Bring Me to Life : August Kert
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I turned in his arms. “And if I stay?”
His eyes were dark and filled with lust. “Care for you. Make happy.”
Could I push him now? “I can’t be happy if I’m living in a dirt pit, unable to see the sun and feel cool air when I need it. Unable to be free.” I touched my hand to his cheek. “And you can’t take care of me. Your friends won’t let you. One day I will become your dinner.”
He looked away. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted on my waist. I could almost see him fighting with himself about what to do with me.
One last push…
His gaze remained on something over to his side.
I took his hand and placed it on my breast. “You said you wanted to be reminded what it was like to be human. Feel me.”
He peered at me with wide eyes, lips parted, sweat already forming on his temples.
I had him.
I whispered, “Explore me.”
Anson swallowed the lump in his throat. He scanned my body, stopping at his palm on my breast. He swallowed again.
Just when I thought he was going to resist, he squeezed. I closed my eyes as a bolt shot down to my pussy. It throbbed for him. Anson massaged my breast until my nipple hardened under his grasp. He plucked it with his fingers and I moaned. For a man that had no clue what he was doing, he was doing a fucking good job.
“Like this?” he asked, his voice deep.
He trailed his hand up to my neck and tightened his grip around my throat. I reached for him, feeling his burning skin. He leaned in until his mouth was inches from me. I was sure that my pussy was soaked by now and I loved it. But I had to stop him from getting any closer.
I pushed lightly on his chest. “Watch your mouth.”
His hand went back to my breast where he toyed with me, squeezing, pulling, massaging. Stars danced around me. Anson’s other hand rubbed my belly. I groaned, surprising myself, but I didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not when my pussy ached for him.
When Anson slid his hand under the band of my pants again, I grabbed it and wrapped it around my waist. He raised a brow, but when I unbuttoned my pants and let them fall to the ground, he smiled. My need filled the air, and Anson took a deep breath.
“Shut up.” I sat on the ground. The concrete of the roof was cold on my skin, but I welcomed it as a contrast to my heated skin. Something had to cool me down or I’d come now.
Anson got to his knees. Hooking my fingers on the band of my panties, I slipped them over my thighs, down my legs, and off my feet.
“Beautiful,” he said in a husky voice.
It wasn’t what I’d expected from him, but damn, that one word made me shudder.
He unbuckled his jeans and let them fall to the ground. His erection could barely be contained by his boxers. My fingers itched to touch him, watch his face contort as I rubbed his length.
Anson slid his boxers down. His cock sprang free and I gasped. Long, thick, veins running his full shaft. And he’d called me beautiful.
I couldn’t stop myself from trailing my hand to my pussy. Feeling how wet my slit was, I smiled. My fingers teased my clit. I arched my back, wanting him to see what I was doing. What he made me do for him. His eyes were hooded. I slipped a finger inside myself and cried out. When my eyes met his, I became dizzy. For the first time since I’d met him, I saw the beast in Anson. The animal. I wasn’t afraid.
He took hold of his cock and slid his hand over his length. His eyes slammed shut. Seeing him masturbate had me panting his name. Anson opened his eyes and stared at my fingers pumping inside me. His pace met mine, and for a minute it was just us watching each other masturbate.
Anson reached out for me. I grabbed his hand and shook my head. “Not this.” I grasped my hand around his cock. “This.”
His Road Home – Anna Richland
(Winner of 2015 RITA Award for Best Romance Novella)
Author Links : Website | Facebook
Buy Links : Amazon US | Amazon UK | B&N
Rey solved Grace’s dilemma the way women fantasized a man would. From behind, he lifted her hair out of her coat collar and let it sift through his hands while he whispered her name. His lips brushed her temple and she tilted her head to let him kiss farther as he said, “Coat off.” It slid down her arms until the sleeves hung from her fingertips and she shrugged it to the floor.
With his hands holding her hips against his, he rotated their bodies until they both faced the mirrored vanity. The dim light from a single bedside lamp showed contrasts, but not details, of his white shirt and her silver sweater. They looked like an art photo.
“See.” He finger-brushed her hair to one shoulder. While she watched, he lowered his lips to her ear. His eyes never left her reflection. “Us.”
She was covered turtleneck to toes, but he found places to touch. The edge of her ear. The small bones of her wrist. The feather of tiny hair at her temple. He moved so slowly, always watching her eyes, that her knees wobbled with the tension and she couldn’t support herself without his body. She felt the bulge rub against her lower back, she wanted to press on him and squirm closer, but his touch was so precise it constrained her to stillness. She’d never known a man to be so focused on each moment with her, but nothing distracted him. This must be how he conducted missions.
Her head fell to his shoulder while they both watched him inch her sweater upward. His hands almost covered the pale band of skin revealed to the mirror.
“Smooth.” His voice was as rich and low as chocolate.
Now her chest rose and fell in the mirror and she looked like a runner needing air, but the elastic of her bra compressed her ribs and she couldn’t breathe. Again his hands moved as if he knew each thought when she had it, bra hooks released and the tight band was replaced by heat from his palms as the bottom hem of her turtleneck lifted higher.
She watched his hands trail across her stomach, the arch of her back stretching her to a tight instrument for him to play. Her skin was paler even than Seattle sunlight, and his hands looked dark and masterly as they spanned her abdomen, then traced her waistband. His little finger circled her navel.
No sudden moves from him, as if he feared spooking her, but she tilted deeper onto his shoulder and nothing could make her close her eyes, not while she had the sight of him manipulating the button and zipper on her pants.
“You like. Watching.”
He had that right. She liked to observe, whether marine life or her computer or people, but this was the first time the innocent habit made her burn. She wanted to do more than watch. She wanted to jump, to dive into him and roll with him and grapple and fuck, yes, fuck. But all he did was s-l-o-w-l-y loosen her pants enough for his hand to slide across her panties. Cotton, plain black, but eroticized by the image of his fingers covering the fabric.
He was making her wait. After all these months, the nights with their phones, the times their hands or arms had brushed on this trip, he was still making her wait.
In the waiting she noticed her breathing. And his. They had reached tandem, both of their chests rising at the same moment, both letting out their breath when the other did, as if they had already become one.
“Off.” The command freed her.
She shimmied out of her slacks and kicked them far. He caught her frenzy and yanked her sweater until she twisted to remove her elbow from the sleeve. Not a graceful movie star helix-shaped strip-tease, but a rush with their eyes locked in the mirror, disconnected for the instant the knit pulled over her face, and then reconnected. His need fed hers, and her need soared to see the flushed cheeks and the shake in the hands that roamed her body. In the mirror the only dark spots left were her dangling bra and twisted panties, and her hair against his white shirt. Their silhouettes were tighter to each other, hers engulfed by his shoulders and arms as he curved around her and lifted his hands to cover her breasts.
Each sense doubled the other, racing from eye and skin to nerves and brain and multiplying until she couldn’t stand. But he could. He walked her close enough to the vanity that she braced her hands on its top. The bra disappeared, he whisked the panties to her knees and she kicked them away too. Then she was bare.
“Look,” he said.
The mirror was touching distance, like having two more people in the room. Her nipples were brown and pointed at their reflections. She watched his fingers pinch and roll them in a rhythm that tugged to her hips, felt each pluck as a need to undulate, to writhe and reach for more. Yes, she was naked, yes, he was man-handling her and driving her wild and yes, now his hand was between her legs. His fingers found her center, making her spine arch and her pelvis thrust at the same time, but no, it wasn’t enough.
He panted faster, and he bucked against her ass but he was still clothed. The rhythm of his hips and his fingers wasn’t completing her, wasn’t taking her there, the place she knew was there, so close.
If he wasn’t going to give it to her, she had to take it.
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