“Not if I get down on you first,” I respond, smirking, ready to rise to the challenge. I'm a cop, after all, I do regular workouts and try to stay off those donuts. However, she's taller than me, and has a natural strength in that body that I could never hope to emulate. Her tongue flicks against my lips, then moves to wet the soft spot behind my ear, making my eyes glaze over and my body shudder.
I want her. My brain and body practically screams for her to take me, to make me hers again. Giving into passion and melting in that pool of ocean deep desire is something that isn't a distant dream around her. We finally make it into the bedroom, and at this point, several more items of clothing have teased themselves off, finding their way into crumpled patches on my wooden floor. Our feet scuffle and scratch the boards, and our breaths huff and pant in the air, excitement hitching each inhale and exhale. My heart pulses blood through my body with frightening speed, and hers bangs against her ribcage like a drum. She's shaking as she takes off my top, unclasps my bra and sinks her mouth onto my breast, licking and sucking and kissing the erect nipple there. I moan and thread my fingers into her hair, tossing my head back and thrusting my chest deeper into her face. Shockwaves jolt inside me from every piece of bare skin she touches, and the sweet feeling she conjures when brushing my breasts with her affection and dedication is making it incredibly hard for me to form thoughts, or well, focus in general.
She's like some damn Goddess with that tongue of hers, a tongue that craves to taste the core of me, and that thought sends rippling currents through my body, supercharging it to unimaginable heights. How is she so good? I don't understand. No one should be this good, make me practically tip on the edge of orgasm with just breast contact alone. She's incredible. She's amazing.
Andrea topples me onto the bed and slides me along the sheets, which tickle and shiver along my skin. She pushes her clothed body onto me, wedging her knee firmly between, and pressing her thigh into my crotch. She begins a grinding rhythm, gliding over my body with each forward motion, caressing my breasts at every opportunity, ducking her mouth onto mine for quick, stolen kisses in the light of our lovemaking. Her fingers are so soft and smooth, like feathers on my skin. The friction generated from that fucking contact on my core from her thigh is insane – I can already feel myself bottling up, muscles tensing in preparing to come, and come hard. Unbelievable.
In the moments where I do open my eyes, when I'm not giving into the moans and purrs that rumble out of my lungs, she has an intent, determined fix to her eyes, and her jaw is clenched as she examines my body, and deliberately stretches out to elongate the impact of her thigh rubbing against my crotch. Then, she makes her thrusts harder, jarring my hips, making me gasp at the delicious tension.
“Fuck, I'm coming...” A series of gasps and cries fall out of my mouth as my legs bubble in tension, and let out a succession of tremors as the orgasm undulates and murmurs through my body. It's not the biggest one I've ever felt, but it's enough to leave me gasping in surprise, and for my eyes to see stars spinning. “Oh God.”
“He's not here, but I can take a call, if you want?” She quips, a shit-eating grin on her face, obviously proud of the fact that she made me come without even taking my pants and panties off.
“You fucker.”
“That's the idea. And we're not done yet. Not by a long stretch.” She runs her tongue slowly over her lips, and I track the motion, enthralled by the provocative act. I imagine that tongue dipping between my thighs, that wetness colliding with mine, lapping at my juices, kissing me in my most intimate place, after my heart.
No way is she doing that before I've at least gotten her fully naked and had my wicked way on her body. With a growl, I flip us over, and tear at her shirt until it peels off with her assistance. Her chest heaves up and down in amusement and excitement, and I fight her pants and panties off, dragging them from her hip until I'm left with my reward in front, naked and hot from her desire for me. Her skin is flushed in places, burning from my touch, rearing up in craving for my hand to grope it. I squeeze her sides and her breasts, aggressively massaging, being rough and commanding over her body.
This is what I want. Not just to lie there like some damn pillow queen, but to dominate as well, to have my partner writhe beneath me, mewling and clawing at my hair as I lick her into ecstasy. She worms her palm down to try and hook her fingers through my panties, and she gets a brief hand glimpse of my wetness, before I bat her away. She's not getting me again so soon. Oh no. Not until I've had my fill.
Not until I've made her mine.
“You look like you're plotting something evil,” she breathes, taking a moment to run her fingers through my messy hair. I feel a slight flex of her muscles, and know she's planning to flip us over again.
Nope. Not gonna happen. I grin salaciously at her and pepper kisses from her mouth to her neck, taking extra care to leave light, worshiping kissing on her stitches, because each stitch is a reminder that she lives. I leave a damp trail between her pert breasts, the jutting nipples, and work my way to her hot and waiting core. As I near my prize, I can smell her arousal, and it has a strong, concentrated odor, which makes my mouth water in anticipation.
If she's planning to resist, all attempts at mustering a defense her end crumble when I make it to her throbbing center, and see her lower lips actually twitch at the contact of my hot breath upon them. I see a little wetness seeping out her core, and I slowly slide my tongue along, gathering the arousal and smearing it over her labia, before locating the nub tucked within hooded folds, and daub my tongue into there, touching the delicate bundle of nerves. She lets out a shuddering gasp, and I quickly clamp my hands onto her thighs to stop her moving out of my grasp. I try different things to see what kind of reaction I'll get from her. Broad, long strokes don't do that much for her, because I'm not hitting any specific hot zones for her. Little jabs, using my tongue as a lance seems to make her twitch and gasp, especially when I aim myself diagonally into her hood.
She tastes sweet and clear, making it a pleasant experience for me. Her smell turns me on, and I feel the painful throb of my own nub as I see her arch her back and groan. The sound thrills me, spurs me on further to continue my work on giving her the time of her life.
“You taste so good,” I say, my words slow so the vibration emanates from my throat, and makes her inhale with a high-pitched gasp. She's bracing her thighs more firmly now, and quivers of tension go through them, and I know that my careful flicks at her bundle of nerves is paying off, edging her closer and closer to orgasm. I think by now she's completely lost all sense of coherent thought, and all that matters to her is the sensation, the encroaching orgasm that must surely be building up and tightening in her belly.
It's electrifying, to see the effect I'm having on her first hand. It's sexy as hell to watch, to know that I'm causing these reactions. I now slide one, then two fingers inside her, and I notice that although she groans, her body doesn't react any different to the thrusting.
Right until the point where I start curling my fingers back and forth inside her inside, apparently hitting that g spot like there's no tomorrow. Her body instantly begins to spasm, both from the pressure inside and the tongue dance on her nub outside. Her body clamps around my fingers, tightens, and I feel the tremors, and actually feel her come, with the juices gushing out, and the fast round of twitches as the tension inside her gives out, resulting in a gargantuan orgasm.
Her body stiffens, and her mouth gapes open in a silent scream of pleasure, before her body goes limp.
Breathing hard, my own heart still thumping as if I've just run a race, I crawl away from her core at last and kiss my way up her body. When I make it beside her, I realize, in vast amazement and mirth, that she's actually blacked out. There's nothing there.
Well.
That's nice to know I have that effect. I've never actually made anyone black out before. So that's something.
I absently start stroking her hair, as I wait for her to wake
up and recover from the assault of pleasure that's crippled her. When she does stir a moment later, her eyes are still glazed as she says, “Holy shit. That was...” she pauses, clearly at a loss for what to say. “I don't know what that was, but I think if I got another one like that, I'd quite happily die and not come back. Because that would be the best way to go. Ever.”
I chuckle, though my heart twangs at the wayward thought of her dying. I mean, sure, dying in that circumstance would be probably the best thing you could aim for, as long as you didn't emotionally screw up your partner in the process, I suppose – but I don't want to have my mind come even close to thinking of her dying. “I advise you to not go just yet. Not until I've had the chance to do that to you a lot more.”
She bites her lip as she regards me, before leaning over to kiss me. “You do realize I still haven't had my taste of you yet...?”
Although her words trigger another wave of arousal through me, I say, “Uh, are you sure you're up for anything more there? Because you were out for a few minutes.”
She stares at me in brief confusion. “I was out?”
“Yup.”
I see her mind rewind, trying to locate the exact moment where she zonked out. “Even more holy shit, then. I've never had that happen to me before, either.”
I give her a smug smile. “Guess that makes it a first for the both of us, then.”
She arches one eyebrow, and her lips warm me with that familiar curve that has the talent of going straight to my heart and staying there. “Let's see if I can do the same to you then, shall we?”
I stare at her. Uh oh. I have a feeling she plans to spend as long as necessary to make this happen.
I'm okay with that. Right now, there's no one else on the planet I'd rather be with than her. And I hope that over the next few months, years, perhaps even for the rest of our lives, that we'll continue creating astounding memories together. That we'll solve crimes like bosses and make the criminal world quake when they hear our name whispered.
But first, orgasms.
And lots of them.
Her Sister
~ Bonus Story ~
An Erotic Thriller
My best friend was dead, and it was all my fault.
My parents could never understand why I turned down the college scholarship, nor why I refused to live my life. How could I, without Tina?
I knew that it was our fight that drove her to suicide, and nobody could convince me otherwise.
My parents are making me go to therapy. They say I need to stop blaming myself for what happened. Ha! That’s funny. My therapist is an idiot, and anyway, a month has gone by and nothing’s changed.
I want to ignore my therapist’s suggestion. No way do I want to talk to Gabi! But she has a point. Tina’s older sister is probably the only other person in the world who understands my pain, and who knows? Maybe we can help each other heal…but it hurts to look at her. She looks so much like my dead best friend.
But maybe the pain will be worth it. She’s so damn sexy…
* * *
Chapter One
I stared dully at my reflection in the mirror, and flat, lifeless eyes gazed back at me. Who was that girl, I wondered? Did I know her anymore? Was she me, or only a stranger?
I glanced at the yearbook lying open on my dresser, right next to the mirror. My senior picture. In it, I was a completely different Connie. Long, glossy dark hair, bright brown eyes positively shining with hope and life, and flawless makeup applied with a careful hand. Back when I still gave a damn. No, that’s not quite right. Back when I still felt alive…yes. Yes, that’s right.
The creature in the mirror resembled the happy girl in the yearbook only vaguely, the way distant cousins might favor each other slightly. My hair was no longer thick and shiny, but dull and lank. Dark circles under my eyes reflected my severe lack of sleep—nightmares of my dead best friend haunted me every night, and what little sleep I had managed to get over the past couple of months had been far from restful. But mostly it was my eyes that were different. Once, on a trip to Red River when I was a little girl, I’d seen a dead fish on the riverbank. Its eyes had been flat and glassy, devoid of anything at all. Awful eyes. That’s what mine looked like now—those of a dead fish. Except for the deep, inescapable sadness lingering in their depths.
I could hear my mother approaching. Any moment now she’d swing open the door, and the daily worried, nagging questions would start again. I didn’t have the energy to deal with her today, but there was no escape. So I only stood there.
While I waited, I stared at the yearbook. I didn’t want to look at the picture next to mine—more than anything I didn’t—but I was powerless to look away. As I gazed upon my dead best friend’s face, an icy splinter of pure grief pierced my heart, and I lost my ability to breathe for a minute, until the throbbing pain eventually lessened its grip on me.
A deep part of myself didn’t really mind the pain. It was only during the moments when the crushing grief pounded down the walls I’d built around my heart that I felt even remotely alive.
In the tiny photo, Tina’s wide smile haunted me. Her short blond hair, which she’d ordinarily kept spiked up with gel, had instead been straight for the photo. I’d teased her about it a little at the time, but it had framed her pretty, heart-shaped face, and she’d truly looked gorgeous.
It was one of life’s greatest ironies, because less than a few months after the picture had been taken, the beautiful, happy girl in the photo had taken her own life.
Tears began to sting my eyes for the first time in weeks. I didn’t cry anymore. I felt like a corpse, and corpses didn’t cry. But the pain had been stirred up again by that picture, as sharp and hurtful as my first terrible day without Tina.
With trembling fingers, I picked up the yearbook and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a bang and slid to the floor, its pages facing down. Good. I couldn’t bear to look at it anymore.
There was a gentle knock, and my mother opened the door. “Connie?” she asked softly. Her eyes shone with concern, and she spoke with the hushed tones of someone speaking at a funeral. Ha. It was sort of appropriate. “What was that sound? It sounded as if you threw something.”
“I don’t know,” I said listlessly as I turned back to the mirror and resumed staring at my reflection. I was somewhat relieved to see that the tears hadn’t fallen, although my eyes looked a little shinier than normal.
I could see my mother frowning in the reflection. “Well, okay,” she said reluctantly as she dropped the subject. Instead she took a deep breath and asked, as she had every day for the past two and a half months, “Connie, are you okay?”
What a dumb question. But I would never disrespect my mother by telling her so, nor by lying to her. So I replied as I always did. “No.”
She fidgeted a little, not sure what to say. “Your father and I hoped that, by now, the therapy sessions would have helped, and you would change your mind about going to college.”
Therapy. College. Now there’s a laugh. The therapy sessions—which I’d been forced into by my parents—were the biggest wastes of time I’d ever had the misfortune to experience. The therapist droned on and on about self-forgiveness and moving on, and chalked up my feelings of guilt and helplessness to nothing more than survivor’s guilt. Whatever. She couldn’t understand. She hadn’t killed her best friend.
And college…before Tina’s death shattered my world, I’d had a full scholarship to the state university. A free ride. My parents had been thrilled, and I’d been beside myself with excitement, eager to start the next chapter in my life. Now, the thought of going to college made me physically ill. There was no way I could go to school and be happy and carefree while Tina rotted in the ground. So I’d turned down the scholarship and gotten a job at a clothing store downtown, if only to please my parents at least a little bit.
“No,” I said, forcing my voice to be firm.
My mother sighed. “It’s almost the end of
July. You still have a little time left to call the dean and tell him you changed your mind—“
“I said no. No college,” I said sharply.
She rubbed her forehead wearily. “Tina would have wanted you to move on with your life and go to school,” she began, but at that my temper flared up.
“You don’t know what Tina would have wanted,” I snapped, whirling around to glare at her. I knew it wasn’t my mother’s fault and I shouldn’t take my grief out on her, but at the moment I couldn’t restrain myself. Whatever. I’d apologize later. “She’s dead, she’s gone, and nothing—absolutely nothing—I do will ever make her happy again. So why should I care what she would have wanted?”
My voice quivered and broke, and I quickly turned away from my mother and the mirror, flopping down on the bed with my face in the pillow.
“All right. I’m sorry I said anything.” My mother’s voice was strained, as if she were forcing herself to be civil but was failing. “Stay in here and wallow in your self-pity all you want.” She paused, waiting for my retaliation, but when none came she added, “And don’t forget you have therapy this afternoon.”
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