Best Erotic Romance 2013

by Kristina Wright

  Ryan has tried to get through to me but I’ve ignored all his calls and all his texts and all his everything. I’ve tried really hard to ignore him in my sleep, too, but he keeps cropping up with his big smile, his bright green eyes and his floppy brown hair that feels just so good between my fingers. He comes to me every night in my dreams and he’s always carrying cake, that cake, the cake of my dreams. I wake up craving. I wake up gnawing on my pillow with frustration. My stomach rumbles and my pussy aches with need of Ryan and his sinfully delicious cake of calorific catastrophe.

  And this morning when I woke, filled with hunger pains and emotional torment I looked down at my phone. On it I found a text.

  Karen told me you’re on a diet. I have baked a cake for you. I’ll be home from six tonight please come over and have a slice. I miss you. Ryan x

  Pffft. She’s meant to be my best friend and here she is telling Ryan of all people about my diet. And he knows me so well, he knows what I want. Cake. I spend the rest of the day wrestling with my need. I won’t go to his house. I am not going to let him tempt me. I don’t give in to the doughnuts that Julie brought in for her birthday. I eat my salad at lunch and drink nothing but water all day. I type like I’m possessed, and I don’t think of him and his cake. His delicious, perfect cake. I get three quarters of the way home after work then I catch a scent in the air. Warm chocolate. I can’t resist anymore and in moments I find myself on his doorstep. He opens the door with a smile on his face.

  “If I knew you were coming I’d have baked a cake,” he sings, then with a chuckle adds, “actually I have baked for you, do you want a slice?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He doesn’t ask questions, he doesn’t make excuses, doesn’t make me apologize; he just takes my hand and leads me to cake.

  “Fuck, this is good.” I lick my lips and smile at him, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Whatever possessed you to diet anyway? You’re perfect as you are.”

  “Only you think so, Ryan,” I sigh. My heart aches when I think of what I threw away, my dreams were not just fueled by my need for cake. I craved Ryan more than anything else.

  “Laura, you’ve got a little buttercream…”

  “Where?” I wave my hand in front of my face. He slides closer to me on the sofa and turns my face toward him with a fingertip. My skin burns where he touches me.

  “Just, there,” he whispers. His lips close in on mine and he’s kissing me; his tongue snakes out and brushes my lips; I open my mouth and allow him entrance. I am in heaven. I can taste creamy chocolate and hard man.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasp when our lips part for a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh,” he replies, places a finger over my lips, “I believe you dripped a little bit of buttercream down here too.”

  “No,” I mumble round his finger, “I didn’t.” Yes, I am that stupid.

  “Oh, I must have done it then,” he says, bending to the side, sliding his finger through the top of the gorgeous cake then running the chocolate gooeyness down my chest. “Silly me.”

  His finger trails down over my chin and into my cleavage. He smiles wickedly then kisses trails of burning lust down to my breasts.

  “Chocolate and you,” he says, “my favorite things.”

  “Yes,” I reply, “I couldn’t live without your cake.”

  He pouts so sweetly and I laugh. A real, proper laugh. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done that.

  “What? No one bakes for me like you.”

  “No, my love, they don’t. Now let me fuck you. It is the only payment I demand for my top-class chef skills.”

  “Yes,” I reply as he rips open my blouse buttons, “and very reasonable a payment plan it is too.”

  “I’ve always thought so,” he moans. Ryan licks and nibbles my chocolate-smeared chest while he fiddles with the fastening of my bra. He’s surely covering it with chocolate fingerprints, but I really don’t care. I moan as the catch clicks open. He rips the lacy material from my shoulders and throws it to the side. Ryan then dips his fingers in the icing once more and slaps a blob onto each boob. He’s careful to cover both nipples; he runs his fingertip around them several times exciting them to rock-hard nibs, then he ducks his head to capture one in his mouth. He sucks there for a while then swaps to the other. I’m burning with need and desire by the time he’s licked me clean.

  “I need more…” I groan and reach out to whip his T-shirt off and over his head “…chocolate.” The buttercream is cool and deliciously greasy on my fingers. I trail them over his chest, leaving a trail of chocolate goodness that I follow with my lips and tongue. I love the contrast of cool, giving icing against his hot, hard chest. I tease his nipples then dip into his belly button as I slip off the sofa and onto the floor at his feet. I settle between his thighs. I can feel his cock straining against his jeans as my breasts jiggle at the level of his crotch.

  “I still need more,” I say, and I pop open the button on his jeans and gently release the zip. “I can’t get enough.” I pull them down his legs with his underwear and smile when his hard, eager cock comes into view.

  I am glad to find there’s still a lot of buttercream on the cake and pull it off with my fingers and slap it onto his dick. I smooth it all around and try to cover every straining pink inch of him. He whimpers with need when I cup my hand around him just to smooth the sweet paste evenly all over. I smile and lick the chocolate off my fingers one by one. I slowly fuck each digit in and out of my mouth and keep my gaze locked on his. I know he’s thinking about my lips being fastened around his cock; I can read it all over his face. He’s as desperate for me as I am for him. I still take my time, enjoying the buildup of tension and lust in the pit of my stomach and the sweet, richness of the delicious icing.

  I can feel the chocolate smeared over my lips and cheeks. I know I look a mess. I don’t care. All I can think about is tasting him. I drop my mouth to the tip of his erection and gently lay tight-lipped kisses all over his straining head. His whimpers grow into loud moans of frustration. I cover his cock with kisses and teasing licks. I know what he wants and I place my lips on his tip and slowly let them slip wider and wider until I envelop him and can move lower to take in more of his rod.

  “Yes!” His hiss is a desperate mix of relief and need. His fingers drop to my head and he runs his fingers through my red hair. He pulls open the large clip that held them in place and as soon as the curls bounce free he captures them in his hands and pulls the curls tight. I know he loves my hair. I also know he loves the way I suck him. I smile to myself as I imagine tasting the creamy filling to this chocolate-covered delight. Another time maybe but not now; now I need to feel him inside of me. I need to make up for the weeks I’ve missed him. I know he agrees because he pulls my head back from his hardness with a pop.

  “Fuck me, Laura,” he whispers, “please, fuck me.”

  I nod, lick my lips and stand. I pull off my trousers and the sticky cotton knickers beneath. Ryan reclines on the sofa and runs his hand up and down his sticky cock while he waits for me. I hook my knee over him, bend and lower myself onto him. He fits me so perfectly. It’s not the most comfortable fuck. One of my legs trails down onto the floor, the other is tucked up beside the back of the couch, but I don’t care. I know I am where I am meant to be and Ryan is pressing a finger between my pussy folds to expose and rub at my aching clit.

  “Fuck,” I yell. “Fuck Ryan, I’m going to come!”

  I’m always loud with Ryan. I can’t hold in just how ecstatically good it feels to be joined with him. I love how he feels lodged deep inside me.

  “Cover me in your cream, baby,” he coos. “Come for me, Laura.”

  I do. I come hard, fast and wetly. He rams his cock up into me because I can do little more than shudder and shake with the intensity of my orgasm. Just as the ecstasy dips he roars and holds himself off the sofa and deeper in me as his pleasure flows through us both. When our breathing settles I push my
self between him and the back of the sofa. We cling to each other tightly while we recover.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispers between kisses.

  “I’ve missed you, too. I’m sorry I was such an idiot.”

  “I’m sorry I was such an idiot, too.” His voice is a gentle balm. “I should have tried harder to explain.”

  I shrug. “I’d not have listened; you did the best thing. You baked for me.”

  “The way to a sexy woman’s heart is through her stomach.” He nods and rubs his sticky hand over my tummy. I giggle as it jiggles.

  “Chocolate and you,” I say, smiling and kissing cake crumbs from his cheek, “my favorite things.”

  He smiles and I finally feel sated. Fuck stupid New Year’s diets. All a woman needs is a good man who bakes.

  ADAGIO

  Torrance Sené

  Nothing turns me on more than watching Ben play the violin. There is something so wholly sensual about his performance, in the way he loses himself, drowning in the sea of his senses. His long, lithe fingers moving in quick succession, meeting the strings with the precision necessary to produce a clear, sonorous note. His intensity and passion. His wildness. Everything about him combining to pluck every single one of my strings.

  So imagine my delight to hear Bach’s Concerto No. 2 in E Major wafting through our apartment when I arrived home. Work had been positively horrid with the catering preparations for an upcoming conference still days behind schedule. My day had consisted of bickering employees, catty clients and a migraine the size of Russia. Tonight I wanted—no, I needed—nothing more than to have Ben fuck me senseless.

  I dropped my purse and planner on the kitchen island and ignored the stack of mail and the flashing answering machine. It could all wait until tomorrow. Instead, I walked down the hallway to I find the door of Ben’s study left slightly ajar. I perched myself against the jamb, watching the scene before me.

  Sweat dampened Ben’s brow, causing his wavy reddish-brown hair to curl at the edges. His eyes were closed, completely enraptured in the melody he called forth. The sleeves of his expensive pin-striped shirt were rolled up, the intensity of his playing pulling the buttons taut over his broad torso.

  God, he looked amazing. And he was mine.

  Concentration was splashed across his face. Every part of him focused so intently on dominating the filaments, bending them to his will; on being a channel for an ancient German master. At that moment, like every moment he spent in this rapture, I grew jealous of those strings. Envious of the way he so delicately but sternly commanded them. How he applied just the right amount of pressure, held precisely the right strand along the fingerboard, until from it he had wrenched a wailing cry. As if on cue, he brought the bow slowly across the bridge, drawing out the final melancholy note.

  He opened his eyes, not at all surprised to find me there. A smile drew across his mouth as he lowered the violin from his shoulder and held it at his side. “I’m beginning to think you’ve developed a bit of a fetish.”

  I smiled back, leaving the doorjamb behind and descending farther into his sanctuary. I walked past piles of papers that needed grading, books marked with various colored Post-its, and scores of scribbled compositions—visual displays of his brilliant mind that served only to make me hotter, wetter, more frustrated—until I stood before him.

  “I would call it more of a longing, a need.”

  My hand reached out, my index finger pulling back at first as if the strings were electrified. Perhaps they were, and that’s what lured me to them. Perhaps Ben was channeling some mad science I could never hope to understand. My finger curved ever so slightly around the string, and plucked. A loud, deep note broke the silence; a shiver shuddered through my core. My eyelids drooped as I let the thrum wash over me.

  Ben’s voice came next: a lilting baritone timbre that would bring angels careening from the sky. “This longing you speak of, might I prove to be of assistance?”

  I said nothing; the question was partially rhetorical anyway. I simply followed the neck of the violin, bringing my hand up past the scroll and along his arm until it rested on his expansive chest. The first two buttons of his shirt were unfastened, I noticed, revealing the perfect place for my lips. I stood on my tiptoes and brought my mouth down on his collarbone, tasting his saltiness. My hands began unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. A whisper of a sigh escaped his throat as I licked and kissed his Adam’s apple.

  He gave the violin over to gravity for safekeeping then, as his hands found their way to my hair, removing the clip and freeing my soft curls and releasing a waft of gardenia. He gently took a handful of hair and pulled my head backward so I faced up at him.

  “Do you need to be plucked, darling?” he asked.

  My knees nearly buckled as a flood of warmth spread through me.

  “Yes.”

  His right hand unzipped the back of my black dress; the other hand was still tangled within my hair. His gray-blue eyes never left mine. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, please.”

  His eyes flashed with cheekiness and I shivered when his fingers trailed fire down my neck and spine. The warm flesh of his hand smoothing over my lower back, pushing me toward him. He took my mouth and I could taste the fruity trace of Merlot lingering on his breath as my tongue explored his. As my hands busied themselves with his shirt, a tiny mewl escaped my lips.

  His composition had begun.

  I pulled his shirt from his trousers, but his hands on mine stopped me. I swallowed hard when I saw the intense look on his face. My entire body hummed with anticipation as he knelt before me. His fingers—those long, slender digits that just moments before stirred a keening from lifeless strings—slid up my stockings, tracing the seam up the back of them and hiking up my dress until his hands rested on my ass. “I see you’re wearing my favorite stockings.” The corner of my mouth went up in a smirk as his hot mouth kissed the area just above my mons. His middle finger rubbed along my damp panties, tracing my slit.

  I knew he could smell my arousal. How could he not when just the touch of his full lips and finger threatened to throw me over a precipice? But this was his symphony and I merely the instrument on which he composed. Far be it from me to fill in notes where he does not write them. My job consisted of singing only when he coaxed them from me.

  Turning me around, he continued trailing kisses along my thighs and ass, lifting my dress farther and squeezing the soft round flesh he found there. My eyes remained closed. I was becoming lost in the moment and trying especially hard not to lose complete control and come—not before he wanted me to. Ben stood. His hands grabbed the opened sides of my zipper and pushed the sleeves down, exposing my shoulders. I found the rough touch of his stubble delicious as he nibbled along my nape. With one final shove the black fabric pooled in an inky stain around my high-heeled feet, leaving me in only black lingerie and stockings.

  “Kneel on the sofa,” he conducted, motioning to the couch in front of us.

  The leather of the chaise lounge creaked loudly as I did what Ben directed. My mind reeled with possibilities as I propped myself up on the back of the sofa. All our past sessions flooded my thoughts. What would it be this time? How would he make me come? But the thing was I had absolutely no idea what he had planned. Like a true composer, when Ben set to work no group of notes were ever in the same measure twice; no sinfonia ever the same. This trust was how I knew I loved him, and he loved me.

  I longed to look over my shoulder and at him, but I have heard said that artistry is best left to its own devices, so I kept my head straight. I saw his shadow approaching seconds before I felt his fingertips trail along the top of my thong panties.

  “I’ve brought you a surprise,” he announced.

  Chills washed over me. “Have you now?”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  “With all my heart.”

  I heard a faint shoosh in the air and then something thin and hard like wood came down across my ass.
I yelped in pain, clutching the back of the sofa as the line of red-hot agony spread a mixture of pleasure and pain through my core. My scent intensified. The pain hurt like nothing I had felt before, but it was also surprisingly arousing being at his mercy. So vulnerable.

  His hand smoothed over the line and made its way to my pussy. A solitary slender finger found my opening and slid in. I clenched around it.

  “You liked that, didn’t you?”

  I shook my head yes and spread my legs farther apart, welcoming him further. He slipped a second finger into me and curved them just right.

  “Do you want another?”

  “Please.”

  He removed his fingers and brought the thin wood across my cherry-red ass again. I cried out, and a tear of painful pleasure left my eye.

  “You know it’s you whom I think of when I play. Don’t you?” He pushed my panties down to my knees. The air-conditioned air teasing my exposed pussy. “You, Imogen, are my muse.”

  I felt something cold and hard slide between my labia and back out again. “On your body alone, I could write a thousand symphonies,” he continued. When I realized what he was holding, I nearly came. The violin bow. That same wooden implement with which he lures me had just left its mark upon my tender ass.

  “Shall I compose upon you tonight?” he asked.

  Again he slid it between my slick lips only this time he nudged my clit, and I let out another whimpering note, but this time it was sharper.

  “Yes!” I cried.

  He removed the bow from between my labia and pulled me back against his firm and enveloping form. His chest was slightly damp, and my nostrils filled with a heady mixture of his cologne and my spiciness. My head lay back against him as he caressed my neck with his mouth and tongue. His left hand slid into my bra and slender fingers flicked a taut peak.