Stories for When the Sun Goes Down (Sexy Anthology)
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Stories for When the Sun Goes Down
By Lily Harlem
Thank you for adding Stories for When the Sun Goes Down to your eBook library. I hope you enjoy this collection of sexy quickies, they’re perfect for snuggling up in bed with alone, or reading aloud to a partner. The majority of these stories have been published in either US or UK anthologies at some point over the last five years, hence the use of the two dictionaries.
Madam President is the story that started my wonderful journey into erotic romance. It was the first piece of erotica I ever wrote. I just happened to see an online erotic fiction contest when I’d come to the end of my creative writing course. I took the plunge, wrote and hit send. To my delight I won first prize and the genre not only found me, but it gripped and consumed me!
Since then I’ve had 1.5million words published in 16 novels, 15 novellas and 9 co-authored works. I’m published by HarperCollins, Ellora’s Cave, Totally Bound, Xcite, Sweetmeat Press and numerous smaller publishers including the charity Coming Together where all proceeds are donated to worthy causes and books are supplied by the authors for free. I have more books queuing up to be published over the next year and many more in my head demanding to be written. I’m also very proud of the fact that in 2013 I’ve had four books hit the #1 spot on the Amazon erotica and erotic romance charts.
One of the things I’ve really enjoyed about writing in this diverse genre is swinging from sweetly erotic vanilla novels like Breathe You In, to dark BDSM such as Sexy as Hell, and everything in between including my beloved Hot Ice series about those bad boys of hockey, steamy ménage a trois novels like Shared and Shared Too, and self-published works, The Glass Knot and Scored. Whatever you pick up of mine it will be romantic, emotionally layered and the bedroom door will always be left well and truly open. If I’ve made you fall in love with the hero/heroes, you’ll get to find out exactly what they’re like in bed and what their particular brand of kink is.
Please visit my website for more information about my many works and my blog for daily musings. Friend me on Facebook and then sign up for my newsletter to keep up to date with free books, new releases and contests. Enjoy!
Stories for When the Sun Goes Down
Text copyright © Lily Harlem 2012 All Rights Reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Lily Harlem.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission. Lily Harlem writes full time to pay the bills, please support her and other authors by buying from reputable retailers to ensure your continued entertainment.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Cover Art by Posh Gosh
Table of Contents
Madam President
The Champagne Whore
Shy Bird
The Actress
Making Shapes
I Promise to Please
I Promise to Surrender
I Promise to Perform
A Classic Wedding Night
Stable Manners
Lily Harlem’s Other Works
More about Lily Harlem
Madam President
Standing with my hands on my hips, I gaze through the enormous paned window of the Oval Office. Spring has arrived and the trees of the White House grounds are heavy with powder-pink blossom, and the manicured lawns are littered with jewel-coloured crocus.
It’s my first ever spring as the first ever female president of the United States of America, and six weeks into the job it’s still hard to believe my dream has become my reality. It’s a strangely immortal concept to know in a hundred years time school children will learn my name by rote and have my picture smiling up at them from text books.
Behind me a grand mahogany desk is overflowing with documents waiting for me to read and sign. There are portfolios to peruse and policies to apply attention to. But as I turn from the caressing warmth of the sun, I don’t reach for these, instead I delve for my faithful Chanel makeup bag that has pride of place in a top drawer.
Nervous butterflies are building deep within me and tickling my insides with excited anticipation. Anxiety was something I thought I could control. Public speaking, crowd circulating and star-studded events are everyday occurrences for me now. But if he’s in the equation, if anything involves him, then my supreme confidence, rational political mind and steadfast surety goes out of the window and I’m back to being an infatuated, lust-blind woman again.
I pull out a solid gold compact engraved with my first name, Raine. Check my pale pink lipstick, powder my nose and smooth a hand over my glossy auburn bob. I took extra care dressing this morning. I opted for my trademark skirt suit, but added a delicate cream blouse with a low neckline as well as a string of pearls to sway over the rise of my breasts. Clint told me I looked pretty at breakfast then he kissed my cheek and said he hoped it went well with my first introductions to the British Prime Minister.
If only he knew.
If only he knew that today is hardly the first time I’m meeting Prime Minister John Reynolds. We’ve been studying international relations for quite sometime and encouraging cross-Atlantic communications in the purely physical sense of the word for years.
There’s a knock at the door. I snap my compact shut and slide it into my makeup bag. “Enter,” I call, taking a deep breath even though I know it won’t be him. Not yet.
The heavy white door pushes open and my two senior advisors strut in. “The British Prime Minister has just landed on the helipad,” Drake informs me in his usual curt tone. “He’ll be with you in five minutes.”
“Perfect timing.” I sit on the wide leather chair behind the desk. My knees are weak at the thought of him on the same grounds as me, breathing the same air as me. In just a few minutes we’ll be together… again.
It’s been so long. A whole year since we’d last arranged a clandestine meeting. Not because we hadn’t wanted to, we had, but our busy schedules had simply made it impossible. I’d had the grind of the election campaign and he’d been so bogged down with EU commitments on top of his regular ministerial duties. Plus the need for total discretion, not just from our spouses but also from the world media is absolutely essential. The scandal if people ever found out just how special the relationship between Great Britain and America has become. It would be unbearable—it would be an unforgivable act of treason.
“Here’s the agenda for today’s meeting.” Harold passes me a thick wad of papers which I pretend to study.
“The Prime Minister’s wife and son have gone straight to the guest wing,” Drake says, scrolling through his Blackberry. “They’ll be joining you and Clint in the drawing room for dinner at nine tonight.”
“Excellent.” There’s another knock at the door. I stand and step forward eagerly, but then calm my movements. I can’t appear too excited.
Drake and Harold move to flank me like loyal servants. “Enter,” I call in what I hope is a steady voice.
Four men in identical suits and wraparound shades stride in looking like they’ve walked straight off the set of Men in Black. Their faces are expressionless, their body movements fluid and it’s not until they part I see John Reynolds for the first time in a year.
Like me he’s positioned between
two advisors, but he stands a head above his men whereas I stand a head below mine. He’s dressed in a coal-black suit. Beautifully tailored it hangs precisely on his athletic frame, broadening his shoulders and skimming his neat hips. His hair is shorter than when I last saw him, the deep chocolate curls that flick from his nape have been snipped and new streaks of grey lick around his ears.
His gaze zones in on mine and although he’s still ten feet away I feel like he’s embracing me. His expression melts for the briefest of seconds, just to let me know nothing has changed since we last saw each other.
“Madam President, may I introduce British Prime Minister Reynolds,” Drake announces, his face solemn and serious.
John steps forward, reaches and takes my hand in his. He squeezes it gently, not like some men who hurt my fingers with their testosterone eagerness. No, John holds my hand like I’m made of the finest china and he’s being especially careful not to break me. It spikes the hairs on the back of my neck to remember the way he touches me.
I want more.
“Lovely to meet you, Prime Minister Reynolds,” I say with a polite smile, fully aware that as usual, all eyes and ears are on my words and actions. I pray I look normal on the outside when inside I’m in a dizzy state of sexual turmoil.
“Likewise, Madam President, but please, call me John.” The deep rumble of his familiar, but long since heard voice washes over me like a warm cashmere blanket, it soothes my skittish nerves and settles my heart rate to somewhere near normal.
Aware the handshake has lingered a second too long I pull away. “In that case please, call me Raine, it will save time and we have much to discuss during your visit.” I sense Drake and Harold sharing a glance. It’s unusual for me to consent to my first name being used, but I deem it’s appropriate between two world leaders with heavy loads on their shoulders.
“Shall we take a seat?” I gesture towards the overstuffed cream sofas by the enormous but unlit fireplace.
The security posse filter from the office leaving John and I with our four stiffly formal advisors. A fresh pot of Earl Grey has been set on the table and we sit and begin discussing the global warming policy Britain wants me to agree to. I argue my points with grace and ease, confident I can do what I want. I’m the sleeping giant. I have the world at my fingertips and will not be brow beaten. If it’s not in the best interest of my country and people then the deal simply won’t run.
John seems a little frustrated with my stubbornness and I notice his foot tapping on the floor, a gesture I remember well from the day I met him ten years ago. We were at Oxford University, both visiting separately, both eager to catch a highly acclaimed professor’s string of political lectures. John sat next to me in the auditorium getting more and more worked up by the views being aired. After an hour and a half he could take it no more and sprang from his seat and told everyone exactly what he thought about the global economy and China’s impact on Western unemployment.
He had me hooked from that point on. I was fascinated by his passion for politics as well as his determination to make a difference in the world—it was equal only to my own. After the lecture we went for a drink which then led to dinner. We sat up all night talking reform and referendum. We did it again the next night but by the third we didn’t talk so much. Despite both being happily married we found our fiery passion in bed was equally compatible, equally combustible.
“I need more time to think about this policy, John,” I say, bringing my head back to the present. “There are a few aspects not quite sitting right, but it’s not far from being satisfactory.” I rest back on the sofa and cross my legs and become aware that he’s trying not to look at the sheerness of my black stockings disappearing under my skirt. “What do you think, Drake?”
Drake clears his throat, he’s clearly pleased to be asked his opinion in front of important visitors. “Well…” he begins and goes into a long spiel about fuel prices.
John catches my attention, his heavy eyebrows pull together a fraction and he flicks his gaze towards the door. He wants some alone time.
So do I.
I nod my head almost imperceptibly and can’t help licking my lips. The anticipation of feeling his soft, wide mouth on mine is almost too much to cope with. We’ve waited so long, days, weeks, months, and now we must wait for Drake to finish his boring waffle.
“Excellent points, Drake,” I interrupt during his brief pause for breath. “Certainly things to consider and well pointed out.” I scoot to the edge of the sofa, stand and check my watch.
Everyone rises around me.
“If you could all excuse us for a short while, I have something I wish to discuss with Prime Minister Reynolds in private.” I smile with the confidence of someone who knows they will be obeyed. They won’t question me, won’t even consider it. Why should they? I’m the most powerful woman, no, make that most powerful person in the world and it would be more than their careers are worth to dispute an instruction. Still, I can’t help feeling a little sneaky, a little guilty that I can dismiss them all so easily for my own dark, lustful motives.
John remains stock-still as the four advisors troop from the room and shut the door behind themselves.
Alone at last.
After so long.
We stand in silence on either side of the table. Gazes connected, arms hanging motionless.
“Have you got CCTV in here?” John asks eventually and looks up at the corners of the room, suspicion flicking in his eyes.
“No, I had them removed as soon as I got the job. A lady needs some privacy.”
He takes one big step around the table and I take two small ones towards him. We are only inches apart. I can feel his body heat radiating through his suit jacket onto my chest. His heavy, spiced aftershave is invading my senses and returns me to a secret trip in the Canadian pine forests.
“How are you, Raine?” he whispers. “How are you coping with the loneliest job in the world?” His gaze bores deep into my soul, searching for a truthful answer.
“It’s lonely without you.” I catch a choke in my throat as I say the words.
“I’m here now, no need to be lonely for the next three days.” He smiles gently at me.
“I’m so glad we finally have a reason to spend time together, at last nobody can question our need for a professional relationship.”
He glances at the door as if not trusting it to stay shut, like me he’s aware our bodies are closer than what’s considered socially acceptable.
“There’ll be a knock before anyone comes in.” I’m desperate to remove the hesitation from his face. “I’ve been very specific about that rule in anticipation of your visit.”
He raises a single eyebrow as if amused by my forward planning.
“So am I going to get a hello kiss?” I say. I’m impatient that he’s so close yet we still haven’t touched.
“Yes.” He makes no move to do any such thing, just keeps staring down at me with those intense green and gold-flecked eyes of his.
“When?” I pout in frustration.
“Now.” He curls his index finger under my chin and tips my head. I look up at his square jaw and spot dimples in his cheeks as he twitches a half smile. My heart does a leap right over the moon. I love this man so much. He makes me feel things no other man does. We’re no longer political giants, we are just a man and a woman who need to be together.
He leans in and presses his mouth to mine. Soft and warm and as delicious as always. It’s not a mad passionate kiss, it’s caressing, indulgent and slow, as if he’s savouring my taste and reminding me how we connect. Two souls meant to be joined but who never will be.
I release a little whimper of need, slip my hands under his suit jacket and coil them around his waist. His steady warmth fills my spread palms and I relearn the solid contours of his back. Dipping and swooping, I push right up to his flat shoulder blades and pull him closer.
He breaks the kiss, licks his lips and pushes his fingers through the hair a
t my temples. “You look good enough to eat,” he says in a husky voice. It’s the line he used on our third night together, right before he set about devouring me like a starving man.
“Go on then.” I give him the same cheeky response I did back then, tip my head and offer my neck for his undivided attention.
He grins and drops his head to the sensitive flesh below my left ear. He starts peppering me with tickling kisses and I melt into him, let his arms wrapped around my waist hold me up against gravity which has suddenly doubled. “It’s been too long,” I murmur as my eyelids flutter shut in bliss.
“Far too long… I’ve ached for you… missed you… I prayed for you to win,” he says between his kisses. “It will be so much easier now, plenty of political excuses for scheduled meetings. We’ll need hours of complete privacy to work through delicate diplomatic details.”
There’s a sudden sharp knock at the door, it invades our longed for moment with all the grace of an earthquake and we snap apart as if electrocuted.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath as he yanks his jacket straight.
I’m unhurried and cool. I smooth my hair, stroll towards the desk and call, “Enter,” over my shoulder.
Drake barges in with a long white envelope, red stamped with the words “Top Secret.”
“Sorry to bother you but FBI say it urgent.” He hands me the envelope as if it’s a time bomb and glances at John as though he’s a spy. “It’s very sensitive information.”
“Thank you.” I frown and lay it on the desk
Drake makes no move to leave my side. He’s like an overprotective big brother, normally I can put up with it, sometimes it’s even sweet, but today I just want him to take a day off, go fishing, or play golf or something.
“Is that all?” I ask with mounting frustration I can barely hide.
“Yes, Madam President.” Drake takes the hint and heads out, leaving us alone once again.
“Are you going to open that?” John asks, folding his long frame onto the sofa and stretching an arm along the back of the cushions.
“Later. The FBI always say it’s urgent even if it’s run of the mill stuff.” I grin and sashay over to him. “Labelled Top Secret too, it makes it more exciting for the runners to imagine they’re responsible for such hot information.”