by Changelings
He moved lower, his hands trailing down to cup her sensitive mound, and she whimpered at the darts of lust that rocketed through her. He slipped one finger inside her pussy, and she cried out, arching her back to force it deeper into her cream-slicked center. He stroked slowly, the pressure against the inner walls of her channel driving her lust higher. In and out. Her hips bucked in time with the rhythm of his hand, all rational thought fleeing before the feelings that raced through her, each one hotter than the one before.
“You like that, don’t you?” He circled his thumb around her clit, sending waves of pleasure roaring though her.
“Oh, God, yes!” She looked up into his passion-filled eyes.
He grinned down at her and thrust two fingers into her slick sex, scissoring them so that she felt incredibly full. “I might have to give Comet an extra ration of grain and thank him for kidnapping you. Hate to admit it, but he knew exactly what I needed.”
Cyndi opened her mouth to reply, but Bruce’s thumb scored across her clit, sending darts of erotic heat dancing down her spine, and she gasped, clutching him to her.
“Easy, little dawg.” His breath warmed her ear as he raised himself above her on muscular forearms. “I want to be inside you when you come.”
Cyndi spread her thighs wide, almost panting in her eagerness to feel his thick shaft stretching her, filling her. His cock probed the damp folds of her pussy, and he rocked his hips gently, slowly sinking his cock into her one glorious inch at a time until his balls slapped up against her ass. He pulled out and thrust back in again, gradually picking up speed until he was pistoning into her. Harder. Faster.
Pleasure and lust washed through her in waves, each one building on the one before until there was nothing but the sensation of his cock, filling her, stretching her. She felt her climax gathering, curling through her every nerve until it burst over her and she cried out his name. Her channel convulsed, trapping him deep within her and triggering his own orgasm. His fingers dug into her shoulders, holding her tightly, his breath coming in deep, ragged gulps.
Cyndi whimpered and squirmed as they collapsed side by side in front of the roaring fireplace. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed to something approaching normal, and she opened her eyes.
Bruce stared down at her, a bemused smile on his rugged face. “So, my feisty little kidnap victim, do you think you could consider living up here at the North Pole with a grumpy Elf and his scheming reindeer?”
She licked her lips and placed a wet kiss on his lips, her heart beating happily in her chest. “You can bet your holly and ivy jockey shorts on it. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Anne Kane
Anne is a gorgeous supermodel who writes romance in her spare time while jetting around Europe with a string of boy toys in tow.
Hmmm… no one is going to believe that. How about this?
Anne is an undercover agent for a super-secret government agency, and when not saving the world for democracy and all the good people, she writes romance one-handed on a special mini computer designed just for her by a mad scientist.
Yeah, that sounds way better. So, ignore the people who tell you she’s just an ordinary person with an extraordinary imagination. They’re just jealous because she gets to play with James Bond and vacation in exotic locations.
Honestly!
When she’s not busy saving the world or writing the next great novel, she likes to kayak, hike, ride motorcycles, swim, skate, practice karate, play her guitar, sing, and of course, read.
You can find her online at:
Website: http://www.AnneKane.com
Twitter: www.twitter.com/annekane
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/anne.kane.author
Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/sassic123/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/list/2870136.Anne_Kane
Changeling: http://www.changelingpress.com/author.php?uid=116
Stray Urges
Lacey Savage
No sane woman would ditch an expensive evening gown to run naked through the streets of New York, but Naomi Cartwright did just that… and then had an intimate encounter with a speeding truck that left her unable to remember anything that came before. Two weeks later, she’s out of the hospital and returning home on Christmas Eve. She expects to find a dark, empty apartment; a place that means no more to her than an address on her driver’s license.
Instead, she discovers that her Manhattan penthouse has been turned into a naughty Christmas wonderland by a man she can’t even remember. And before she can ask, “Who are you?”, Naomi’s swept off her feet. This man will do anything to remind her that memories made between the sheets, under the mistletoe and beneath the hard body of a devoted mate can never truly be forgotten.
Stray Urges
There’s only one thing worse than feeling like a bitch in heat, and that’s looking like one. And getting hit by a truck. Okay, make that two things.
I should know. Over the last two weeks, I experienced both. Mercifully, I don’t remember much about either.
Vague images of running naked through the streets of New York sometimes flash behind my eyes, but I try to ignore them. Most of the time, I even succeed. When I don’t manage to scrub the stray pictures from my retinas, they get even weirder. Like, howling-at-the-moon weird.
The doctors say my memory will return in time. If you ask me, I’m better off not remembering.
I mean, seriously, what kind of woman would toss a brand new $4,500.00 evening gown in a dumpster in favor of streaking through the back alleys of the city in the nude? A crazy woman, that’s who.
And I’m probably many things, but I’m pretty sure crazy isn’t one of them. At least, not at the moment. I can’t account for my mental state two weeks ago.
In a way, my life began the day I woke up in the hospital with a bandage wrapped around my head. A cute but much too young doctor said I’d been in an accident. I didn’t believe him when he told me I’d been run over by a truck, but there were witnesses. Too many to doubt.
Apparently, I was lucky to be alive. I was even relatively unscathed. Aside from a nasty bump on the noggin that gave me two black eyes and a swollen nose, I had a variety of scrapes and lesions, including some nasty bruises on my ribs that made it painful to breathe.
I didn’t have a purse when the paramedics brought me in, but the cops found it the next day, in the same dumpster as my expensive dress. In a quirky twist of fate, it turned out I’d designed the dress. It was a genuine Naomi Cartwright, from the 2009 winter collection. Seeing it didn’t open the floodgates to my memory like my cute doctor had hoped, though in my defense, the red silk fabric was torn and covered with a dark slime that might have been jelly… or something else I didn’t want to think too much about.
In fact, nothing jogged my memory in the fourteen days I was in the hospital. I healed surprisingly quickly so I didn’t have to stay that long, but evidently I had money to burn, and frankly, I was nervous about going home to an empty apartment. I left when the doctor made it clear that they needed the bed for patients who were actually sick or injured, instead of simply disoriented and afraid.
And now here I stand in front of a red door only slightly darker than the dress had been, gripping a small key in my hand hard enough for the metal to dig painfully into my palm. My teeth are chattering. It’s not cold in the hallway; a warm recycled air breeze wafts from the vent above my head. The clothes I’d bought to replace the hospital gown and the ruined dress are comfortable, if not quite the designer labels I’d supposedly been used to. I don’t mind. The thick cotton turtleneck gives me something to burrow my face in as I stare at the damn door.
“Come on, girl. You are not afraid. You’re not.” I say it again to convince myself. And again.
I’m about to say it a third time and risk alerting the neighbors to the crazy -- err… confused -- woman standing in the hallway, when the door I’d been gawking at for the last twenty minutes swings open on its own
.
“Shit.” I’m not nuts. I’m telekinetic! Maybe that legitimizes the nude jog too. It’s a stretch, but as good an explanation as any.
What I can’t explain, no matter how hard I rack my damaged brain, is the half naked and very angry-looking man standing on the other side of the door.
“Get in here.” He grabs my arm and yanks me inside.
I part my lips to protest, but before I can make more than a stunned little sound in the back of my throat, his mouth slams against mine. The kiss is as angry as he is, fierce and desperate. He clings to me, wraps both arms around my waist, and pulls me close as his tongue slips past my lips and sweeps into my mouth.
He tastes like coffee and something else, something coppery and raw that sizzles my senses. A jolt of adrenaline courses through me, setting my nerve endings on fire. An image flashes through my brain. I’m running again, but in a field this time, not down a deserted back alley that smells of stale pizza and corn dogs. I’m being followed, but I’m not frightened. I’m… happy. Happier than I thought possible.
He breaks the kiss, severing the memory. Then he slams the door behind me with his foot and slips his hand into mine. I’m too stunned to protest as he pulls me into the living room.
This man knows me. He knows me like I don’t know myself.
That means he’s got answers. And boy, do I have questions. Starting with, “Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my apartment?”
“I’m the ghost of Christmas. Past, present, and future, all rolled into one.” He snarls, and I can’t tell if he’s joking, or if he’s as unhinged as I am. But then he sweeps an arm out and steps away from my field of vision, revealing a winter wonderland.
“Oh… wow.” Just like that, I’d left the city streets behind and stepped into a Lord & Taylor Christmas display.
A giant Christmas tree, at least eight feet tall and six feet across, stands in the middle of what must have at one time been a normal living room. Blinking lights, ornaments, and enough tinsel to wallpaper the entire apartment hang off bushy branches. The place smells woodsy, like pine needles and damp moss. There’s snow on the ground. Not real snow, I don’t think, but a fluffy facsimile that’s close enough to fool me at first glance. Toy soldiers guard both sides of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Presents, stacked neatly beneath the tree, sparkle as Christmas lights dance in a colorful rhythm. I turn around and come face-to-face with a bushy beard. A Santa doll taller than I am nearly gives me a heart attack. Behind it lies more holiday paraphernalia. There’s even a skating rink -- again, not real, I don’t think -- and a couple of elves.
To my surprise, the elves are genuine. As in, flesh-and-blood, honest-to-God, live beings.
I know, because they’re fucking like deranged rabbits on an animal skin rug in front of a fireplace. It, too, looks authentic, judging by the flames dancing within.
In this surreal milieu I have trouble telling reality from make believe, but the hand touching the base of my spine is definitely real. Warm and comforting, at once familiar and not, it supports me when my knees threaten to weaken.
“Do you like what they’re doing?” The man’s voice dips to a low, sultry timbre. “Is it turning you on, Naomi?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. The elves, one male, one female, are shorter than normal people -- maybe four feet at most. But there’s no mistaking them for anything other than the adults they are. Their bodies, sleek and lithe, are perfectly formed. The woman’s on all fours, and her breasts sway from side to side as the man drives into her from behind. Only the tips of her ears, pointy and wickedly curved, mark her as an elf.
She tosses her head back and slants me an inquisitive look along with a cunning smile. She looks familiar. They both do. My brows draw together as I try, and fail, to place her.
The elf woman plunges her hand between her legs and lets out a low moan of pleasure. Her partner pulls out. His dick is longer than I expected, thick and slick with her juices. He strokes it as he watches me.
A swirl of longing plunges through my system. It spirals through my chest, flutters in my lower belly, and culminates in an intense eddy right in my clit.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip to keep from moaning. “W-what is this?”
The man behind me lowers his head. He pushes my long hair off my nape and grazes his teeth along the sensitive skin just above my thick turtleneck. “Say my name.”
I shake my head, confused. He hasn’t answered my question. “I don’t know it. If not for my driver’s license and a label on the dress, I wouldn’t even know my own name. I don’t know who you are. I’m sorry.”
I have no idea why I feel the need to apologize, but I do. Regret bubbles inside me like a heavy weight pressing down on my heart.
I spin around and plant both palms against his bare chest. Electricity jolts me at the contact. A rush of heat pours through my veins in its wake, and my fingers curl instinctively, tracing a slow path down to his nipples.
“Tell me what this is.” My voice trembles with apprehension. Do I really want to know? I do, I decide within the span of my next breath, so I press on. “Who are you? Am I crazy?”
He chuckles, and the sound of that throaty amusement seems familiar and comforting all at once. I step a little closer to him, drawn like a magnet to this man, this stranger I don’t know, but feel I should.
Christmas lights cast a red and green glow on his pale skin. His hair looks brown, though it’s hard to tell in the shadows and the rainbow of colors splashed over him by the myriad ornaments. His eyes are definitely blue. He sports facial hair that makes me think his daily shave is a week or two past due. I run a thumb along the scrape of the bristles along his jaw. Just as I suspected… soft. Way past the stubble stage, but not neat enough to be grown on purpose. “You’ve forgotten to shave.” I say it matter-of-factly, like I know this to be true. Somehow, I think I do.
“You want to know what this is?”
The constant shift in topic is making me dizzy. Not once has he answered me directly. If his plan is to keep me off guard, on my toes, he’s succeeding. He’s in charge. I know that, and strangely, I’m okay with it. It’s not like I was doing such a hot job of being in the driver’s seat.
I nod. “Please.”
“Let me show you.”
He takes my hand and pulls me closer to the fireplace. The elves shift positions, ignoring us. The woman lies on her back while the man straddles her, his cock poised just above her mouth. He prods her legs open and lowers his mouth to her cunt.
The sight takes my breath away. My pussy spasms, suddenly needy. A carnal urge slams into me, more powerful than anything I’ve experienced since waking up. I want to fuck, yes, but it’s more than that.
I want to be taken. Forcefully, with wild abandon. I want to drown in pleasure. I want to cry out in pain. I want to shatter around Landon’s cock until we both --
“Landon!” I cry out triumphantly, pumping my fist in the air.
He grins and sweeps me into his arms. “That’s my girl.”
He twirls me around, the joy on his face so intense that I can almost feel it pouring over me. My smile mirrors his. I still don’t remember anything else, but every realization, no matter how minor, is a colossal victory.
His lips claim mine again. We’re still spinning, and I cling to him as the room whirls and blurs. Soft slurps and guttural moans drift around us. The elves are having way more fun than I am.
It’s time to change that.
“Put me down,” I say breathlessly.
He obeys, but I can see the reluctance in his eyes. I step out of his immediate reach and fist my hands in the hem of my sweater. I hesitate for only a moment. Any longer and I might change my mind.
I tug sharply, and the garment comes off over my head. I’m not wearing a bra, so my breasts spill out from the confines of the heavy cotton. My nipples bead instantly.
Landon takes a step forward. The hunger in his gaze is unmistakable. I st
op him with an outstretched arm. “No… wait.”
He does, but I know it’s costing him. His erection tents the front of his boxers. My mouth waters at the sight. It takes all my self-control not to drop to my knees before him and yank the dark silk off his lean legs.
Patience, Naomi. You’ve got all night.
The elves’ cries of pleasure intensify. As I unsnap the fastenings of my jeans, I can’t help but think I might still be in the hospital. I clearly remember leaving, but perhaps I dreamed it. Maybe I’m hallucinating. For all I know, I’ve progressed from mild craziness to full-fledged insanity.
The really nutty thing is that right now, I don’t care.
I slip my hand inside the waistband of my panties, wishing I’d taken the time to choose something other than plain white briefs. My folds are slick, my clit stiff and aching.
I should be ashamed. Wanting to fuck a stranger isn’t normal behavior, even for a woman with amnesia. But he isn’t a stranger. At least, not entirely. I know him on a deep, instinctual level.
And I want to prove to myself that my body remembers him as well as I think it does.
I twirl with a flourish and bend at the waist. With my ass thrust in Landon’s direction, I hook my index fingers in the elastic waistband of my panties and tug them down my thighs. His swift intake of air is crystal clear, and I can’t help but grin.
I must be presenting quite a sight. Underwear pooling around my ankles, my ass jutting out, and my engorged pussy lips pouting wetly just for him. I feel wanton, daring, and vulnerable all at once.
There are secrets inside me. I don’t quite understand how I know, but the fact that this feels right -- elves and all -- tells me I’d led quite the life before my run-in with that truck. Did I do this often? Expose myself like this?
I open my mouth to ask, but close it again. There would be plenty of time for questions. Later.
I expect Landon to grab for me, but when he doesn’t, I know he’s letting me run the show. At least for now. I have no illusions he’ll let me keep control for very long.
