by Cara Bristol
“Please,” she said, her eyes dewy with entreaty, her pink lips parted by arousal. In less noble moments, he had imagined Destiny looking at him that way, and electric energy jolted through him from the base of his skull through his heart into his aching erection. This was a bad idea. So bad.
He jumped anyway.
* * * *
She couldn’t fight anymore. Not when Chance stretched out so close, so warm. Why walk away with nothing when she could take memories with her of what might have been if fate had been less capricious?
His tongue, his mouth felt like hot, wet suede as he sucked her nipple, the shivery sensations he aroused leaping from neuron to neuron until it reached her tingling clit. She closed her eyes and, still unconvinced he would follow through with what they had started, grabbed handfuls of his hair. The finest of masculine silk poured through her fingers. She groaned. Chance growled and nipped. Warmth flooded her pussy.
She followed the curve of his head and ran her hands over his back and shoulders, kneaded the muscles bulging beneath his skin. His erection found escape through the fly of his boxers, and it pressed thick and rigid against her leg, oozing fluid. She grabbed for that bad boy but could stretch only as far as his waist. She caressed his calf with her foot, enjoying the roughness of his body hair.
Chance slipped his fingers up the leg of her pajama shorts and homed in on her aching center. He strummed her throbbing clit with his thumb and slid a digit into her.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured.
“Umm.” She hummed an agreement. Her need had drenched the crotch of her sleep shorts. She’d been ready for ages, had fantasized about him, eased her loneliness with conjured images, whispered to herself the sweet nothings she yearned to hear him utter.
He pulled off her shorts, and she kicked them away. While he yanked off his boxers, she sat up and tore off the tank bunched under her armpits.
He cupped her neck and caressed her jaw with his thumb. “You’re shaking.”
“I want you so much,” she responded and watched the desire in his gaze skyrocket. He kissed her then, his mouth plundering, and she surrendered everything she had and more, seeking fulfillment in the slide of his soft lips, the caress of his tongue, and the taste of man and a hint of ale.
He closed his hands over her breasts and captured her nipples between the web of his thumb and finger. She could reach him now, and she wrapped her hand around his erection, stroking from its base surrounded by curly dark hair to the satiny crown slickened by fluid. His cock pulsed under her touch. A spot below the cap on the underside beckoned, and when she thumbed it, he growled.
The sound resonated low in her body and unleashed another surge of wetness. As if he’d sensed her response, her needs, he pressed her against the pillows and nestled himself between her legs. A nuzzle, a graze against her clit had her gasping. A tingle of beard, a whisper of lip, and she jerked.
His beautiful, pleasure-inducing mouth hovered so close to her sex, his warm breath brushed over her. “Is this what you want, Zoe?”
“Yes,” she answered on a moan, but before she could stop herself, added, “but don’t call me Zoe.”
He riveted his attention on her face. “What should I call you?”
Heartache lanced her. Every moment she spent with him would be stolen from a dead woman. But, if that was the only way she could get him, she’d grab it.
Destiny rolled her head on the pillow. “I don’t feel like her right now.”
“No. You’re different.” He spread open her folds and swiped his tongue over her exposed flesh. “Wet.” Another delicate lash. “Sweet.” His gaze sought hers again. “Soft.”
Her pussy and clit ached, and she thrust her hips upward, needing more contact, more pressure. More. “Don’t torture me.”
“Baffling,” he said, and drew her clit into his mouth and sucked gently.
Destiny whimpered, her nerve endings attacked by pleasure. Without a barrier of hair, nothing came between them but pure sensation: the softness of his mouth, the delicious scrape of his unshaven jaw, and the spiraling tension. Time slid into slow motion like it had in the crash, and once more she fell end over end, only not in terror this time, but in ecstasy.
Chance eased two fingers into her pussy, curled them upward, and everything inside contracted. “Now, now!” she cried.
He scrambled to his knees. His cock jutted out, a perfect length of steel, its crown reddened and slickened. Air caught in her throat. Intensity darkened his eyes, tautened his muscles. How fierce he looked. She shuddered with need as he guided his cock into position. Her slender body resisted at first, then relaxed in surrender to the thrust of his hips. Big. So big. No give to his hardness. She gasped at the stretch, the pressure, as he filled not just her pussy, but the hidden hollow places of her soul. How had she existed without him? How would she live after her time with him ended?
She contracted her muscles, holding him tighter still, and he groaned. “Oh, fuck.” Perspiration trickled down his temple to his jaw and dripped onto her collarbone. He poised above her, braced on his fists, his biceps bulging. Destiny clutched at his shoulders, dug her heels into his buttocks.
His glutes contracted. He pulled back, then drove forward. Thrust and swivel. The grind against her clit kindled a lick of fire that intensified when he rested on a forearm to free a hand to massage the bud. “So good, so good,” she moaned, her praise inadequate, sensations rendering her unable to fully communicate.
Harder, faster, he thrust, whipping desire to a frenzy. She bucked, curled her fingers into his back. Moisture broke out on her skin, added to his, and their bodies slid against each other in perfect synchronization.
Need coiled, muscles fluttered. She closed her eyes.
“Look at me!”
The passion etched on his face propelled her into a vortex of ecstasy. Her hopes, her dreams, her secret longings, her love poured out of her, and she clung to the beacon of his piercing gaze. As she convulsed with passion, his expression turned wide-eyed with disbelief as orgasm claimed him. He sucked in a hiss of air and expelled a muffled comment, a senseless utterance that sounded like, “Not…possible.” He shuddered and spilled himself inside her.
* * * *
In sleep she clung to him, had wedged a leg between his thighs and hugged his arm against her breasts, grabbed a handful of his chest hair in her fist. Chance lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, struggling to rebuild a defense against the warmth that beckoned him to stray from his course of resolve. He steeled himself not to brush the hair from her cheek, to trace the bruise that marred her soft skin, to rub his arm against her nipple, to kiss her awake—to have another go at it.
A fuck. That was all it had been. A woman had offered him sex, and like any hetero guy would—like his brother Roman would have done—he’d accepted the offer.
End of story.
Except for the disconcerting epilogue. As he’d climaxed, he could have sworn he’d seen Destiny peering at him through Zoe’s eyes. A lust-induced hallucination, not worthy of a second’s consideration. He scrubbed his eyelids with his fist in a vain attempt to erase the vision seared into his brain.
His sleeping ex’s lashes formed feathery crescents on her high cheekbones; her hair spread out in a tantalizing tangle. Against his side, her body fit perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle section snapped into the right space. It was the only piece that fit. Never physically demonstrative or affectionate in the past, she had expressed little inclination to cuddle after climax when the fun and games had ended. It was as if she’d deliberately avoided the intimacy. As he should do now. But he couldn’t bring himself to break contact, finding disturbing comfort in the nearness of her body.
Her breathing, easy and deep, whispered across his neck. On each exhale, she emitted a cute puffing noise that brought a smile to his lips until he realized he’d never known her to snore before. Another change in behavior. He raised his hand to scratch his chin but detoured to brush that errant curl f
rom her cheek. Her silky-soft, baby-fine hair wrapped itself around his finger.
“Who are you, Zoe?” he murmured.
With his toe, he hooked the top sheet they’d kicked to the foot of the bed and pulled it over them. He checked on the shadow dragons. They twined together in truce, dancing as lovers, anger spent. He would be foolish to contemplate trying again on the basis of one evening, some good cooking, one adorable little snore.
Pure folly.
But not nearly as foolish as the notion that Destiny slept curled against him.
* * * *
Destiny’s Chance Description
Fate gave her a chance for love. Is she brave enough to accept it?
Destiny Grable has loved Chance Everett for as long as she could remember, but he was never interested in her until a tragic act of fate grants her heart’s desire. Now Chance is all hers—body, mind, and soul. But once they’re together, she discovers he has a kinky side she never knew about. Is she ready for it? Can she handle it? And Chance isn’t the only one with a secret. If he discovers what she’s hiding, will he still want her?
Educating his Bride
Genre: Historical spanking romance, romantic comedy
It’s the 1950s, and college co-ed Margaret drops out of school to marry her English professor, Henry. This scene is taken from their wedding night.
Each little cottage of the Golden Locket Motel resembled a log cabin. Henry parked his Bel Air at the end of the row next to one of the honeymoon suites. Margaret’s stomach churned. Perhaps she should have eaten a little more dinner and less cake. Or skipped eating altogether. Or avoided her mother’s little chat.
Henry pulled an oversize key from his pants’ pocket and opened their door. “Let’s do this right,” he said, and lifted her up into his strong, sure arms.
A lamp burned on the nightstand next to the largest bed she had ever seen. If that wasn’t enough to call attention to the meaning of “wedding night,” rose petals arranged in a heart lay atop the white chenille spread. Her heart thudded, and she jerked her gaze away. Against the wall stood her luggage. A motel maid or other staff member must have carried it over from the smaller room where she’d dressed for the wedding. Champagne chilled in a bucket beside a tray of chocolates set atop a small table.
She wiggled her feet for him to set her down, but he wended toward the bed, and she found herself butt up over his lap. “What are you doing?” she squealed.
“I did not forget the discussion I promised you.” He flipped up her dress. Her skirt and petticoats landed on her head and his hand on her bottom.
“Henreeee…no!” She kicked and flailed her arms, trapped in the voluminous fabric. Another stinging swat glanced off her rear on the opposite side.
“I warned you not to smash cake in my face, but you chose to disobey.” He smacked her three times.
“I’m sorry. I meant it as a joke.”
“Would you have thought it funny if I’d smeared cake in your face, if it had gotten into your hair and on your dress?”
That wouldn’t have been amusing at all. “That’s different,” she said. There was only the tiniest bit of pink icing on his shirt collar.
The flat of his hand bounced off her backside. This spanking didn’t hurt like the one he’d given her with the ruler—much less, in fact, but the affront to her dignity was greater. Her kicks did little to deter him—he gripped her more snugly around the waist and spanked away.
She was a grown woman, darn it, a married one, and she was being spanked like a naughty child. Would he order her to stand in the corner next? Send her to bed without dessert? The indignity of it all! This wasn’t what she’d expected on her wedding night.
“I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” It was an easy promise to make, since she’d never have another wedding.
“I know you won’t because, if you do, you’ll find yourself over my knee again.” He meted out several slaps. The swats were beginning to sting!
When her bottom grew hot and tingly, his spanks slowed, became lighter, almost taps, and he caressed more than he smacked. “Did I ever tell you what a sexy ass you have?” he said.
Beneath her skirts, her face heated at his bold language. She had a hunch her cheeks—both sets—were redder than the rose petals. “No,” she squeaked in a breathy whisper.
He gave one throbbing globe a hard squeeze then righted her skirts and set her on her feet. Modesty and propriety never entered her head as she rubbed the soreness. Now that it was over, the spanking had been exciting in a strange sort of way. She stared at him, and there was no mistaking the masculine appreciation in his eyes.
Nervousness vanished. This was the man she loved, her husband, and she trusted him.
“Why don’t I shower first, and then you can have as much time as you need in the bathroom?” he suggested.
“All right.” She nodded.
Henry slipped out of his jacket and hooked it over the chair then unknotted his tie and pulled it loose. Shoes and socks came off. The casual, intimate way he undressed caused her throat to dry.
“Be right back.” He winked and disappeared into the bathroom.
She sprang into motion, hefting her suitcase onto a stand and popping the latches. A negligee set, a satin gown with matching robe, lay atop her clothing. She shook out the night garments then draped them across the foot of the bed before unpacking the rest. She hid her underwear in the chest of drawers and hung her dresses in the closet.
The bathroom door opened, and her husband emerged, near-naked except for a towel wrapped around his middle. Water, not Brylcreem, slickened his hair against his scalp, and he’d shaved again. She widened her eyes and swallowed. My husband. Dark hair curled on his manly chest, his nipples like two copper coins. Muscles rippled across his abdomen. They’d never been to the beach together, so she’d never seen him in anything but a suit. His birthday suit was so much more impressive.
“Your turn,” he said.
“You were fast,” she commented.
“I don’t suppose I have as much to do as you do.” Henry padded toward her. The scent of soap and shaving cream clung to him, as well as droplets of water missed by the towel. He cupped her neck and tilted her chin to meet his kiss.
Her tummy fluttered as his warm mouth slid over hers, and she parted her lips to accept the exploration of his tongue. Shyly, she returned the kiss, her ardor increasing. He pulled her against his chest, and she flattened her palms against hard muscles covered with coarse, springy hair.
Beneath the towel, his manhood had thickened, and she had the urge to press herself against it. She’d never seen a grown man’s penis before, let alone an erect one. How big was it? Judging from what she could feel now, it seemed quite large.
A lady does not think about penises. That’s what her mother would say if she could force her lips to utter the word, which was unlikely. The United States and the Commies would become friends before that happened.
She wound her arms around her husband’s neck.
Henry crushed her lips and ravished her mouth in a way he’d never done before. Though he’d shaved, little rough patches scraped her skin. In her head, she pretended he’d rushed through his grooming out of eagerness. Abruptly, he set her away. His chest heaved. She touched her burning lips.
“Go shower while I can still let you,” he said gruffly.
Margaret nodded and sneaked a peek at the towel. Her eyes widened at how it tented.
Henry growled. “Go.”
She grabbed her toiletry case and dashed for the bath.
“Don’t you want your nightgown?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She snatched the set from the foot of the bed. After locking the door, Margaret plopped her case onto the sink and pressed her hands to her warm cheeks. Wasn’t marriage supposed to settle you? She felt dizzy, topsy-turvy, like she’d ridden one of those crazy spinning carnival rides.
She hung her nightgown and robe on a hook then reached behind to undo her dress. By twisti
ng her arms and arching her back, she was able to work the zipper down—until it snagged on the fabric and refused to budge another inch.
Margaret cracked the bathroom door open. About to pull back the covers, Henry turned.
“I, um, need help,” she said. “My dress got caught.”
“Let me see.”
She crept outside and presented her back.
He tugged gently on the fabric and the metal tab, and then she heard the zipper slide. The dress sagged and she clutched it to her chest. Silly to feel so shy. She wore a slip, and soon he’d see her naked anyway.
“You’re set.” He brushed his lips against her nape.
Her senses went haywire. “Thank you,” she gulped and scrambled for the bathroom again.
While the tub filled, she stepped out of her dress and hung it on another hook; later, she would transfer it to the closet. Male clothing lay folded on a small table. With no other wall hooks remaining, she draped her petticoats over the neat stack, along with her full-length slip. She unsnapped her stockings from the garters and rolled them off, taking care not to run them, then wiggled out of her girdle. The rubbery foundation garment had left her skin sweaty and marked. She hoped the red streaks would disappear by the time she finished her bath. After removing her bra and panties, she gathered up her unmentionables and hid them in the folds of her petticoats then snapped on a shower cap to keep her hair dry.
Tonight’s the night I become a wife.
Despite her mother’s warnings, Margaret felt almost giddy as she stepped into the tub.
* * * *
The splashes of water he could hear made him hard.
