by Jayne Rylon
Free For All
Jayne Rylon
Red Light Series, Book Four
After a courtship filled with nights steamy enough to thaw the lingering winter chill, Sarah is finally beginning to believe she might have found the one man who can support her career as a sex worker in Amsterdam’s Red Light district. But when she asks around, it’s clear Rick isn’t taking advantage of the freedom their open relationship offers. None of the sexiest girls in the district have serviced him for months.
Afraid of losing the star of her extra-naughty dreams, Sarah confronts her boyfriend about his change of heart. Rick confesses he’s no longer interested in wild times without her. Instead, he’d like to try experimenting with multiple partners, show off his sexy woman and revel in the company of like-minded hedonists. Fortunately, he knows just the place for a debauched experience wicked enough to make even an experienced hooker blush.
A sexual free-for-all is on the menu at one of Amsterdam’s infamous swingers’ clubs, and by the end of the night, Sarah is going to get the surprise of her life.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Free For All
ISBN 9781419938504
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Free For All Copyright © 2012 Jayne Rylon
Edited by Mary Moran
Photography and cover design by Syneca
Models: Shannon and Alex
Electronic book publication January 2012
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Free For All
Jayne Rylon
“Come live in my heart and pay no rent.” ~Samuel Lover
My hair flutters around my face. It makes me wish I could close my eyes to savor the breeze generated by the downhill run on my bicycle. Each lovely arched bridge that spans one of the canals crisscrossing the heart of Amsterdam in a network of black ribbons is an exercise in work and reward. I strain uphill and savor the moments of coasting the exertion affords. For so long now I’ve concentrated on industry that I’d almost forgotten how magical it can be to squander a Sunday afternoon on pure, unadulterated pleasure. I’m ready to glide for a few hours.
I hum to myself as I recall my decadent indulgence of late. If a woman could overdose on bliss, I’d have dropped dead weeks ago with an enormous grin etched onto my face. I sigh as I watch the flex and play of Rick’s muscles, evident despite the tailored clothing covering them. In front of me, he pumps the pedals of his flame-painted bike as though they hardly resist. His ass looks amazing in his slim-cut jeans, and I thank the universe again for the innate style of European men. Even a man’s man like Rick never appears sloppy, only casually sexy.
As if he can read my thoughts, and lately I think he must, he glances over his broad shoulder and grins. “Keeping up, Sarah?”
I shiver violently. The thrill of my real name on his lips threatens to have me crashing into the public urinal on the corner of the street. The gray plastic modules usually make me giggle—especially when tourists gawk, imagining a man holding his cock right there on the street as if it’s scandalous to succumb to the call of nature. However, I don’t find the idea of getting up close and personal with the fixture amusing in the least.
Rick’s lyrical chuckle carries to me on the wind. It might as well be a caress lavished from his hand. He’s perfected the use of those two syllables to drive me mad, often shoving me into orgasm as he groans them in a reverent chant in sync with the crash of his hips into the cradle of my thighs.
I crank up the speed, loving the tightening of sinew. After all the amazing home-cooked meals I’ve shared with Rick, toning is probably a good thing. Not that he doesn’t help me burn off calories in much more sinful ways. I wobble, pressing my legs together as best I can to soothe an entirely different caliber of ache. I won’t lie. The pressure from the seat on my swollen pussy isn’t bad.
I pull alongside Rick.
He scans my flush and the ghost of my hard nipples, which poke against my cashmere sweater through the lacy bra beneath. His cheeks are stained red and I’m sure it’s from more than the rush of air against his handsome face.
“Better watch where you’re going, mister.”
“I know exactly where this road leads, Sar-ah.” So in tune with me, he can decipher every nuance in my expression—the reactions of my body—even when I attempt to blank them out to throw him off. It frightened me at first, his ability to know me. Now I’ve come to adore such intimacy, more intense than anything we shared in our early days through my window.
It has comforted me to wrap his understanding around me like a fuzzy blanket through the cold winter months of our bizarre courtship. With spring on our doorstep, I wonder what new buds will sprout while I pray the universe won’t shout, “April Fool’s!” then inform me the happiest period of my life has been some cosmic prank.
Despite the constant reassurance of this increasing bond, I’m afraid to believe it’s true. Genuine. Eternal. Because I don’t think I could survive losing Rick once I’ve claimed him as mine. Like severing a limb or tearing out my heart, it would cripple me. Destroy me. Utterly. I can’t do that. Not after my painstaking attempt to remain solo. What other choice did I have after choking on a gluttony of loss as a teenager?
I refuse to dwell on the past today. Instead I look forward, zooming toward happiness and the bright green of a new season of my life.
“First one to Centraal Station wins.” I stand up, harnessing increased leverage to rocket me onward through the dappled light splattering on the cobblestones we roll over with a cathartic rumble.
“What’s the prize?” His laughing shout draws glances from couples strolling hand in hand down Paleisstraat toward Dam Square, likely aiming for breakfast from one of the sinful pattiseries lining the narrow alley. Scrumptious.
I don’t bother to answer. He knows. We’ve played all sorts of games. I would swear we’ve left no sexual stone unturned except he surprises me every morning with the dawning of his creativity and our limitless desire for each other.
I spot the tram half a block away and zip across its path with a wave to the driver. Rick follows, gaining ground. Heat rises up my thighs. I lean into the handlebars as though that will improve the aerodynamics of my traditionally clunky bike. I blame the drag caus
ed by the outrageous faux flowers woven around the pink frame and my pretty wicker basket attached to the front when Rick encroaches in my peripheral vision.
Up ahead, the hulking stone mountain of the train station comes into view, complete with the tangle of transportation pipelines pouring people into the beast from every possible approach like a faucet stuck on full blast. Trams, roadways, sidewalks, bike lanes and canals all converge here, in the very core of the city.
Just when I’m sure Rick will flash past me for the win, I hear him call my name, this time without a hint of playfulness. “Sarah! Look out!”
The shrill alarm of his bell peals without any effect. A rogue tourist on a rented, candy-apple red Mac bike bobs and weaves the wrong way through our lane. Visitors are more dangerous than the tram. The only thing in the city with the right of way over bicycles at least follows some rules.
Sure enough—in hideous slow motion—the newcomer topples. He wipes out, splaying the carnage of his pride across the narrow roadway.
Without sufficient distance to brake, I yank my legs up to my chest and squeeze through the gap between his tennis shoes, which point straight up into the air, and the side of a building. Nightmare visions of a thirty-bike pile-up à la the Tour de France zip through my mind as I come to a stop past the tangle of man and metal, out of the trajectory of the steady stream of cyclists approaching. When I glance over my shoulder, Rick swerves to a graceful stop, hopping off his bike.
“Are you all right?” He hauls the heavy fellow to his feet as though he weighs nothing. I make a mental note to worship those sleek muscles later. One good turn deserves another after all.
As the guy tries to settle his shortish, dark, sprinkled-with-a-touch-of-silver hair, Rick dusts off the unfortunate man’s back and ass. His locks persist in their adorable spiky disarray, despite his attempts to snuff all the flair from them.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m good.” The tourist flinches from Rick’s helpful hand when it nears the seat of his pants.
His American accent comprises a less accurate indication of his origin than that silly evasive maneuver. Puritan beginnings make visitors from across the Atlantic as easy to spot as if they had stars and stripes tattooed on their foreheads.
When I catch Rick’s gaze, he rolls his eyes.
I can’t suppress a chuckle.
The man glances toward me and smiles. Wide.
Rick perks up. He speaks low to the visitor, too hushed for me to eavesdrop.
The guy’s eyes bulge along with his pants. Road rash forgotten, he tries to disguise his crude junk adjustment behind surreptitious flicks of his fingers over the khaki of his cargo shorts, which have long since been tugged into some semblance of order. Or at least as close as the baggy, disheveled fabric can get anyway.
From the inside pocket of his light blazer, Rick withdraws a business card. He slips it to the crash victim before clapping him on the shoulder. “Have a great vacation, Alex.”
“T-thanks.” The tourist doesn’t take his glittering eyes off me long enough to blink.
Rick walks his bike beside me. “Blow him a kiss and I guarantee you’ll find him outside your window tomorrow night.”
“So what are you now? My pimp?” The twinge in my chest is quick yet fierce.
“Since when are labels our thing? I’m proud of you.” Rick nuzzles my temple. “Besides, I have a feeling you’d be good for him. You could change his life forever. The poor bastard. He’s clueless. And…well, I’d be lying if I said I don’t get off on how desperately other guys covet what I have.”
“Really?” A skim of my thigh against his crotch confirms the desire roughening his voice.
“Fuck, yes.” He shifts far more stealthily than our new friend and clears his throat.
Before thinking, I open my mouth. “You know…”
“What?” He traces my cheekbone when I hesitate.
Why not go with it? I grin, slow and sure. “There are plenty of swingers’ clubs around the city.”
When Rick doesn’t answer right away, my stomach sours. Have I found the thing that will turn him off? It’s been looking as likely as a successful hunt for a unicorn or maybe a five-headed dragon, but I can’t help myself. I worry I’ll stumble over his limits one of these days. And then it will be too late to rescind the offensive offer. Maybe it already is. “Never mind.”
“No.”
My gaze flies to the flush livening his tanned skin.
“Don’t do that, Sarah. When will you learn to trust me? I’m not about to bolt, for Christ’s sake. Give me a second here, okay? You plant sexy ideas like that in my imagination and it’s going to take me a few seconds to file them away for later. I don’t relish the thought of coming in my pants in the middle of all these strangers.”
“Finally something that doesn’t flip your switch?” I raise an eyebrow, savoring the lightness I haven’t ruined yet.
“Hussy.” He yanks me to him in a bear hug and plants a warm, lingering kiss on my parted lips.
Someone passing by in a pedicab rickshaw whistles. I totally agree. The steam billowing from my ears might make a similar sound if I were a cartoon hooker instead of a real life sex worker.
“I take it back. Even erupting like a teenager could be hot with you by my side. When we’re together, that’s all that matters. You’re like some crazy sex drug.” He squints then shakes his head. “A love drug.”
We’ve both enjoyed plenty of romps in our lives. Release. Fun. Comfort. Companionship. No one knows better than I how many different facets can be cut into the act. None of those myriad experiences reflect with the intensity of our bond, which is easily bright enough to blind. It litters the landscape with rainbows every time we touch, no rain required.
“You know. We could turn around, go home and leave the canoeing for another day.” I nibble on his lower lip, imagining a sleepy day off—sweet, slow sex followed by nature lulling us with the rocking of my houseboat. It rises and falls on tiny waves caused by vessels trundling down the Amstel, oblivious to the passion we share inside. Steamy windows create the only evidence of our lust for the captains with eagle eyes or tourists with telephoto lenses floating just outside our walls.
Rick moved in over a month ago, despite his initial kneejerk protest to the cohabitation proposal I’d blurted out during our romantic Valentine’s Day trip to Schagen. That excursion had included an introduction to his divorced parents. It had taken a killer massage with a spectacular happy ending to melt the tension seeing them—together yet not—had infused in his shoulders.
Still, by then neither of us could remember the last time he’d stayed at his apartment during the days we generally dream through as creatures of the night. He conceded it seemed wasteful to renew his lease when I’d purchased our sanctuary, the profits from our Kinkmas pageant finally having convinced the previous owner to sell out.
I can’t suppress a smile when I think of his patched motorcycle jacket hanging on the hook by the front door or his lucky beer stein in the cupboard. Not to mention the butterflies that assault me every time I notice the little red scuff my nail polish inflicted on the pretty butterscotch paint of the galley when he pinned my hands above my head and fucked me against the wall before we’d finished dinner one random evening.
He evaluates the gleam in my eye before groaning.
“Tempting. But no. You’re going to love the wetlands. I can’t believe you’ve never visited. We’ve been so busy lately. This will be a perfect getaway.” He drops his persuasion to a whisper. “Just imagine the sounds of the birds, our oars dipping in the water and the rustle of reeds. Deep lungfuls of fresh, sweet air.”
Damn, he does understand me. It takes all my fortitude not to swoon. “I’m sure you can find other ways to relax me.”
His Adam’s apple bobs beneath light strokes of my fingertips. A strangled moan doesn’t keep him from shaking his head. “Nope. You’re not going to ruin my surprise.”
I glance at the pack strapped to the bac
k of his bike. What could he have in there? “In that case, we’d better hurry. I think the ferry is about to dock.”
“Do over!” he yells as he jets off in one fluid motion.
“No fair.” It’s hard to grumble through my laughter. “I already won.”
“A technicality.” He shakes his head, picking up speed. “Best two out of three. Ready, set…”
My knees jelly, cementing my loss. Good thing I’m sure his prize is guaranteed to be of the win-win variety.
“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
~Emily Brontë
After a mad dash to the landing, a brief trip across the river then a vigorous ride to the side of the road beneath a weathered sign that reads Watergang—seemingly in the middle of nowhere—I follow my boyfriend inside a tiny cafe. How odd to think of him like that. I’ve had plenty of lovers. Never a man I’d call a partner. Certainly not some kind of relationship another shade toward sentimental on the spectrum of attachment.
Girlfriend seems an appropriate tag for me. In this, I’m practically an infant.
“Rick!” An older gentleman perches on a slanted stool at the bar. The wood is so dark, details disappear in the shadows. Something about the dim, slightly musty establishment puts me instantly at ease. Close scrutiny is impossible in these conditions. The owner takes off his wire-rimmed glasses, sets aside his newspaper then combs his fingers through the sparse white tufts that allow his shiny crown to peep through like the sun on a partly cloudy afternoon.
“Come on. Just a few minutes, I promise.” Rick captures my hand before I can reassure him we have all day. The rest of our lives, maybe. I hope.
Floor tiles, many cracked or dinged, click against the low heel of my boots as we shrink the space between us and the man inspiring Rick to smile warmly. His loose-limbed swagger holds none of the dread that had bound him when we dined with his biological family, yet ten seconds is enough to tell me this man, this place is important to him too.
