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Stories in this Anthology
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Stories in this Anthology
Geek Lust
May the Force Bewitch You by Suleikha Snyder
Dirty Town by Shane Allison
That’s Mr. Male Nurse to You…by M.J. Mancini
Geek on Fire by Max Vos
A Friend Who Serves a Purpose by Madlyn March
Wonky Woopie by Jeanine McAdam
See You at the Conference
Conventional Loving by Raven de Hart
Bigger on the Inside by Robyn Avalon
Enter the Library
Baby Got Back Matter by Beckah Rose
Game, Set, and Wrestling Match by Rob Rosen
Straddling the Stroke Sea by Dirk Taylor
Let Me Adjust Your Bowtie
Dr. Kupfer’s Grand Design by Kaysee Renee Robichaud
Geeky Bowtie by Del Carmen
Analyzing Assets by Kimber Vale
Introduction
Geek Lust is my second anthology with Ravenous. As far as being an editor of erotica, I am prepared for pretty salacious passages, but I have to say I was not prepared for some of the opportunities that arose in this collection of stories, much to my naughty pleasure! At conferences, in libraries, and in offices, my geeks went wild! Wearing glasses and bowties, or tattooed, my geeks could not be contained to a particular stereotype as they pursued their desires. As a result, I am taking a page from Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden (which I used to skim for the “dirty parts” when I was in the library as a precocious tween) and categorizing the most popular themes, welcoming you to enter them like red velvet-curtained salons. But you are not going to know what to expect from room to room except that you will be seduced by a plethora of geeks who will make you blush when you see a bowtie a la Fifty Shades of Grey. Or even better—it make you definitely want to make passes at girls or boys in glasses!
F. Leonora Solomon
New York City, 2012
Geek Lust
May the Force Bewitch You
by Suleikha Snyder
The basement lab was dim, lit only by the glowing screen of her office-issued PC and the status lights on all the ancient, currently dormant analysis equipment. You’d think a private security firm would be making enough money to shell out for a) decent lighting and b) the latest technology, but wherever their funds went, it definitely wasn’t towards forensics and research. The tight-fisted financial funneling was probably why Dr. Beatrice Jordan, nerd of all trades, was currently serving as their one-woman crime lab.
Beat scowled, turning up the volume on her iPod as her fingers flew across the keyboard. Rob Zombie pounded against her eardrums, rough-voiced and angry. Music to break laws by, one of her exes used to say. As a rule, Beat didn’t consider herself a criminal — particularly not when she worked for a firm that tried to help people. Hacking into the FBI’s fingerprint registry and facial recognition database was chancy, but necessary. They were working against a bitch of a deadline, and the boss didn’t want to waste the time it would take to go through official channels. If there was anything that every employee of Garuda, Inc., knew by heart, it was that whatever the boss said was law. Matthew Sarkar didn’t suffer fools.
A former Marine who’d come into family money, Sarkar hadn’t done the usual things a guy did when he was suddenly flush. No new sports car, no fancy house, no posh wardrobe, no trophy girlfriend or boyfriend. Instead, he’d started Garuda, naming his agency after a Hindu demigod and gathering together a small group of former military personnel, ex-cops—and Beat. With seven tattoos (the tribal design that crawled from her shoulder to halfway up her neck was undeniably the most visible), tortoiseshell glasses, and short hair she’d streaked white a la Rogue from The X-Men, Beat was literally the odd woman out. It didn’t help that she was ghostly pale from spending most of her time indoors, and constantly wired on Red Bull. She was the person that most of the heavies avoided in the hallway and only communicated with via terse text messages. Freak. Geek. Weirdo. She’d heard it all. But most of what she heard was silence. Everyone up top liked to pretend she didn’t exist—unless she was giving them results.
“I got your results right here,” she muttered to herself.
“Do you?” The question brushed against her ear like a physical touch, sliding underneath the music flowing from her earbuds. She practically jumped out of her casual slouch, every muscle approximating standing at attention as she shut off her iPod.
Matthew Sarkar moved like a cat. She hadn’t heard the door open or heard him cross the room and hadn’t seen him either. That was just creepy.
“Oh my God. What the hell? What, are you wearing an invisibility cloak or something?” she sputtered.
She certainly saw him now. Six foot two, built like a Dothraki horse lord with his straight black hair just dusting his shoulders, Matthew Sarkar was the kind of guy who could make her glasses fog up. The kind of guy who did set her off balance by standing too close, crowded up against the back of her chair like a big brick wall.
“Matches for the target,” he reminded, as if her invisibility cloak comment hadn’t even been uttered. “Do you have them?”
“No.” She tried to keep the peevish tone out of her voice. Peevish was sort of second nature for her. “I’m working as fast as I can.”
“Is that so, Dr. Jordan?” His dark eyebrows arched and his lips pressed into a firm line. The man wore disapproval like some women wore makeup: artfully applied, down to the very last detail. “Then you’ll just have to work faster.”
“Oh, really? And what kind of incentive would you give me? A pay raise?” She snorted in disbelief, even as her traitorous brain conjured up all kinds of options. Ninety percent of them involved her big bad boss with his clothes off.
Matthew, whose tight jeans and black T-shirt were definitely staying on for the moment, stepped back a few inches and stared down at her with a perplexed expression.
“Most of my team members are scared of me, but not you. Not even at the start, when I brought you in. Why is that?”
Oh, that was an easy one. Beat grinned at him.
“I’m only scared of three things, Mr. Sarkar: Daleks, any time George Lucas tinkers with the Star Wars trilogy, and my grandmother.”
To her surprise, he actually laughed. It was a full, rich, sound that echoed off the concrete walls of the lab. “Should I be offended that I actually rate below Jar Jar Binks on a list?”
“Who’s Jar Jar Binks?” she countered, blinking innocently. “You do realize there are only three movies, don’t you?”
“Oh, you’re one of those people, are you? A purist?” Matthew crossed his massive arms over his equally massive chest. “I’ll tell you what. If you can get me a match for the prints within the next twenty minutes, I will get you copies of the unsullied, original trilogy. The one where Han Solo shot first.”
She clicked her tongue, swiveling so she was at least paying partial attention to the hack in progress and not revealing to Matthew just how much hotter he’d become with that single offer. “Boss, don’t you think I already own it? You’ll have to do better than that,” she dismissed.
His laugh rumbled through the room again, like a roll of thunder. Beat wondered just how many of the Garuda team got to hear it. Whenever she left the basement, the goings on seemed incredibly serious. All the time. A lot of reflex salutes and “sir”s and people thumping around in steel-toed boots. Not that she didn’t appreciate a good pair of boots.
“Dr. Jordan…”
“Beat,” she corr
ected. “Most people call me Beat.”
“Beet? Like the vegetable?”
He looked both fascinated and horrified.
“No, as in ‘Beat It.’ It’s short for Beatrice,” she elaborated, although he no doubt knew it from her personnel file. She got the feeling that Matthew Sarkar knew everything about his staff, from their full names to which side of their beds they slept on.
“In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.” His hands came down on either side of her, curling around the arm rests, effectively trapping her in her chair. “Shakespeare’s Beatrice or Dante’s?”
She had no intention of trying to escape. He’d had her at Star Wars, but quoting Shakespeare? That was just plain dirty. Practically a come on.
“Both,” she murmured in a voice that sounded distinctly breathy to her mortified ears. “I had very literary parents.”
“Well, I had very literal ones, who knew the value of a job well done. So, Beat, I want a fingerprint match ASAP.”
“And I’d like to see you naked ASAP. We can’t always get what we want, boss man.” As soon as the words were out, Beat clapped a hand over her mouth and blushed like the vegetable she was not named for.
Matthew didn’t look particularly scandalized. Maybe he had experience with other people who were a fun combination of socially awkward and terminally outspoken. Beat didn’t have much experience with men like him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Sar—”
“Matthew,” he interrupted. “It’s Matthew. No vegetables, no Michael Jackson songs. Just the Gospels.”
There was an unseemly dark glint in his eye. One that made her blush for reasons that had nothing to do with her big mouth.
Then he stripped off his shirt.
Beat had to blink several times and adjust her glasses before she believed it was actually happening. Her boss took off his shirt, tossing it onto the countertop of her lab bench. When she was finished processing the image, he was still half naked and definitely a little smug. Justifiably smug.
“Results,” he said simply.
This was Beat’s cue to be a good little forensic scientist and turn back to her machine. But how could she when Matthew was such a sight to behold? His torso looked like it had been sculpted from bronze. Forget being a Dothraki horse lord; he was the Khal, the freaking king of the warriors. A song of ice, fire, and nuclear hotness.
Before she knew it, she was out of her chair, closing the few feet between them. Even with the heels on her Docs, she barely came up to his collarbone. She was eye level with his perfect pectorals.
“Half naked, half-assed report,” she pointed out, surprised by the husky note in her voice. It usually took no sleep and a pack of clove cigarettes to make her sound remotely seductive. Her boss was apparently a game changer. In all kinds of ways.
“Extortion in exchange for doing your job?” The unholy heat in his eyes blazed. “That’s not how employment works, Doctor.”
She matched his charge with one of her own.
“You missed a Beat,” she chided, before leaning forward and pressing her lips to his chest.
There was something to be said for being a basement-dwelling weirdo, and for not giving fuck all about social niceties. Especially when it opened her up to the taste of his skin: salt, heat, and something that was alien and familiar all at once.
Her tongue traced the ridge of his nipple. The noise that issued from his throat wasn’t a rumbling laugh. He growled, an animal sound of pleasure, as he grabbed the back of her head, fingers threading into her short hair—making her wish it was long enough for him to really get a grip on.
“Beat, what is this?” he demanded, thickly. “What are you doing?”
She licked a slow line towards his throat.
“The purist’s version.”
“Is that so?” He tilted her face upwards, then swept her up against him with his other hand palming her ass. His mouth came down on hers with complete confidence and purpose. Like the only deadline that mattered involved getting her clothes off.
It was an assignment she could definitely get behind.
Beat hooked one leg around his, using the momentum to sway them into the lab bench. He automatically boosted her so she was sitting on the edge of the counter and moved between her thighs. All the while, he kept kissing her. Beyond the mechanics of it all, there was the sensation: the heat of his lips and tongue, the stroke of his touch. He tasted like power and the forbidden, and felt like determination wrapped in silk.
He took off her glasses, carefully setting them out of the way, and then he was back at the campaign, attacking her with military precision. He took a direct line to the vulnerable spot behind her ear and the ink wrapped hollow of her throat, while his fingers marched up her bare thigh and beneath the flimsy barrier of her plaid schoolgirl’s miniskirt. Beat’s only defense was to snake her hand between them and undo the button fly of his jeans. She popped each button with painstaking precision until his erection was rising against her fingers, freed like some mythical beast.
He breached the elastic of her panties, finding her hot and wet for him, sinking two of his fingers deep. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. There was no denying it: Matthew Sarkar was a pro at just about everything and she matched him stroke for wicked stroke.
“The target is a known associate of a major arms dealer,” he whispered, making the intel sound like words of seduction. “We can’t afford to let him slip away.”
“I’m going in through backdoor channels,” she panted against his ear, going straight for the filthiest possible implication, and letting him draw his own conclusions. Paint his own dirty pictures. “You know that takes finesse. Patience. Prep.”
He groaned, bucking against her palm. “I need this from you.”
“I need this,” she countered, gripping him tight as she felt for the drawer handles with her left hand. She managed to jostle the top drawer open and reach inside, pulling out an entire row of foil-wrapped condoms.
And just like that, Matthew’s laugh was back. Hot and sexy, tickling the surface of her skin. “We used to put these on the barrels of our weapons when it rained. What’s the application here, Beat?”
“What can I say, boss? Maybe I was saving them for a rainy day?”
Together, they managed to tear one free and sheath his decidedly non-Marine-issued piece. She angled upward, sliding onto his cock inch by glorious inch. Holy fire of Mount Doom, but he was big. And strong. And hard. When he started to piston inside her, Beat was glad for the steadiness of the counter at her back, because he made her weak. Not just in the knees, but all over. She was roughly the consistency of lime Jell-O. She tried to rally, wrapping her arms around his neck and keeping pace, meeting him thrust for thrust. Matthew held her steady with a good, firm grip on her hip that would probably leave bruises. Delicious bruises she’d look at later in the mirror as she reran this insane encounter in her mind. His free hand, finished with its thorough plunder of her pussy, edged up her Doctor Who T-shirt from a comic convention, and obviously not a deterrent to getting laid — and bared her breasts. As if his exquisite artistry of the penis wasn’t enough, Matthew drew intricate, damp designs on her skin with his fingertips, making her nipples pebble and causing what was left of her air supply to escape her lungs in frantic little gasps.
Her belly coiled with tension, tighter and tighter, flashbulbs were going off behind her eyes. She sank her teeth into the tender skin over his pulse, determined to leave her own mark. To make him replay this later. He groaned her name, her whole name, making Beatrice sound sexier than humanly possible. When she again took him in hand, feeling where they were joined, stroking the underside of his shaft, he stiffened, following her name up with a string of expletives in English and Hindi. She felt his climax rip through him like it was her own. Epic. Earthshaking. It was like being filled with latex-wrapped lava—not the most erotic of things to think at a moment like this, but oh, God, was it accurate. Beat whimpered, then let her own pleasure burn her clean throu
gh.
By the end of it, they were clinging to each other, practically sprawled across the countertop as her PC’s alert noises wailed at them like they’d offended its sensibilities while it was trying to work. It had worked. The hack was done. She was in.
Matthew raised his head, following the path of her gaze to the computer screen. Still filling her, still heavy, wonderful, and satisfying.
“I’ll be damned,” he marveled. “I guess you do have me Beat.”
Oh, yes, she did. In more ways than one.
“See? I told you: purist’s version.” She smiled against his jaw. “Han definitely shot first.”
Dirty Town
by Shane Allison
I was so happy to make it to New York, I could have kissed her concrete. I had only dreamt of it since the sweet age of sixteen. Didn’t think I would ever escape the Bible belts of Tallahasseans, with their churches on every corner. “Watch who you drink with,” Ma said as we hugged each other goodbye, all teary-eyed.
I was nervous, but excited to venture out into the mouth of madness that was my new home. My roommate Scott didn’t show until three days later, so the hardwood floors, the striped mattresses, and the view from the top were all mine. I fantasized about my roommates and I fucking in close quarters, doing things to one another that was our secret alone.
Scott finally arrived, and as it turned out, he wasn’t half bad looking. Quite cut for a nerd.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“A few days ago. My folks drove me up. You?”
“I came by bus. I didn’t think I would ever get here with all of the transfers, and the driver kept stopping for bathroom breaks every ten minutes.”
“If you think a bus is bad, try drivin’ all the way up from Florida. Ain’t nothin’ worse than bein’ cooped up in a minivan that smells like hot sauce and barbecue pork skins with a hollin’ two year old.”
“You have me beat,” Scott laughed. “What part of Florida?”
Geek Lust: Erotic Stories about Hot Nerds Page 1
