by Helena Maeve
The sight of it went straight to Imogen’s pussy, igniting the banked coals of her need. “I turn you on that much, huh?”
He nodded as though afraid speaking would shatter the magic of the moment, and settled a tentative, callused hand over her hip. Imogen felt a flood of tenderness surge in her breast as she gripped hold and unceremoniously worked herself down his length.
The sensation of fullness, of being split open by a hard cock, was almost enough to tip her into climax. “Oh, fuck,” she groaned, pinching her clit with slippery fingers to take the edge off.
“You okay?” Russ asked, patting tentatively at her bruised thighs. “Genie—” His face resolved into sharp relief as Imogen blinked open her eyes. She couldn’t say if it was pleasure making her see things or the rosy lens of her recent triumph, but she was suddenly struck by how handsome Russell seemed. There was a strange dignity in his features, his proud Patrician nose, his full lips—even his soft blue eyes were gorgeous in their own right. The scars he bore caught under her fingertips as she touched his marked brow, the permanent scruff of stubble on his cheek.
“Fuck me,” Imogen begged, his question already forgotten. He need not be so careful with her. She didn’t break when she got slugged in the arena and she wasn’t going to fall apart now, as his cock stretched her in all the right ways.
Russell got the hint. The timid thump-thump of his shoes hitting the floor confirmed as much, but instead of flipping them over and taking Imogen like she expected him to, he pinned his socked feet against the mattress, rocking his hips up and into hers.
“Oh—” It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t what she’d been gunning for, but it would do. Imogen raked her fingernails down his chest, her breaths hitching as she felt him rub against her G-spot.
“Good?” he murmured, choked and panting roughly with every thrust.
“Y-yeah. Fuck, keep going.” Imogen grabbed for the headboard, rising onto her knees then slamming back down into his lap. The slick sound of skin slapping skin was both divine and familiar. It struck something deep at her core, a need for physicality and passion that she couldn’t otherwise satisfy.
Russell gnashed his teeth, inching closer and closer to the edge. He seemed to be struggling to hold on already, which excited Imogen even more.
She reached for his hand and pressed his thumb awkwardly over her clit. “Touch me there,” she gasped, knowing he’d shy away from taking the initiative if she allowed it.
There wasn’t a lot of finesse to his touch as he rubbed her, his fingers too rough, his hand shaking in her grip, but it didn’t matter because Imogen could feel release within her reach. She chased it single-mindedly, sweat beading on her scalp, dripping onto his clothes. His cock jerked inside her as she began to tense. The expression on Russell’s face when it became too much all but robbed her of breath. Imogen moaned, a faltering burst of sound that cut off completely as she hurtled over the edge.
Pleasure flooded her veins, spilling from her core all the way into her fingertips. She lost her rhythm as she bucked and trembled, only distantly aware of Russ’ orgasm as his body went rigid for a few precious moments before relaxing beneath her own.
She let his hand fall out of her grasp and slowly levered out of his lap to collapse beside him on the sheets. Russ was still wearing most of his clothes, but he was a warm, soft cushion to which she could cling as she came down from the height of climax. Pleasant exhaustion slithered into her bones, replacing the surge of adrenaline.
Imogen yawned, burrowing into the curve of Russell’s shoulder. “I was awesome tonight,” she slurred. “Say it.”
“Are you drooling on me?” Russ mumbled instead, still laid up on his back, unmoving like a statue.
Imogen mustered an acquiescing sound, too drowsy to come up with anything witty. She wanted nothing more than to lie there with Russ and fall into a dreamless sleep. For a few moments, she thought she might have some chance of getting her way. Then the mattress dipped and she felt Russell shift beside her.
“You could…if you want to stay,” Imogen started. Not her most eloquent effort, but it was all she could manage after coming harder than she’d ever managed to on her own.
Russ offered her his back, but the crinkling sound of him balling the condom up into a wad of tissues was hard to miss. “Get some sleep,” he said at length, zipping up.
“Russ—”
“I have some work left. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t exactly run out of the bedroom like a whole host of devils was on his tail, but he didn’t linger or kiss her goodbye, either. Imogen told herself it didn’t matter.
She waited for the click of the front door, then gave it another handful of minutes before rising from the bed on wobbly knees. The sheets were a mess anyway, and she couldn’t sleep wearing her sports bra. She emptied the trashcan first and foremost, as if that might erase the memory of what she’d done, before heading into the bathroom for a shower.
Russell did not materialize in the tub with her, so after five minutes, Imogen turned off the tap and found her way into a pair of soft cotton pajamas that left a lot to be desired on the sexy front. Who’d know?
Hell, even if Russell did know, he probably wouldn’t care. They weren’t like that.
It was many minutes before Imogen returned to bed and slid under the covers. Megan Luz glared down at her from the frame of a collector’s item poster, fists raised in challenge. Imogen closed her eyes, willing sleep to free her of her meandering thoughts.
If she tried hard enough, if she didn’t acknowledge the scent of Russell’s aftershave on her pillows or the sweet, lingering ache in her cunt, she could almost convince herself that the past twenty minutes had all been the product of yet another vivid fantasy. That it might well have been the kind of thing she conjured behind her eyes when she was horny—which was often enough.
The alternative was more than embarrassing. It was plain dumb. Surely she hadn’t just seduced her coach into bed once again knowing full well that he didn’t think much of her.
Imogen buried her face into the pillows, smothering a groan in cheap daffodil print.
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About the Author
Helena Maeve has always been globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she’s collected in her excursions. When she isn’t writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Email: [email protected]
Helena loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Helena Maeve
A Touch of Spice
Collision Course
Eden’s Embers
Feint and Misdirection
Glass Houses
Bliss
Surface Tension: Twice Upon a Blue Moon
Surface Tension: A Smile as Sweet as Poison
Wild Angels: Grounds for Divorce
Wild After Dark: Beyond the Poison Chalice
