His attentions end with his mouth on my fresh and fragrant nether regions. He breathes in long and deep, his nose buried down there, then he tastes the difference, running his tongue slowly between my lips, sucking at my clit, then kissing it and standing back up.
'My turn then,' he reminds me, and I wash him from head to toe, missing out nothing, not a crease, not a hidden hollow, even introducing a soapy finger to his arse, which makes him yell and buck off me as quickly as he can.
'That stings, you bitch!' he gasps, looking around for the retributive bathbrush, but I have put it beyond his reach and he has no recourse but to trust me to complete the task.
'This won't,' I promise, and my creamy hands soap his perineum, moving forwards, lathering up his scrotum, then manipulating his cock into life with a slippery hand job. I soap it then rinse it, then pull back the foreskin and clean the tip with my tongue.
'The champagne!' he suggests eagerly, so I take a mouthful then lower myself again over the sweet-smelling head of his prick, swirling the drink around it.
'Ooooh, that's nice,' he confirms, leaning back to grip the side of the bath with both hands. I bend lower, swallow more, breathe him in and try to place the scent. Almond blossom? Japonica? Sandalwood? All three? The steely apple tang of the champagne mixes with the slight bitterness of the cleansers, all heated up by his wanton animal warmth. Hot champagne, soap and erect cock. I wonder what name he'd give that on his cocktail menu.
When I begin to speed up a little, he slows me down, then stops me with a hand at the top of my head.
'Not yet. Don't want to peak too soon,' he says. 'Let's get out. I haven't finished with you yet.'
The towels are three times as fluffy as anything you might own yourself, huge and fat and yet also absorbent so that we are dry again in a jiffy.
He finds a scented body oil somewhere amongst the gigantic hamper of products and covers me in it, starting with my toes and ending with my neck, calling at all points north, south, east and west, so that my body has a slippery veneer by the time he has finished. He holds me against him and dabs two oily fingers between the cheeks of my bum, slipping them swiftly and shockingly into my ring before I can stop him.
'Revenge,' he breathes darkly in my ear, and I have to submit to having my arse fingered until he is satisfied I have paid the price of my folly. 'Right then,' he says, once my passage is fully oiled, 'Let's get some air.'
He pulls on the complimentary bathrobe, but when I reach for mine he shakes his head and takes my wrist, pulling me out through the suite to the balcony doors.
'I'm naked!' I object. Luckily it is a sunny day, but it's still January and the temperature is not far above freezing.
'I won't let you die of exposure,' he promises, pulling open the doors and standing with me in the frame, looking out over the city from the twenty-first floor. Only this floor and the penthouse above have balconies, and there are few other buildings in the vicinity high enough for us to be seen from. All the same, someone in the financial district a mile across town might have an interesting floorshow for his lunch break. Hopefully none of the traffic report 'copters or planes heading for the docklands airport will pass this way. Or would that be so bad? Would that, actually, be a little bit thrilling?
I allow his knee to nudge me out on to the freezing tiles. Instantly, my nipples are stiff and painful and I cross my arms over them, hugging them warm.
'Go and lean over the balcony,' he says.
'It's cold.'
'You'll soon warm up. Go and lean over.'
My breasts are pushed up against the cold chrome handrail; I crane my neck and look over and down at the tiny insect people dotting around far below. I wonder if any of them will look up and notice my bare shoulders and wet, icy hair.
'Baby, it's cold outside,' says Lloyd, and he isn't exaggerating. He stands behind me, pressing me into the fine metallic mesh, causing indented patterns to begin forming on my knees and stomach. I am grateful for the warmth of his bulk at my rear and the scant coverage of his robe. He braces his arms around my waist and claims me in a fierce bear hug that squeezes the breath from me.
'Need warming up?' he whispers into my numbing ear.
'Just a bit,' is my testy reply.
'Hold tight; might be a bumpy ride.' He lifts me a little, so I have to grab on to the lower rail of the balcony with my feet, slipping my toes between it and the embossed metal rectangle that preserves my fictitious modesty. Now if I stand straight the mob below can theoretically see my tits waving cheerfully down at them, though I crouch enough to hide them. The crouching bends me at the waist, so my bottom rubs against my lover's crotch. I am dangling my arms over the balcony, hanging on tight, my chin level with the handrail, waiting for Lloyd to start giving me the public fucking I expect, when he completely unbalances me by taking one arm away from my waist, parting my rear cheeks swiftly and efficiently and commencing a firm annexation of my bum.
'Hey . . . what?' I exclaim, feeling him glide in easily, thanks to the oil he liberally applied earlier on, quarter way, half way, all the way up. Oh glory. I am standing outside, naked on a hotel balcony in January with a man's cock buried deep in my arse. Of all the things I've done . . . this might be my favourite. Maybe not the January part.
'Don't you like?' he croons, his breath steaming in my ear. He jiggles his cock a little, making sure I don't forget it's there. 'Are you worried the people in the penthouse might be able to see you being buggered on a balcony?'
'No,' I moan. 'I like it. Oh God. I really like it.'
'I knew you would.' He begins to unsheath, slowly and effortfully, almost all the way down, then he jolts back up, banging me into the balcony with a metallic clang. 'You don't care where, do you? Just as long as you get your arse filled. Could be over my bar or in the middle of the road down there. Anytime, anyplace, anywhere, as the advert used to say.'
'Though,' I grunt through the rattling and the forceful in-and-out, 'anyplace and anywhere are the same, surely.'
'Stop deconstructing, Sophie, and open that arse as wide as you can for me. That's it.'
I need one arm to attach myself to the bar, the other to somehow wedge between the balcony and my body so I can bring my clit to the party too. It is sweaty and bangy and rattly and achy but so seething with filthy goodness that I do not notice the minor inconveniences, the bruises forming, the diamond shapes on my knees, the straining of my muscles. I only know what is happening behind me, and in the unlikely event that I should forget, Lloyd is keeping up a running commentary.
'Oh, yes, that's it, Sophie, take it all, all the way, keep it spread, keep it stretched wide . . .' His words become indistinct, disappearing below a rude whirring from the sky, then we are buffeted by an un -forecasted high wind and I remember how cold I am before I realise that we are directly in the sights of . . .
'The eye in the sky! Stop, Lloyd!'
'Nothing it ain't seen before,' yells Lloyd, who is beyond the point of no return, continuing to slam while the gigantic metal bird hovers above us, close enough to see the reporter with his earpiece.
He is looking at us. He is speaking into a microphone and I imagine him telling the entire city that a traffic jam by the park is caused by Sophie Martin having her arse fucked by Lloyd Ellison on the twenty-first floor of the Hotel Luxe Noir – come along if you want to watch, but don't expect to find a parking spot. And then I come, deliriously, imagining my howls speeding down the radio waves to half the households in town. 'Dirty mare,' clucks a woman, while her husband wanks furtively behind his evening paper.
The helicopter wheels to the right and flees towards the financial district, leaving Lloyd and me to pull apart and stare at each other, hands on mouths, scarlet with exhilarated shame.
'Can you believe that?'
'I don't know – I found it added something to the experience,' says Lloyd, insouciant as ever in the face of adversity. 'I'd like to know what he was saying though.'
'Do you think he mentioned i
t?'
I am at the French doors now, in a race against hypothermia. Somehow I win.
'I need another drink.' I pour us both another glass of champagne and slide under the marshmallow duvet, hugging it around my bitter body. Lloyd joins me a few minutes later and suggests ringing down for room service.
'Let's eat,' he says. 'I'm in the mood for one of those triple-decker sandwiches held together by a cocktail stick. Or maybe a big plate of steak and chips. How about you?'
'Hmm. Maybe a turkey dinner. Seeing as you ruined my Christmas lunch this year.'
'Did I really?'
'The whole day was a farce. I could barely walk. I had to wear a scarf around my neck to hide all those bloody love bites. I nearly fell asleep face first in the sprouts and gravy.'
Lloyd chuckles. 'Mine wasn't the best. Had to finish with the girlfriend, for one thing. Not that it was ever serious. She was seeing two other men anyway.'
'You didn't have to finish with her.'
He leans over and robs my lips. 'I did,' he says.
We drink our champagne in companionable silence, which he breaks with a soft chuckle.
'We should have a toast. To the new managers of the Hotel Luxe Royale. Sophie Martin and Lloyd Ellison. Bottoms up!'
We clink our glasses and drain them, fizzing with more than the sparkling wine.
'So can I make you a cocktail, Sophie? Anything you'd like?'
I nestle into the crook of his arm and rub the top of my head against his chin.
'I never thought I'd ask you this, but how about a Sloe Comfortable Screw?'
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Also published in December 2009
FIONA'S FATE
Fredrica Alleyn
ISBN 978 0 352 34537 0
Held hostage by the infamous Trimarchi brothers, Fiona Sheldon and her friend Bethany must submit to the Italians' sophisticated desires while her husband Duncan attempts to find the money he owes them. But Duncan is more concerned to free his mistress Bethany than his quiet wife.
FULL EXPOSURE
Robyn Russell
ISBN 978 0 352 34536 3
Attractive but stern Boston academic, Donatella di'Bianchi, is in Italy to investigate the affairs of the Collegio Toscana, a school of visual arts. Two new friends, Kiki Lee and Francesca, open Donatella's eyes to a world of sexual adventure with artists, students, and even the local carabinieri. A stylishly sensual erotic thriller set in the languid heat of an Italian summer.
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THE BLACK LACE BOOK OF WOMEN'S SEXUAL FANTASIES
Kerri Sharp
ISBN 978 0 352 33793 1
The Black Lace Book of Women's Sexual Fantasies reveals the most private thoughts of hundreds of women. Here are sexual fantasies which on first sight appear shocking or bizarre – such as the bank clerk who wants to be a vampire and the nanny with a passion for Darth Vader. Kerri Sharp investigates the recurrent themes in female fantasies and the cultural influences that have determined them: from fairy stories to cult TV; from fetish fashion to historical novels. Sharp argues that sexual archetypes – such as the 'dark man of the psyche' – play an important role in arousal, allowing us to find gratification safely through personal narratives of adventure and sexual abandon.
THE NEW BLACK LACE BOOK OF WOMEN'S SEXUAL FANTASIES
Edited and compiled by Mitzi Szereto
ISBN 978 0 352 34172 3
The second anthology of detailed sexual fantasies contributed by women from all over the world. The book is a result of a year's research by an expert on erotic writing and gives a fascinating insight into the rich diversity of the female sexual imagination.
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Table of Contents
Excerpt
Title Page
Copyright Page
No Reservations
Conference Facilities
The Manager #1
Room Service
On Demand
The Manager #2
Taking Dictation
Health and Fitness
The Manager #3 (Chasing Chase)
Staff Training
Pool and Jacuzzi
Maids on Call
Luxury Bedding
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On Demand Page 26
