Page 6 of Just the Sex: Erotica Shorts

forbidden.

cheating.

want.

“I jack off to you at night.”

I have angered Drew. Too many questions, which is a common mistake I make. But my workout is over, two mind-crushing hours with Beth, the bitch who won’t stop till I vomit, the one who thinks soy is delicious and sweat is pleasure. And I feel, as I twist the cap and chug cold water, that I should have some sort of reward, such as answers.

I don’t know why the questions make the bodyguard so mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it is the mention of Nathan that boils his blood. But if he is that easily riled up by Nathan, the man would have gone crazy by now. Drew’s life spins around the axel that is Nathan, his every move orchestrated by the manicured hands that are Mr. Dumont.

My question of the day is a simple one, coming to me during an agonizing long set of sit-ups. A simple question. I ask it in the kitchen, twisting off the lid of my water bottle, the five words rolling off my tongue as casually as I can dispel them.

Drew’s eyes go from disinterest to stone to anger to fury. My water bottle hits the floor, water jetting in all directions as he grips my shoulders, slamming the refrigerator door closed and shoving me against it, his face close to mine. I tense, closing my eyes to his furious green ones, taking a gasp of air before shutting my mouth, willing my questions to shutthehellup for a moment. “Shut up,” he whispers, the words a growl against my skin, my feminine body realizing so many things in one brief second.

His hard body against my own, the unforgiving ridge of his muscles impressive.

The peppermint flavor of his breath, hot in my ear, yet finding its way to my nose, and I inhale his scent – a blend of grass and sweat and mint that is intoxicating.

His hands, originally against my shoulders, have moved. One is now cupping my neck, pulling my head to one side, the other grips my ass, his large hand slipping under the loose hem of my shorts and grips my bare skin tightly, fitting our bodies together in one, unending connection.

His breath, that hot air that was against my ear has moved, along the curve of my neck, his head lowering to my skin, his breaths quickening to match the fast beats of his heart, which thud hard against my breasts.

Oh, and that arousal. Hard and hot, a brand against my leg, my body twisting underneath his hands in order to put that arousal where it belongs, tight against my sex, the thin material of my shorts doing nothing but increasing the pleasure when I involuntarily ground against him.

He swears, his hand forcing my head to straighten, his mouth hesitating over mine.

I need it, I need his lips on mine, need his passion for me, I need that hard cock in more places than against the silk of my shorts. I want his fire and energy inside of me, I need confirmation that I am still woman and I am still desired. I grind again, one small movement that confirms the size of his need. He groans, his hand gripping my ass tighter, pulling me against his cock as he thrusts against me.

His mouth makes the final move and closes the distance, his mouth drinking of me in an agonized, desperate fashion.

My heart beats erratically, pumping blood in wild fashion to all of the organs that are crying out. My clit is demanding an enormous amount, my core so wet, so aroused, so needy for more stimulation. My brain is screaming, a loud, unintelligible sound that wants to know WHATTHEFUCK is going on. Then he pushes off of me, one hand moving slower than the other, his bottom hand delayed in its release of my skin.

We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a woman possessed – my hair wild from his hand, my lip gloss smeared, eyes needy, mouth panting. He is staring at me as if he is terrified of me, his hands gripping the granite of the counter’s edge, his chest heaving. He suddenly moves, holding up his hands and moving slowly away. “Just…Christ! Just stop asking questions. Please.” He moves away, a door slamming a moment later as he moves to his part of the house.

I worked at the Crystal Palace a total of three years, three months, and twenty-one days. My empty days give me time to calculate useless statistics like that. You’d think that that length of time, spent before men, gauging their level of arousal, would have taught me something. Would have taught me the difference between harmless flirting and a danger zone. Would have given me enough life experience to steer me in a direction other than the one I am in right now, which definitely feels like danger.

My hands are shaking. I hold them before me, staring at the tremor. I sink to the kitchen floor, picking up my water bottle, my eyes noticing the spilt water. I took a deep drink, waiting for my heart to calm, my hands to still, my shakes to pass. I need to get to my room, need to separate myself from him, from this kitchen. I need to take a shower, to lie down, take a nap. I stumble away from the counter, grabbing my tee-shirt, putting foot ahead of foot in a quest for normalcy. Out the door, into the guest house. Two steps inside the bedroom, I feel his hand grab my wrist, yank me around in one clean moment, and bend his mouth back to mine.

There is not a moment of hesitation in his kiss, his hands releasing me, his mouth following mine as I fall the final inches onto the bed. He moves above me, our lips moving, tongues intertwining, mouths crushing, tasting each other fully.

My confused state is gaining intelligence as I move, the implications of what we are doing ringing alarm bells in my mind. But the forbiddance, the risk of being caught, only makes it hotter. My hands scramble over his chest, fumbling down to tug at his belt, my fingers frantic in their quest to have him unzipped and exposed. I can feel him pushing out, his pants tenting, his readiness impressive.

His mouth won’t release mine, the scruff of his stubble burning the skin around my lips as he takes what he has wanted, pinning me down to the bed with his kisses. And then, finally, I have him in my hand, my palm closing around a stiff shaft, and he closes his eyes and pulls off of my body.

“Wait. Take off your skirt.”

I do, shimmying the fabric down and off, watching as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom, ripping it open with his teeth, the intensity of his stare causing my breath to hitch and my mouth to water. I spread my legs before him, opening myself fully up, his eyes feasting on the sight, and he kneels on the bed before me, stroking the latex of the condom down his cock.

“I know what you like,” he grounds out, teasing my opening with his stiffness. “I’ve watched you fuck so many times that I feel like I’ve had you. Do you like when he fucks you?” He thrust fully inside, my eyes closing at the sensation, a moan spilling out of my mouth. His hands flip my legs over, turning me to my side, his torso coming down, his mouth taking a greedy tour of my breast while he pumps his hips, his cock dragging slowly in and out, stretching me, the angle perfect in its sensation.

“Do you? Do you like his cock?”

I don’t answer, pulling his head down on my breasts, gasping when his mouth takes my nipple in, sucking it, his green eyes on me, his teeth gently scraping my sensitive skin. I roll to avoid his eyes, facing the mattress, bringing my knees beneath me and arching my back, his body moving with me, his cock beginning a faster movement, pumping in and out as his hands roam over my ass and along the line of my back.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” he groans. “Being inside of you. I jack off to you at night. I picture your perfect mouth, sucking my cock. I think about you just like this, bent over before me, waiting for me.”

I can’t respond, my mind arguing with my body that this is wrong, that I should pull off of his body and walk away. But my body loves his words, loves the depth of the passion, the idea that this man wants me, has thought of me. My body loves the feeling of him inside of me, his hands which are now cupping my breasts, his mouth planting soft kisses along my back as he continues his fucks. Fast, hurried fucks, as if he is worried that I will disappear and he needs to get his fill of me first.

He is not Nathan. Our bodies do not mold in perfect synchronization, our arches and valleys do not coincide, there are times when he moves left and I move right. But he has fire for me, he cares. He is a living breathing man who has the capacity to love, who looks at me and sees something more than a contract.

He returns me to my back, his body settling over me, his mouth softer on mine, kissing me slowly and softly as his strokes bring me there, to the point where my mind stops thinking and I come, my breaths shuddering into his mouth, my body clenching and contracting around him, causing his eyes to shut and, a moment later, his own finish to come.

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