by Celia Styles
“Why has it never happened before?”
“Usually, I’ve been too nervous. Sometimes the opportunity arose, and I just froze up. I was so frightened of saying or doing something that would disturb or upset the person I was with, I couldn’t do it,” he replied, glancing down at the floor as if he didn’t want to own up to everything that he was saying.
“Then why are you talking to me?”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem so easily shaken up.” He looked up at me again with a smile, and I felt my heart leap up into my chest. Just…the way he was looking at me. It was so gentle and sweet and kind, so unlike the cautious game-playing I saw from the other men I’d been in this position with.
Suddenly, I was aware of the proximity of his body, that I could just reach out and touch him in a moment. The reality of the situation sank in, and I allowed myself to reel in it for a moment. Whatever Ronan was, I wanted him. No, more than that—I needed him.
Leaning across the table, I pressed my lips to his. I saw his eyes momentarily widen as I approached, but he sank into my kiss easily, tilting his head so we could move ourselves even closer. His lips were soft and cool, just like his hand had been, and I pulled back after a few seconds.
“Do you know…what to do? From here?” I asked cautiously. He nodded, placing his hand over the top of mine. Even the minutest bit of contact from him sent a violent array of shivers up my spine.
“I think so. I might need some help from you to be sure, though.”
My breath hitched in my throat, and I stood up, gesturing towards the bed. “I think we should probably start here.”
“Whatever you want,” he agreed, standing and crossing over to the mattress. He held out a hand for me, and I joined him, sitting so that our knees were just bumping together.
It felt a little intoxicating, knowing that I was calling the shots here. I forced myself to look up at him, and he moved towards me again, more confidently this time. I parted his lips with my tongue, and we deepened the kiss, our mouths moving against each other as if on instinct. For someone who hadn’t done a lot of making out in their day, he sure knew what he was doing.
I took one of his hands and guided it to my waist, savoring the feeling of it through my blouse. I could feel a heat building deep inside me, a kind of pressure that threatened to bubble over at any moment. He sank his fingertips into my side a little, the sudden pressure taking me by surprise, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, drawing him even closer to me. The feeling of his mouth on mine was almost more than I could bear—so sweet and soft and careful, as if he was worried he might break me. He lifted his other hand up to my side and cradled me there, slowly moving his fingers across my skin as if testing new territory.
I leaned down and pulled us both on to the bed, moving myself so that he ended up on top of me. It had been such a long time since I’d felt the heat and pressure of a man this close to me, and it felt good. I ran my hands up his back, under his shirt, savoring the feeling of his skin under my palms as he continued to kiss me.
Slowly, he pulled back, and lowered his mouth down to my neck.
“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath tickling my skin, and I nodded, unable to verbalize just how much I wanted him to carry on.
He pressed his lips to the sensitive point right where my ear met my neck, and I let out a soft moan. He seemed taken by surprise, worried he was hurting me, but when he saw my ecstatic expression, he carried on. The feeling of his lips carefully moving across the sensitive skin on my throat was beyond erotic. The heat of his breath mixed with the cool touch of his mouth sent my mind into convulsions, trying to keep up with the intensity of the feelings below my waist.
Placing my hands on his head, I guided his face down lower, pulling at my shirt 'til it revealed one of my breasts. The clothes had been specially constructed for female guests of these creatures, but they hadn’t considered the need for undergarments.
As soon as his lips came down across my nipple, I was glad that there wasn’t another layer of fabric to peel off. I just wanted to feel him all over me, all at once. I pulled at his shirt again, and he sat up and slipped it off before continuing to suck and nibble at my breast. I ran my hands across his strong back, marveling at the feeling of his muscles under my fingers.
I had never been with a man I’d wanted as profoundly as this before, one of whom I wanted to get to know every inch. I felt a pang of sadness as I remembered that I wouldn’t be able to recall a thing about him in the end, but dismissed the thought from my head. I couldn’t imagine any kind of memory wiping technology could remove the sensation of his lips on my skin from my head.
Pushing up the hem of my top, Ronan went lower, kissing my lower belly and the sensitive line just next to my hip.
“Can I go…lower?”
“Yes,” I managed to gasp out, fumbling hurriedly with my jeans.
Smiling, he brushed my hands away and deftly dealt with the zipper and the buttons, his fingers tantalizingly close to my most sensitive flesh. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—the concentration in his face, as if this was the most important thing he’d done or would ever do. He pushed the jeans over my hips and down my legs, and I let out a long, ragged breath as I watched him take me in for the first time. I saw real lust in his eyes, and the harsh, serious look aroused me beyond belief.
He ran a hand across my thigh, as if testing it out, and moved his hand between my legs. I parted them almost without thinking, drawing my knees up to grant him easier access to my clit, and reached down to guide his hand where it needed to be.
As soon as his fingers came into contact with my clit, I let out a long, slow groan, allowing myself to get lost in the feeling of his deft digits on my soaking pussy. His fingers moved in slow circles across my aching flesh, finally giving me a little bit of relief as he peppered kisses up the inside on my thigh. I arched my back in pleasure, my body moving entirely on instinct by that point, and he kissed from my legs to my wet pussy.
He moved his tongue against me gently, using it to take the place of my fingers, and I reached down to grip his hair and guide him in time with the motion of my gently rocking hips. I bit my lip, hard, not wanting to distract him with my moans, as he sealed his lips around my clit and sucked lightly.
Pushing my leg aside, he moved between my thighs and carefully positioned himself so that his face was buried in my juices. I let out a soft cry, bucking gently as he swept his tongue slowly from the bottom of my slit to the very top of my pussy.
He reached up with one long arm and began pinching and twisting at my nipple, sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain across my entire body. I was entirely lost to the ecstasy of the feeling now, wanting to let myself get lost in the pressure that was building between my legs.
He slowly drew back, and I looked down, biting my lip at the sight of his damp mouth.
“Can I…fuck you now?” he asked softly, and I nodded, my heart beating fasting than it had ever done before. I wanted him—I wanted him more than I could possibly articulate.
He pulled himself up on to his knees and pushed his pants off his legs. I scanned down his body; it was basically human, except a little paler and smoother. I wanted nothing more than to run my fingers across every inch of his skin, but I was distracted by the feeling of him positioning himself at the entrance to my slit. I watched him maneuver his impressive erection, and as I felt his head nudge inside of me, I let out another moan. Unable to take any more, I lifted my leg up and placed it on his shoulder, pulling him towards me and guiding him inside me.
As soon as he was fully inserted, I felt as if I could relax—this is all I had wanted, this is all I had wanted from the moment that I’d laid eyes on him. I pulled him down so that I could lean up and kiss him, and our bodies began to move in rhythm with each other. I tilted my hips up to meet him as best I could, and he stared down at me, slowly moving in and out of me with ease.
“You’re pretty good, for a first tim
er,” I teased gently, my voice breathy.
He grinned down at me, looking suddenly boyish and young, and I leant up to kiss him again. He began to move with more purpose then, as if he’d finally figured out exactly what he was meant to be doing, and I felt that delicious pressure that had been threatening me since the moment I’d walked into this room build, build, build…and then burst, the orgasm tearing across my body like a wildfire.
I couldn’t hold back my moans then, moving my hips in time with him as he slid even deeper inside of me. Our bodies just seemed to fit perfectly, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, and he felt so damn perfect within me. I felt my pussy clench around him as my orgasm faded away, and watched his face intently, focusing in on the way he closed his eyes and bit his lip. I wanted to commit every moment to memory, to absorb his face and store it somewhere far beyond the reach of any memory wiping technology.
With a small gasp, he reached his own climax, twitching inside of me and clutching me even closer. Our bodies rocked against each other once more, before he slowly withdrew himself and lay down gently on the bed next to me. I pulled his head onto my chest, wanting to take a little longer to absorb the smell and feel of his face this close next to me.
“That was…” He trailed off, as if even his alien vocabulary didn’t have anything that could sum up how he felt. I smiled, gratified.
“Yes, it was,” I agreed, running my fingers across his head and tracing them down his cheekbone. “Shame I won’t remember any of it tomorrow, though.”
He sat up. “Maybe we could…make an exception?”
I tilted my head at him. “In what way?”
“I don’t want either of us to forget this,” he replied, his voice suddenly full of emotion. “I want to…do this again.”
“You’re not going to keep me here, are you?” I asked, a slight jolt of panic going through my system.
He shook his head. “No. But maybe…it won’t be long 'til we make contact. Maybe even this year. If you could wait…if we could both wait…we could…see each other again,” Ronan offered, not looking at me, as if he was worried I might turn him down.
“So I’d get to hold on to my memories of you?” I asked softly. The prospect was tempting.
“You couldn’t tell anyone about anything of this,” he warned.
“But I would get to remember you.”
He nodded.
“Then that’s what I want.”
He seemed taken aback by my gentle agreement, and took my hand in his, tracing the lines of my palm with his finger. “And I’ll come for you, when all of this is over. And we can take it from there.”
“Well, it’s a different kind of date,” I laughed, and felt a wave of…something pass over me. Maybe it was relief, relief that I wouldn’t have to forget Ronan. And maybe it was something else. Maybe it was hope. Hope, that now I remembered this trip, I would go home and do something genuinely extraordinary. Hope that by the time Ronan came back, I would feel as extraordinary as he thought I was. Maybe that was what it was.
As I lay there, in that alien bed in that alien place, I had never felt more sure about myself and what I was going to do.
SURPRISE!
I like providing my readers with a little extra content… because, who’s ever satisfied with one short story? As my gift to you, I’ve included another short story in this book. All you have to do is flip a couple pages until you get to the next story. Consider this as my way of sharing my appreciation for you choosing to read my stories. Thanks!
“As a thanks for checking out my book, I’d like to give you access to my Fiction Insider’s List, along with a FREE eBook! As soon as I come out with another hot & sexy new-release or have a book sale, you’ll be the first to know!” – Celia Styles
(Simply Click the Link Below)
2 Hot Guys – 2 Hot Girls – One Woman’s Pleasure - Enough Said
By Celia Styles
Once a month, Janet Cleary hosts a “Martini Morning”, where all of the bored suburban housewives get together, gossip, and drink. We tell our husbands that it’s a book club, but in reality the only book that gets discussed is Fifty Shades, mostly because it’s the only book that makes more sense the more drunk you get.
Janet’s house is the biggest in the neighborhood: the neighborhood being the suburban paradise of Wild Flower Meadows, full of nice large lush green lots, McMansions with faux-Tudor exteriors and earth-tone interiors, where the smallest car is a Nissan crossover and the status is determined by who crafts the most elaborate bento box for their child. Well, maybe not the last—after all, I wasn’t the only childless one in the group—but there was definitely a certain degree of oohing and ahhing over what you posted on Pinterest. Janet, with her pixie haircut and Julia-Roberts smile, was thankfully not into bento boxes but she did decorate her house every Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and made all of her baked goods from scratch.
On this particular morning, I was one of six other women there, sitting on the plushy soft couches of what was called the “rec room”. The ottoman held a large, clear plastic tray, which held the martini mix and vodka, in case martinis at noon wasn’t strong enough for you. Another bowl held pimento-stuffed olives, while yet another contained little pickled onions. The room was large and spacious, airy and kissed with sunlight—and despite it all I felt cramped. I’d somehow gotten stuck with Jessica Riley as a conversation partner. Jessica and I were complete, polar opposites—she was blockbuster, I was art house; she was a vegan, I liked my steaks rare and bloody. She had the body of a walking stick; my curves were the definition of "luscious". We were friendly enough—she, at least, wasn’t obnoxious about being a vegan or about her pet causes (she volunteered at the SPCA)—but having a conversation was like trying to talk to the dead.
Marley Hennig, my best friend, was across the room chatting with Gary, the only guy in the group—not gay, alas. Gary was a new stay-at-home dad who’d been invited to our group by Sarah Jacobson; we felt bad for him, mostly. Their newborn cried all night and slept all day, to hear him tell it, and indeed, the little worm-faced creature was asleep in the carrier, while Gary, wearing a five o’clock shadow the way most women wear eyeliner, seemed relieved to be having a conversation that wasn’t about diaper blowouts or spit up. Marley wasn’t classically beautiful, but she used to dance professionally, so in addition to her expressive eyes she knew how to move herself and speak through her body as well. The effect was always strongest on guys—and those of us who were watching her conversation with Gary were quite amused—but I noticed myself falling under her spell, too.
“You’re not listening to me,” Jessica said, pouting.
“I’m sorry,” I said, blinking. “I was just thinking about the martinis.”
“You should really try the ones at Milligan’s,” she said, smiling. Or pretending to smile. I couldn’t tell. It was all the same in suburbia: pretending to be perfect was just as taxing as being perfect, so you might as well be perfect.
It was another dull Martini Morning, but I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to go. In about another hour, when the booze started working its magic, we’d all start with complaining about our husbands—going through each of their faults in mind-numbing detail. "He always leaves his socks in the hallway!" one of us would say. And the others would chime in with, "Mine does that, too!" or "At least it's not his underwear!" and we'd all pretend to be scandalized. Because despite the space we had around and between our houses, the pseudo-wildlife in the park, and the Starbucks just ten minutes away, living in the suburbs was a stifling existence. The conformity it brought was comforting for a while--but when you realized you'd been trapped, it was too late. The metaphorical fuzzy handcuffs turned out to be made of cold steel after all, and all you could do was brace yourself and wish it would be over soon.
Still: getting drunk was cheaper than therapy, even though we all seemed to tacitly agree that talking about cheating husbands was taboo, because no matter what you said, peo
ple heard: She's a harpy, a shrew, who drove him away. She was too demanding, taking all and giving nothing, no wonder he looked elsewhere. So socks-in-the-hallway became a substitute for "strange receipt in the pocket", leaving the toilet seat up became an emotional code for "he never listens", and forgetting a birthday was a sign of impending marital doom.
I was on my second martini, waiting for the booze to hit me, and I looked over at Gary. He was sitting alone again, and I was wondering where Marley went when she appeared in front of me, holding a glass with two olives. "Some morning, huh?" Marely asked, sitting down next to me. "Hi Janet." Marley pursed her lips and sucked the olive inside her mouth with a little pop. "What's wrong, babe?" she asked me.
"Nothing," I said. "Just enjoying the view," I said, raising my eyebrows at her décolletage. Marley had a nice, svelte figure and wasn't shy about showing it off, and my staring at her was mostly out of a wish that I could get it together enough to wear something like that.
Marley sighed. "If you're not going to be honest with me I can't be your friend," she said.
"I’m being honest," I said, even though I was lying through my teeth. "It's nothing that you want to hear."
Because the fact was, Alan had been cheating on me since the day we met. I hadn't wanted to look or see the reality of the facts before--I'd been eager to buy his excuses, that "Tiffany" was a business partner, that "Britney" was a supplier. I still wanted to believe in the romance that led us into falling into the bed together, drunk on cheap frat house beer, giddy with hormones. We made the mistake of thinking that hating our parents was enough to build a relationship on. Seven years later, the shoddy foundation of our lives together had completely crumbled, leaving nothing but the naked truth of our lives.
Truth be told, even I managed to convince myself that things weren't so bad--that there was nothing a little therapy and marriage counseling couldn't fix. He let me run things the way I wanted. I had time and money to paint, and had even managed to sell a few paintings. I joined a gym, volunteered at the library, and had what was pretty much the perfect life. Minus the good husband, but hey, everything comes with a price, right? And the price I paid was not having a man who honored his wedding vows.
