Red Velvet

by Noelle Mack

  “Stop it,” she said anyway.

  He picked up the envelope from the table. “Read it.”

  She took it out of his hand and slid the card out, not looking at the design on the front. “It’s not Valentine’s Day. And it’s not my birthday. Is this one of those just-because-you’re-special-I-spent-$2.25-at-the-drugstore cards?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, rocking her a little in his strong arms. “You’re beautiful when you’re surly. But no. I told you. It’s an invitation.”

  “Oh, right.” Dee opened it slowly and glanced at the brief message inside. “Tom Driscoll requests the pleasure of Dee Skinner’s company—” She looked up. “Well, I think you’ve already had that. Six ways from Sunday. I gotta get back to reality.”

  “This is reality, Dee. I love you and I hope you love me. Read the car—the invitation.”

  She sighed and read it again. “Tom Driscoll requests the pleasure of Dee Skinner’s company for the rest of his life. Marry me, Dee?” Dee stopped and gaped at him. “Huh?”

  “You mean yes.”

  “I do?”

  He hugged her to him. “Well, you can think about it.”

  “Wha—oh, geez. I’m wearing this awful robe and I just lost a big contract and my temper and said nasty things to you instead of Stu and—and—I’m not even wearing a bra—and you want me to marry you?”

  He slid a hand underneath the lapel of her robe and snaked it up under the T-shirt, holding her bare breast. “I swear on everything holy.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  She kissed him, hard, and that was all the yes he needed.

  Noelle Mack is a designer for a major California entertainment company, and the author of several erotic romance novels, including Three and Red Velvet. Her novella “Tiger, Tiger” appeared in Sexy Beast. Noelle lives in Los Angeles, California, where all the men are perfect.

  Take a scorchingly sensual peek at SIN,

  by Sharon Page.

  Available now from Aphrodisia….

  Venetia could marry. At twenty-four, she was on the shelf by London standards, but if she were very fortunate, a widower might consider taking her on. There was one in Maidenswode who had offered—he was fifty, fat, had eight children, and drank.

  To return to the country would mean hiding her paints in the stables, sneaking out to the woods to draw…

  She would have to paint in secret once more. After her mother had found that first portrait, of a nude male statue—painting had been forbidden. Her mother feared that it was the artistic temperament that made Rodesson so licentious. Olivia Hamilton had been horrified to discover her eldest daughter had been compelled to sketch naked men.

  She stroked the ivory handle of her brush. What was he doing now, the roguish Lord Trent? Was he asleep, curled up with a woman or two in his bed? She could envision the threesome, with him sandwiched between, his groin pressed again a bottom just as it had pressed into hers, and the other woman would press her breasts and privates against his backside. His beautiful, sculpted backside—

  The ache wasn’t only in her quim—for some reason, her heart ached too.

  If she were in his bed, in his arms, she could reach out and touch his bare back. Boldly trace the line of his spine down to his tight buttocks, to those iron-hard muscles she’d loved having beneath her palms.

  What if she’d dared to explore more?

  As though compelled, she bent and opened the lowest, deepest drawer of her desk. She should just shut it now. Instead, she lifted the first book from the stack. The rippled leather caressed her bare fingertips. Gently, she set it on the middle of the desk, so it wouldn’t make a sound. Guilt made her heart pound.

  In the middle of the book, she would find Rodesson’s famed picture of a gentleman reviewing his harem of willing wantons at a Jermyn Street brothel. That gentleman, the Earl of Trent, was shown in aroused glory…

  All she had to do was look.

  All she had to do was open the book and satisfy her…curiosity.

  No, that was…improper. Invasive. Rude. Unforgivable. But she could just peek. After all, the earl had performed in public. It was his own fault he had ended up in a book—

  Really, one peek could hardly hurt.

  She flicked past two courtesans entwined like the numbers six and nine to find The Jermyn Street Harem.

  Trent was shown reclining on silken pillows, dressed in a dark blue robe, covered but for his spectacular cock which curved upward into the air. Dozens of women stood before him, displaying their breasts and quims. His lordship appeared as jaded as always as he selected one for his entertainment.

  Throat dry, she studied the picture. Trembling, she traced his length with her finger.

  This was so very wrong. To touch…him. This way. But she couldn’t resist.

  Was he exaggerated in the work? She doubted it. He’d felt enormous, impossibly so, when pushing against her backside.

  His cock looked so rampant. Thick at the base, it curved toward his lean stomach like a sickle and was crowned with a large, dusky head. It was clearly the centerpiece of the picture, rendered in great detail—even to the veins on its shaft.

  She found her fingers stroking between her thighs. The way she did, without conscious thought, while she drew.

  Women were not supposed to touch themselves there. Even bathing was to be done with a cloth and with haste. But if she didn’t touch herself, she’d die from the pain.

  Rubbing in a slow, sensual spiral, she remembered his words. “Do you touch yourself like this, sweeting? Do you paint your quim with your brush until you are creamy and wet?”

  She lifted her brush from the water goblet, stroked it against the rim to smooth the bristles and squeeze the water out.

  Do you prefer two cocks at your command, or another woman’s juicy cunny?

  She thought of him watching her, amused, intrigued, with his hand on his large cock.

  She wanted him so, this man she couldn’t have. He was an earl—one who frequented the wildest brothels, lavished fortunes on the most desirable mistresses—but in her fantasies, she could have him. He would be hers.

  Yanking up her skirts, she listened. Her door was behind her, closed. From beyond it, nothing but quiet. Feeling illicit, she parted her thighs on her chair and touched the wet brush to her nether lips. She drew a line of water to the apex and dabbed there, teasing herself with the cool wet against her heat. The sable bristles, soft but slightly stiffened by use and washings, rasped her clitoris.

  She could just imagine the look of approval on Trent’s handsome face.

  Sliding the brush down, she held it tight to her bud and rubbed herself against it. Wanton. Wild. Not longer caring about a delicate performance.

  Yes, yes, he was right. She was wet and sticky. Heat and honey.

  Oh, yes. Oh!

  She had to hold the edge of the desk as the climax roared through her. She shook with it, rocking the chair on the plank floor. Her fingers dug into the blotter; she dropped the brush to the floor.

  She gave a weak, giddy giggle as she imagined Trent applauding—

  She gasped at the quick rap on the door.

  Mrs. Cobb. The doorknob rattled. Twisting in her seat, she saw it begin to turn. She’d forgotten to lock it!

  The book fell into the drawer with a bang just as her housekeeper pushed open the door and peeped through the opening. Facing forward, Venetia prayed Mrs. Cobb didn’t notice her hiked up skirts, prayed that her racing heart didn’t explode.

  “This came in the post, mum.”

  Fluffing out her skirts as casually as she could, Venetia felt the hem swish over her ankles. She dropped a cloth over her painting in progress—it didn’t matter if it smeared.

  She knew her face must be beet-red but she had no choice but to walk over on shaky legs and take the letter. As she took it, she gagged.

  “Pooh, scent! It stinks of the stuff.” She sneezed. Her eyes watered. Sh
e stretched her arm out straight to keep the offensive thing away. Eyed it warily. Who would send a letter drenched in perfume? The return address was Compton Street, on the fringes of Mayfair. Instinct warned that this wasn’t the sort of letter she could allow anyone else to see.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.” She began to swing the door shut.

  “Is it trouble, mum?”

  “No.” She closed the door firmly. Guilt stabbed. Mrs. Cobb might like gossip, but she was truly concerned.

  Venetia strode back to her desk and tore open the envelope with the end of her paintbrush.

  Her gaze riveted to one word in fussy, lavish handwriting. Rodesson. She scanned the rest. Your father revealed…can no longer paint…his talented daughter…

  Her stomach tightened. Nausea roiled in her belly. She reached the last line. One thousand pounds to preserve your secret.

  Here’s a sizzling advance look

  at Jami Alden’s DELICIOUS,

  coming soon from Aphrodisia…

  Suddenly a large, proprietary hand slid around Kit’s hip to flatten across her stomach. She didn’t even have to turn around to know it was Jake. Even in the crowded dance club, she could pick up his scent, soapy clean with a hint of his own special musk. Without a word he pulled her back against him. The rigid length of his erection grinding rhythmically against her ass let her know her dance floor antics had been effective.

  What she hadn’t counted on was her own swift response. Sure, he’d gotten the best of her in the wine cellar, but she’d written it off as a result of not having had sex since her last “friend with benefits” had done the unthinkable and actually wanted an exclusive relationship. She’d had to cut all ties and hadn’t found a suitable replacement in the last six months.

  Tonight, she’d only meant to tease and torment Jake, give him a taste of what he wanted but couldn’t have. Now she wasn’t so sure he’d be able to stick with that game plan. The memory of her gut wrenching orgasm pulsed through her, her nerve endings dancing along her skin with no more than his hand caressing her stomach and his cock grinding against her rear. His broad palm slid up until his long fingers brushed the undersides of her breasts, barely covered by the thin silk of her top.

  She was vaguely aware of Sabrina raising a knowing eyebrow as she moved over to dance with one of the other groomsmen.

  Without thinking she raised one arm, hooking it around his neck as she pressed back against the hard wall of his chest. Hot breath caressed her neck before his teeth latched gently on her earlobe. The throbbing beat of the music echoed between her legs, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold him off, not when he was so good at noticing and exploiting her weakness.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered gruffly, taking her hand and tugging her towards the edge of the floor.

  She wasn’t that easy. “What makes you thing I want to go anywhere with you?” she replied, breaking his hold and shimmying away.

  A mocking smile curved his full, sensuous mouth. “Wasn’t that what your little show was all about? Driving me crazy until I take you home and prove to you exactly how good it could be between us?” To emphasize his point, he shoved his thigh between hers until the firm muscles pressed deliciously against her already wet sex. “What happened earlier was just a taste, Kit. Don’t lie and tell me you don’t want the whole feast.”

  She moaned as his mouth pressed hot and wet against her throat, wishing she had it in her to be a vindictive tease and leave him unsatisfied, aching for her body.

  But her body wouldn’t let her play games, and she was too smart to pass up an opportunity for what she instinctively knew would be the best sex of her life. Jake was right. She wanted him. Wanted to feel his hands and mouth all over her bare skin. Wanted to see if his cock was as long and thick and hard as she remembered. Wanted to see if he’d finally learned how to use it.

  And why not? She was a practical, modern woman who believed in casual sex as long as her pleasure was assured and no strings were attached. What could be more string free than a hot vacation fling with a guy who lived on the opposite side of the country? And this time she’d have the satisfaction of leaving him without so much as a goodbye.

  Decision made, she grabbed his hand and led him towards the door. “Let’s hope you haven’t oversold yourself, cowboy.”

  “Baby, I’m gonna give you the ride of your life.”

  Outside, downtown Cabo San Lucas rang with the sounds of traffic and boisterous tourists. Jake hustled her into a taxi van’s back row and in rapid Spanish he gave the driver the villa’s address and negotiated a rate.

  Hidden by several rows of seats, Kit had no modesty when he pulled her into his arms, capturing her mouth in a rough, lusty kiss. Opening wide, she sucked him hard, sliding her tongue against his, exploring the hot moist recesses of his mouth. Her breath tightened in quick pants as he tugged her blouse aside and settled a hand over her bare breast, kneading, plumping the soft flesh before grazing his thumb over the rock hard tip.

  Muffled sounds of pleasure stuck in her throat. She couldn’t ever remember being so aroused, dying to feel his naked skin against her own, wanting to absorb every hard inch of him inside her. She unbuttoned his shirt with shaky hands, exploring the rippling muscles of his chest and abs. He was leaner now than he’d been at twenty-two, not as bulked up as he’d been when he played football for the UCLA. The sprinkling of dark hair had grown thicker as well, teasing and tickling her fingers, reminding her that the muscles that shifted and bulged under her hands belonged to a man, not a boy.

  Speaking of which…

  She nipped at his bottom lip and slid her hand lower, over his fly until her palm pressed flat against a rock hard column of flesh. The taxi took a sharp curve, sending them sliding across the bench seat until Kit lay halfway across Jake’s chest. He took the opportunity to reach under her skirt and cup the bare cheeks of her ass, while she seized the chance to unzip his fly and reach greedily inside the waistband of his boxers.

  Hot pulsing flesh filled her hand to overflowing. Her fingers closed around him, measuring him from root to tip and they exchanged soft groans in each others mouths. He was huge, long and so thick her fingers barely closed around him. It had hurt like a beast when he’d taken her virginity. But now she couldn’t wait to feel his enormous cock sliding inside her stretching her walls, driving harder and deeper than any man ever had.

  She traced her thumb over the ripe head, spreading the slippery beads of moisture forming at the tip. Her own sex wept in response. Unable to control herself, she reached down and pulled up her skirt, climbing fully onto his lap. She couldn’t wait, her pussy aching for his invasion. God this was going to be good.

  If anyone had told her twelve years ago that someday she’d be having sex with Jake Donovan in a Mexican taxicab, she would have called that person insane.

  Pulling her thong aside, she slid herself over him, teasing his cock with the hot kiss of her body, letting the bulbous head slip and slide along her drenched slit. She eased over him until she held the very tip of him inside…

  The taxi jerked abruptly to a stop, and Kit dazedly realized they’d reached the villa. With quick, efficient motions Jake straightened her skirt and shifted her off him, then gingerly tucked his mammoth erection back into his pants. With one last, hard kiss he helped her down from the van and paid the driver as though he hadn’t been millimeters away from ramming nine thick inches into her pussy in the back of the man’s cab.

  Kit waited impatiently by the door, pretending not to see the driver’s leer. Like they were the first couple to engage in hot and heavy foreplay. Jake strode over, pinning her against the door as he reached for the knob and turned.

  And turned again. He swore softly.

  “What is it?” Kit was busy licking and nibbling her way down the strip of flesh exposed by Jake’s still unbuttoned shirt. He tasted insanely good, salty and warm.

  “I don’t suppose you have a key?”

  She groaned and leaned her head
back against the door. “I didn’t take one.” There were only four keys to the villa, and when they went out they all made sure they had designated male and female keyholders. Unfortunately tonight, Kit wasn’t one of them, and apparently, neither was Jake. “What time does the housekeeper leave?”

  Jake looked at his watch. “Two hours ago.”

  He bent over and picked up the welcome mat, then inspected all the potted plants placed around the entry for a hidden key. Watching the way his ass muscles flexed against the soft khaki fabric of his slacks, Kit knew she was mere seconds away from pushing him down and having him right here on the slate tiled patio.

  He straightened, running a frustrated hand through his thick dark hair. Eyes glittering with frustrated lust, he muttered, “There has to be a way in here.”

  “Through the back,” Kit said. All they had to do was scale the wall that surrounded the villa. The house had several sets of sliding glass doors leading out to the huge patio and pool area. One of them was bound to be unlocked.

  With a little grunting and shoving, Jake managed to boost Kit over the six foot wall before hoisting himself over. Holding hands and giggling like idiots, they ran across the patio. But Jake stopped her before she reached the first set of doors.

  “Doesn’t that look inviting?”

  She turned to find him looking at the pool. Wisps of steam rose in curly tendrils off the surface. The patio lights were off, the only illumination generated from the nearly full moon bouncing its silver light off the dark water. A smile curved her mouth and renewed heat pulsed low in her belly. “I could get into a little water play.”

  He pulled her to the side of the pool and quickly stripped off her top. Kit arched her back and moaned up to the sky as he paused to suck each nipple as it peaked in the cool night air. Her legs trembled at the hot, wet pull of his lips, her vagina fluttering and contracting as it arched for more direct attention.

  His hands settled at the snap of her skirt. “I like this thing,” he said as he slid the zipper inch by agonizing inch. “Kinda reminds me of those sexy little shorts you wore that first time—”