Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 4

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  When Carly seats me on an ornate chaise lounge, one hand taut in his hair, one stiletto-clad foot draped over his shoulder, I am instantly wet and throbbing. Josh leans back, nestles his head between my breasts. It’s all I can do to stop myself from reaching for his cock.

  Somehow, I make it through the rest of the shoot without embarrassing myself. In the dressing room, I don my street clothes again, carefully rehanging the bustier and skirt. I tuck the soaked thong into my purse. When I emerge, Josh and Syd are watching Carly download the images.

  “Wow,” Josh says.

  I have to agree. The pictures are perfect. The fairy queen as Dominatrix, her trickster king tamed, in her thrall. It’s hot as hell.

  “Mercy,” Carly tells me. “I should have made you my model ages ago. Sister, you are really fucking hot.”

  “Hush,” I say, very carefully not looking at Josh. My ears are hot.

  Syd agrees. “If I didn’t know better about you two . . . ”

  She doesn’t finish the thought. Josh and I share an awkward laugh. Whatever magic existed between us, the spell’s broken now. I don’t examine why that saddens me.

  He was just playing a part, I remind myself. Stop obsessing. He’s gorgeous but off-limits. There should be nothing more than a distant friendship between us.

  “Your editor will be glad, I’m sure,” I say. “Does the calendar have a title yet?”

  “Fat Girls Who Like to Fuck.”

  “Carly!”

  “Oh, calm down,” she says, flicking through the images. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Really?”

  She shrugs. “We’re substituting an asterisk for the u.”

  I shake my head. Only my sister.

  A post-performance high has me restless. Or maybe it’s having been half dazed with lust for the last six hours. Either way, I’m not ready to go home. I ask Syd if she’s up for a drink, but she’s helping Carly select the final shots. I leave them to their edits.

  Outside, a breeze off the lake soothes me. It’ll make for a pleasant ride home. Halfway to the parking lot, I hear Josh’s voice.

  “Professor!” He’s breathing heavily, like he ran to catch up.

  “I think you ought to call me Nina by now, considering?”

  “Okay. Nina.” He blushes again. “Do you still want to get that drink?”

  I look up at him. Even in the twilight, his darkly lashed eyes and sharp cheekbones stand out. His face is . . . sweet. Fresh. Far too young. I can’t do this.

  “I don’t think so.” His face falls. A twinge of regret lances through me. I crush it.

  “That’s too bad. I thought—I hoped you wanted company. My company, specifically.”

  “You sweet, sweet boy. You have no idea what I want.”

  I turn away but he grabs my hand. His thumb strokes lazy figure eights across my palm, reigniting the fire in my core. I watch our joined hands, mesmerized. He tips my chin up so that I’m forced to meet his eyes.

  “Show me,” he whispers. “Please?”

  It’s his please that gets to me. So full of longing and need. The heat I see blazing in his eyes burns away any hesitation I feel.

  My lips are on his almost before I know it. He leans in, threads his hands through my locks, and pulls me so close that every part of him is touching every part of me.

  We kiss each other, slowly, thoroughly, lips and tongues dancing together so perfectly it feels like we must have done this before. In another time, or another life, maybe. I don’t know. The only thing I’m sure of is that I never want to stop.

  When we come up for air, we’re both shaking. I take a few deep breaths, but my pulse is still racing.

  “Nina,” he whispers into my skin. “Beautiful, beautiful Nina. I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  “Hush,” I say. “It’s just the rush from the shoot. We were in a very . . . stimulating situation. That energy just spilled over.”

  “You haven’t ever thought about this?” His tongue flicks that spot just below my earlobe. I moan. “Thought about us?”

  “It would have been completely inappropriate, Josh.”

  “But you felt something, right?” He looks me in the eye. I nod.

  “Shit. If I’d known that, I’d have quit months ago.”

  “No, no,” I argue. “I wouldn’t have wanted that. I liked seeing you every day.”

  “Are you willing to see me now?” he asks between kisses. “Is that something you want?”

  “Right this moment?” I laugh, though his lips on my neck give me shivers. “I want you to be about five years older, and me to be about ten younger. So we could meet in the middle.”

  “Do you really care about that?” He rests his forehead on mine. “’Cause I don’t. All I care about is that the most amazing woman I know is letting me kiss her, and I can’t believe how damn lucky I am.”

  This man and his silver tongue will be the death of me. I can’t wait.

  We kiss some more, tangling together until we bump against the side of an ancient Dodge van. It’s white, with thin burgundy stripes—a ’70s classic.

  “We should be careful of the van,” I say, reluctantly breaking away. “The owner might not like it.”

  “The owner likes it very much,” he says, dangling the keys.

  “Oh, my lord. Who sold you a shaggin’ wagon?” I laugh.

  “I bought it from—wait, hold on, what did you call it?”

  “A shaggin’ wagon. A van that you—you know, you—” I’m intrigued. “You mean you’ve never—?”

  “Never what?”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you asked me what I wanted,” I say boldly. “Right now, I want you to get in this van and fuck me senseless.”

  He hands over the keys at once, and we climb in. It’s dark, but the streetlights over the lot are just enough. He pulls the curtains separating the front seats from the rest of the interior, and we’re in shadow again. I take his hand, and we sit down on the wine-colored carpet.

  His lips graze mine. I’m already addicted to his sweetness, the faint hint of cinnamon on his breath. When my nails scrape his back, something fierce ignites between us. Then it’s all popping buttons and sliding belt buckles and shoes that end up who knows where until I’m writhing on the floor in just my bra, aching for his touch.

  “Wait, wait,” Josh says.

  “Seriously?” I’m groaning in frustration.

  “I know, I know,” he says, soothing me with another kiss. “I don’t want to rush this. Let me take my time, hmm?”

  I pout; he kisses it away, sucking and nibbling at my bottom lip. The sensation goes straight to my clit. He is so careful not to touch me as he removes my bra.

  “Beautiful,” he repeats. He stares at me with heat and tenderness in his eyes. I’m desperate to get his hands on me.

  Finally, he trails a cool fingertip across my collarbone. I suck in a breath when he follows it with his tongue. I need this so much. He continues, swirling cool and hot across one breast then the other. I can’t hold back a moan when he flicks my nipples.

  “Ah,” he says, satisfied, as if he solved a puzzle. “You like that.”

  The needy noises I make encourage him. He does it again and again until I think I might come from this alone.

  “Can—can I touch you back?”

  “Soon,” he promises. “Right now I need to concentrate.”

  His hands and mouth glide over my belly, hips, thighs. Between the licks and touches I’m almost out of my mind. I prop myself up on my elbows, watch him part my knees with strong, sure hands. He strokes slowly, so slowly, making his way toward my aching pussy.

  His mouth follows his hands. My breaths come so fast, I’m almost dizzy when he licks the juncture of my thighs.

  He looks up, his gorgeous eyes shining in the filtered light. “Can I . . . ?”

  “Oh, please,” I reply, and his tongue is on me, inside me in a flash. He alternates l
ong, slow strokes with quick flicks against my clit until I’m gripping his hair and arching off the carpet like I’m electrified.

  I’m close, so close. When he eases my clit into his mouth and gives it the tiniest suck, my brain short-circuits. I come so hard I see stars.

  Josh murmurs sweet words in my ear as I return to earth. He kisses me, and the taste of us on his lips makes me even hotter than before.

  “Tell me you have a condom,” I growl.

  He laughs. “So serious, Nina.”

  I flip over and straddle him. Grinding against the hard length of his cock. Now it’s his turn to suck in a breath.

  “Damn right I’m serious. Condom. Now.”

  Miracle of miracles, he produces one. Greedily, I snatch it from his grasp. He laughs again at my eagerness.

  “I thought you wanted to—” he starts, but it turns into a hiss when I slide the condom on him with my mouth. His cock is thick and perfect, and I can’t help lingering over it, eagerly slurping him into my mouth again and again, until he pulls me back up with a growl of his own.

  “Woman,” he breathes, “you’re killing me.”

  “Is there a better way to go?” I tease. He doesn’t answer, just smiles and sets me back on his lap.

  I lift up, hovering over him for a moment before I slowly take him inside me. Sweet mercy. Inch by delicious inch, he fills me up until I’m stretched and breathless.

  “You good?” he asks.

  “Mmm. Oh, yes.”

  I ride him at a slow, easy pace, adjusting to the feel of him. He rolls my nipples between thumbs and fingertips, pinching them just enough that lightning zooms through me. I’m halfway to a second orgasm when he grabs my hips and takes over. He goes deeper, harder, fucking me so thoroughly that I can only whisper “Yes” and “More” and “Oh my god” and “Yes fuck fuck yes” as I come.

  His orgasm is moments behind mine, and the wild abandon on his face when he comes is the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen.

  We kiss again, sweet and languid. He turns away to deal with the condom, then I’m nestled on his chest soon after. I will this moment of peace to last. Listen to his heart. Wonder what this means for my own.

  I want to stay in this bubble, but the real world’s already on my mind. He no longer works for me, but there are a thousand reasons this night can only be a lovely memory. “Where did you go, just now?” Joshua asks me.

  “I’m here,” I say. His face tells me he knows better.

  “I’m serious about seeing each other. This isn’t casual for me. You know that, right?”

  “I don’t know anything, really,” I say. We scrounge around for clothes, dressing as fast as we’d undressed. We step out of the van, and I’m tongue-tied. I want to say everything and nothing at once.

  “So. I have a speech. Want to hear it?”

  “A speech?”

  “I’m in communications,” he shrugs. “We always have a speech.”

  “What about physics?”

  “Double major.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I sigh. “I should know that.” “I’ll tell you all about me. Next time.”

  He wants a next time. My breath races at the thought.

  “Short version,” he says, “you’re scared of this. Of us.” “Terrified.”

  “If today hadn’t happened, would you have said anything?”

  I shake my head.

  “So we’d have kept wanting each other. Being too scared to admit it.” He strokes my cheek. “I’m done being scared, Nina. I hope you are, too.”

  I don’t understand how he’s this brave. I’m terrified. But I also wasted years being what someone else wanted, and it made me miserable. I might be the teacher, but clearly, I still have something to learn.

  “We have to go slow,” I say.

  “Like snails,” he replies.

  “That is utterly unsexy.”

  “Come here then. I’ll show you sexy.”

  I do, and he does. Over and over and over again.

  THE DRESSING ROOM

  Alessandra Torre

  I am halfway into the dress when I get stuck. The sort of stuck where your arms are up, hands flailing through the sleeves, bodice tight around your face, and there just isn’t enough room to get your elbows past your ears and through the armholes. I need to abort this, ASAP. I blow out a frustrated breath, a wave of claustrophobia swelling as the hot wool sucks into my mouth. I lean forward and try to wiggle out. Thank god no one is in here with me. No one to see this spectacle of uncoordinated proportions. Then again, had someone been in here with me, they could be helping to yank this thing off me. I lean against the thin changing room divider and slide sideways, hoping the dress will snag on its hook and work its way over my head. I am about to succeed when I hear the noise. I pause, my wool-covered head bumping painfully against the hook, and stifle a squeal of pain.

  The sound comes again, and I lean closer to the wall, pressing my ear against it. A moan. I think it was a moan.

  My change in position helps, and the dress slides over my head, my response to the fresh air and its cool greeting almost orgasmic. And . . . speaking of orgasmic . . . I press my ear to the wall, its fabric-covered surface scratchy against my lobe.

  “Yeah. Right there.” A woman’s voice, thick with arousal. I hold my breath and can barely hear the soft sound of panting, her controlled bursts of air.

  “Look at me.” The man’s voice is rugged, his words an order, delivered with the hint of an accent. I need more of his words, need to follow his directive and see him. I crouch, as quickly as I can, and peek underneath the divider.

  A foot of access, but it’s all I need to paint the picture. Her feet bare, toes painted a bright teal that is chipped along the edges. Her feet are strong and shoulder-width apart, not the delicate feet of a model but the sort that belong to a girl like me. It gives me hope, makes me think that I could be in there, could be looking at him, could be merrily panting my way toward an orgasm. At a right angle to her, he stands. New tennis shoes, dark jeans. I take pleasure in examining the neat tie of his laces, the clean surface of his shoes. This man takes care of himself. He probably picks his clothes up off the floor, flosses before bed, and pays his bills on time.

  The heel of one of her feet lifts, her toes splaying, and she groans, a long, sweet sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The way they are standing, he must be next to her, his hand in between her legs, his fingers busy. There is the slick sound of flesh, and my own fingers inch toward my panties, the cotton boy shorts the only thing standing between me and pure nudity.

  “Jesus, you’re wet.” He growls out the words, and I close my eyes, pushing to my feet, and pretend that he’s speaking to me. The thick catch of the words . . . he must be staring into her eyes, his fingers sliding in and out, the palm of his hand tapping out a metronome of pleasure against her clit. I sit on the chair, my thighs parting, and work my panties over my hips, my own hand sliding in between my legs, two fingers pushing inside of me. He’s right. I am wet. I picture his face, and he is handsome, his features rugged like his voice, his jaw covered in a faint beard, his eyes drifting down my naked body, drawn to my open legs. I spread my fingers, opening up the slick lips of my body, and then push the fingers back inside.

  The woman moans, and I risk a small moan of my own, letting my eyes half close, wanting nothing more than to have him before me, those dark jeans moving closer, their stiff fabric brushing against my bare legs.

  I roll my fingers over my clit and picture him pushing my hand aside, his replacing my own. His fingers are thicker than mine, slightly rough, and when they push in between my folds, his eyes darken.

  Jesus, you’re wet. His voice had scraped over the words, the memory of it causing my thighs to tighten and my hips to buck.

  Fingers quickening, my clit coming to life under my touch—my body tightening, pleasure building.

  She pants, he whispers something, and there is the scrape of hangers against their me
tal rod. I envision her hands wildly sweeping out, scrambling for balance, her legs weakening from the pleasure.

  I straighten my own legs, my socks sliding across the linoleum floor, and picture him kneeling between my knees, his fingers working in and out, his eyes flitting up to meet mine.

  “Oh my god, you’re so hard.” She can barely get the words out, her voice louder than before, and I wonder where the dressing room attendant is, how many others are hearing this. I keep one ear tuned for the sound of the buzzer—the ding-dong that indicates someone’s entrance into the dressing room. Nothing. No footsteps, no rustles of fabric, no words of indignation. Just me and them. Me. My fingers now deep inside of me, curved and pressing on my G-spot, my eyes clenched shut, my fantasies running wild. Them. Her thighs trembling, his cock hanging out, his fingers busy, wet from her juices, his eyes tight on her face.

  She moans, and a curl of pleasure unfurls inside of me.

  “Wrap your hand around it,” he growls, and I groan in response, hoping the sound is covered by her whimper. I imagine the stiff feel of him, my palm wrapping around his shaft, the hiss of his voice as I grip him tightly, sliding my hand along his length. I bet he’s gorgeous—a thick, meaty stick of arousal and possibilities. I picture the head of him, swollen and stiff, jutting out from his hand, and lined up to me, the press of it against my opening, the look on his face as he pushes inside of me.

  I’d want it quickly—one hard thrust that takes away my recent bouts of loneliness. One hard thrust that cracks open my pleasure, almost painful in its strength, almost rough in its invasion. I want him to grip my shoulders, pin me back against the wall and thrust those hips forward, his cock into me, his knees shifting against the floor, my gasps silenced by his mouth, by his deep kiss that tastes of hard work and security, his thrusts shallower as our kiss deepens. I increase the tease of my clit, my legs straightening out, toes flexing.

  “I’m close,” she pants out. Me too.

  “Don’t stop jacking me off,” he grits. “Keep going.”

  If I were her, I wouldn’t stop. I would prolong my own pleasure and focus on him, dropping to my knees and working my hand up and down his shaft. I’d look up into his face and watch his eyes grow hooded, his jaw clench, his features tighten as he gets close. He would groan my name, reach down and cup my face, would watch me with need as I tease him with my tongue before taking him into my mouth.