Best Erotic Romance

by Kristina Wright (ed)

  “The water isn’t too hot,” Brynn said quickly. They had been reading the baby books in bed together before they went to sleep—about the only thing they really did in bed anymore.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Brynn sunk down lower in the tub, the peak of her pregnant belly remaining above the surface of the water. “Don’t look at me, I’m hideous.”

  Paul perched on the edge of the tub, studying her. “No, you’re not. You’re stunning.”

  Shaking her head stubbornly, Brynn pointed to her stomach. “I found a stretch mark. All these months of slathering myself with cocoa butter and my skin is bursting anyway.”

  “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  Brynn pointed to a faint purple mark that started an inch or so under her belly button and disappeared into the water. “There. It’s ugly. These things are like gray hairs—where there’s one, there will be more. I’ll be covered in them.”

  A fresh bout of tears followed, and Paul couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “Why are you laughing at me?” Brynn sat up, more indignant than modest. “It’s not funny. I look like a whale.”

  “You look like a mermaid.”

  “Don’t try placating me,” Brynn accused. “I know what I look like.”

  Paul slipped to his knees beside the tub, the water that had splashed over the side of the tub soaking through his trousers. “No, you don’t know what you look like. You’re emotional and afraid and you look in the mirror and see how your body has changed and think it’s a bad thing—but it’s not.”

  He took Brynn’s face in his hands. “Listen to me. You are beautiful. I love the way your body is changing.”

  To prove his point, he moved his hand from Brynn’s cheek down to her full, dark-tipped breasts. They were exotic, earthy—larger than he’d ever seen them. Paul felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in months out of respect for Brynn’s self-consciousness and discomfort: desire. Hot and needy desire. Without thinking, he cupped Brynn’s breasts in his hands. He thumbed the distended nipples and watched them tighten under his firm caress.

  “What are you doing?” Brynn asked, a tremor in her voice.

  Paul looked into those dark cerulean eyes, so suitable for a sexy mermaid. “I’m showing you how beautiful you are.”

  Brynn squirmed under Paul’s touch, her eyes wide. “That feels…nice.”

  Paul grasped her nipples between his thumb and index fingers and gave them a gentle tug. “Yeah? You like that, baby?”

  Brynn nodded, her nostrils flaring. Tendrils of blond hair escaped their confines to curl around her face. She looked innocent and wanton at the same time.

  Paul moved his hands lower, following the contours of Brynn’s growing belly. It was round and taut, and he felt the baby kick beneath his touch. They both laughed at that, but this wasn’t about the baby. Paul slipped his hand between Brynn’s legs, lightly stroking her blond pubic curls.

  “Stop. I hate all that stupid hair,” Brynn said.

  Paul ignored her and kept stroking her. Before the pregnancy, Brynn had waxed her pubic hair so that she was bare and smooth, but her skin was too sensitive for that now. Paul liked the silky-springy feel of the hair beneath his fingers, and he tugged lightly, watching Brynn’s face as she did. Brynn’s eyes went wide, and she caught her breath.

  “That’s a strange feeling,” she said.

  “Good?”

  Brynn nodded. “Yeah, I think so. Tingly.”

  Paul smiled. He slipped a finger between the lips of Brynn’s pussy and found her clit. He was rewarded by Brynn’s audible gasp. Paul didn’t go further than that; he simply rested his finger on that sensitive button as he cupped her mound lightly.

  Staring into Brynn’s eyes, Paul could see the war Brynn fought with herself. Uncomfortable in her own skin, she hadn’t let Paul touch her like this in months. Paul longed to make love to her, but he wouldn’t push her. He would let Brynn decide.

  Brynn didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. She sunk down in the lukewarm water and covered Paul’s hand with her own. She pressed his finger hard against her pussy, letting out a soft moan when Paul took the lead and rubbed her clit.

  It was something so simple—hardly the stuff of an earthshaking sexual experience—but Brynn’s acquiescence sent a rush of heat through Paul. He wanted Brynn. Now. He wanted to fuck her the way he had before they’d gotten pregnant. He wanted to feel Brynn’s body grinding against his, both of them slick with sweat and so aroused they couldn’t get enough of each other.

  He pressed a finger just inside Brynn’s pussy, feeling the heat and wetness there, so different from the tepid bath water. Brynn gasped, gripping Paul’s wrist tightly and wriggling beneath his touch until water splashed over the side of the bathtub.

  “Easy, baby,” Paul soothed. “I’ll give you what you want.”

  Brynn looked at him, blue eyes heavy-lidded with lust, her expression one of complete trust. “I know you will.”

  Paul slid his finger deeper, feeling Brynn’s muscles reflexively tighten around her. “Been practicing your Kegels, I see,” he said.

  Brynn giggled and nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good girl.” Paul slipped another finger inside her wetness, curving them up and forward to rub that rough spot he knew so well. “How’s that?”

  “Oh!” Brynn exclaimed, sloshing water over the edge of the tub as she took Paul’s fingers inside her. “Yesssss!”

  Paul’s clothes were soaking wet at this point, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was making Brynn feel good. He twisted his fingers inside Brynn’s pussy, feeling the slick wetness of arousal. It fueled his own desire, coaxing his passion beyond gentleness. He tweaked one of Brynn’s nipples between his fingers, delighting in the damp, rubbery texture of the skin beneath his touch.

  “You’re so fucking sexy,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice.

  Brynn cupped her full breasts, head thrown back against the side of the tub. “Fuck me with your fingers,” she whispered. “I need to come.”

  Her words drove Paul to the edge. He added a third finger inside Brynn’s swollen pussy, filling her. He laced his fingers together and made a twisting motion as Brynn’s muscles clenched down on him. He didn’t want to be gentle anymore, wasn’t even sure that he could. He just wanted to fuck Brynn—hard. He looked into Brynn’s half-closed eyes, searching for approval.

  “Are you sure you can take this?”

  Brynn nodded. “Oh yeah. I want it. Do it.”

  That was all the encouragement Paul needed. Oblivious to everything but the feel of Brynn’s pussy clamped around his fingers, he began to fuck her hard. Water sloshed every which way, causing a tidal wave in the bathroom until the floor was soaked and Brynn was only half-covered by water. Paul braced his right hand lightly on Brynn’s wet, swollen belly as he finger-fucked her with his left hand. It was like fucking a beautiful, familiar stranger—and that aroused him in a way he could never have predicted.

  “You’re so wet, baby,” he growled, pushing his fingers deep inside Brynn.

  Slowly, so slowly Brynn closed her eyes and whimpered with the anticipation, Paul drew his fingers out again. He could feel Brynn’s pussy ripple against his fingers, trying to hold them inside, trying to get off. Paul pushed his fingers back inside Brynn, stroking her swollen clit with his thumb. Brynn nearly came out of the bathtub at that, shrieking as she gripped the edge of tub.

  “I guess you like that,” Paul muttered, doing it again.

  “You’re driving me crazy.”

  With his fingers buried inside Brynn’s wetness, Paul kept rubbing his thumb against her clit. “I know the feeling. Know what I want, baby?”

  Brynn’s eyes fluttered opened and she tried to focus on Paul’s face. “Hmm?”

  Paul stilled his thumb on her clit. “I want you to tell me you’re beautiful.”

  Brynn jerked against him. “What?”

  “Tell me you’re beautiful,” Paul
repeated, emphasizing his words with a wiggle of his fingers. “Tell me how beautiful you are.”

  Brynn stared at him, as if he’d asked for something perverse. “Don’t tease me like that,” she whispered.

  Paul stroked her pussy again, building a back-and-forth rhythm inside Brynn that caused a wave to lap up against the swell of Brynn’s rounded belly.

  “Oh, the water feels good,” Brynn moaned, rocking against Paul’s hand so the water sloshed over her again.

  “Tell me,” Paul repeated. “You’re beautiful. Tell me and I’ll make you come so hard, baby.”

  Brynn whimpered again, eyes closed and head thrown back. She was close to orgasm, Paul could tell by the way her pussy tightened on his fingers. He kept finger-fucking her, driving his fingers deep into her, reveling in the way Brynn’s body held him inside.

  “You’re beautiful, baby,” he said. “Beautiful and fucking sexy and I can’t wait to get you out of that tub and spread you across the bed so I can make you come again and again.”

  His litany of words aroused him as much as they were intended to arouse Brynn. His cock ached to be touched, licked, sucked, and enveloped by Brynn’s sweet pussy, but this was about Brynn and making her feel good. Making her feel as beautiful as she looked.

  Paul stilled his fingers once again. “Tell me, baby. You know you’re beautiful, all soft and round and fuckable. Tell me.”

  “Please,” Brynn moaned. “Make me come.”

  Paul gently rubbed Brynn’s G-spot, feeling the swollen, spongy surface against his fingertips. “I will, baby. Just tell me.”

  With his thumb on Brynn’s clit and his fingers inside, Paul fucked her slowly. Too slowly for Brynn to come, but enough to keep her on the razor’s edge of orgasm. Brynn clenched the sides of the bathtub until her knuckles turned white, straining to come with Paul’s slight touch. But Paul had known her long enough to know what it would take to push her over. He held back, waiting and aching with his own need.

  “I’ve got all day, baby,” he said, though every muscle in his body strained with rising tension. He couldn’t deny Brynn—or himself—much longer. “Tell me what a beautiful, sexy girl you are.”

  Brynn gasped as Paul thumbed her clit hard. “Yes, god, yes, I’m beautiful,” she moaned. “I’m so fucking beautiful. Fuck me, please fuck me.”

  “That’s it,” Paul coaxed, stroking her in earnest now. “My sexy girl.”

  “Sexy,” Brynn repeated. “Fuck me, fuck your beautiful girl. I’m so hot, fuck me.”

  “Yes baby, yes,” Paul said.

  He fucked Brynn hard, harder than he intended, but Brynn didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, Brynn gripped his wrist and guided him, clamping her thighs around his hand. Paul could barely move his fingers inside Brynn, so he concentrated on rubbing her swollen clit. With just a few more rough strokes, he felt her thighs tighten convulsively around his hand as she started coming.

  Brynn’s body went taut and still, her hair loose around her shoulders now as she arched her back and pressed down on Paul’s hand. Then she opened her mouth and let out a moan that rose to echo off the bathroom walls. Months of pent-up emotion and suppressed desire exploded from her in that scream. It was like watching a mythical banshee unleashed, and Paul could only watch and marvel at her beauty.

  Wiggling his fingers inside her, he kept the pressure on her clit and rode out her orgasm. He stared at Brynn, as sexy as any woman he’d ever seen—coming, because of him. For him.

  Brynn’s orgasm seemed to last for minutes, and she gasped and panted as if she were in labor. Paul’s heart nearly stopped at that thought, but Brynn showed no signs of pain—only pleasure so intense Paul felt like they had never shared anything quite like this before.

  Finally, slowly, the moans faded to soft whimpers, and Brynn’s eyes fluttered open. Her radiant smile was a sight to behold, and Paul forgot all about his own barely controlled desire. He’d done this—he had made Brynn smile like this.

  Brynn opened her mouth, started to say something, and then shook her head. “Wow.”

  They both laughed, Paul’s fingers still inside Brynn, most of the bath water on the tile floor. Brynn shivered and grimaced as she tried to sit up. Paul gently slid his cramped fingers free.

  “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” he asked, feeling a pang of remorse. Maybe he shouldn’t have pushed Brynn so hard.

  Brynn laughed. “Did you mean it?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m beautiful like this.”

  Paul ran a finger over the light purple mark that ran down Brynn’s rounded belly. “Every inch of you, every curve, every mark. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “I believe you.” Brynn covered Paul’s hand on her stomach. “Now get me out of this tub and take me to bed so you can fuck me properly.”

  Paul grinned. “Anything you want, beautiful.”

  DAWN CHORUS

  Nikki Magennis

  Of course it’s not possible to stuff an entire duck-down pillow into the small shell-shaped hole of one’s ear, but John was trying nonetheless. Not that cotton and duck feathers would be enough of a muffler. He doubted that pouring cement in his ears, wrapping his head in deep pile carpet, and lead-lining the walls would be enough.

  The thump of the bass was the worst—he could feel it vibrate in the marrow of his bones—that regular, predictable bludgeoning kick. Pounding through the floor, rattling the glass in the window frames, making his whole body throb with a surround-sound headache. And then that jarring, jangling noise. Just after the out-of-tune wailing of the third chorus. He didn’t know the title, but he knew the song by heart—every riff, lick, and drum roll.

  She played it over and over. Usually at night. Always too loud. John ground his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. He glared at the glowing numbers on his bedside alarm clock. 3:10. Late enough to make him weep. He pressed his face into the mattress and moaned.

  Tears brimmed in Jane’s eyes as she sang along to the crackling LP. God, this song made her feel inside out. She played it loud with the window open, and the night air streamed into her studio flat, the dark breeze catching papers and spilling the unopened letters over the table, ruffling the edges of fabric, lifting the hem of the dresses hanging from the clothes rail, making the candles flicker and splutter with black, sooty flames.

  She screwed up the volume another notch and walked to the open window.

  “God, can you hear that?” she said, into the night. “Isn’t it beautiful? Doesn’t it make you want to fucking cry?”

  John’s suit hung over the back of his bedroom door. It wasn’t pressed, but as a well-cut suit it would pass if he left it undisturbed until morning to let gravity pull out the creases.

  It was not worth putting it on to go and visit his fiendish neighbor. It was not a good time for visiting. Nor, he thought bleakly, was it a good time for her to dig out her Mexican rock-and-roll LPs. Which she was in the process of doing, by the sound of it. He listened to her clunk and clatter. He sighed.

  There was little else in his room apart from his bed, the suit, and the alarm clock. John preferred to live with as few possessions, as few distractions as possible. He’d spent a great deal of time stripping back and reducing and simplifying. His life should be—would be—empty of clutter and open to the fabulous array of small, quotidian noises that he so loved, were it not for the amplified car crash below him.

  His nights were stuffed full, ripped apart and crammed with overbearing noise. Not just the music, either. The histrionics in between disturbed him greatly. She shook things loose in his head—distracting things like anger and resentment and a dumbstruck, confounded desire to saw his own ears off. These unpleasant emotional stirrings kicked around in his head like the hated bass beat.

  Four hours, he thought. If he could make it through another four hours, he could get up and snort coffee and escape to the peaceful cell of his office.

  Only now he was angry.

  The
monstrous hormone-riddled hysteric downstairs was howling, with her throaty, rough-honey voice, and bombs were going off inside John’s head. He imagined drilling holes in the floor, shooting a fire extinguisher through her letterbox, tying her up and forcing her to listen to Brahms at 100 decibels.

  He could call the police. They rarely showed up in this neck of the woods and would hardly bother for a minor neighborly row, not unless there were firearms involved—and John didn’t have any on hand. Probably a good thing, overall.

  Downstairs, the music paused. John took a deep breath. Silence crept into his ears like an old friend.

  And then it was the Moaning Young Men, as John referred to them in his head. The song was called “Last Night Love.” Or if you looked at it another way, the very last fucking straw, and the thing that was enough to make a usually calm and placid man roll out of bed and land on the floor with a resounding thud that would have alarmed an average human being but made no difference whatsoever to the noise freak below him.

  Insouciant, juvenile guitar riffs accompanied John as he pulled up his loose-fit pajama bottoms and made for the door. Outside, the sound echoed tinnily in the stairwell, and John, shrinking under the fluorescent tube lights, cursed the fact he’d so far failed to make it out of the ghetto and anywhere near the hillside monastic retreat wreathed in majestic clouds that he so often dreamed of. Or the suburbs, even.

  The concrete steps were cold underfoot, but he hardly noticed. He was trying not to listen to the voice in his head that had started its familiar old chant—the litany of injustices and everyday atrocities that had appalled him from his earliest awareness, through an offhand adolescence and his silent, thoroughly desperate early adulthood.