Just the Sex: Erotic Shorts

by Alessandra Torre

  It was coming, my core contracting around his fingers, my body arching against him. “Brad,” I gasped, “I need …”

  He knew what I needed, and tightened his arms, holding me still, his upper hand turning whisper soft on my nipples as he increased the magic of his lower hand, his fingers taking me over the this-can’t-be-fucking-happening mountain, and I fell, in a beautiful, free cascade, a full-body explosion of perfection that had me screaming his name, my words disappearing in the loud club music, my screams turning to moans, until I finally settled on a bed of Brad, my body spent and drunk against his, his fingers maintaining movement inside of me, taking me to a perfect, delirious ending until I collapsed.

  ***

  We stayed in that moment, his fingers inside of me, my body heavy on his for a minute. Then, his hands and arms moved, my body curling as they brought me into a fetal position sideways in his lap. I leaned my head back against his arm, my eyes closed and mouth curving into a smile, loving the strength and security in his grip. I closed my eyes, at peace for a moment, until the unrelenting cock beneath my body shifted. It lacked social graces, the couth to understand that it was interrupting my post-orgasm bliss. It wanted only one thing: attention.

  I laughed, meeting Brad’s eyes, intense and mischievous all at one moment. “You got me all excited,” he murmured, pulling me to him and stealing a kiss. “Surely you won’t leave him hanging.”

  I looked out at the club, only lighting and walls a spectator to our alcove. Then I looked down, over the railing, my eyes dancing over sex at every turn. Not actual intercourse, but it was sex all the same, a flowing river of it, invading every pore, molecule, and breath of the downstairs space. An arched body, offering itself, in full glory, on stage. Lips against ears, whispered fantasies dancing between bodies. Spinning flesh, confidence via shot glass, sequins over tans, hands sliding over thighs, gripping ass, grabbing ankles. The sex crept up the walls, invaded the air, moved like invisible smoke upward, slithering into a hypnotic cloud into our room, curling around six feet two inches of sexuality. And underneath my body, legs spread, eyes potent, hardness impressively pushing up from below, was what I craved.

  I moved, untangling from his arms and straddled him, sliding my dress upward, over my hips. His hands stopped me. “Let me,” he said, taking over the action, his hands drawing out the process, firm fingers teasing as they pulled the dress over my body. The fabric came over my head, and I emerged to find his eyes on mine, intensity in them, his hands traveling slowly back down, a hand taking each breast and cupping them, his thumbs moving over my nipples lightly. “You know, I will never need anything more than you,” he said softly. He sat up, a strong hand sliding around my back and lifting me easily, my body now suspended over him, my breasts soft cushions around his mouth. I moaned, his lips finding their way over the soft mounds and peaks of my breasts, hard flicks of his tongue against sensitive places, gentle scrapes of teeth following his soft mouth. His fingers dove back into that wet apex, moving in and out, readying me, moving my body into place until I felt his head. There. And he thrust, softly, only the head inside of me. His hand, cupping my ass, carrying my weight, kept me in place as he moved slowly, with short strokes, just his thick head dipping in and out of my folds.

  “Brad,” I murmured. “Please.” Even as I spoke the words, I didn’t mean them, didn’t want him to stop. It was too perfect, too precise. Enough to enslave, too good to release, but not enough to fully satisfy. I didn’t want satisfaction just yet. I wanted this, this incredible yearning met halfway, as a delicious crescendo of tongue and teeth danced across my breasts.

  “I mean it, Julia,” he groaned, lifting his mouth off me, stubble brushing roughly over my nipples.

  Slow. Teasing. Strokes. Not. Far. Enough.

  “Please, Brad. I need more,” I gasped, gripping his hair, pulling his head back so I could look wildly into his eyes.

  He lowered me marginally, his eyes locked in mine, his mouth forming words I didn’t understand. “I don’t need other woman, or to watch you with other men. What I need, all I need, is this.”

  He thrust, taking me fully, three rock-my-world strokes before withdrawing, his hand lifting me slightly, resuming his slow, half-inside strokes that left me whimpering in his arms. I was so close, could feel the orgasm coming despite his short strokes, a mounting pleasure that I held on to with determination. And then it swelled, my muscles tightening as one, building intensity that was taking me closer … closer ….

  He stopped, his arms lifting me, my head snapping down, and my eyes flipping open. “What?” I gasped. “Why did you stop?”

  “Not yet, Julia.” He smiled, his cock taking one quick dip inside of me before withdrawing.

  “Not yet? I’ll come again, trust me.” I pushed against his hand, frantic to maintain the momentum that I could feel slipping away.

  He ignored me, cupping a breast with his free hand, and taking it into his mouth, his eyes glancing up and meeting my furious ones.

  As fucking hot as it looked, his gorgeous face below me, my body in his mouth, my orgasm was waving goodbye, cheerily content with hopping in a minivan and hitchhiking to Cleveland. I gritted my teeth and grabbed his chin, pushing his face up to mine.

  “Fuck me,” I gritted out. “Now. Hard. Fast. De Luca-style.”

  He grinned, that sexy, I-fucking-own-you grin and released my ass, dropping me full force on top of my full-time obsession. Gripping me with both hands, he kept me still, and started a full on barrage from underneath. Hard, fast fucks that rammed my body, my core clenched against him, the pleasure erupting with every thrust from below, every hard pelvis hit against my clit. I moaned, over and over, the orgasm pulling a one-eighty and barreling full force toward me with arms extended wide. Harder, faster than it had ever come, my body a time bomb about to explode.

  Then I did. Throwing my head back, my feet searching and finding floor, my hands grasping widely for anything to hold on to, I came, a full-body explosion that expelled every emotion I had contained for the last twenty-two years of my life. It was intense, it was incredible, and the best part was looking down on him as I finished, down into that cocky, sexual face that owned me with his eyes.

  He thought I owned him. He thought he loved me, that I was enough. But this animal, this sex god who could drive me crazy and steal my heart in the same breath, he would never be fully mine. It was impossible. No one ever owned a god.

  I took over control, pushing him back against the chair, digging my heels into the floor and riding his cock, my voice coming out in short bursts, guttural and raw as I took him closer to orgasm. “You say that now, but wait. Wait until you see me on top of another man. Wait ‘til his arms are wrapped around my body, his mouth on my tits.” I stared into his eyes, watched the dark flash of excitement as his hands traveled over my skin, possessively squeezing. “I’m going to come so hard on his cock, I’m going to fuck him until he explodes all over my sweet little face, and you’re going to wonder, baby. You’re going to wonder who made me come harder, whose cock I am thinking about next time you fuck me.” He groaned and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around me, my breasts tight against his shirt, and came, thrusting into me, over and over, our juices mixing as he fucked me through the orgasm, his breath hot on my neck, his mouth taking mine until we both collapsed, spent and euphoric, on the leather chair.

  No, no one ever owned a god. But I was working on taming, fooling him into submission.

  candles.

  oil.

  touch.

  temptation.

  I awoke to an empty hotel room, the pillow top absent one impressively large body. Rolling over, I stretched, my arms reaching empty space instead of hard muscle. I frowned, propping up on one elbow and glanced at the clock. 11:13 a.m.

  “Good morning, sleeping beauty.” Brad strode in the room, rolling up the sleeves on a button-down shirt, looking ridiculously hot with a five-o-clock shadow and dress pants.

  “What’s all …
this?” I gestured sleepily, my hand waving about in an attempt to include his head-to-toe hotness.

  “What?” He frowned at me.

  “You know what. You. All sexual.”

  “I was going to hit the tables before heading to Saffire.”

  “In that?” I sat fully upright.

  He tilted his head at me, leaning back against the dresser and crossing his arms. “Yes. What’s the problem?”

  “You are, in a sense, breaking up with Alexis. Looking hot isn’t going to help matters.”

  “You’re being unreasonable. I didn’t pack a lot of things, Julia. We came for one night.”

  I sputtered, moving off of the bed and walking over to him, my new vantage point making the effect only more potent. “Then buy something at the gift shop. A furry sweater, pleated jeans.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “Nothing,” I mumbled, waving my arms and sighing dramatically. “Go on. I’ll be fine here.”

  He bent, both hands gripping my waist and lifting me easily, my feet and arms flaying out as I struggled. Tossing me onto the bed he leaned over me, his face inches from mine. “Phillipe was going to set up some spa services. I assumed you’d want a massage.”

  I rolled my eyes, turning my face to the side. “Among other things.”

  “Want me to take care of you before I go downstairs?”

  “No. I’ll have Phillipe get me a masseuse that can pull double duty.” I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow and trying to blot out the image of Brad’s deliciousness in front of a sultry Alexis.

  There was a pause, and I felt his presence moving closer. Then his hand brushed my hair aside, and his mouth was in my ear. “Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart. You should know that would only excite me.”

  I ignored him, ignoring the sweep of his fingertips along the nape of my neck. The trail of his finger down my back in one slow drag. I grinned against the sheet, desire curling in my belly as he dragged the sheet lower, exposing my back to the cool room. I felt his lips, soft broken up with the scruff of his stubble, on my back as he gave me a gentle kiss. Then he was gone, the suite door opening and closing with quiet finality.

  ***

  I was in trouble the moment my name was spoken. I was half-asleep, cold cucumber on my eyes, a robe wrapped around my naked body, reclining in one of the suite’s soft leather chairs. My hand was held by a spa attendant, the final adjustments being made to my manicure. Two women had transformed my hotel room into a spa, putting soothing tones on the Bose radio, closing the curtains, and dimming the lights to an appropriate level. While I normally would have gotten services in the spa downstairs, this time—given our short timeframe—Brad had arranged the services to be done in our suite. Through the muted sounds of wind and rain, I heard my name and opened my eyes.

  He was beautiful in all of the ways that Brad wasn’t. Thin where Brad was thick, blond hair where his was black. A tight polo that showed muscular arms, blue eyes that stared confidently out at me from a rugged face. Yum. I glanced down, tightening my robe and stood, sliding bare feet into slippers, padding gently across the stone floor ‘til I stood in front of him.

  “I’ve set up the table in the bedroom. Are you ready?” the man asked, a hint of California surfer in his tone.

  I nodded, and he gestured for the door, holding it open as I moved through into a dim room, lit candles littering the space.

  “I’ll give you privacy,” he spoke from behind me. “Please lie face up on the table. If you need me, just call out. My name is Tyler.” I glanced over to him, nodding, my eyes catching the movement of the other attendants, their quiet and respectful departure as they left the suite. Then, the bedroom door closed, and I was alone.

  I shed the robe, suddenly too aware of my nakedness, of his presence on the other side of the door. Candles filled the room with lavender and vanilla scents and danced flickering shadows over my skin. I laid on the table, pulling the sheet up to my chest, and then lowered myself until I was flat, my breasts tickled by the soft fabric, my head encased in a soft pillow. I closed my eyes and waited nervously for him to return.

  Why was I nervous? Massages, once a foreign treat, had become commonplace in my new life of luxury. My body had been accustomed to strange hands, to men and women alike oiling up my body, to nudity a hairbreadth from gentle touches. I should be calm, relaxed, and ready for a treatment I have had fifty times before. But I wasn’t. I was tense. Jittery. Wet. Why the hell am I wet? The panicked question flitted through my mind at the same time as I heard him enter.

  The sound of the door first. It opened, then soft steps, the pad of feet against carpet, a sound I had to strain to hear. When he spoke, I flinched, my nerves a bundle of live wires. “Do you have any sensitive areas? Or places you’d like me to focus on?” He spoke softly, the husky tone sending a shiver through my body.

  Sensitive areas? A few. Places I’d like him to focus on? Yes, please. “No. Just a normal Swedish massage, please.” My voice behaved, coming out casually and unaffected, the right amount of offhand decorating its syllables.

  “I understand. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions,” he said the words with a hint of seduction, his sentence causing my eyes to open.

  Particular instructions from Brad? That could be worrisome. His earlier threat echoed in my mind. Be careful what you wish for … I had wished, hopefully he hadn’t granted.

  I let out a quiet breath. Willed my body to loosen, willed my tense muscles to stop telegraphing my stress. Why was this so difficult? Maybe I could blame it on the fact that we were in a bedroom instead of a spa. But more likely it was the tan Adonis whose hands were feeling a little too perfect. Mr. De Luca left very particular instructions. Trouble. I was definitely in trouble.

  My nervousness melted a little with his movements, confident strokes of sensuality, attending to safe areas: my hands, forearms, and biceps. When he moved higher, I tensed; his hands kneaded me back to butter, his focus on my neck and shoulders. He slid his hands into my hair, used his fingers to massage and release tension. I exhaled, my lips parting slightly, and he traveled, a scent of candlewood and eucalyptus trailing behind him, and ended up at my feet, starting at my soles and working upward.

  Ten minutes later I fully relaxed, still on my back, almost asleep, almost convinced that this was a standard service and not some fantasy come true, when his hands started their massage of my upper thighs. The sheet was tucked tightly around my body, and the flow of his hands over and around my thighs created a small puff of wind under the sheet, hitting my bare and waiting sex. It was a reminder, suddenly alerting me that I was, in fact, naked, his hands inches away, nothing but air between them and me. He moved higher, his hands separating, one on each thigh, and he slid them upward, dipping slightly under the sheet before continuing—his hands on top of the sheet.

  I breathed easier, having the sheet between us—a barricade of sorts, and one that should keep my sinful thoughts at bay. His hands traveled, two palms across my body and then, I lost my breath.

  They moved, in practiced, perfect paths, skimming across my breasts, the sheet underneath his hands only an additional weapon in the game of seduction. My nipples responded, instantly hardening, every light sweep of his hands a throb to my lower half. They swept, twin weapons of passion, down the sides of my stomach, the sheet dragging a little with them, hands moving back and forth, from breast to hip, a delicious sweep that moved a little lower with every pass, my pussy tightening in response, the thin sheet sticking to the moisture between my legs. I fought my pelvis, which, with each stroke of his hand, seemed to tip upward, trying to shorten the length and allow his fingers to reach my sex.

  His hands slowed, his strokes shortened, and then, to my utter dismay, stopped.

  “Ms. Campbell, if you could flip over, I will start on your back.” His voice was professionally calm, an embarrassment, since I was at the point of practically gasping with need.

  Flip over? Are
you fucking kidding me? “Sure. That’s fine.” Miraculously, I didn’t sound like a wanton slut, barely hanging on to her sanity. I sounded almost, practically, normal.

  “Thank you, Ms. Campbell.”

  I turned over carefully, and he repositioned the sheet, exposing my back.

  “You’re so tense,” he whispered, running his hand down the scoop of my back, his hands fanning out along the curve of my ass.

  Shocker. I tried to relax, letting out a breath that ended up sounding like a moan. A sexual moan. Fuck.

  He massaged, slow circles along my spine before making long swipes of his hands from one side of my back to the other. Traveling up along my back, he moved closer and closer to the sensitive skin along the side of my breasts. He slowed his movements, his fingertips grazing the outer swells of my breasts, my breath hitching despite myself.