She gasped, dropped her washrag, jerked back in the metal tub, arms braced against its back as if preparing for an attack. The rain fell harder, washing down over her hair, face, down her breasts. As she watched, the man moved from his concealment, the low thatched roof of her cottage, the narrow space between her house and her neighbors. He was getting soaked in the rain, but he didn’t seem to care. His eyes were hungrily on her body. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
Emma felt the breath come harshly through her parted lips. Her hands clenched around the edge of the metal tub. Through the patter of the rain in the water gathered around her, its growling beat against the packed earth, she heard her own heavy breathing. Heard his.
She swallowed hard.
“The rain is here,” he said.
Rain and mud squished under his boots as he came closer to her. The rain fell harder, pouring down on his head, over his face, and beard. “You should get inside. Soon, lighting will come. It is not safe out here for you.”
Emma could only nod, quickly gather her rag, her wet dress. She stuffed her feet into her wet boots and dashed to her cottage. Tryggr followed. It was raining. She could not refuse him entry. At the door, she took off her muddy boots and went deeper into the cottage toward her sleeping area where she grabbed a towel.
Tryggr, blond hair wet and plastered to his head, beard soaking from the rain, bent to take off his muddied boots and leave them next to hers. Then he took off his axe, the braces holding the scabbard for his sword.
“Lady,” he said roughly. “I am sorely in need. Will you have me?”
The bulge at the front of his trousers left no doubt about what he needed. Emma licked her lips, the towel still held up to her body as she watched him. She had been lonely for so long. Nearly two years without a man to tend to her fires. Few men remaining in the village had been half the man her husband was. And the Vikings had been brutal to her at every turn. Except this one. He’d protected her. He’d fed her. And she could see by the fierce burn in his eyes that he wanted to love her as well.
Her deepest womanhood responded to him. To the blaze in his eyes. The bulk between his thighs. The promised gentleness. She felt her body grow wet for him, eager to have a man again, at last. Emma licked her lips again.
She nodded.
Tryggr released a harsh sigh, breathed loud in her little cottage. He pulled off his wet tunic and hung it where she had left her wet dress on the rack by the door. She gasped softly at the sight of his chest, thick and wide, battle scarred in places and ridged with muscle upon muscle. Tryggr took off his trousers and finally stood naked before her. His manhood thrust aggressively in the air. Emma dropped the towel she’d held up in front of her body.
They watched each other from across the room, taking the measure of what they saw. She was the one who made the first move. She held out her hand and he came across the room, big and blond and frighteningly muscled. But a man who had been kind to her. A man.
In her bedroom, she shoved aside the rough woolen sheets on the bed, sat down on the thick mattress and pulled him down with her. That was all she knew how to do.
“Lady...” He gasped softly. Gratefully.
The rain pounded on the roof, on the muddied ground outside. He pushed her back onto the bed, looking at her as he braced himself above her with one powerful forearm. He touched her wet hair, her face, tracing her mouth with a long finger. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he rumbled.
Her mouth tingled from his gentle touch. Emma blinked up at him in the semi-darkness of her bedroom. His hand moved down to her neck, tracing its fragile length, along the delicate lines of her collarbones, down the line between her breasts leading to her stomach and her wet sex. She sighed at his soft touch. It had been so long.
Another harsh breath rushed out of him. Emma could feel his hard length between her legs, firm and needful. She squirmed under him, her wetness and excitement growing.
He touched her everywhere, lovingly and gently, as if it had been months or years since he’d seen a naked woman. Emma sighed under his touches, her skin blooming with his tenderness. His fingers paused at the thatch of hair above her womanhood. He parted her thighs, parted the lips of her sex, his bright eyes eager on her wetness.
“Beautiful....” he groaned.
Tryggr kissed her wet lips. Emma jerked her hips in surprise. Her husband had never, ever...! Breath hissed between her teeth as pleasure sparked from the Viking’s tongue on her sex. She blinked furiously at the ceiling as he pressed his mouth to her hot and weeping center, spreading her with his fingers while his tongue licked the hot button of her desire, dipped low to slide inside her, thrusting deeply inside her damp and swollen body.
Emma gasped as he made love to her, stroking the center of her desire, thrusting deeply with his tongue as if indulging in a delicacy he hadn’t had for a long time. He moaned against her flesh and she sighed, dug her fingers into his wet hair, spread her thighs wide around his head. Emma panted as his movements sped up, his tongue fluttering deep inside her, his fingers stroking her bottom.
She clenched her teeth against her moans, not wanting anyone to hear. But then he touched her breasts. His big hands around her flesh, squeezing her nipples while he lapped at her sex, the sounds of his delicious enjoyment was like music in the room. Emma’s chest heaved as she panted for him. A tingling heat seared up from where he loved her. She bucked under his mouth, gasping, groaning. No longer caring about the noise. A searing heat overtook her. She clenched her eyes tight as her body went into a delicious shock, shuddering and coming around his tongue.
The sound of her panting was loud in the room. Tryggr moved up her body, eyes glittering. His breath puffed hot and passion-scented against her face. He grabbed his thick maleness, traced it along the wet line of her sex, gathering moisture, covering himself with the essence of her desire. Then thrust deeply into her.
Emma gasped from the thickness of him. She was full. Stretched more than she’d ever been in her life. Her fingers dug into the sheets. He groaned into her throat as he began to move, stroking her deeply with his heavy thickness. Soon, they were groaning together as Emma’s passion rose again. Higher. Her body quickened.
He grunted. Slamming into her until her head whipped back and forth in the bed, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks and face, a fire consuming her from the inside out. And she was panting from her pleasure, her sex overflowing with wetness around him as he thrust and thrust and thrust and they were both peaking together and he shouted her name in her throat.
After long moments, they moved apart. Emma sat up in the bed and looked down at the man she’d just made love with. He watched her too, lying on his back in her bed, his eyes lazy with sated desire. His big hand landed gently on her thigh.
“Emma.” He said her name as if it was a treasured thing. “I offer you my protection and my body.” He stroked her skin, a surprising tenderness from such a big man. “They are yours to accept or to deny.”
She watched him, feeling the quiet satisfaction in her body, the rightness of him in her bed, in her little cottage. A man of her own after all these years. A gentle man.
“I accept,” she said, her voice quiet with conviction and certainty.
His eyes warmed even more and he sat up in her bed, kissed her, surrounded her with the warmth and safety of his big body. After so long, it felt good to finally no longer be alone.
Business with Pleasure
by Jennifer Simms
Eric Carlson woke up in a pool of his own sweat. He was alone in his single bed, on top of the tan sheets, blinds open, struggling to rise as he gripped his head. He wasn’t hung over, far from it, but he was disoriented and sore just the same.
He looked down to find himself still half-dressed from the day before, one shoe on, his belt half-buckled, his dress shirt from work barely unbuttoned. He hardly remembered stumbling home the previous evening, her perfume all over him, her musk on his fingers, his lips, his tongue, his dick.<
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Amanda Pierce. He had fucked his boss, righteously, roughly, right there in her penthouse office. “Holy shit.” His voice was rough, still hoarse from ordering her into every conceivable position he could imagine. He stood, shaking his head, pacing the hardwood floors of his tiny fifth floor walk-up. His work jacket lay on the chair in the corner, roughly tossed aside. He never did that, if only because he had so few he rotated the same three all week long.
He made his way into the kitchen, sleepwalking through the process of making a cup of coffee as he spotted clues that he had, indeed, made it home last night; and barely in one piece.
His keys were tossed randomly on the kitchen counter, his wallet near the flour container, his messenger bag slung over a kitchen chair, untouched despite his massive workload. The fresh coffee roused his dormant brain cells and, with every sip, he flinched at the images that flooded his mind from the day before…
“Eric!” Amanda Pierce had barked, loud enough for the whole office to hear. “In my office, now.”
Fortunately it was the end of the day and, as usual, Eric was one of the last “artist drones,” as she called her graphic designers, to still be lingering around his cubicle, feverishly working on another round of last minute, rush edits for the Coleman’s Coffee account.
He hung his head on the way into the office, hearing the snickers of several of his coworkers as they rose to grab their coats, eager to be on their way home before the shouting began; again.
“Yes, Ms. Pierce?” Eric stood at her open door, wincing as he saw his latest changes displayed on the oversized computer monitor that sat on her work station. A fitness nut, Amanda worked at a standing desk for most of the day and only sat at her long, spotless work desk for client meetings or to take video conference calls.
She turned at the sound of his voice, whipping off her rectangular reading glasses to get a better look at him. “I thought I asked you to blur the edges of the sunflowers at the breakfast nook in this brochure draft.”
Eric shook his head involuntarily. “I will, Amanda, but… I still have to import the wife’s handbag as well as shade in the father’s beard. Remember?”
Her eyes grew wider with every excuse. “Are you kidding me, Eric? You haven’t done that yet?”
Eric’s temples pounded. This bitch had been riding his ass for days, weeks, months, ever since he’d been promoted from the temp pool to a full-time graphics artist for Amanda’s graphics design firm, Visioneering, Inc.
Ever since, she’d been on him to work harder, faster, better. He was always there early, never gone before 6 or 7 at night and could often be found, hunched over a cup of coffee and his keyboard most Saturdays.
He’d noticed that, while steely and cool to all her employees, Amanda didn’t treat anyone as poorly as she did Eric. While not one to be easily offended, he’d have to be blind and deaf not to note that the boss had taken a special interest in making his life at Visioneering a living hell.
She stood there, in snug burgundy slacks that hugged her endless thighs and a black turtleneck sweater that emphasized her long neck and small breasts, daring him to confront her.
Her eyes, so green and predatory, bored into his. Her hair was up, held in place by two silver chopsticks, and she still held her reading glasses in the hand that now rested against her leaning workstation.
He didn’t know why, but suddenly the thought of fucking her was overwhelming. He could picture it, his hands on those high, tight tits, grabbing her firm, round ass, spreading those legs as she begged him to take her, right there on her desk. Cliché? No doubt. Tempting? Fuck yes!
She was waiting for him to answer her, her chest moving forcefully up and down with the power of her impatience and the tap of each high-heeled toe. He slammed the door instead.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, glasses clattering on the workstation keyboard.
He took a step toward her, weighing the risk. If he kissed her, right then and there, and she wasn’t into it, he’d be fired, on the spot. Hell, she’d probably call the cops on his ass.
Security, at the very least.
He smirked. That’d be a win-win, he thought to himself. At least he wouldn’t have to work 70 hours a week for a towering, if tempting, shrew!
“What am I doing?” he croaked, voice tight with tension as he took another step toward her. “I’m doing what it’s obvious you’re asking me to do.”
He kissed her then, hard and fast on the lips. It was now or never. Either she’d knee him in the balls or have them between her lips in ten seconds flat.
Well, he was almost right; she did a little bit of both, but not exactly on his timeline. “Get… off… of me,” she spat, pushing him away with one hand as she wiped her lips with the back of the other. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
He stood his ground, smirking at her. Eric Carlson didn’t have much in this world, a crappy apartment, a crappy car, a crappy job and a hot boss, but this much he knew: chicks loved his cock. He’d never wanted for female companionship, not in bars at night or some random coffee shop barista the next morning.
Maybe it was his close-cropped black hair, his chiseled jaw or six-pack abs. Maybe it was his six-feet and then some status or his clear brown eyes, but mostly, Eric knew, it was his cock. He knew how to use it, he used it often and well, and chicks could sense that from across a crowded dance floor or lonely coffee shop.
Or, in this case, a corner office.
He walked with a swagger because he’d banged more chicks than most movie stars, and the more chicks he banged the more chicks wanted to bang him. Would Amanda? He could only hope so. She stood there, biting her lip and he knew, in that moment, she wasn’t going to knee him in the balls, wasn’t going to kick him out or call security.
Amanda Pierce wanted him, wanted him bad. And was she going to get him. Every last inch of him. And she was going to like it so much, she’d be begging him not to stop.
“Shut your blinds,” he ordered, slipping out of his jacket and tossing it onto the leather chair across from her desk. “Then lock your door.”
“The hell you say,” she spat, standing her ground with a defiant look on her young, radiant face.
“Trust me,” he growled, loosening his tie. “The quicker you do it, the easier I’ll be on you.”
She smirked then, the color risking to her cheeks. “Who says I want it to be easy?”
He locked the door for her, and lowered the blinds as well. The outer office looked empty, but what did he know? Hell, at this point, what did he care?
She stood next to her desk, nearly as tall as he was in her expensive black heels. “Take them off,” he commanded. She leaned down and did as she was told. “Now the rest of it.”
“Don’t you… don’t you want me to do it slow? Take my time?”
He inched forward, dropping his voice a notch. “I want you naked, hot and ready, and I want it now,” he growled. Just saying the words almost made him come!
She slid the turtleneck over her head, revealing a maroon bra to match her expensive linen slacks. They fell to the floor, and she folded them, carefully, before sliding them next to her jacket on the cabinet behind her. Her panties were black and tight and small; college girl panties.
He was already hard, and didn’t think he could get any harder. But seeing her thick snatch pressed against the panties made his tongue literally dart out and lick his lips.
“Funny,” he said, inching toward her, fingertips eager to touch every inch of her trim body. “I always figured you for a thong girl.”
Her voice was a small thing now, but still full of fight. “Never on a Thursday. I thought a player like you would know little details like that.”
He laughed and took off his tie. “Lie down,” he commanded, clearing her massive desk of a blotter and name plate.
She opened her mouth to dispute him but slid back onto the desk instead. He could tell from the way she winced it was cold on the back of her
bare thighs, but he knew it wouldn’t be for long.
She lay back, her body one long, taut muscle. He grabbed her hands, roughly, and yanked them back over her head. She gasped and, thinking he’d been too forceful, he was shocked to hear her moan with pleasure, ass already grinding into the heavy wood of her desk and moistness spreading from the crotch of her tiny panties.
He smiled to himself and tied one end of his neck tie around her wrists, anchoring the other to the foot of her desk. He tested it and found it solid. She tugged, too, and the tie gave little room for movement; just the way he wanted it.
Her arms were long and he admired the way her small, firm breasts heaved against her silky maroon bra. Her ribs were clearly visible above her long, narrow waist, made even longer now by the way her taut body stretched tight along the surface of the desk. His mouth ached to swallow each nipple, to gently lick around each mound, to taste her firm, white skin, to smell her exotic perfume as it oozed out of her pores.
He found a letter opener and, bending close, snapped the bra in two in the middle. She gasped again, the material falling away to reveal two tender buds that had never seen the sun. The nipples were pink and tight and stiff as he bent to them, tongue firm as he toyed with each one, watching them rise even higher and glisten with his saliva as his tongues danced around the hard, firm skin.
Wicked Desires (Vol. 1): Three Erotic Shorts Page 4
