Sexy Just Walked Into Town

by Lucy Felthouse

  He begins.

  He combs and snips and says half under his breath, “Mmm hmm, uh huh, just a little more. That’s right. Perfect.” Then he switches to another pair of scissors. I can tell no difference, but he says he needs to create texture, depth, a sense of perspective.

  “The landscape should always showcase its finest feature.” His fingers press in around my clit, and he rubs and strokes it to prominence.

  I try to sit still as he clips and combs, but I’m slippery and swollen and all of the fantastical shapes in Aden’s exquisite topiary now appear orgiastic, spreading wide, thrusting upward, pouting and arching. The bench is damp beneath me and Aden’s trousers look as though they’re about to lose the battle for containment. He breathes like there’s a wind storm in his lungs, and with each snip, he squirms and shifts.

  With a weighty grunt he brushes away the hair he’s trimmed and buries his face in my pussy. “Perfect,” he says when he comes up for air. Then from inside the case, he pulls a gilt hand mirror just the right size for admiring personal gardens. He holds it up for me to see.

  I’m splayed wide on the bench and the dark red of my pout swells like a wet cavern beneath the bonsai-delicate sculpting of my curls. As I admire his artistic skills, Aden frees his cock from his trousers and the naked weight of it presses insistently against my thigh.

  “Very nice.” His breath steams the mirror, obliterating the view of my private topiary. Then he pulls me off the bench onto his lap, wriggling and positioning until his cock is pressing between my labia. He holds me there just long enough to torture us both. Then he thrusts into me, all the way in, and I’m slick and gripping as he rolls me onto the grass.

  He rakes across my pubic landscape with each thrust, and he does it slowly so we can both feel the texture and the depth of what he’s created in my bush. “Perfect, exquisite,” he grunts. “Can you feel it? Can you feel how it changes everything?” He arches upward and runs his hand down between us to fondle his work. “The angle is now better for penetration. It makes no sense, I know, but it is. Can you feel it? And your clit is now better exposed for stimulation.” He tweaks my clit and I nearly buck him off for his efforts. He chuckles at my sensitivity, then he rubs against me. I lift my legs and wrap them around him, and we come together.

  There’s a view of the topiary from the patio. We eat there in the evening. We eat salmon and new potatoes, then feed each other strawberries fresh from the kitchen garden. Beneath the table, Aden wriggles his bare foot up under my skirt. I slump in my chair and go all vacant-eyed while I bear down against the press of him until I come in gasps and shudders as his toes circle my clit and dip into my pout. Then he beckons me to him and pulls me onto his lap like he’s Santa Claus and I’m trying to convince him I’ve been a good little girl. But Santa Claus has a raging hard-on, and I’m definitely not a good little girl.

  I wake from sex-crazed dreams. Sunlight streams through the bedroom window, there’s water running in the bathroom. I yawn and stretch and shove myself into a sitting position against muscles that are tender from the celebration of my pubic sculpting. It began on the patio, then moved into the topiary under the full moon. At some point, we ended up sweating and grunting in the middle of Aden’s big bed.

  “Darling? Are you up?” Aden calls. “I’ve drawn your bath.”

  I don’t bother with a robe. I shuffle into the bathroom displaying Aden’s masterpiece proudly between my legs. He’s waiting next to the tubful of lavender-scented water, lavender that I’ve, no doubt grown for him. I’m surprised to find him dressed in his gardening clothes. He barely notices his artwork as he takes my hand and helps me into the tub. I’m a bit confused, but it’s early and my brain is still pretty sex-addled. I lie back and close my eyes. He sponges me all over, lingering to lick the water droplets off my breasts. Then while he slides the sponge between my legs washing the parts of me that are still tender and raw from last night’s orgy, he fellates my toes one by one, and when he’s finished, I’m spread wide and ready, grinding my bottom against the marble tub, not caring how bruised my pussy is. I want him.

  But when I reach for his fly, he pushes my hands away. “Not yet, Bess. There’s something I have to do first.”

  I offer him a pouty little whimper, which he ignores as he takes my hand and helps me to stand. Then he begins to wash my sculpted pubes, soaping them until they’re white, pressed to jagged sudsy peaks like small glaciers. Running his fingers through my curls seems endlessly fascinating to him, so I stand in growing impatience with my legs open and my pussy gaping to be filled.

  And still he lathers me.

  “Aden, please,” I beg. “I need you to fuck me.”

  “Not just yet.” His voice sounds like it does when he’s in the topiary, concentrating hard on his latest creation.

  “Aden?”

  It’s then I notice the razor on the countertop and I nearly lose my balance in a tidal wave of water that drenches both of us. But Aden steadies me. “Stand still, darling.” He reaches for the razor. “One day’s growth can change everything. With one day’s growth I can see how I might have done better, how I could do better next time.”

  “Next time? But—”

  “Shh.” He eats my mouth until I’m unable to protest, until he knows I’ll do whatever he wants. Then his words come in a breathless rush. “Listen to me, darling, yesterday was just our first attempt. It was a magnificent attempt, granted, but think of what we can create once we’ve had a little practice.” He’s hard, nearly to bursting, as he lays two fingers against my labia. I hold my breath as he gently makes the first scrape with the razor. “It’ll only be bare for a little while,” he reassures me.

  I watch through a mist of tears as in a matter of minutes he scrapes away his lovely creation, which has taken me months to grow. At last I’m smooth and naked once more. “A blank slate,” he whispers, as he rinses away the last of the soap and bends to kiss the naked skin.

  I stand crying quietly while he towels me dry. All the while he speaks softly to me, comforting me, promising me that next time it will be even better.

  He carries me back to the bed and soothes my rawness with luxurious lotion, massaging in slow, even strokes that end with his thumb circling my clit. I quiver against him and lift my bottom to show him what I need.

  “You’ll see, love,” he breathes. “It’ll grow back so quickly and so beautifully.” He stands to undress. “When it does, it’ll be good. So good.”

  When he pushes into me, I feel the hungry rub of him against my new nakedness, and even through my loss, I find myself already anticipating the itch of new growth.

  *****

  More about K D Grace

  K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?

  When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She also enjoys martial arts, reading, watching the birds and anything that gets her outdoors.

  K D has erotica published with SourceBooks, Xcite Books, HarperCollins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Erotic Review, Ravenous Romance, Sweetmeats Press and others.

  Links

  Website: http://kdgrace.co.uk

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/kd_grace

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/KDGraceAuthor

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/2791969.K_D_Grace

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/kdgraceauthor/

  Praise for K D Grace

  Body Temperature and Rising

  “This well-written, full-length erotic novel comes from the pen of well-established writer

  K. D. Grace… easily one of the best books I’ve read!”

  Jade Magazine

  “I am a huge fa
n of K.D. Grace’s explicit, well-crafted writing (I’ve selected and published her work in multi-author “Best” collections), and this novel did not disappoint me. It’s the first of a hardcore paranormal trilogy, and many readers think it is her best work to date.”

  Violet Blue

  KD Grace’s The Initiation of Ms Holly is “A page turner for the erotic reader.”

  The Romance Reviews – Top Pick

  Secret Servicing

  By Lily Harlem

  Chapter One

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Jen, please, don’t… we need to speak.”

  “Fuck you.” I pushed at the door and shut my eyes. I didn’t need reminding how damn gorgeous Kingsley was. Not in a model way, but in a rugged, been-around-the-block macho way.

  “No.” He shoved his big black boot over the threshold, stopping the door connecting with the frame. “Let me explain. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. Any of it.” Still I kept my eyes tight shut. He’d ripped open my heart three weeks ago. I’d barely patched it up enough to get through each day. The last thing I needed was to see the way his lips flattened and his brow furrowed when he was professing his love, his passion—or in this case, his innocence. It would have me coming undone in a very unsightly tangle.

  Bastard.

  “Go,” I said, shouting over the noise of the pelting rain that was hammering onto my paved driveway. “I need you to go. You’re not part of my life anymore.”

  “But I am, please. If only you’ll let me explain what happened that night.”

  I opened my eyes. “That night. That fucking night? What about the night after that, and the night after that? You’ve been gone twenty-one nights in total. It was as though you’d been abducted by aliens or something.” I jabbed at his boot with my toes. I only wore fluffy pink socks so it hurt, and of course, he didn’t budge.

  “I was, kind of.”

  I laughed, without humour, a sound that was bitter and twisted. “Yeah, right. And I’m the goddamn Honey Monster. I’ve been with enough shitheads full of bull to know when I’ve got one on my doorstep.”

  “I’m not a shithead, Jen, you know I’m not. Fuck, let me come in.”

  I rammed the door again with flattened palms. It didn’t move. Kingsley had his shoulder against it, and he was a big bloke. My efforts were futile.

  “Oh, what the hell.” I turned, letting the door fly open to the night and felt the tiniest twinge of satisfaction when I heard his boots slap onto the wooden floor.

  “Thanks,” he said in his usual guttural tone.

  He always spoke like he’d just knocked back a sharp whiskey and his throat was hot and rasped. It was one of the first things that had turned me on about him. That and his flashing dark eyes that promised as much sin as I could handle. He’d been so different to my usual blue-collared boyfriends with his quiet but solid demeanor and rugged arctic-truck-driver ways.

  The door clicked shut, and he huffed out a breath—relief that I’d let him in, or just glad to be out of the storm?

  Quickly I headed to the kitchen. I needed a damn drink. I’d been minding my own business watching X Factor in my fleecy pyjamas, enjoying wallowing in my misery on an evening off work, when suddenly he’d burst into my sanctuary. His presence was like a hurricane creating a whirlwind of emotions.

  Vodka and Coke should settle them. Or at least be a start.

  I banged through cupboards, gathering a tumbler and the bottles. I was aware of him looming in the doorway, his wide shoulders blocking out the hall light and his shadow stretching over the white linoleum.

  I didn’t bother to offer him a drink.

  He wasn’t staying.

  “Go on then,” I said, taking a slug and wincing at the sharpness. “Let’s have it.”

  “Not like this.” He paused.

  I turned to him. I could make out the bulge of his biceps through his black leather jacket and the spread of his hard, muscular chest. Raindrops sat in his hair, there were shadows beneath his eyes, and he wore a couple of days’ worth of stubble. His jeans were wet and ripped over his right knee, his boots grubby, and marking my floor as the rain slithered from them.

  “What’s the matter with you?” A sudden fizz of doubt wheedled its way into my mind.

  He didn’t look quite right—tired, a bit unkempt. “You living on the streets or something?”

  He snorted and stepped into the room. “Might as well have been.” He pointed at the vodka. “May I?”

  I shrugged then leaned back on the counter. My heart was skipping. Standing next to me was the man who I’d thought I had a future with, dreams in common with, and to whom I’d given my heart.

  He sloshed vodka into a mug then knocked it back neat. “I won’t stay long.”

  “Why, you on the run?”

  He slammed the mug down and stepped up to me, fast, his chest rising and falling and a droplet of rain rolling from his temple.

  “We need to hash this out, Jen. There’s lots to say, lots to decide.” He slid his fingers through his hair. It flopped messy and damp over his forehead and around his ears. His leather jacket creaked, filling the quiet kitchen. “Can we stop pissing about and start now?”

  “Whatever,” I said, feigning nonchalance.

  “Remember that night, at the party?”

  I clenched my jaw and swallowed down a rise of pain as my throat constricted. It had been the worst night of my life.

  “It hurt me, too, to go like that. Without explaining.”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak so instead I gulped on my drink.

  “If there’d been any other way.” He frowned and shook his head.

  “I went to the bathroom, came back, and you’d just vanished.” My hands were shaking. I placed my tumbler down. “I sat on the bench outside, waiting for you. No one had seen you even leave.”

  “It was the only way.”

  “I rang the police.”

  “I know.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—?”

  “Jen. I had to help someone.” He reached out and touched my shoulder. “It was urgent.”

  What could have possibly been so urgent that he’d just walked away from me?

  I shook him off. It was bad enough that he was here, ripping wounds open, but to touch me too? That was more than I could cope with.

  Pushing away from the counter, I slipped past him and rushed into the living room. My mind was spinning and my eyes struggling to focus as I stared at a boy band on the TV screen. They were leaping around the stage in tight jeans and big bright trainers, yelling about the best song ever.

  “Jen.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him toss his jacket onto the single armchair in the corner of the room, the way he always used to.

  Damn, I missed him. Missed the way he moved his big body with grace around my small home. How he sometimes lost it when we made love and took me with him to wild, untamed places where pleasure rocked my world. The sound of him coming, grunting, panting for breath was a beautiful ghost of a noise that would haunt me until the end of my days. And the way he traced my skin after we’d fucked, as though it told him a beautiful story. It was enough to make my flesh goose bump just at the memory.

  I loved his body, defined and powerful, because he worked out to prevent his sedentary driving job taking its toll. He had a smattering of chest hair, coarse and masculine, that wound down to his navel and thickened at his groin. On the underside of his upper right arm was a tiny tattoo. A dagger with wings; it was only small but it was super-sexy and tasted delicious when I ran my tongue over it.

  “You just left,” I said, muting the sound on the TV. “You just bloody left.”

  “I had to—”

  “Without saying anything to me? Really? What kind of bastard does that?” I spun around. “No, don’t tell me. Clearly the type of bastard that you a
re.” I jabbed my finger at him.

  “I’m not a bastard, though you have every right to think of me that way.” He frowned and dropped his gaze from my face to my toes then back up again. He licked his lips.

  “Don’t!” I said, marching up to him and shoving his jaw to turn his head away. So that he couldn’t look at me. “Don’t act like you still find me attractive, that you still want me, because it’s clear you don’t.”

  “I do.”

  I kind of growled in frustration. A noise I hadn’t heard myself make before. “Funny way of showing it.”

  He caught my wrist in his hand and turned back to me, holding my arm between us. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Too little too late.”

  “I got here as soon as I could.”

  “What, like you couldn’t call? Couldn’t send me a text? An old-fashioned letter?”

  “No.”

  I wriggled free from his grip and stared up into his eyes. “You better explain, Kingsley, because I’ve had the worst fucking few weeks of my life wondering if you were dead or alive. Wondering what the hell I’d done to deserve a man I thought I had a serious relationship with just vanishing like that.” I paused, huffed. “Sometimes I even thought I’d dreamt our time together, or that you’d been a figment of my imagination.”

  He smirked, and I itched to slap the tilt of his lips.

  “Funny, is it?” I snapped. “Funny that you made me fall for you and then trampled all over my heart?”

  He grabbed me, both hands on my shoulders, and pulled me close. He stared down at me, his dark eyes flashing and his nostrils flaring. “I told you, I didn’t want to go but I had to. And as for trampling all over your heart, do you think leaving didn’t break mine?”