Sexy Shorts

by Kathryn Nolan

  "We need some longitudinal data. A timeline. How long have these feelings been going on?"

  With deft fingers, he slides my underwear to the side, thumb finding my clit. I suck in a breath.

  "Yours or mine?"

  He starts circling, slowly, softly, barely there.

  "Let's go with mine," he groans, leaning forward to kiss up my throat. "The first moment I saw you, I thought you were a gorgeous mystery." His thumb speeds up but just slightly. He's kissing my cheek, my jaw. "Every class we shared, I was enthralled with what you said. The way you thought. Your calculations."

  His lips find mine, and our first proper kiss is fucking soul-searing. When he finally pulls back, he slides two fingers into my cunt and hooks up, hitting a bundle of nerves that makes me black out for a moment.

  "Fuck," I swear.

  "My thoughts exactly." He grins, smoothly finger-fucking me, grinding his palm against my clit. He's watching me in total reverence, groaning at my reaction.

  "All those years, I would fantasize about fucking you with my fingers. And now, in reality..." His fingers move even faster, and I drape my hands over the coat rack, rocking my hips. "In reality, I could fall in love with you like this," he growls.

  I wonder, briefly, if I’m dreaming. But I can't be because, in the next instant, Oliver’s on his knees, beneath my skirt, flicking the tip of his tongue over my clit like he's been studying cunnilingus techniques for years.

  And, who knows, maybe he has because in a minute I’m screaming his name, my climax extraordinary and long overdue. He spins me before I can come back down, pressing me fully against the wall, and I love the weight of him. Love the feel of my skirt, bunched up around my waist.

  Love the blunt head of his cock between the lips of my pussy.

  "And yes," Oliver says, breathing heavily. "I spent four years memorizing your face. The delicate arch of your neck. Your beautiful logic. You are so much smarter than anyone else in this bloody school."

  There is the sound of a condom wrapper being torn open. A soft groan as he sheathes himself. He slides just an inch of his cock inside, and I arch my neck back.

  "More more more," I moan, kissing him recklessly.

  "You don't want to wait?" he teases, shifting one more inch. "Draw this out. See if we can't come to a different conclusion—" But my hero can't even finish his own sentence, instead slamming every inch inside of me.

  I scream again and am rewarded with his long, ragged groan. He grabs my knee, bringing my leg up and open, spreading me.

  Letting me take even more—and I do. I’m a quick study, after all, and he knows just how to fuck. Just how to rub my clit with perfect fucking pressure.

  Just how to groan, over and over, that he'd been waiting for this moment for four long years. All of the jackets fall to the ground, the hangers come flying off the rack, and when we both climax together, we both release the same sound.

  Of joy. Of pleasure.

  Of sweet relief.

  It takes more than five hours for a drunken sorority girl to finally unlock the closet, and in that time, we fucked and kissed and fucked and talked. I watched his face as he came, loved the slick feel of his cock in my mouth. I exploded in near-agony when he tongue-fucked me with expert precision.

  And I told him about my medical school application—Boston, same as him.

  "Boston, eh?" Oliver says in between licking my nipples. "Same as me."

  "Yes yes yes," I purr, still sighing. "We'll see each other… we'll see each other…" but I trail off because he is kissing my stomach, moving lower, and is it possible to have seven orgasms in five hours?

  "I hope we'll see each other every day," Oliver says. "Every day, every night, every weekend. And in every dark corner of the library."

  He spreads my legs, settling there with a sigh of contentment. "Because I plan on making you come like this as many times as possible."

  Like Thieves in the Night

  I was pissed as hell that Lucas was there.

  There was only one entry way into the bank—one good one, that is—and as I crept up to it, the shape of his stupid, giant body standing there filled me with fury.

  Just once…

  Just once…

  "Just once I'd like to show up to a fucking job and not have you be here," I hissed, aware of security cameras and trip wires and booby traps as I stood, hand on one hip, the other pushing on his, well, very hard chest.

  He looked down at it, like it was a bug he'd like to kill.

  "How about you try moving more quickly princess? Then every goddamn thief in town wouldn't get the jump on you."

  Anger blacked me out for a second, but the job—the hulking diamond on the other side of the bank safe—kept me semi-composed.

  "Since I'd rather not go to prison for murdering you, I'll just remind you who 'got the jump' on you the last three times."

  His nostrils flared as he took a step closer, almost backing me into the wall.

  But I held my ground. Five years of this cat-and-mouse with Lucas. The thief community was tiny—everyone knew each other—and I’d hated him from the moment I laid eyes on his smug grin. I hated that stupid mop of gorgeous hair he was always pushing out of his perfect eyes.

  And his voice…

  I’d never heard a voice that just sounded like raw, urgent fucking. But this motherfucker had it.

  Our unique skill sets were too complementary—we were always showing up at the same time for the same job. One of us was always going back empty handed after a battle of wills and skills.

  But I wanted this diamond so badly I could taste it, wanted to hold a billion dollars in my hand and then wrench it from the multi-level, high-class security system I’d been studying for months.

  "This is mine," he declared, pushing again, but I wasn’t backing down. "I was here first. Playground rules."

  I’d scoffed, a little too loudly, and his hand clamped over my mouth. Skin to skin, for the first time. Ever.

  My first instinct was to drop-kick his ass, climb nimbly over his prone, sexy body, and have my way with that diamond.

  My second instinct was unexpected: a searing lust like I’d never felt before.

  "Do you want to get caught?" he’d whispered, so close to my face I could see those gorgeous eyes, the way his pupils darkened.

  And he still hadn’t moved his hand.

  I pulled away though, angry and hot.

  "Yeah I've spent a million goddamn hours of my life on this job just to get caught outside the door like an amateur."

  Our faces were an inch apart, and we were both breathing heavily. Too close, too fast. A hint of that smug grin started to show, and my fingers itched to slap it off.

  "Princess—" he taunted, leaning a centimeter closer.

  "Don't fucking call me princess," I seethed, but then the lights flashed.

  The wrong kind. The red and blue kind.

  Lucas pushed me hard into the adjacent alley before I could even blink. So hard against the wall all the air rushed from my lungs. His big body covered mine, and his fingers moved back over my mouth. The lights flashed closer, I heard the scratching sound of radios, and my heart felt like it was about to slam itself right through my chest.

  Neither of us spoke, eyes locked on each other, and what passed between that gaze weakened my knees—which pissed me off, again, since I wasn’t a knees-weak kind of girl.

  But it was lust and something else. It was that fraught understanding of what every professional criminal fears the most: being locked inside like a rat.

  I wanted to run, and he knew it, trapping me against his body. And I felt it as the blue lights danced along the alley wall, harsh footsteps getting closer.

  I felt his cock, massive and rock-hard, pressed against my pussy.

  I spread my legs, almost imperceptibly, and he ground the head right against my clit. I opened my mouth and took a big bite out of his finger.

  Lucas’ lips almost snarled, but then he grinned again
as he yanked his finger free of my teeth. The pulse in his neck was fluttering, I could see it. He was nervous too, afraid that the lights would swing down the alley, that we'd finally gotten caught.

  No more cat-and-mouse chase from prison.

  His fingers found my lips again, and he stroked them, lingering. A look of total adoration washed over his face.

  "Princess—" he whispered again.

  And then the sirens came.

  "Did you compromise this job?" Lucas growled, the brief tenderness lost in the tension of the shrieking, screaming sirens.

  "I didn't compromise shit," I said, trying to shift away from his hard body. But he had me captured against the wall.

  "And what's the plan, Lucas? We're just going to stand here and let the cops come to us?"

  "I don't know," he hissed, our faces close enough to kiss. The footsteps were moving closer. The bright glare of flashlights bounced off the street, the right angle of the alley, a lone dumpster.

  We were deep enough that the lights kept missing us, but then we heard voices, distinctive ones.

  Cops, searching for a person. Two people, at the semi-secret back entrance my source had sworn, up and down, no one else knew about.

  A feeling of betrayal swirled in my gut. I was usually a good read of character. Had to be. It was why I hated Lucas on sight when we first met.

  But I was trapped against a wall with him, the sound of his labored, nervous breathing in my ear.

  I could hear the resonance of both our hearts, beating in a terrified rhythm. And the other thing demanding my attention, of course: his cock between my legs. Undeterred by the life-or-death situation unfolding around us.

  The lights, the voices, came closer, and he flattened us against the wall, his hands pressed mine against the rough brick. When I met his gaze, it was like being punched in the gut: Lucas looked like he wanted to eat me alive.

  One hand slid behind my back and down to cup my ass, pulling me snugly against his erection. Lucas groaned at the contact, and I fought to keep my eyes open as he started to rock against me.

  "What in the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing?" I whispered, feebly trying to inject as much anger in my voice as possible.

  Tried and failed miserably. I basically purred at the asshole.

  "You're doing strange things to me, princess," he whispered, and how could a man's whisper sound so much like sex?

  Lucas lowered himself for the briefest of moments, grabbing me round the thighs and pinning me against the wall. I was wearing thin, black yoga pants, and he kept dry-fucking my clit. I opened my mouth to tell him to piss off, but an honest-to-God moan slipped out instead. Lucas slammed his lips against mine, swallowing the sound of my pleasure.

  Drinking me in.

  Goddammit. Lucas shouldn't have been allowed to look that good and sound that good and kiss that fucking good. I was no longer aware of the sirens getting closer because the only sound I was aware of was his zipper sliding down. The crinkle of a condom wrapper.

  His palm slid against my pussy, and I bit his lip, hard.

  "Are you particularly fond of these?" he asked, gripping the thin fabric in his fingers.

  "They're my favorite," I said against his lips.

  And then he ripped them clean from my body.

  "I wasn't fucking joking," I snarled. "God, you're such a—" but that sentiment was lost when he thrust his thick cock inside me. Tears sprung to my eyes because nothing ever hurt so good.

  He bit my throat, fucking in a quick, desperate rhythm that had me clawing at his skin. He slid against my g-spot over and over, each time causing a sensation like a rising tidal wave, something terrifying and real that was going to break over both of our heads. I kissed him roughly, scratching at his chest, and the raspy, guttural sounds he made were going to haunt my dreams.

  It shouldn't have been possible. I wasn’t the kind of girl that could come this quickly, that intensely, but there I was. Screaming against Lucas’s mouth as a climax ripped forcefully through my entire body. He came a moment later, eyes locked on mine, a searing gaze that made me whimper in recognition.

  Nothing would ever be the same again.

  The sirens and lights died away during our tryst, the heat off. I should’ve grabbed my tattered pants and ran. Never to look back. Hoping to God we didn't meet like that ever again. And I saw the same thought flicker across his face—we were cut from the same cloth, after all.

  But he just stood there, staring at me instead of fleeing. His fingers linked with mine. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but who was in this goddamn crazy world?

  "Come home with me," Lucas said.

  And I did.

  Ambrose

  I hadn’t had a good man in a long, long while.

  At thirty-two, I’d already been widowed for five years; my marriage to a fair-haired Earl (much older than me) ended as abruptly as a flame on a windy night. A carriage accident, a common death for a common man, and while I did miss him, I certainly did not mourn him. It had been a marriage of convenience in the truest of words, although his untimely death left me a sudden countess with a sudden wealth.

  I was emboldened with independence.

  But I hadn’t had a good man in a long while.

  Dinner parties, yes. Parlour dances, of course. The finest drink and food and company a woman could ever ask for.

  Except that wasn't what I desired.

  I desired to be fucked. Not handled or admired like I was by my recent gentleman callers. They were good for waltzes and moderately interesting conversation. That was all.

  Specifically, I desired my gardener Ambrose. Barely twenty-one but big and sturdy with shoulders as broad as a house and rough hands with thick, muscular fingers. What was it about his fingers? I often found myself watching him from my bedroom window, on his knees in the dirt, wrenching and pulling and twisting. Asserting his dominance over my earthly estate. My gaze would linger on the dirt smearing his forearms, the dark red of his hair and beard, the planes of his chest sweating in the sunlight.

  I’d sit and watch as my housemaid dressed my hair, crossing my legs to dull the ache that seemed perpetually there.

  So I sent for him.

  I lit a roaring fire and turned back the sheets of my magnificent bed. My hair was loose from its bun, and I was wearing nothing but my silk nightgown with bare skin beneath. Already I was slippery between my legs, imagining Ambrose there. In my private, erotic sanctuary.

  Outside, the wind moaned, branches shaking their final autumn leaves. The fire popped and crackled, and my breath shortened with anticipation.

  Was it wrong that Ambrose was so young? And a young man who looked like that must surely be betrothed to someone, some pretty girl in the village who looked at him with laughing eyes.

  Maybe this wasn't going to happen. Maybe these months of yearning would be for naught, and I'd be destined to a cold, lonely—

  "Lady Cecilia?" There was a knock at my mahogany door, sharp and to the point. I attempted to steady my nerves but remained seated by the fire.

  "Enter," I replied. Watched the door swing wide, Ambrose's tall frame reflected in the flickering light. Hat in hand, Ambrose stared at me, defiance evident in the tilt of his bearded chin.

  "You called for me, Lady Cecilia?" he asked with a voice deep as the ocean and rough as the sand on the shore. A lover's voice. The kind I'd want waking me from sleep.

  "I did," I said, floored at my body's response to his nearness. He may have been young, but he was a solid, muscular, handsome man, and I wanted nothing more than to be ridden by him until dawn. "Come closer."

  Ambrose strode into my room with more confidence than I'd ever felt at that age. Confidence and… curiosity. His green eyes roamed the hollow of my throat, the exposed skin of my ankles.

  "I have a request for you this evening that I need to assess your… ability to perform."

  He swallowed roughly, hands tightening on his cap. "Yes?"

  "Are you betro
thed, Ambrose?" I asked, sincerely expecting his affirmative answer.

  "No, Lady Cecilia. I'm the last of my brothers to do so, but I've not yet found a girl that suits me."

  Relief coursed through my veins. I was a lot of things, but a husband-stealer was not one of them.

  "I'm sorry to hear that Ambrose," I said. "I'm sure one day you will make a girl very happy. You have… engaged in intercourse before?"

  I expected a blush—a darting of the eyes—but instead Ambrose's gaze was pinned to mine with a knowing gleam.

  Suddenly I was the one blushing.

  "I've had a number of… lovers, yes, Lady Cecilia," he rasped, and my quim clenched in response. A twinge of jealousy, but I felt intrigue too: how had he done it? Taken them on the dirt in my own private gardens, skirts flipped up as he brought them to release?

  "You're so young; that surprises me," I murmured, and he took a step closer.

  "Not young like that," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "May I ask what I'll be performing this evening?"

  Outside, the wind was howling, but the two of us were safe within this room. Safe. Private, removed from the view of prying eyes.

  "Please kneel, Ambrose," I commanded because outlined against his breeches was a cock that had hardened impressively. It was quite possible that my handsome, young gardener had entertained erotic notions about me as well.

  "I seek pleasure, Ambrose, and I'd like you to provide it for me," I said, uncrossing my legs and gliding the silk of my gown up the front of my shins until my knees were exposed. The hat dropped to the floor, and his chest heaved with a breath.

  "And not a nice kind of pleasure," I continued, fabric caressing like a whisper past my knees, my thighs. A draft of air slipped over my bare quim. "A… harsher kind. Do you understand what I'm asking of you?" His eyes hadn't left mine, seemingly respectful.

  Although the rapacious gleam there made my fingers tremble.

  "That is my favorite type of pleasure, Lady Cecilia," he said on a low growl, and I knew I'd made the right choice for a partner. I settled my nightgown atop my hips, baring my sex to Ambrose.