The Wicked Pleasures Bundle (Wicked Pleasures: Volume 1/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 2/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 3)

by Cole, Abbie

  Watching him considering my long, curled legs for several moments, I observe his gaze travelling slowly upward, to my face. As I continue sipping, I know I am not as relaxed as I appear; my gaze hard and sharp, as my eyes are fixed unseeing on the rug.

  I know he’s waiting and watching me, eventually I turn my head and look at him. Searching his face, I arch my brows. My message is clear. I am not going to be the one to make the first move. When we were in high school, I had. I was the one who flirted with him. I was the one who had camped out near his locker in between classes. I was the one who called. I don’t want to be the one who takes it to the next level at our ten year high school reunion. I have some pride.

  Now, if he wants me, he will have to ask. He needs to make his desire plain, lay it out.

  There is no question that I want him. My clit throbs just being in the same room with him.

  Raising a brow in reply, he leans over and reaches for my hand. Thank, God. I sent up a silent prayer.

  He got to his feet and began drawing me to him, waiting as I rose up on my toes. I know that if he kisses me on the sofa, we might never leave it. And I want this experience to be more comfortable then groping’s in the living room on an uncomfortable couch.

  As I straighten, his eyes lock on mine and my breath slows. With his hold on my hand, he tugs gently, drawing me a step closer, still holding me captive with his gorgeous blue eyes. I’ve always loved his eyes. They are piercing and they see straight into my soul.

  I don’t want to keep my distance. I want to be wild and crazy tonight. I want to take a chance and see where it leads.

  Before, I’ve always been so eager—so damned impatient that I had wondered over the years if he had truly wanted me in high school, or if I had just made it too easy for him to say no. But he seems to want me now.

  His lips move over my skin, hot with promise, until a heated flush now rises under it.

  Lifting his head just a little, he draws me closer still. I let my hand fall to his shoulder as his arm slides around me and he draws me in. Against him, but I am not trapped or crushed. I am right where I had hoped to be, wrapped in his arms.

  Bending his head again—stopping just before our lips met. He seems to wait a heartbeat, as if he wants me to realize his hunger. To feel how desperately he wants me. It matches my own desperation. Ten years is a long time for passion to simmer. He closes the gap and begins feeding me soft kisses. Like gentle rain on parched ground. He coaxes my senses to slowly unfurl. He teases my nerves with the promise of paradise, as I part my lips on a sigh.

  He doesn’t enter, instead draws back. Whispering across my lips, “I’ve missed you, Anna. I want you, and you want me. For tonight, let that be enough.”

  Blinking up at him, I wonder, knowing all the while I want much more. He could do anything he wants to me. I change my mind, he can take me right here on the couch or against the wall—I just want to feel his thick cock filling me, sliding into my wetness. “Yes.”

  The word drifts from my lips to his.

  He kisses me again, a tantalizing touch.

  He murmurs his voice deep and low, “Invite me to your bed.”

  That, I agree to without hesitation.

  My eyes on his, I draw back, my mouth swollen and wet. Catching his hand as I did, then stepping back, turning and leading him from the room, to my bedchamber, waiting as he shut the door, then leading him to the end of my bed.

  Turning to him, all I can do is wait. In the dim light from the open window, I meet his eyes. I feel rather than see the desire in his blue depths, and I enjoy savoring it, drowning in it. I want to remember this night for the rest of my life. Perhaps this memory will keep me warm for another ten years?

  His breathing hardens, “I’ve fantasized about touching you again for years.” His thumb moving over my fingers, stroking, then he releases my hand, stepping closer. Raising both hands, he frames my face, tipping it up to his. He looks down for one long moment, as if searching my eyes for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked, bending his head he kisses me again.

  Longingly.

  Hungrily, yet I can tell his hunger is leashed. Greedily, letting me taste his wanting, yet holding back, not taking.

  I wouldn’t stop him if he did, yet at this moment I am content to follow. To let him show me what he wants. Needs.

  His kiss is deepening degree by degree, until a tide of response, of a longing to match his, rises up and swamps me. Both my restraint and thoughts get swept away all at once. Leaving only sensation and feeling to cling to.

  I cling, my soul rejoices.

  He holds to the slow pace. Slow and steady. Not the urgent fuck I was expecting. As he slides his hand down my jaw, he teases me with the drag of his finger, down my throat wrapping his large hand over the back of my neck.

  Growing restless, I reach for him. He releases my neck, catching my hands, stepping into me as he eases my arms behind me. Anchoring both my wrists in one hand, he traps them at the back of my waist, holding me within his arm.

  With his free hand he traps my jaw and angles my face so he can continue the deep kissing—drawing it out until I am breathless. Now he shifts his lips to my temple, cruising over my ear and down to press a hot caress in the sensitive hollow beneath. “I’m going to fuck you, Anna.”

  I whimper, and try to shift into him, but he holds me back, keeping at least an inch between our bodies. “Hurry.”

  “Not yet,” he murmurs, ducking his head, he tips my jaw so he can trace the long arching line of my throat with his lips. I begin to shudder beneath his caress, and melt. Willing to surrender to him completely, I want to see what he wants to give me.

  He presses his lips to the pulse point at the base of my throat, then sucks, bites, blowing a cool stream of air to cool my bruised flesh, continuing to nip at my flesh again before soothing it with a flick of his tongue. I feel more of my impatience falling away. Breathing in, I draw the masculine scent of his skin into my lungs, holding it there, close to my heart.

  Lifting his head, he finds my lips and kisses me again. Still slow, still hungry he begins to lower his hand to my breast allowing the warm mounds fill his palm.

  Reacting instantly—I immediately want him to release my hands so I can sink them into his hair and set the pace. I know he knows what I want, but he continues to hold me, keeping my hand trapped as he kneads, while his fingers search and, through the silk of my dress, finds and circles my nipple. My body responds, frantic.

  My kiss is growing hungrier, more demanding, yet still he holds me back. He traces, strokes, runs his thumb over the furled peaks, until my breasts are swollen and firm, straining beneath the confining silk, the languid heat flows in my veins.

  Only now does he consent to move on. It is the work of less than a minute as he slips the straps of my dress down, releasing the pressure as he holds me to our kiss.

  I sigh as he finally releases my hands and slides my dress down, letting it glide down my slender body until it slithers over my hips and down my legs to puddle on the floor.

  Leaving me clad only in my silk bra, thong and thigh-high silk stockings. They are black, too—dark veils too insubstantial to fully screen my skin.

  He’s seen me naked often enough in years past; but that was when I was a teenager, and that was a long time ago. To see him transfixed now is a curious delight. I shift, stretch, and watch his eyes track my breasts, my hips, tracing my waist.

  Setting one hand to his shoulder, I step out of my discarded gown and into him.

  To my surprise, he catches me, his hands lock about my waist. Holding me as I am, the tight peaks of my breasts just brush his coat, trembling as the rough fabric scrapes erotically against my hardened nipples.

  An excruciatingly tantalizing caress; I need to get closer, to ease the ache in my heavy breasts, but he holds me trapped.

  He looks into my face, searches my eyes, my expression, in the dim light. I have no idea what he sees as he bends his head, still moving far too
slowly for my liking. At least his lips close on mine and this time his tongue surges deep in my mouth. Not in any fury of desire, not as I want, but with slow intent, a measured, unhurried, almost languid claiming that somehow, to my reeling senses, is strangely erotic.

  With my lips and tongue, I am trying to urge him on, to make him go faster, to ignite a roaring fire.

  But he won’t let me. He holds to his slow beat, and refuses to let me push him. Even though the heat between us is intense, he keeps it at simmering, steadily burgeoning, escalating, but totally under his control.

  A shiver goes through me. As the kiss goes on, spun out, and leaves me slowly whirling along the outer edges of a vortex of pleasured delight. A primitive shudder of anticipation runs down my spine.

  He pauses in his slow, devastatingly thorough claiming of my mouth, then the kiss changes and deepens as one of his hands drifts from my waist.

  I feel the brush of his fingers as they slide down my body, with his fingertips he traces—slowly—upward from my hip along my side to the underside of my breast. Slowly reaching behind he unhooks my bra, letting it fall slowly over my shoulders and down my arms before landing on the floor.

  Moving slowly, smoothly, he palms my breast. At last skin-to-skin, he closes his hand about my flesh and the flames leapt.

  Just so far. They flare and fall as he touches me—everywhere. As he claims every inch of my skin—unhurriedly, explicitly, as if he has all night and intends to use it.

  His desire, his absolute intent to make me his, to claim me, brand me, reach me through his touch. Through every caress of his hard hands, through every sweep of his palms he sculpts my body, through every slow, languid, thorough exploration is all-consuming.

  It almost feels as if he is trying to learn me anew. Those long-ago times had been in some other life and we are both different people now. I am no longer a girl with a girl’s body, but a woman.

  I keep trying to push him, to let the flames free, but he keeps holding me back. Gasping, breathless, as he caresses every inch of my lush body I want and wait for him to possess.

  He savors my breasts at length, only with his hands, knowing I ache for more.

  “Later.” He breaths the words across my swollen lips then takes them again in a long, deep kiss, one sufficiently demanding to keep me absorbed—that together with his caresses leaves me no mental space to gather my resolve and push him.

  He runs his hand down the long sweeping planes of my back, the indentation of my waist, the flare of my hips—he studies them all.

  He set his thumb to my navel, and presses in and out in a rhythm I know very well. My hands are on his shoulders; shifting to his throat, fingers curling over his nape as I cling. My heat rises within as he draws his thumb from my navel and skims his hand down, pushing past the silk of my panties and with the backs of his fingers he brushes the crisp curls at the apex of my thighs. I shudder, feeling my fingers tense at his nape.

  He draws back from the kiss, easing back and looks at me—at my body, skin flushes and heats, all but quivering with need, screened by the silk veil of my thong.

  I run my hand down his chest and cup him. He is fully aroused. His erection tents the front of his pants. I lick my lips in the anticipation of unwrapping his package.

  One hand on my waist, anchoring me, with his other he grasps my panties, gathers a handful and rips them down my leg; I can hear the fabric tear in his haste to remove them. I shift and wriggle letting the remaining material fall to my feet before kicking them away.

  Immediately I reach for my stockings.

  He stops me, catching my hands again in his, moving my arms back and once again locks them in the small of my back. He draws me full against him. I look up, eyes wide—struggling to hide the effect of his clothing rasping against my sensitized skin.

  “Leave your stockings on.” His voice is a bass rumble, coming from deep in his chest.

  My skin feels alive, my nerves aroused by his caressing and now shocked into heightened awareness by the realization that he is still fully clothed while I am …naked but for my black silk stockings.

  It isn’t modesty that has me reeling.

  How has he done this? How has he—

  His mouth swoops down on mine, I can’t even think.

  I can only feel as his hands lock on my hips as he half turns me and steers me back a few steps until my legs hit the end of my bed.

  It is a high four-poster bed; the footboard behind my calves and knees ends lower than the top of the mattress.

  His hands grip and he lifts me, but he doesn’t throw me back on the bed as I expect; he sits me on the edge of the mattress.

  He lets go of me and steps back.

  Dazed, adrift, I blink up at him. Putting my hands behind me on the cool bedspread I brace my arms to lean back as far as I can. I notice his lips curving in a smile that is all but arrogant, as all conquering males do.

  “Spread your legs.” His eyes trap mine. “Wide.”

  A shiver runs down my spine, but I comply.

  Now I watch as his gaze lowers from my eyes to my lips, to my breasts swollen, peaked, flushed from his earlier ministrations. Watching his bright blue eyes grow darker, stormier, as they skate down over my ribs, over my waist and belly, to fix on the soft flesh I’ve willingly revealed to him.

  I feel my flesh throb, dampen. His eyes devour, hungrily, his tongue flicks out and licks his lips.

  “Good.” The word is a guttural growl. He steps closer, between my spread knees, wetness glistens on my thighs, dewy drops glistening in my curls. The bed is high so it is easy for him to lean down and kiss me, drawing me once more into the drugging, enthralling exchange. Now he sets his hands to my body again.

  Reducing me to gasping, trembling need before he consents to touch me between my thighs, to stroke me, parting my folds, he finally slides a long finger deep into my sheath and gives me the first part of what I want.

  Finally he eases a second finger in alongside the first, to my immense relief, twisting, turning and thrusting. But then, his hand still working steadily between my thighs, he draws back and studies me once again.

  I open my eyes and look at him. I watch him watching me. Seeing myself through his eyes, naked except for my stockings; my legs spread, his hand between, pleasuring me. He is still fully clothed; he isn’t touching me anywhere else.

  What I see in his face has me shuddering. Biting my lip against a moan, I close my eyes—and feel the slow scorching burn of passion controlled. More intense, more powerful, more potent. With every slow, possessive thrust of his fingers he presses in me.

  I feel my flesh swell as he fills me. My gasps turn into pants.

  He draws back. Easing his fingers so they are now only just penetrating me, playing at my entrance in the slickness he’s drawn forth.

  My whirling senses slow; a protest is on my lips as I feel him lean close. Planting a large hand on the bed beside me, he leans down—and sets his mouth to my breasts.

  On a half gasp, half moan, I let my head loll back.

  I want to hold him to me, but my arms are too weak to support myself on just one.

  So I have to sit here, propped on my arms, and letting him do what he wants to me. Letting him taste me, savor me. He licks, laves and suckles my breasts, my shoulders, and my navel. He licks the outer curve of my hip, the junction where thigh and hip meet, the long upper sweep of my thigh.

  He looks up, desire is apparent on his face. “Do you want me between your legs, licking your pussy?”

  I nod helplessly.

  He lazily and unhurriedly claims me with his mouth, his fingers continue to stroke between my thighs. Until I think I might go mad.

  At last he kneels between my knees. By now I am so heated, so tense, so desperate as he draws his fingers from me. He slides his hands beneath my bottom and grips, holding me and shifting me, then replacing his fingers with his mouth, with his tongue.

  Tasting me here as he has elsewhere, licking, laving, an
d suckling.

  Slowly. Thoroughly. Unhurriedly.

  I think I might die.

  “Damn, you taste good.”

  Utterly and completely helpless, more alive than I’ve ever been, more aware of the intimacy of the act than I’ve ever thought possible, I have to lie back and let him do as he wants.

  Letting him overwhelm my senses, that reduces me to a mindless animal craving that reaches all the way to my bones.

  I need to feel him inside me so desperately that it hurts. I ache wanting to feel the pressure of his cock sliding into my wet channel.

  I find myself thrashing, sobbing and pleading.

  As he holds me down and takes me with his tongue, probing my opening, possessing me utterly. His wet tongue rasps around my opening before his tongue spears me, opening me with his mouth.

  I hear myself scream, luckily breathlessly. A massive wave of heat rises then breaks over me and drags me down into a whirlpool of fire that leaps and roars. The fragile furnace within me can’t contain the inferno. It shatters, shards of heat fly down every nerve, eventually slowing and now sinking into my flesh, melting and warming. It is amazing.

  As reality, still heats and flushes, returns, I feel battered and racked by the intensity of the release—the explosion.

  I open my eyes, and see him through the shadows moving back toward me.

  He quickly removes his clothes.

  He stands in front of me totally naked. His cock jutting thick and full, magnificently aroused the broad head slick with pre-come. He swirls the pearly drop over the head, slowly stroking his own cock as he walks towards the bed.

  I am too wrung out to move. I find myself laying here while watching him come to me. His large, tanned, muscular body bunches and flexes with each step. He is still beautiful.

  He reaches the end of the bed, looms over me and sinks both fists into the bedspread on either side of me and leans nearer to look into my face with heavy-lidded eyes. He searches my eyes, and says, “Don’t say a word. Don’t try to do anything.”

  I blink, whimper, and attempt to hold my tongue.