the first time I’ve had him all hot and heavy, believe me.
It’s different this time.
There’s heat, and then there’s fucking heat.
Evan’s kisses this time around make every other kiss between us seem like jalapeño peppers. These kisses? They’re Carolina ghost reapers.
It’s not just his kisses, though. It’s the wanting. The sheer fucking need for him. It ripples through me with every caress, every squeeze, again and again at every point of contact between his skin and mine.
We’re burning, but we’re burning together.
“Take me already,” I growl at him.
“Fucking beg for it then,” he purrs at me with a sneer.
We’re drunk. God, we’re so fucking drunk. I’m not even sure how much of this is tequila at this point, and how much is just pure fucking pheromones.
But I want him.
I want him bad.
It’s not just the tequila talking.
Tequila is an enabler at best at this point.
This is something primal. Something passionate beyond passion—something so intense and visceral and real that if I don’t have him right fucking now, I feel like the bonds between my very cells are going to dissolve under pressure, and I’ll turn to a puddle of Emilia goo here on these pristine fucking sheets.
It’s already started between my thighs. The slickness of my cunt is unbearable as Evan positions his cock against me, ready to fucking drown in my need.
“Yes,” I’m hissing at him. “Yes! Yesssss. Take me, take me, fucking take me—”
He makes that face that he always does when he’s about to plunge into my pussy, and I brace myself for impact.
I’m fucking feral at this point. Feral and wild and impassioned and in love.
It’s like preparing yourself for a car crash…
then the driver gently pulls the car over to the side of the road.
“Take me, take me, take—huh?” I open my eyes and stop begging for a second to see what fucking gives.
I should be coming around his cock by now, dammit! Not laying here, soaking wet and losing my mind out of fucking wanting!
“Hold on,” Evan says.
So I dig my nails deeper into his shoulders and he winces.
“Not here,” he grunts, taking the pain like a man.
And before I can argue, he has me swept up in his arms.
Evan carries me naked and horny and dripping to the beach just outside the cabana. Normally, I’d argue that beach sex is totally dumb and mega cliche—but as of right now, I don’t give a damn.
He can fuck me tits-deep in the ocean right now for all I care.
I just need him to fuck me.
That’s the important thing: his cock in my cunt.
Beyond that, I could care less.
“Perfect,” he says, even though I’m so fucking desperate for him I don’t understand how he can give two fucks about atmosphere right now.
Sure, the moon is glistening overhead in a silver crescent, sending reflections rippling off the water like this is a Bob Ross original work of art.
And sure, the sand is still warm from the sun as he lays me down in it.
And sure, the lapping of the tide against my toes is like, kind of nice or whatever.
But it’s all so fucking irrelevant to me right now.
I’ve gone full caveman, babes. I want to be taken. Used! I want to be plowed until the fucking sun comes up. Hell, even after the sun comes up—we can keep going all day and get the world’s weirdest tan.
I’m just imagining that—the outline of my legs wrapped around Evan’s waist, burned into his skin by the sun itself—when Evan springs something on me that I didn’t fucking expect.
“Em. Babe,” he says, caressing my cheek.
He looks down at me with a whole hell of a lot of serious contained in his dark, gorgeous eyes.
And even though I’m so horny I could pretty much die…
This seems important.
I whimper.
And I blink.
“I love you.” His voice is all raspy and deep.
“I know,” I tell him. “I love you too. Fuck me already.”
I have patience, okay? But only so much.
“Em…” he says again.
I bite my lip.
“I want to put a baby in you tonight,” he admits. “If that’s wrong, I’m sorry. I don’t even fucking know why. And I know this is coming out of nowhere, but—”
“Hey,” I say. Even just to stop him from rambling for a hot second.
A little smile plays on his lips. “Hey.”
He’s fucking right—it’s from straight out of nowhere. For a second, I wonder if it’s not the tequila talking. Or the ocean. Or the moonlight.
But then I think about it. Really fucking think about it.
And just like that, in an instant, it all clicks.
“Let’s do it, then,” I tell him. “I want it. I want you. I want everything, Evan. Give it to me—I can take
it. It’s alright.”
He plunges his cock as deep inside me as it can go without even another moment’s hesitation.
That’s how things end here.
I am his. And he is mine.
I’m an author. I know stories, and I know how they end.
If you’re an asshole, you leave things on a cliffhanger.
If you’re a decent fucking human being, you end on something sweet and poignant. Something that ties the whole story together in a nice little bow.
Happily ever after, right?
But here’s the thing about real life: it keeps on going long after the final page is turned.
This story is over.
My ever-after couldn’t be happier if I wrote it myself.
But this adventure?
Babe, this adventure is just beginning.
Alexis and WineBar #12
Night came. And turned to day.
But the blackness on my soul never left.
I cried until I ran out of tears.
I stopped eating.
My friends began to worry.
And then one day, there was a knock on the door.
And he stood there. WineBar.
My heart stopped as he got on one knee.
“We’ll figure this out together, baby girl,” he told me, and I felt my breath stop.
“No matter the problem, it’s always you,” he continued. “It’s not over ‘til it’s over.”
Despite all the tears I had shed, I was crying again.
This time from happiness.
“We’ll need to work this out together. But we can’t give up. The road might be long, but I’m willing to try if you are.”
I nodded.
WineBar would still go to Miami.
I would still be in San Francisco.
But we weren’t giving up without a fight.
And that fight?
I’m pretty sure that will be the next chapter.
Dear Angels,
My story isn't done.
Our story isn’t done.
As long as there is a glint of hope, there is a hope of love.
And love is why I do this.
Love for my words.
Love for my man.
Love for my fans.
There is nothing in the world that would make me happier than to share my happiness with you.
It will come.
As always, I share my heart with you. I’m authentic, holding nothing back. It’s been one crazy ride so far, but believe me when I say it’s only just begun. The future has so much in store. Come on this journey with me.
It will only be found here:
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Stories From The 6 Train
By Alexis Angel
Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Part One
Adrienne & Reese
Adrienne
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I practically snarl the words over my shoulder as I elbow my way past the sweaty, greasy man in front of me. My new—and now equally greasy—red Louboutins hit the platform at the bottom of the stairs leading into the Thirty-third Street station, and I keep up my pace, not bothering to listen to the offensive words spewing from his mouth.
I don’t have time for this. My boss already kept me late in the office going over my new position as an executive marketing consultant at Dover Street Market. Normally something I’d be totally cool with. But today I have an appointment to view a new apartment and I cannot be late. It’s a good one, guaranteed to be snatched up if I miss my appointment. And with my current lease ending in a matter of days, I need to grab it fast.
I swipe my metro pass through the turnstile and break into a run—not an easy task in my impractical and now filthy designer heels. A stream of people is already pouring into the 6 Train. I manage to slip through the doors just before they slide closed and slump against the edge of the seat next to me.
“Well, that’s just perfect,” I mutter, bending down and examining my shoes. Mr. Greasy McNasty left a huge scuff on them in addition to the grease marks. I want to be charitable and accept that it was just an accident, that anyone could have lost their balance and almost knock me down the stairs in the crowded rush hour terminal. But then I notice that he somehow snagged my thigh-high silk stockings. There’s a giant rip going all the way from my ankle up past the hem of my pencil skirt. How the hell?
I stick my leg out as far as I can on the crowded train and trail my finger up the tear, lifting my skirt to see just how bad the damage is.
Dammit! All the way to the top where my garter belt is clipped onto it. This is how I’m going to arrive to try to score one of the best apartment deals on the Upper East Side that I’ve ever seen—Adrienne Rhodes, a complete and utter hot mess.
Not if I can help it!
Knowing this is the only chance I’ll get to undo some of the damage, I turn back toward the door and reach up my skirt and unfasten the clips on my right thigh. I glance furtively around, hoping no one is paying attention. Yeah, I’m on a crowded public train with my hand up my skirt, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do when a killer apartment is on the line.
I slide the stocking down my leg and slip my foot from my damaged shoe, pulling the tattered silk off and stuffing it in my Prada bag. Just as I start to slide my shoe back on, the train jerks to a stop at Grand Central, throwing my already precarious balance way off. I grab for the pole next to me, but it’s too late.
I’m falling.
I’m about to land on my ass on the floor of a subway train. As if I don’t already have enough ruined clothing for one day.
Realizing there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, I close my eyes and brace for the impact. But then they fly wide open.
Big hands grasp my hips, and I find myself shifting in a new direction, the impact of my fall broken by a lap that is suddenly right under my ass. A very hard, very erect lap.
My breath whooshes from my lungs in a gasp that is half shock, half lust. A gasp that sounds suspiciously like a moan. Because oh my god, I am totally sitting on some random stranger’s raging hard-on. And it feels really damn good.
The people around us move, some getting off the train, some shifting to make room for new passengers.
The hands on my hips clench as the train moves again, fingers digging into me, and I’m mortified to find myself wriggling, some naughty part of me hoping I might move just the right way to relieve some of the sudden pressure that’s quickly building between my legs.
“You okay?” The deep, gravelly voice should pull me to my senses, but instead the sexy rasp only makes me wetter than I already am.
Pull it together, Adrienne. Am I really getting off to some guy I haven’t even seen? Almost as if my body has a mind of its own, I twist slightly on his lap, the movement making my breath come faster as it pushes me harder against his dick.
Then my eyes lock on his, dark, depthless and smoldering.
Oh my god. It’s him.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly, unable to move. Unable to think.
Because it’s my train guy. The guy I’ve been eye-fucking for the past two months on my ride home after work.
“Need some help?” he says, a smirk on his full lips that makes me want to dive in and suck them right into my mouth, bite down hard and then lick them better.
“What?” I shake my head, not comprehending his words. Nothing making sense past the sudden throbbing in my pussy.
He leans down and grabs my forgotten shoe, sliding it slowly onto my foot. His
eyes never leave mine as he trails his fingers up my bare leg.
I swallow hard, wondering if I’m dreaming. Because every late-night fantasy I’ve had lately stars this guy right here. This dark-haired mystery guy that I see on the train two or three times a week, his stubbled jaw inciting thoughts of what it might feel like scraping against my thighs as he licks me to orgasm.
Oh yeah, I’m totally dreaming. Because when his hand reaches the bottom of my thigh, it travels over to the other leg to continue its journey upward. His eyes go impossibly darker before they drop down, and I follow his gaze.
Somehow in my struggle to remove my stockings and my subsequent fall, my skirt got hiked up. Way up. I can see the lacy top of the other one where it is still held in place by my garter clips.
His fingers trail higher still, brushing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh as he deftly unclasps the hook. Hooking a finger inside the thin silk, he drags it down my leg, removing and replacing the other shoe after he bares my legs completely.
I can’t look away. This is probably the most erotically charged moment of my life, and it’s happening on an overcrowded rush hour train.
“That better?” he murmurs, his breath warm on my neck, and I swear I feel him get even harder beneath me.
I nod. But it’s not. I’m so wet that I wonder if even my skirt will be soaked through when I stand up. The only thing that would make me better right now is for him to do something about the fierce need taking over my body, making me lose all sense of propriety.
The next span of time passes in a blur as the 6 Train flies through the dark tunnels of New York. I want so badly for him to touch me, to slide his hand back up my skirt. But he doesn’t. He keeps his hands firmly in place on my hips, though, not letting me leave the torturous pleasure of the hardness of his lap.
When the train finally pulls into my stop, I remain seated, not wanting the moment to end. But somewhere in my mind I find my motivation. The apartment. Right.