Sweet Confessions

by Violet Blue

  Rachelle did pay attention, because it was all quite fascinating. But at the same time, she found herself watching Eliska, too.

  She had thick, pale brown hair that she piled atop her head in a Gibson-girl bun, tendrils curling madly everywhere. She wore pointy-toed, kitten-heeled shoes; the heels clicked as she walked with a brisk stride. Her laugher was soft but infectious, and she had one of the most open smiles Rachelle had ever seen.

  Their group was small—besides the two of them, there was a family of four, an older couple and their teenagers, and not one of them really seemed all that interested. So Eliska responded more personally to Rachelle and Mike, because they were paying attention, asking questions, evincing curiosity.

  At least, that’s what Rachelle told herself.

  “We should give her a good tip,” Mike whispered at one point, and Rachelle agreed—for both the right and the wrong reasons, she freely admitted to herself.

  It was the last tour of the day, and Rachelle assumed that would be the end of it. She’d have a satisfactory fantasy about Eliska with Mike when they were back at the hotel, and when they returned home, she’d open herself to finding a woman who might want to join them for a night.

  But then Mike told Eliska that Rachelle’s family was Czech, and Eliska turned bright eyes on Rachelle.

  “Really? What was their name?”

  Rachelle stumbled over the pronunciation, feeling awkward in her sudden crush.

  “That’s not an uncommon name, but it’s one that does go far back in our history,” Eliska said. “Some were involved with the building of this cathedral, even.”

  “We’d love to hear more,” Mike said. “Can we bribe you to join us for drinks?”

  Did he know what she’d been thinking? Rachelle wouldn’t have had the courage. Or maybe now she would, all things considered, but she was still a little tongue-tied.

  Amazingly, Eliska agreed. She retrieved her little purse, and they crossed the bridge to Old Town again, where she led them through the jumble of streets to a bar and restaurant that only the locals knew about, she said.

  Over a lovely merlot they found they had other common interests, including, of all things, a mutual love of “Law and Order.” When they realized they’d been laughing and chatting so long that dusk had fallen, they repaired inside, where Eliska insisted on ordering for them, speaking rapid-fire to the waiter without looking at a menu.

  All during drinks and dinner, Eliska seemed to be flirting with them. Rachelle wondered if she was imagining it all, given her current mental state, but Eliska leaned toward her a lot, as well as toward Mike, and kept touching them, mostly Rachelle. Just little fingertip taps at first, when she was making a point. But then there were hands resting on knees, on shoulders, on thighs. Her gaze seemed open, frank, appreciating. When she invited them to her apartment, there seemed to be something laced in her words.

  Either she had a murderous boyfriend back there who would dispose of their bodies when he was through with them, or she was actually coming on to them.

  Rachelle decided she was willing to take the chance and find out.

  They wound their way to Eliska’s fourth-floor apartment, up creaking stairs to rooms filled with books and papers. She’d said she was getting her PhD, writing her thesis on porcelain production in Bohemia between 1918 and 1930.

  It was ridiculous. Rachelle cradled her hands around the tiny espresso cup. It was too…right.

  She’d told Eliska why they were here; about the cancer and the resultant promises she made to herself, not to evoke pity, but to explain. That had led to a spirited discussion of life goals and seizing the day and chasing dreams, and now they continued that theme.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Eliska said, “you’ve never been one to limit yourself. Am I right?”

  “I used to be,” Rachelle said slowly. The wine and rich food had made her mellow, but the caffeine infused her with energy; she drifted somewhere between the two. “The cancer changed that.”

  Mike stood, brushed a kiss on her head. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, and headed to the bathroom.

  Rachelle took a deep breath. Before she could say anything, however, Eliska said, “Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but the both of you…you’re very attractive people.”

  “Thank you,” Rachelle said. It sounded lame, but she felt a flush of pleasure at the compliment. And not just on her face.

  “I hope you don’t think I make a habit of picking up couples who come on my tours…” She laughed. “Oh, I’m sure I’m making a mess of things. But you two seem very open, and the way you’re talking about embracing life… If I’m not picking up the signals I think I am, just put me out of my misery!”

  Rachelle laughed and, acting on impulse, put her hand over Eliska’s. “You’re not misreading things, although please believe we’re not in the habit of picking up our foreign tour guides, either!” Then, gathering every ounce of bravery, she added, “Just one in particular.”

  The best part, she decided later, was that they didn’t have that awkward hesitation of deciding what to do next, or who should make the first move.

  They both leaned in and kissed each other.

  At first Rachelle found herself trying to compare it to her previous, muzzily remembered encounter, but soon she forgot all about that. She fell into sensations: soft lips, tentative kisses (who was supposed to be the aggressor?), the smell of some flowery perfume, and the taste of coffee on the breath of someone who was most definitely not her husband, the only person she’d kissed with this sort of intimacy in the past six years, which made it a different taste altogether.

  The difference, and the femininity of the difference, thrilled her to her core.

  A decidedly masculine clearing of a throat made them draw apart, reluctantly.

  Rachelle stood and kissed Mike, thrilled with the familiarity of him and the familiar maleness of him. When they hugged, he said, for her ears only, “I love you.”

  And that was all that needed to be said.

  Getting to the bedroom, slowly stripping each other of clothing—all of that was a blur, with snapshots and moments of memory that Rachelle captured for later.

  Eliska undoing her hair, which tumbled heavily down her back.

  Mike shrugging out of his shirt, but leaving on his pants for now, brushing his hand across the straining bulge in his crotch.

  The press of Eliska’s small, high breasts against her rib cage as Eliska reached behind Rachelle to unclasp her bra. The sparkle in Eliska’s eyes as she did so, and the slow step backward so she could watch as the bra fell away. The feel of Eliska’s cool fingers as she encircled Rachelle’s full breasts, and the sound of her whisper: “Beautiful.”

  Although the rest of Eliska’s apartment was simply furnished, her bed was a sumptuous four-poster with diaphanous fabric hanging from the rail and moving gently in the soft breeze from the open window. Rachelle fell, as if in slow motion, into the mound of feather pillows, laughing.

  Then, not laughing, because what Eliska’s lips were doing to the sensitive flesh of her neck was no laughing matter.

  She squirmed, threading her hands through Eliska’s lush hair and marveling at the feel of such a light, lithe body on top of her. Eliska rose up to plant kitten kisses on her mouth again, then headed farther south, trailing those light kisses down to Rachelle’s breasts.

  “Beautiful,” she murmured again as she gathered them in her hands. She licked and nibbled, her tongue tiny and pointed, her touch excruciatingly delicate and direct. Rachelle squirmed, half-mad from the sensations that ignited a fire that trailed down to her clit and burned steadily brighter.

  But she wanted more. She urged Eliska up so she could taste her pert breasts, relishing the feel of the budding nipples in her mouth, between her fingers. Eliska moaned, tossing her head. The sound enflamed Rachelle further.

  She urged Eliska down against the mound of pillows and stroked her fingers along Eliska’s thighs until Eliska parted
them, whispering, “Oh, yes,” when Rachelle leaned down.

  Mike had been right, of course; Eliska did taste sweet and incredible, and Rachelle felt some sort of strange empowerment because she felt as if she knew, instinctively, what to do to drive Eliska’s desire higher and higher: When to lick harder, when to back off. When to slip a finger inside and feel Eliska’s inner walls clench.

  She felt Mike’s hands on her hips. He’d been there all along, stroking and caressing both of them, involved without being the focus. Now, she realized as if coming out of a dream, he was behind her.

  He was naked.

  He was hard, his cock once again teasing her slick lips, her swollen clit.

  It was just like the other night after the bridge, she realized. It was pretty much the only thought she could hold in her head. Beyond that, there was only need: the need to bring Eliska to climax, to feel Mike explode inside of her, to come herself. Oh, god, yes. She was so close.

  The delightful Eliska was writhing beneath her, and Rachelle wanted to feel her shudder and hear her cry out and taste her as she came.

  Something else built up inside her as well. She was too hot, too on edge to step back and identify it, but she thought, fleetingly, that it had something to do with the moment: herself, on the brink of this new experience; Mike, always with her.

  Then Eliska pitched over the edge of her own arousal, like a sweet gift. And Mike was moving inside of Rachelle, reaching around to flick against her clit, and she was breathing Eliska’s scent, as she felt Eliska contract again and Mike’s thrusts become a flurry, and Rachelle came.

  Tomorrow they were heading to Budapest. Rachelle knew, in fact, that they couldn’t spend the whole night in the comforting embrace of Eliska’s featherbed…and Eliska, somehow curled around both of them. They needed to pack, to be at the train station early.

  What she wanted, though, was to be awake at the first brush of dawn, to see the new day begin.

  AN AGE PLAY

  Regina Kammer

  And then he took her in his arms.”

  Every time I wrote those words, I swore I would never write them again. Yet they inexorably flowed from my fingers to the keyboard.

  “And then he took her in his arms.”

  It was simply part of the romance novel formula: beautiful, virginal heroine with flowing locks and beseeching eyes falls for the extraordinarily handsome, charismatic—yet enigmatic—hero. Admittedly, it could be tiresome, except that I wrote for the Passion Flower imprint of Thorne Publishing. My characters got to have lots of sex, and I could make it as hot as I wanted, although nothing could be too shocking or my editor would chastise me later.

  I let out a breath.

  “Finished?” came my husband’s voice from the next room.

  I guess I had sighed pretty loudly. “Yes. The tropical island paradise was more challenging than I thought.”

  “Did he fuck her?” Mark leaned his lanky frame against the doorjamb, his salt-and-pepper curls in the usual tousled disarray.

  “Not yet. Not until they’re married. He pleasured her orally, though. Under a palm.”

  “So,” he grinned teasingly. “Do you need to go downstairs?” He held out his hand.

  I laughed. My husband knew me too well. I got up and threaded my fingers through his. “Yes,” I smiled.

  Like buoyant teens we walked from the office down the stairs to our bedroom.

  “And who am I this time? A pirate?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, dear, you’re not a pirate.” I casually took off my clothes.

  “Why am I never a pirate? I want to be a pirate.” He pulled off his sweatshirt.

  “Maybe some day. Today you are an early nineteenth-century naturalist.”

  “That sounds a little nerdy for your readers, Jean, dear.”

  “He’s hot—”

  “Of course.”

  “—And he’s on board an exploratory merchant ship to the South Seas. The widower captain of the ship has brought along his nineteen-year-old daughter.”

  “Why do they always have to be nineteen?”

  “I could make her eighteen.”

  “Make her sixteen. Now that’s hot.”

  “That’s also kiddy porn according to Thorne. You know I have to be careful about that.”

  “Okay,” he conceded. “But since I have to be a nerdy scientist, you have to be sixteen.”

  I laughed, surprised he wanted me to play at being that old. I licked my lips and drew a finger down the middle of his chest, tangling the soft black and gray strands along the way. “Please be gentle, sir,” I said with breathy anticipation, my timbre an octave higher than normal. “I’ve never been with a man before.”

  “Of course, my sweet.” He kissed me hungrily as his hand skated gently along my curves. “What’s your name?” he asked trailing kisses down my neck.

  “Lily, sir.”

  “Ah, Lily, my innocent flower,” he breathed softly. “I shall help you discover new pleasures.” His fingers wandered over my belly to comb through the thatch of hair between my thighs. “Open your petals for me,” he said mawkishly as he explored my silky flesh.

  I was already sticky and swollen.

  “You’re as wet as a dewy field.” His voice was deep, seductive.

  “I don’t understand, sir.” I inhaled sharply when he began massaging my clit.

  “You’ve never touched yourself?”

  “No, sir, never,” I said, naïveté tinged with a moan. I spread my legs to allow further invasion.

  “You’ve never let one of your maidservants touch you?” His lips grazed my neck. “Caress you like this?”

  His thumb was working my clit now, while two fingers slowly thrust inside me, keeping me on edge. I moved my hips against him encouragingly as he took me in a lusciously indulgent kiss.

  He lifted my petite body and tossed me onto the bed. Feigning modesty, I scrambled under the sheets, which he promptly tore off. He shoved me back against the mattress and pushed my legs open with his knees, pressing his weight into my shoulders. His fully erect cock bobbed between us in anticipation. He smiled lasciviously.

  I looked up at him with chaste yet beseeching eyes.

  His fingers delved inside me once again, scooping up my moisture to lubricate his prick.

  “You’re still a virgin.”

  “Yes, sir,” I whimpered.

  He poised himself at the opening of my impatient cunt. “There may be a little pinch,” he said darkly. “Trust me, it will feel wonderful in but a second.”

  He slammed into me, mercilessly burying himself to the hilt. I screamed and struggled under him.

  “Please, sir! You’re hurting me!” I was in ecstasy, my body pulsating around his demanding prick.

  He grabbed my hands and pinned them over my head. “You love it, you little whore.” He pumped in and out, his rhythm growing faster. “You lied. You’ve had men before.”

  “No, sir!” My body clenched around him. “Please…stop!” I was almost there.

  His weight and strength held me captive against the bed. He was driving into me frantically, willing himself to climax.

  “Who were they? Native boys? Or perhaps the ship’s entire crew?”

  “Yes!” I climaxed with a howling groan, squeezing him tightly, wanting his pleasure now. I rocked my pelvis to his time, clenching and releasing his pumping cock.

  “How old did you say you were, Lily?” he panted.

  I locked eyes with him. “I’ve just turned fifteen, sir.”

  “Fucking Christ!” He thrust his hips against mine and held himself there, his body spasming as he spent inside me.

  With a thud and a moan, he crashed to the mattress. I glanced over at his sweaty smiling face.

  “Not bad for a science nerd.”

  He chuckled and pulled me to him.

  I never gave up my day job when I became an author. Once I signed my publishing contract, I asked to be transferred to “casual” status. After all, bei
ng a reference librarian at a university library positions me well for writing historical romances. If I need to know about the cotton trade in 1820, I have a plethora of resources right at my fingertips. Intellectually stimulating with a flexible schedule—what more could I possibly want?

  One typical Saturday, a rather attractive male student came toward the information desk. I smiled. Tall, athletic, darkhaired—he was the very image of one of my heroes.

  “Jean?”

  Once he spoke I knew who he was: the boy from my local ballet studio. “Eric! I didn’t recognize you with all your clothes on,” I joked.

  That’s dance class humor.

  He grinned and blushed.

  “I didn’t know you worked here,” he said shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I thought you were a writer, or something.”

  “Well, I’m both.” I couldn’t stop smiling. I never realized how cute he was, or how green his eyes were. “Aren’t you a little young for college?”

  He chuckled. “I’m with my uncle.” He pointed to a man my age flipping through the student paper at the newspaper rack. “He went here so he’s showing me around. He wants me to apply for next year.”

  “Stanford’s pretty prestigious.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “My parents’re moving to Vermont,” he said, seemingly apropos of nothing.

  “Oh. The winters will be rather different from California.”

  “Yeah,” he laughed nervously. “So I figure I can go to college wherever I want since I have to move anyway.” He drew abstract curves on the desk with a finger. “I’ve been thinking of Scotland. My mom’s Canadian so, I think, it’s, like, I can just go there, you know?”

  God, I love the way teenagers talk.

  “That’s totally cool,” I said in my own age-appropriate vernacular. “I’m taking a research trip to England next year.”