27 May '12

Good Smut Day Twenty – An explicit excerpt from Sheltered by Charlotte Stein and a giveaway

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“Is this what you want?” he asked, and she wondered how polite it was to say no. It seemed as though he secretly wanted her to tell him something different, something like do it harder, do it faster, but how could she know for sure?

Even if there had been an etiquette handbook for this, she didn’t have it. She couldn’t even imagine what such a thing would say. Don’t try to rub yourself against his testing, rubbing fingers perhaps, though when she did just that he groaned her name again.

And blessedly, he actually tried for something more. Instead of circling with his thumb he found that slick groove beneath the material of her panties, before sliding two fingers down, down, in an incredibly filthy and absolutely delicious V.

Yeah, her resolve to be still broke then, all right. His touch just sort of…parted things as it went. And far from being an obstacle, the wet material there clung and pulled at her sensitive lips in a way that made her actually shake. A thick burst of pleasure shoved through her, so intense it verged on the rolling orgasm she’d experienced beneath him last time they’d been together.

But this time it didn’t happen quite so quickly. There was more, she knew there was more. She could feel it gathering low in her belly and in her tensing thighs, and it got stronger the lewder he made himself.

“You ever touch yourself, Evie?” he asked, so sudden she couldn’t prepare for it. She didn’t think her cheeks could get any hotter, or redder, but somehow his words made it happen. Her mind went to those electric dreams, to her own filthy imaginings, and she knew both were showing on her face.

It seemed foolish to lie. Foolish, and immature.

“Yes.”

His eyelids flickered low over his smoky gaze. His lips parted.

“Like this?” he asked, and then he just insinuated his fingers into the slit of her sex, twisting at the sodden material until she could feel him rubbing right over her clit.

Her legs straightened of their own accord—almost like kicking out at something, even though there was absolutely nowhere to go. And oh Lord, the sound that came out of her. The solidity of the sensation, as though it made a fist and punched her in the gut.

“No, God—not like that. No don’t, Van, don’t—”

“Tell me how, then,” he said, but he didn’t let up. He kept right on rubbing over her stiff little bud, back and forth, back and forth in the most frustrating and thrilling way possible.

“I don’t know.”

“You do. Tell me.”

God his voice sounded like pouring cream. All rich and thick and good, so good.

“I don’t…I don’t do it so…” She tried in vain to think of the right word. She couldn’t possibly go with, Sometimes I hump a pillow. “Directly.”

“You don’t stroke your clit?”

The word made everything inside her lurch. Any second and it was going to happen. Any second, just a little faster, a little rougher…

“No. Yes. Sort of.”

“You know what I’m doing to you now, right?”

The heat in her cheeks started to boil her eyeballs. He thought she didn’t understand.

“Of course I know—oh God, just there. Oh my God, oh don’t stop.”

Of course the minute she said it he backed away. Because he was an unmitigated bastard.

“So show me.”

She hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes until he said the words—at which point, she had to look him. 
He was joking, wasn’t he? He had to be joking.

Even if he didn’t look as though he was. His eyelids seemed heavy, his gaze like a lead weight. And there was a ruddy flush over his cheeks too—one that made her feel better about her own.

Though only a little. She couldn’t imagine she looked anything like him, all sensuous and lusty and sure of himself.

“Show me,” he said again, and this time she had to squeeze her eyes shut as the memories crushed in—on her front, with her hand pressed tight between her legs. Her imagination going to how his thigh had felt, rubbing in that said same place.

“I can’t do that. No. I can’t.”

Apparently, however, he’d stopped considering that a viable answer. The moment the words were out he leaned forward and clasped her wrist in his big, rough hand, then just tugged it down until her fingers were in the place his had been, very recently.

And God, he’d been right. She couldn’t even describe the level of wetness she seemed to have reached. A couple of times the dreams had left her all shaky and very slick there, but nothing compared to this.

She had to cover her eyes with her free hand to stop the embarrassment overwhelming her, but he wouldn’t allow that either. The second she did it he told her not to.

“I want you to look at me,” he said, which seemed like the most unbearable thing of all. She had to rub through all of this mortifying mess, while he watched her and she watched him?

She couldn’t. She couldn’t.

“I can’t.”

“You can. Here. Here. Like this,” he said, then covered her hand with his and urged it over her slick mound. 
Of course, the effect was immediate. That little bud swelled beneath her fingertips, pleasure jerking upward from it too quickly. Her toes curled, her back arched, she tried to tell him no again.

But he just pushed her hand down harder, until she couldn’t stop herself from circling that stiff shape. Just a little—no one would have to know. Except for Van, of course, who seemed to be breathing far, far too hard.

He was practically panting by the time she’d gotten up a rhythm. And she could feel him getting closer and closer, as the pleasure wound tight and threatened to do something horrible to her.

She was going to die of it, she knew. Those little pulses from the point of connection were just too much—almost like burning—and he didn’t seem to want to let her up. He wanted her to carry on, and the faster she circled, the worse it got until she couldn’t speak or move or think.

Great racking trembles went through her, as shameful as the rest of the experience. And yet somehow she found those cares slipping away the moment it claimed her—because by God, no one could be ashamed of this. She called out his name and didn’t mind in the slightest, body bowing under its pressure. That hand of his working and working over hers, and his mouth, oh Lord his filthy mouth.

“That’s it, honey,” he said. “Give it up. Come all over yourself.”

He sounded so gratified too. It was almost funny, until she managed to open her eyes and saw his face.

His lower lip kept making a sort of bow shape, and every time it did it crushed the upper one into a thin stripe. He had that line of pain down his face, but this time she suspected it wasn’t about the bad kind of torture. It was about the good kind, the leg-jostling, anticipatory, dying-to-have-someone-touch-you kind.

He looked caught, she thought. Caught between being gentleman and doing something absolutely disgusting to her. Of course, the notion only brought two possible words to mind.

“Go on,” she said.

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