With me, he said as Nanami rolled a condom down his dick. With me, as Mary Grace swung a leg over his torso and sank down his sheathed cock. With me, as he guided a pretty head between Tamsin’s legs to make her feel good, as Devorah straddled his face and he held her hips as he sucked on her clit. With me, as they all fucked each other in a tangle of fingers and tongues. With me, with me, with me.
“We want you to ruin our shoes too,” Lael said into Cal’s ear. She was currently rubbing the swollen bud of Ling’s clit as Ling rode him. He was getting close to the edge—Ling was the fourth ballerina to fuck him until she came—and Cal felt like he had no self-control left. His entire body was stretched tight, his toes digging into the sheets and his thighs so tense they ached. His cock almost hurting with the need to release.
Next to him, Tamsin had already come twice, once from riding his face, another time from Louisa’s clever fingers. “Oh yes,” she said, “you have to. Just like you did for me.”
“Happy to,” Cal said. “Might take more than one time though.”
“I think we can make that happen,” Lael purred, and then Ling came with a series of wracking shudders, her little mouth parted in an O of surprise. Cal gritted his teeth and endured the feeling with as much restraint as he could manage, but once she was finished, he gently lifted her away.
“Gonna come,” he grunted, and with the same kind of grace and quickness they had on the stage, they arranged themselves in a little row on the bed. He managed to get to his knees and rip off the condom before it happened, and with a sharp wave of release, he emptied himself over several pairs of ballet slippers. With grunt after grunt as he stroked the semen out of his cock. He came so hard he could feel it in the soles of his feet and at the top of his scalp. And when he was finished, still-hard cock in hand, he saw that he’d only stained about half the shoes.
Which meant…
“More,” Tamsin said firmly, pushing him back down on the bed and rolling another condom down his length after a few strokes to keep him at full mast. “You’ve still got more shoes to ruin.”
And so he let the girl he’d started to care for guide pussy after pussy down on his cock, his face, his fingers. He fucked every girl in that room, more than once, he fucked them hard and soft, fast and slow, until the night grew old and blue at the edges, until they were all too sated and tired to do anything other than hum and snuggle and yawn.
And Cal ruined every single slipper they wore.
Epilogue
Cal
Two Months Later
Cal caught the duffel bag easily and tossed it to the ground. He held up his hands to signal he was ready for more, and Tamsin leaned out of her window with her dance tote and dropped it down. That, plus a weekender bag and a pillow, and all of Tamsin’s worldly possessions were ready to be packed away in Cal’s car. He’d wanted nothing but this as early as eight weeks ago, the first weekend they’d met, but had respected her wish to stay until her successful audition with the American Ballet Theatre.
But finally, finally she was leaving, and instead of leaving on the train tomorrow like her father thought she was, she was sneaking out tonight with Cal. And he had one final surprise for her…if she wanted it.
Cal put her things in his car and came back to the window.
“Why don’t you come up here?” she asked in a low voice. “One last time?”
He wordlessly started climbing the tree; he knew the way into Tamsin’s room by heart now. Since their weekend at Persepolis, Cal had advised all the girls to stay in more often—Mistress Hell would protect them as much as she could, but a little caution would go a long way with a man like Purkiss. And they had cajoled and wheedled and touched him with butterfly hands to beg, and somehow he’d ended up agreeing to visit them on the nights they stayed in. They were insatiable, demanding, creative, and sweet, and after eight weeks of servicing all them, he understood Mistress Hell’s fascination with the dancers. They were like gifts from the gods of fucking, come to earth.
And Tamsin…Tamsin most of all.
Cal had assumed what happened that first weekend had been some kind of adventure for them, an experiment of sorts, and that even if there’d been no lasting harm done to Tamsin’s feelings, that it wouldn’t happen again. He was used to women who didn’t like to share after all, and he figured if a wife couldn’t share her husband with war, then this young girl couldn’t be expected to share him with eleven of her friends.
He’d deeply underestimated Tamsin. Tamsin and her obsessive craving for the wrong and the taboo in life. She loved nothing more than all of them playing together, she loved choreographing their orgies, debasing him and herself and everyone around them in delightful, ecstatic ways, and she came the hardest when she was the last one to fuck him. When she had him sweaty and raw and at the edge of his control. That’s how she liked him best.
Tonight wasn’t going to be elaborate or choreographed however. After he climbed up the tree and through the window, Tamsin nearly tackled him and pulled him to her pillow-less bed.
“I want it one last time here,” she breathed, hands on his zipper. She was in a tiny little nightgown and leg warmers and—Jesus—no panties. He ran his hands up her thighs, playing with the place where the leg warmers met bare skin.
“Just you and me,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument. He loved fooling around with her friends—what red-blooded human wouldn’t?—but right now, with his surprise burning a hole in his back pocket, he only wanted her. He’d play whatever dirty games she wanted, but at the end of the day, it was Tamsin who had his heart. Tamsin he’d move heaven and earth just to be near.
And he damn well had.
“Yes,” she agreed, “just us.” Her warm hands found his stiffening cock and pulled it out, rubbing it up and down. “Can’t we do it without the condom?” she begged. “Just this once?”
“No,” he said, even though it felt like yes was the only word he could remember.
“Mmm,” she pouted, flipping up the hem of her nightgown to show off her pussy. She started rubbing the tip of him against her, getting it wet, slotting it inside her entrance and circling her hips and driving him mad.
“Just for a minute won’t hurt,” she said, batting her long, gold eyelashes up at him. “Just for a minute inside.”
His arms were shaking where he held himself above her. “Just for a minute,” he repeated. “No longer.”
Her eyes lit up. “Really?”
“Shh.” He put a hand over her mouth, because he wasn’t sure he could do this without coming immediately, and he especially wouldn’t be able to do it with Tamsin breathing naughty things in his ear. He closed his eyes and pushed inside.
There weren’t words for how good her pussy felt. Wet and hot, tight like a fist. Every nerve ending in his penis felt electrified, every sensation was magnified, every inch farther was like a new revelation from God. She moaned under his hand as he stretched and filled her, and once he sunk in to the hilt, he carefully lowered himself onto her, chest to chest, letting his hand fall away from her mouth so he could kiss her. And kiss her and kiss her.
He couldn’t wait to tell her, he decided. He wanted to tell her now, like this, when there was nothing separating them, no barrier, no distance, just the warm glide of them and their hearts beating so close.
“I’m moving to New York City,” he whispered against her mouth. “I got a place.”
Her lips parted underneath his, her hand reaching towards his face. “Really?” she asked, and her voice sounded so young then, so full of a hope and happiness that she hadn’t yet learned how to hide.
“Really. I’ve got a key for you in my back pocket. It can be your place too, if you want.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I want that. I’ve been so miserable thinking we wouldn’t see each other as much as we wanted…”
“Remember what I said that night at Persepolis? With me. I want you with me, Tamsin, as long as you’ll let me close.”
&nb
sp; “Yes,” she said, kissing the corners of his mouth, his jaw. “I want to be with you always.”
The words made him want to slump in relieved joy. “I like that you feel that way,” he said gruffly, trying not to bother her with how much he felt. He still wanted her to be able to change her mind, leave him if she got unhappy or realized how old he was or met some other dancer that could better meet her needs. He didn’t want to cage her, not his little music box girl, not when she was finally getting free.
Tamsin seemed to have other ideas. “Oh, you bear,” she laughed. “I love you. And I know you love me. There’s no need to be so stoic.”
I love you.
“Tamsin,” he groaned, burying his face into her neck. “I do love you. I love you too much, I think, than is good for you.”
“There’s no such thing as too much for me,” she purred, biting his earlobe. “I think we’ve already proved that many times over.”
With a low growl, he pulled out and reached for his wallet, rolling a condom on amid Tamsin’s mewling protests. And then he grabbed the headboard with one hand, using his other to guide himself back inside her. With her heels at the small of his back, he thrust inside, deep and hard, wrapping both hands around the edge of the headboard now to drive in harder and harder and harder.
Soon they’d be in his car together, driving off to their new life. Soon she’d be in his bed every night that she wanted to be there. Soon they would see how far love could carry them as she danced and he worked and they had to fight off every problem that came with being in the real world.
But for now, he was happy to pretend he was still in fairyland, still inside the dream. And when Tamsin came and he came a moment later, filling his condom with heavy jerks and pulses, he murmured promises in her ear until they were both sweaty and still. I love you and you’re with me and I’ll take care of you, princess, always, always, always.
His promises were real, vows weighted with age and experience, and Tamsin seemed to wrap herself up in them like she wrapped herself up in his arms. “And we are going to live happily ever after,” she murmured to him.
He smiled in the dark. “Ruined shoes and all.”
* * *
Like dark, contemporary fairy tales?
Try American Queen, a sexy, modern-day twist on the Camelot story!
“American Queen is a delicious fantasy, a filthy fairytale…rich in texture, intensely emotional, and highly erotic, with a perfect hint of magic.”
–Meredith Wild, New York Times bestselling author
It starts with a stolen kiss under an English sky, and it ends with a walk down the aisle. It starts with the President sending his best friend to woo me on his behalf, and it ends with my heart split in two. It starts with buried secrets and dangerous desires…and ends with the three of us bound together with a hateful love sharper than any barbed wire.
My name is Greer Galloway, and I serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States.
This is the story of an American Queen.
About the Author
Sierra Simone is a USA Today Bestselling former librarian who spent too much time reading romance novels at the information desk. She lives with her husband and family in Kansas City.
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www.authorsierrasimone.com
BEDTIME STORY
A Sleeping Beauty Story
Skye Warren
ONE
The youngest fairy stepped forward and said, “The princess shall be the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Jessica
I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, grateful for the pitch black outside. My eyes feel puffy, nose runny, but at least no one can see me like this. Yeah, that’s good. One point for optimism, negative two thousand for the vortex of depression tugging at my toes.
Optimism. The secret weapon in a single mother’s arsenal. Ky’s running a temperature? That means extra cuddle time. The water bill’s bigger than usual? We’ll just have to make those last two hot dogs in the fridge last.
Then Ky’s dad showed up outside our apartment.
I clench both hands on the steering wheel, so tight I can feel my heartbeat inside my fingers. That’s okay, though. Optimism. I can make complete and utter terror look good.
A green highway sign flashes briefly in my headlights. Provence.
Working in a diner means I’ve heard a lot of random conversation, especially from people passing through. The name Provence registers as a small town outside Tanglewood. Which means I’m not nearly far enough away to be safe.
The truth is I’ll never be far enough. Never really be safe.
So much for optimism.
Is the town big enough for me to hide? If only for the night?
I can’t see past the twin domes of my headlight, the black tar texture visible despite the dark night. It had been an hour since I left Tanglewood city limits. I hoped to be farther by now.
Maybe I should have stopped to make better plans.
Should have booked a bus or even a plane. I couldn’t risk it, not with Stefano outside my door, demanding to see his son. The moment the little bar in the test turned pink, my life changed. It stopped being about survival and became about something more. About a life for my child, free from danger, from violence. From fear.
Something fluttered in my chest, something like hope.
Stefano found the test in the trash can, and he had lost his shit. Beaten me so badly I was afraid I would miscarry. Then he kicked me out of the house. And even then, even clutching my stomach, my face bruised and bloody, it was a blessing.
A blessing, like the small child sleeping in the backseat.
At least he doesn’t know how afraid I am right now, my heart thudding against my ribs, my sight blurring with adrenaline and exhaustion. He doesn’t know how it feels to be hit, to be used, to be given as a gift by his own father. And if I have my way he never will.
The car jolts into the road, pulling a short scream from me.
Only a pothole.
I’m jumpy and way too tired to be driving. I check the rearview, but Ky’s eyes are still closed. I hope he’s dreaming about the dragons, like the light-up toy he clutches in his small fist. They’re fierce. They don’t need to pack up their belongings in the middle of the night and drive toward nowhere. They don’t need to be afraid.
The bright side. There’s always a bright side, no matter how dim.
Oh, I know. There are very few times in a girl’s life when she could make this statement with complete certainty: things could not possibly get worse.
Red and blue lights flash in the mirrors, spilling light onto the windshield.
My heartbeat speeds up, almost frantic with its warning: danger, danger.
Oh God. Was he from Tanglewood? Had Stefano found me already? He had so many cops in his pocket. Why else would a cop pull me over? I wasn’t speeding. The registration sticker might be a little old, bust he couldn’t see that in the dark.
My stomach clenches—a hard ball of anxiety that rolls back and forth between make a run for it and follow the rules. Following the rules hasn’t gotten me very far in this life. My finger throbs as if to remind me of exactly what rules had done.
Running won’t work, not on this empty stretch of road that I don’t recognize, with the needle closer to E than F. If the cop isn’t dirty, he’s not going to give up if I ignore him.
And if the cop is dirty, then I’ve already lost.
TWO
The second said, “She shall have a temper as sweet as an angel.”
Jessica
My hands shake as I steer the car to the shoulder. The cop pulls up behind me, the lights still spinning, throwing blue and red onto the worn cloth seats. I watch the driver’s side door of the cop car, but it doesn’t open. Seconds tick by, each one pushing the knife deeper. What if he’s calling Stefano right now? I shouldn’t be sitting here, waitin
g.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, turning my palms slick with sweat.
I don’t think I can go on much longer, but God knows I can’t stop. I’m in between the proverbial rock and hard place. The rock, a dangerous mob enforcer who thinks he owns me. And the hard place, a cop stepping out of his car and approaching my door.
“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper to Ky.
He’s still asleep, and I’m the only one who needs reassurance right now.
I roll down the window and stare at a black belt and beige fabric.
A man leans down, one hand on the top of the car, the other shining a flashlight directly into the car, blinding me. All I can see is white. All I can taste is metal. I’m two seconds away from kicking the car into drive and pressing the pedal to the floor. It’s not safe for Ky, but nothing is, definitely not a dirty cop working for the mob.
“Good evening, ma’am. License and registration.”
In other circumstances, the honey-smooth drawl might have made me feel safe. Under these circumstances, on the run and exhausted to the bone, safety had taken a permanent vacation. Exactly where it had been most of my life.
I reach for the passenger side drawer, hoping he doesn’t see my hand tremble. I find the little insurance slip—the cheapest kind that anyone sells. My license I pull from my purse. Then I hand them over, squinting into the light.
“May I ask why you pulled me over?”
There’s a ninety-five percent chance that this will end in tragedy. That this cop is somehow connected to the Luski mafia. That even if he isn’t, he’ll run my papers which will somehow notify the cops who are connected to my ex.
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