by Alexis Angel
Small talk, then. Okay, I can handle that.
“I’m a writer.”
He looks genuinely intrigued. “What kind of writer?” The doors close again.
“I write romance.” Then I wait. It’s inevitable.
Now, a salacious grin crosses those perfect lips. Lips which are still burning my hand from their touch.
“Like sexy romance?”
And there it is, folks.
Every. Fucking. Time.
I can’t tell anyone I’m a romance writer without them immediately thinking I write porn or some shit. I mean…I do like it hot. Naughty. Filthy, even.
But people don’t seem to see that it’s more than that.
At the heart of it, it’s about love.
Ironic, though, that I’ve never experienced that for myself.
“Yes, Evan,” I reply, unable to keep the laughter out of my voice. His smile is kind of contagious like that. “Sexy romance.”
I think he’s about to say something else, something stupid and immature like ‘Let me know if you need help with any research’ or some shit.
But instead, when the elevator stops at the next floor—my floor—and the doors slide open, Evan gives me a wink and a grin, and says, “This is me,” then steps off the elevator.
Just like that. Now I’m the one left hanging, wanting more? How did he flip the script on me so fast?
I’m torn. Do I get off here at my floor? Maybe find out which apartment is his?
Or do I keep it to myself that we’re closer neighbors than I realized and ride my ass on down to Erin’s floor?
The elevator makes the decision for me as the doors slide shut again.
But then I do something that shocks even me.
I jab the button to open the doors again, then step out of the elevator myself.
Fuck.
I don’t know what I’m getting myself into.
I know this guy is all wrong for me.
But at the same time, something about him screams oh-so-right.
It’s crazy. I don’t shy away from anything or anyone. But somehow, I instinctively know Evan isn’t just anyone.
He cocks an eyebrow at me, that arrogant smile gracing that perfect face of a god yet again.
“I thought you had plans.”
He says it tauntingly, like he’s testing me.
I tilt my head back and stare him dead in the eye. Challenge accepted.
“Something better just came up.”
Game on.
Evan
“Say it.”
Our bodies slam against the door to my place. I’ve got one palm on the mahogany paneling, and the other wrapped up in a fistful of Emilia’s hair. Her eyes are shaded by the thickness of her eyelashes, but they’re not closed in ecstasy.
They’re staring at my lips, so fucking close to hers.
This fucking girl. Just begging to be kissed.
“I’m not fucking saying it.”
“Say it,” I urge. This time with a very convincing thrust of my hips against hers.
I’m hard, thick, and long enough that I already know she’s going to struggle to take it.
But first, I want to hear the words from her sexy little mouth.
“Not on your life,” she growls, meeting my eyes.
Jesus. Her eyes. They’re so fucking blue they almost look Photoshopped. If I saw a picture of this girl in a magazine, I’d blink twice and call bullshit.
I get lost in them for a second anyway, searching for the edge of a colored contact and coming up short. Fuck me. She’s actually for real.
I forget myself. I take her fucking lips.
She tastes like nothing I’ve ever encountered before—and I’ve done a lot of taste testing in my life. It’s not strawberries, or champagne, or any of that bullshit. If anything, she tastes like blue agave.
Like fine tequila, a lick of salt, and a squeeze of lime.
But it’s not just that. My tongue slips between her lips and slides against hers, searching to verify and to figure her out.
To taste more.
It’s fucking unnatural, how good she tastes.
A little tangy. A little bitter. A little sweet.
It’s that taste you get in your mouth when you can feel the wind on your face and adrenaline coursing through your veins. It’s the taste of a moment in time when you know your entire life is about to change—better or worse.
Which is fucking insane, when you think about it. This sexy little piece just followed me out of the elevator and came at me, hungry for man meat.
Everything about Emilia screams I don’t do relationships anyway.
She’s an ice princess, a fucking man eater.
It’s a tale as old as time. But it’s not the kind of story that makes it into fairy tales—fuck no. Alpha male, alpha female. We’re a pairing better suited for the history books.
“Say it,” I command. For the last fucking time.
“Say what, Evan?”
I smirk against her lips. “The something better that came up. Admit it. It’s me.”
Now she’s the one grinding against my hips.
“I’ll say,” she purrs.
My cock throbs as I unlock the door behind her, and we stumble inside.
This is a casual hook-up. I have to remind myself of that much. Casual. One night of passion. Nothing more.
We’re two celestial giants that just got a little too close to each other in our mutual paths through the universe. Got wrapped up in each other’s orbits, and now, we’re going for a little spin in each other’s atmospheres.
Emilia’s atmosphere smells like gardenias and lilies and wet cunt. I kiss her again, savoring the taste of her lips, as I pick her up and throw her onto my leather armchair.
Wet cunt.
There’s another set of lips I want to taste next.
I don’t even have time for the expensive little piece of cloth she’s calling a dress.
I drop to my knees and shove it up around her waist.
The rest, I’ll deal with later. Right now, I have some promises to make good on.
“You’re fucking soaked.”
I breathe her in as I force her thighs apart, kneeling before her like a humble patron of a sex-crazed goddess. But if I’m a believer, I’m a greedy one. I remind her of it as I run my teeth along the smooth expanse of her inner thigh.
“Why might that be, Emilia?”
“Some asshole in the elevator up here went and got me wet.”
She half-smiles, eyes drunk with lust, as she grabs the back of my head and reels me in.
“Why don’t you take care of it?”
“Yeah? Is that what you want?”
She narrows her eyes at me, lips pulling back in a sultry snarl.
“Evan, I don’t ask twice.”
Fuck. Her voice—that breathy, dominant croon that makes my cock stiff as forged steel and my chest go tight. The fucking entitlement—like she thinks she can play me like a baby grand piano just because her slender little fingers know exactly where to push.
She makes my blood boil and my mouth flood with saliva.
I do want to fucking taste her.
But not on her terms.
On mine.
“You little slut,” I snarl back at her. I pull her hips out from under her, placing her where I want. “You still think you’re in control here, don’t you?”
There’s a grin on my lips now, and let me tell you—it’s not a nice one. This little princess followed the trail of crumbs I left for her, thinking that she could have her cake and eat it too.
Now it’s time she learned her place.
“I am in control,” she tells me, moving her hips toward my mouth in a way that would make a lesser man beg for mercy, lose his mind, and thank her for the privilege.
It only makes me fucking laugh.
“Is that what you think?”
I hook my fingers around her panties, tugging them down off her broad, goddess hip
s.
Pink lace La Perlas. And I wasn’t kidding earlier.
They’re practically fucking dripping, they’re so soaked.
“It’s what I know,” she tells me, all haughty and smug as I take her panties in my fist and raise them to my nose. “Think about it, handsome. Which one of us is on our knees sniffing panties, and which one of us is sitting pretty on the throne?”
I feel a growl rise in the back of my throat as I look up at her darkly. The sweet musk of her cunt is in the air, and the source is right here before me, ripe for the taking.
And I’m a man of my word.
I fucking take it.
In one swift motion, I slip two fingers between her hot, slick pussy lips and force them so deep into her cunt. Her sexy fucking mouth gapes open in a gasp.
And those pretty pink La Perlas, soaked and dripping with her cum?
I shove them between her lips so maybe she’ll shut the fuck up for once.
“You’re about to learn a valuable lesson, beautiful.”
My fingers twitch inside the tight, hot pink of her cunt while the pink of her panties pokes out between her lips. “It doesn’t matter if I’m on my knees or you’re tied to my fucking bed—I’m in charge.”
Emilia
He’s got the thickest fucking fingers I’ve ever seen—and felt.
And right now, there are two of them knuckle-deep in my pussy, teasing me toward an orgasm that I don’t even want to give him the satisfaction of bringing me to.
…Except that I do want.
I want a whole fucking lot.
It’s not often that I feel overwhelmed, but I’m quickly realizing that I’m in over my goddamn head.
I’m undeniably attracted to all that alpha male bullshit. I’ll be the first to admit it. It’s obnoxious, it’s anti-feminist, but hey—at least it’s fucking hot.
Just, usually all the male posturing has crumpled beneath me right now. There’s just something about me that does that to men—they growl at me, I bite back, and just like that, their manhood whimpers like a kicked puppy and curls up in a corner on the floor.
Not Evan, though.
When I bite this fucking man, he bites back.
And he goes right for the fucking throat.
“You fucking like that, don’t you?”
A dark laugh spills from his throat, like cold water onto black ice.
“Admit it, Emilia.”
His fingers probe deeper still, and I cry out as they find what he’s been looking for.
Bingo. Yatzhee. Jackpot.
The sound of my whimper is muffled by the pink lace of my La Perlas, stuffed between my lips and wet against my tongue.
Evan leans into me. His lips are only a fraction of an inch away from the place where my neck meets my jaw.
“Ah…that’s right,” he purrs. “You can’t, can you? Christ…I hope you know what a fucking snack you look like right now with your pretty little panties in your mouth.”
I bite down on the lace between my back molars as I try to shift my hips away.
There’s an orgasm on my horizon. Especially if he keeps talking to me like that.
And god. I seriously do want him to keep talking to me like that.
Especially when he just keeps fingering me harder in spite of my struggles.
“Taste yourself, beautiful,” he hisses in my ear. “Taste the evidence of how fucking wet you are for me while you come around my fingers…and I’ll give you what you want.”
I close my eyes, breathing heavy…and I do it.
I let the taste of my honey register on my tongue.
Tangy, salty, sweet and musky.
I’m a fucking dessert right now. Apple. Caramel. Vanilla. Coconut.
“Come for me, Em,” Evan growls. “Come for me, and tell me what you want.”
Fuck. The sound of his voice makes my fucking cunt spasm.
And after that?
After that, it’s all over.
“Mmmphf!” I moan, tossing my head back against the leather back of the armchair.
My pussy is in a world made of pink-hot heat, and I can feel my honey gushing over his fingers as my whole body spasms, soaked in warmth. The orgasm rips through me, violently and passionately, and with an equal force to every other orgasm I’ve had right up until this point—combined.
Evan tears his fingers away and drops to his knees again, lapping hungrily at my throbbing, dripping pussy with his hot, thick tongue.
He grabs onto my hips as my orgasm fades away into desperate little gasps.
I’m shaking. He’s bristling with unspent energy.
And as he rips himself away from my pussy, he looks up at me like he knows exactly where he wants to expend every ounce of it.
“You’re taking my cock,” he tells me.
Not ‘Do you want it, babe?’ and not even ‘Tell me you want my cock.’
He just tells me, just like that. That he’s going to fuck me.
And I just look up at him with my body still heaving from the world-shattering orgasm I just had and my panties stuffed in my mouth like, okay. Because at this point? It’s white flags all around, babe.
I’ve felt the pleasure. I’ve felt the heat. If I come to regret this, I’ll do it in the morning.
Right now?
Full fucking surrender.
If he wants his cock inside me, then he’d better give me his fucking cock. Any other man would’ve taken me to bed.
Or…let’s be real.
Any other man would have tried to take me to bed. I’ve watched horny idiots fumble around with their buttons and flies in frantic desperation. Christ, I’ve seen them get hard and forget that they’re supposed to be between my legs—not the other way around.
Most men get kind of fucking dumb when they want to fuck me as bad as I know Evan must right now. But most men aren’t him. He gets his dick out before I’m even fully recovered from wave after wave of pleasure I just finished riding.
Then he fucks me right there, on his leather fucking armchair.
My body crushes beneath his as he tosses his shirt across the room. I’m bathed in the scent of his skin. My lips find the place where his pectoral meets his shoulder.
When I kiss him, I breathe everything in.
The leather of the armchair.
The tequila on my tongue and the soaked panties in my mouth.
And him.
He’s hard rain and singed ozone, lightning tearing through a starless night. Amber whiskey in a glimmering decanter and fresh cut grass. The heat of his skin is unbearable.
I want—need—desperately—
More.
MORE.
My fingers curl against the firm, burning crescents of his shoulder blades as his cock slides into my slit and forces its way in. My fingernails cut into his skin, and not even my La Perlas can muffle the sound of my moans.
We come together. It’s not just happenstance. It’s an inevitability. He growls, and I scream. Our bodies are united, not just on a physical level, but in sheer fucking rapture.
Ecstasy.
One moment, we’re howling and hissing like alley cats.
But the next…the next is the best part.
The next moment, we’re dissolving in laughter against each other—caught up in complete disbelief that what just happened actually fucking happened.
That this is even real.
And that it could feel so fucking good.
It almost feels like the beginning of something.
…Or maybe that’s just Evan’s cock twitching inside me, coated in his cum.
Christ. He’s still fucking hard.
“Round two?” he asks, plucking my panties from my mouth.
I crack my neck and eye him like a piece of fucking meat.
“You’re on, tiger.” I grab the back of his head and force his lips against mine. “But this time, I’m on top.”
Alexis and WineBar #1
It was July when I first met WineBar. I was s
itting with my friend at a bar and we were two women out on the town with no good intentions in our hearts. We were young, single, free, and had our future in front of us.
We were beautiful. Graceful. Desired. And we knew it.
And then in the center of all that, he came in.
He stomped in and made his presence known.
Intruded on every single self-delusion I’d ever had and completely swept away what I thought I knew about the world and myself.
All that was left was him.
Towering over me.
He smiled and held out his hand. I trembled slightly as he took it and brought it to his lips.
“Hey baby,” he said to me. “I’m WineBar. What’s your name?”
My heart stopped.
My knees were weak.
And I swear to you, I couldn’t even remember my own name.
Fletcher
“Oh, god, Fletcher, please! Oh…oh my god. Stop! STOP!”
I force myself to tear my lips away from the lingerie model’s cunt. Her honey is still smeared across my chin, sweet and sticky and just a little bit too tart for my tastes.
“Something wrong?” I furrow my brow and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
“Oh…god, no, not really…it’s just—”
Her chest is still heaving, tits rising and falling beneath the garish print of her balconette bra.
“Too many orgasms?”
She laughs, dazed. “Yeah. This…I mean, this never happens, I’m really sorry, but like…OMG. I’m just—wow. I’m totally spent.”
“Not yet, you’re not,” I growl.
Then I pick her up off my fucking dresser and toss her onto my fucking bed.
This is just same shit on a different day for me. My friends all ask me how I do it, and I don’t even fucking know. One minute, I’m shooting sexy new photos for the latest Lacy Desirables catalog, and the next, I’ve got a lingerie model’s thighs wrapped around my neck while the flash on my camera goes wild in the background.
The whole fucking roll of film is probably useless now. At best, it’s a photographic trophy of the latest notch in my bedpost. At worst, I’ve gotta burn the damn thing or else I’ll have perverts and paparazzi digging through my trash again.
