Now both his hands were up under her dress, pulling her panties down to midthigh. And then his touch was gone and she knew he was undoing his pants. Her paralysis grew worse—stark, raging lust warred with something that ran nearly as deep: her common sense, her lifelong morals, the sense that having sex with a stranger was insanely wrong.
His hands closed warmly on her exposed bottom now, and—dear God—his erection pressed into the valley there, his hard, hard flesh nestling where she was soft. She bit her lip and gripped the rail tighter, nearly torn in half with conflicting emotions.
“Tell me you need it, baby,” he purred, low and demanding. “Tell me you need my big cock.”
Unthinkable. She didn’t know how to talk that way. And she couldn’t admit to needing it—she just couldn’t. “I can’t,” she whimpered, hating how weak she sounded.
Now his fingers dug slightly into her hips, and his rigid length began to . . . move up and down again, sliding, as if sawing into her defenses. “Then tell me you want it,” he whispered more softly, seductively. “Tell me you want this, sunshine.”
She let out a breath. Faced the cold, hard truth. “I can’t do that, either.”
Behind her, he tensed slightly—she heard him breathe in deeply. God, she was frustrating him. But she couldn’t help it. This was entirely new territory and she wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten here.
He leaned back in, slow, warm, and at the same time slid one hand back around to the crux of her thighs, letting the tip of his middle finger come to rest on the spot where she felt most swollen and needy. “What do you want, Jenna?” Despite what she’d feared, his voice remained entirely gentle, understanding. He was really asking her, asking her what she wanted.
It forced from her . . . a shocking, unshrouded truth. “I want . . . not to decide. Because no matter what I say, yes or no, I won’t be happy. I want . . . the decision taken away from me.” Her eyes bolted open then to peer out on the dark, empty beach in the distance, across the dunes, to the stars now dotting the night sky, and the world felt surreal. She wasn’t sure what she’d just admitted, but it felt . . . like a confession of epic proportions. It left her more drained than anything else that had happened here—her limbs felt weak; her soul felt weak.
But Brent still held her up. His hands eased around her in a warm embrace from behind, settling at her waist. He leaned over and gently bit her shoulder—barely letting his teeth press into her flesh—and the unexpected affection jolted through her, straight to where he’d been touching her, forcing a sigh from her throat. “All right then, Little Miss Sunshine,” Brent murmured against her neck, “I’m going to give you what you want.” Then he leaned closer and spoke even lower. “What you really want.”
Her lips trembled as she found the quiet strength to turn her head toward his, bringing them face-to-face, their eyes, mouths, only a few inches apart. “Which is?”
“Just like you said. You don’t get to decide. I do. And I’m going to fuck you so deep,” he promised, his teeth clenching lightly, “so good, that it’s gonna be the best you’ve ever had. Because that’s what you want—and what you need, baby. To be fucked.”
Their eyes still locked, Jenna parted her lips to speak, having no idea what she intended to say. But Brent stopped her anyway, with a short shake of his head. “No words, Jenna. No more decisions or choices. You just do what I say now. You just be a good girl and turn around and hold on tight to that rail.”
Jenna drew in her breath and slowly did what he instructed—looked straight ahead and gripped the railing. And felt guilt and worry slip away, like a silk gown falling from her body. It was a game of words, but that didn’t matter—somehow, never telling him she wanted it made it less heinous. Forcing him to make the decision washed away the conflict inside her.
His hands locked on to her hips less gently now and her body tensed with strange pleasure as she waited. He pulled her closer then, making her re-situate slightly on her heels, her back arching. And then—God—his fingers were there, behind her, moving between her legs, parting her, and at least two of them pushed up inside her, making her cry out. Yes, yes! At last—something there, inside her. She bit her lip, her breathing ragged. More, please. She wanted to beg—but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to want it. She just wanted him to take it.
His fingers thrust inside her and she heard her own wetness and wondered briefly what she looked like bent over a handrail, her dress lifted to her waist—but she pushed that thought aside. In fact, she shut her eyes again since that made it all easier. To just feel. To just pretend she was dreaming or something.
And then Brent’s fingers were gone and Jenna knew what would come next, so she bit her lip, bracing herself, and then there he was—so, so hard—positioning himself, and she instinctively arched deeper, lifting her bottom higher, and then—oh!—he was inside her, entering slow and, as promised, so very deep.
Thank God she held on to the rail or she’d be on her knees now. The sob that left her rose from her gut. God, he felt big—it had been so long since she’d done this. But he also felt good, delivering that incredible fullness she’d yearned for.
When he began to move in her, it was slow, thorough, his strokes stretching all through her—from head to toe. Big, so big. He filled her. And she gradually began to push back against him, meeting his long, sensual thrusts, taking him deeper still.
“Open your eyes, Jenna,” he purred over her. She’d turned her head to the side at some point, so he knew they were closed. “Feel this. Experience this. All of it.”
Biting her lip, she did as he said. She took in the beach again—a glimpse of white foam as waves broke over the shore in the moonlight. He was right. She felt it more this way. And it made it . . . dirtier. To be forced to remember she stood in a gazebo, fully dressed, being . . . fucked by him, a total stranger. She never used that word, but he used it a lot, and as he drove up into her wetness, again, again, she knew that’s what this was—fucking.
She pushed against him, harder, harder. She heard her own labored breathing.
And then Brent’s hand snaked around from her hip to the front, and when he sank his fingers there, she moaned. Yes, yes, God, please. More words she couldn’t bring herself to utter. With some other lover in some other place and time, maybe—but not with this stranger, this man who insisted he knew what she needed. It was impossible.
So instead she simply moved with his touches and heard her heady moans waft up into the warm night air. Like before, each hot grind gave her pleasure from the front and the back, only much more intense now. His other hand rose to cup one breast through her dress, finger and thumb toying hotly with her nipple and making her undulate more wildly against him.
His heated breath behind her fueled her, exciting her more. Soon he released her breast—only to thrust his hand inside her dress and warmly recapture it, flesh to flesh. She cried out at the new connection, and when he caught her sensitive nipple between two fingers, squeezing it as he began to massage—oh God. She bit her lip and thrust her wetness more insistently against his hand. And he whispered, “That’s right, baby, that’s so good.” And he began to drive his erection into her harder, harder, and she looked out on the beach and—oh my—spotted a couple, naked, doing exactly what they were: fucking.
She took in everything Brent delivered as she focused, stunned and incredibly aroused, on the couple in the sand. The man lay on his back and the woman rode him wildly, her arms over her head like some sort of erotic cowgirl. They were far away, small from where she stood, but she could still make out the movements clearly, could still see the woman’s large breasts swaying in the moonlight. And she could sense the woman’s pleasure, stark and guiltless pleasure—and that was when the orgasm exploded through her body like an earthquake, the crux of her thighs the epicenter.
She heard her cries—couldn’t begin to suppress them; she clutched the rail as tight as she could, feeling the rolling waves of pleasure echo through her from head to
toe, a release so powerful she could barely withstand it. The world shifted; everything inside her spun and tilted crazily.
When it was over, every part of her body tingled, all the way out to the tips of her fingers and toes—and somehow she and Brent were on their knees now, both of them. She’d sunk there, unable to keep standing, and he’d descended with her—still inside her.
His arms circled her waist as she collapsed against him, trying to come back to herself, and he was whispering in her ear, “Aw, baby, that was so good. You did so fucking good, honey.”
And somehow, it helped. A moment when she might have suffered in anguish over what she’d just done, was still doing, instead became one where she felt . . . comforted, cared for, praised. So she rested against him, trying to regain her strength—but she stayed aware, too, that he remained inside her. And when that grew to be the sensation she felt more than her recovery from orgasm, she found herself biting her lip in raw pleasure.
“We’re gonna shift now,” Brent said, his breath warming her neck, “and you’re gonna move to your hands and knees.”
Oh. My. She’d never . . . But then, she’d never done it standing up before, either. And . . . and . . . she’d given him the power, told him she didn’t want to make any decisions. So . . . she moved with him, slowly, leaning forward until her palms pressed into the wooden plank floor of the gazebo, and she arched her bottom just like before and felt a little obscene, but when he began to thrust into her again with those slow, deep, thorough strokes, it took everything else away.
The position was hard to maintain in her exhaustion, but each drive traveled all the way through her, out through her limbs. And when he began to move harder, faster, grunting his pleasure with each plunge, even her face began to tingle hotly and she once again couldn’t hold in her cries of pure lusty joy. Oh God, he felt so good, so big, thrusting, thrusting, so deep, so hard. She sobbed. She moaned. She felt utterly taken, possessed, just like she’d wanted—although she still didn’t understand why on earth that was a good thing.
And just when she feared her arms would give out and she’d collapse to the wood beneath her, he muttered, “Fuck yeah, baby, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come so fucking hard in your sweet pussy. Here I go.” And then his low, masculine groans filled the night—and seemed to fill her soul, too. To know she’d made this insanely sexy, powerful man climax so fiercely. The sex expert. The sexologist. It was a unique delight that had her smiling secretly in the darkness, for just a brief moment, before their bodies slowly crumpled to the gazebo’s floor.
They lay silent for a few minutes, during which Jenna tried not to feel anything inside. Just the physical part. Because—for whatever reason—she had needed sex tonight. So she tried to enjoy the afterglow. And she tried really hard to forget the weirdness of where she was and whom she’d just had really amazing sex with.
Until Brent—lying on his back next to her, peering up toward the gazebo’s rafters—said, “Sorry, sunshine, but looks like I win.”
She sucked in her breath and turned her head toward him. “Win what?”
Next to her, he sat up, then reached for her hands to draw her upright, too. “I proved my point,” he said, back to being the smooth, matter-of-fact “sex doctor.” “You agreed that if I did, you’d let me take you the rest of the way, through the fantasies you need.”
Ugh, there was that icky word “need” again. “This proved nothing except that apparently I can have sex with a stranger.”
He grinned, lowering his chin indulgently. “However you want to look at it. But we both know you want this now. We both know you’d take enormous pleasure from it.”
Her cheeks filled with heat. We do? We know that? She had no idea how he’d made that leap—since one occurrence of sex with him, however hot and scintillating, did not equate to going through the whole series of fantasies, with more strangers.
“What—what would it entail?” She heard the words leave her mouth, but she couldn’t believe she’d actually asked. As if she were considering this. Because that was insane.
“I’m sure you’ve read the literature,” Brent replied. “As your guide, I prepare a series of scenarios designed especially for you and your individual needs and desires. By the time you’ve completed them, your sexual inhibitions will be a thing of the past and you’ll be a happier, healthier person.”
Sexual inhibitions. Did she really have them? Could he know what he was talking about? And yet . . . she needed to rephrase her question. Because she wasn’t asking about what he thought she needed as much as she was asking about . . . the man she’d just had sex with. Although she tried to sound casual about it. “No, I meant the sex itself. The fantasies. How do they work? Would . . . you be there?”
Their eyes met in the dim candlelight from the table above. His filled with reservation. “I’m not supposed to be.”
Jenna pulled in her breath, nodding lightly, not quite able to meet his gaze anymore. It had been crazy to even ask. What difference did it make if he was there? She supposed some small part of her had begun to think: Maybe if I can do this with him, I could do that with him. But since when did she want this—sex with a stranger—anyway?
Placing one bent finger beneath her chin, he forced her gaze to his. “Would it make you more comfortable if I were involved?”
Jenna blinked. Tried to wade through her tangled feelings. “The total truth?”
“Absolutely. I’m all about the truth, sunshine.”
She drew in her breath—and fought to be honest with him. “The truth is that I can’t believe I did this with you and I can’t believe I’m sitting here with my panties still around my knees—because this is not the kind of thing I do, which I’m sure you understand by now.”
“And that’s exactly why you needed to do it.”
Need again. Shut up about that already. “The very notion of . . . of doing what you’re suggesting, going through these fantasies you want to create for me, is . . . mind-boggling. I can’t believe I’m considering it for even a second. But I suppose I was thinking that since I’ve now been . . . like this, with you, that maybe, just maybe, it would make future such . . . experiences easier for me . . . if you were there.”
Brent sighed. “It’s a pretty big fucking rule, Jenna. It’s there for a reason.”
She didn’t ask the reason, just stated the obvious. “You just broke a big rule, which I presume was there for a reason.”
“True,” he said.
And Jenna knew she should accept that, because it was her Get Out of Jail Free card—a damn good reason to say, Okay then, sorry, but I can’t do this. That was what she’d planned on in the first place. And one round of sex with him didn’t change that. Or it shouldn’t anyway. So it was simply beyond her understanding when she instead said, “Look, I’ve been honest with you, far more honest than I intended to be, so here’s more honesty. I truly didn’t come here for the sex, so I’m not mentally prepared for this—in fact, I’m absolutely scared to death of it. So I think the only way I could possibly do it would be if . . . if you were there.”
He looked at her in the shadows, his expression quiet, even kind. “If you’re scared to death, why are you considering it?”
“More truth? I don’t know,” she whispered. “I really don’t.”
He pursed his lips, looked troubled, and then . . . conceded. “All right, sunshine. If you’ll agree to this if I’m involved, then I will be.”
Oh God. She wasn’t sure she’d expected that. It had been like the sex itself—she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say no, but she hadn’t been sure she wanted the answer to be yes, either.
Yet Brent looked almost . . . proud of her. And for some reason, she liked that. It was much better than having him insist she was a needy woman in denial.
“How does it, um . . . start?” she asked.
“You’ll receive instructions prior to each fantasy about time, place, and what to wear. You’ll be given a safeword, something yo
u say only if and when you want out, if you want the fantasy to end—if it’s truly not bringing you pleasure. But I’ll be working very hard to make sure it all brings you pleasure,” he said with his usual seductive smile. “Still, sunshine, I should warn you—sometimes you might have to be patient for a little while and trust me on that. Don’t say the word out of fear—only say it if something has begun to happen that’s bringing you true displeasure. And I promise, the pleasure will always come. Always.”
Oh Lord. What had she put into motion here? She tried to catch her breath and be brave. “All right.”
“There are a few other things we need to go over, too,” he said. “First, about the other people you’ll meet here. Sometimes we build fantasies for our guests that can . . . overlap. That means you might meet someone during a fantasy who is actually in his or her own fantasy at the same time, even though the goal of that fantasy might be entirely different than the goal of yours. And, conversely, you’ll interact with other participants who are employees of the Hotel Erotique. We request that you not ask anyone whether they’re a guest or an employee—simply because it decreases the sense of fantasy.”
“Um, may I ask . . . what if you put someone in my fantasy who I’m, uh, not attracted to?”
He grinned. “No need to worry, sunshine. Do you remember when you went through a long online page of photos clicking next to those you found attractive?”
She nodded. She’d known it was telling them something about her preferences, but she hadn’t thought any further ahead.
“Many of the people you saw are our actual employees. We use your response to others to fill in the gap—for instance, we would never put another guest in your fantasy if they didn’t fit the parameters we gathered for whom you’re physically drawn to.”
Dear God—this was strange. She knew it made sense to populate her fantasies with people she found attractive, but she’d never thought about the actual logistics of how it would work, since she hadn’t been taking this part seriously.
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