Saturday, December 1, 2007

39 and Holding...Him by Robin Slick, ed.

39 and Holding...Him by Robin Slick, ed.
December, 2007 - ISBN 978-1-59426-596-9
$6 eBook (five formats), $13 trade paper - Buy Now!
Editor's Backlist: Robin Slick

from "The Lady-killer" by Belinda Franklin

It was so easy. Almost too easy, really. Part of me sat back and chuckled as the little worm dangled on the end of my hook.

Carefully, I began to reel him in, giving all the required answers and ticking all the right boxes. Yes, I was single, and no, I wasn't looking for a relationship. I was far too busy, didn't have time, all the usual clichés. It's funny how much you can get away with when the man opposite is trying to peer down your top. His eyes were almost popping out as he craned his neck for a better view.

Admittedly, I hadn't made it hard for him. The deep V of my cleavage was clearly visible, plump mounds spilling enticingly from the low-cut neckline, with only a hint of lace showing I was actually wearing a bra. To be sure, it was top of the fuck-me range, but going without would have been too déclassé. I wasn't portraying a whore, just a woman. An older woman who was a little bored, a little jaded, and just ripe for the plucking. Alan considered himself irresistible and, with his money, he practically was--to a certain type, anyway.

The type I was pretending to be tonight.

Not that he was unattractive; I've seduced much worse. His face was mature enough to pass for the thirty years he'd claimed, rather than the twenty-five I knew he really was. His best features were those deep blue eyes that seemed to look right through you, but he also had a lovely full mouth and trim figure, from what his tailored black suit revealed. Officially, he was still in mourning for his parents, who'd died a month ago in a car crash, but he was hiding it well. Very well. His father's multi-million pound corporation was now in his hands, and he was loving it. He had a good head for business, and a first-class team of advisers, though the fast cars, all-night parties and lunch breaks that took all afternoon probably weren't doing much good there. They also weren't helping his marriage, as his thirty-five year-old wife was not impressed with the parade of blonde bimbos who graced his arm at every public function. Some people argued it was his way of dealing with grief. Sure, and if you believe that, I have a bridge I'd like to sell you.

We were at a very swish restaurant in Piccadilly, the kind where the waiters' suits must have cost more than the patrons'. No expense was spared, and discretion was assured, making it ideal for our secret tête-à-tête. A candle lit the space around us, giving everything an intimate glow and scenting each breath with jasmine. The soft light enhanced the blue of his shirt and showed how perfectly it matched his eyes. Alan knew how to dress--or, more likely, someone had told him. It was nice to know I rated the full seduction treatment, even if it wasn't needed, and I let myself be seduced. Being the complete focus of someone's attention this way was deliciously erotic, as he no doubt intended, and so was the furtive stroking of my knee under the table.

He really was good at this, and by the time dessert came, I was genuinely aroused. We fed each other strawberries, and his tongue gently licked my fingers before the sweet juice dripped onto the pristine tablecloth. I returned the favour, lapping shyly at his fingertips, maintaining the pretence of a woman charmed against her better judgment. Then it was Alan's turn again. He was bolder now, his whole tongue caressing the length of my fingers and finding the tender skin where forefinger and thumb met. It felt like he was exploring much more private areas, and moisture began to gather between my thighs.

By unspoken agreement, we skipped coffee. He paid the bill, thanked the waiters as they helped us into our coats, and held my hand as we approached the door. A typical upper-class gentleman, except that I knew he was born in London's East End. A voice coach had worked hard to eliminate the grating twang, but a trace was still there if you listened carefully. I've never understood why people are ashamed of their origins.

Just before we reached the door, he checked no one was looking, and guided me into a secluded alcove that was almost hidden by a huge pot plant. The curtain of leaves gave the illusion of privacy, and I put up no resistance as his warm lips closed over mine. He was an excellent kisser, easily coaxing my lips apart and slipping his tongue inside. I thoroughly enjoyed the feel of large, strong hands at my waist as he pulled me closer. My arms went round his neck and I kissed him eagerly, rubbing my body against the erection I could feel straining in his trousers. One hand was combing through my hair, and I knew he enjoyed the silky feel of the long strands, while the other moved to my side. Two fingers started caressing the side of my breast, just those two fingers moving in maddeningly light repetition, and my nipples became tighter and tighter. Still kissing me, he opened a small gap between our bodies, and that hand suddenly darted between us, squeezing the nearest nipple, before returning to continue its gentle torment.

I knew he owned a flat nearby, and had prepared a great excuse not to go, so I was ready when his mouth left mine and kissed a path to my ear.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry, I have to catch a flight in an hour. There's an important business deal I need to finalize in Miami, and I don't trust anyone else to do it properly."

"How long will you be gone?" I asked, making sure only disappointment showed in my voice.

"Ten days. I would ring but my wife insists on checking all my phone bills, and to use a mobile would be so expensive. I'll ring when I get back, I promise."

Two-timing skinflint, I thought, but aloud I said, "Of course, I understand. But I want you now..."

His eyes gleamed with victory. "I know. I want you, too. Have you ever had sex in a public place?"

"Not yet," I purred.

"Would you like to?"

"Yes, please. No one can see us here, can they?"

"Of course not," he assured me, lust completely overriding common sense. His mouth returned to mine for a passionate moment, nibbling on my bottom lip, then he abruptly pulled back. Firm hands turned me to face the wall, and I instinctively braced myself against it as I heard the soft rasp of a zipper.

"It'll be easier to give you pleasure this way," he murmured in my ear, and lifted the back of my skirt. I heard a condom packet being ripped open, and moaned as expected when his sheathed prick settled between my quivering ass cheeks. He chuckled softly. "What a naughty wench I've found, not wearing any knickers on a first date."

"I never wear them. They're too restricting." Then, mischievously, I added, "I love the naughty thrill of the wind whipping up my skirt, invisible fingers teasing me to wetness, imagining the shock and helpless arousal on everyone's faces if they knew."

His breathing quickened as I spoke, and by the end, his swollen penis was grinding rhythmically against my bottom. "Oh, yes," he growled. "And I bet you're wet now, aren't you?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself? Since you don't trust anyone else..."

"Cheeky minx." But his fingers were already probing my slick folds, delving inside my pussy to find the sweet moisture gathered there. "Fuck, you're dripping," he whispered, and would have said a lot more had footsteps not shattered our private world.

"Alfred, did you hear something?" A cut-glass female voice shrilled.

"No, darling."

"I'm sure I heard a noise ... well, hurry up and get the door then--Mr. Manners never goes on holiday, you know. And find a taxi before I freeze to death, it's far too cold to hang about."

"Yes, darling," came the placid reply. A soft chime rang as the door opened, and Darling's complaints faded into the frosty night air. There was a quiet click as the door closed, and then we were alone once more, but who knew for how long?

Long enough. While the woman was giving her orders, those skillful fingers had found my aching nub, and were deliberately circling it. I couldn't make a sound for fear of discovery, and it was incredibly exciting.

As soon as the door shut, his cock plunged inside me and he started rubbing my clit in earnest. The tension had been building for hours, and we were both so close already that it only took a few slow thrusts to bring us to the edge. The first spasms echoed through me and he grunted as I clenched round him. One more frantic push and he too came, muffling his cry of release against my shoulder. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, but even so, it was hard not to shout my orgasm to the world. For an evil snake, he had some angelic moves.

Baby, It's Cold Outside - Ellen Addie

Baby, It's Cold Outside - Ellen Addie
December, 2007 - ISBN 978-1-59426-842-7
$2 eBook (five formats) - Buy Now!
New Phaze Author!


"Snowfall amounts of up to one foot are expected overnight. Stay tuned to this station for further details throughout the afternoon."

Miranda Todd pursed her lips and exhaled. Am I ready for this? she asked herself. She had moved out to the country in July, when it was warm and sultry, and here it was early December. No leaves on the trees anymore, and a decent winter—heck, it wasn't even technically winter yet!—storm on its way. The prospect scared her a little; she was from Los Angeles, not the East Coast, and didn't know squat about wintertime. But she would learn, just as she'd learned, at least a little so far, about life in a small town: people were nice, people were nosy, and folks cared whether you lived or died.

That last part she particularly liked. The anonymity of life in Los Angeles had long ago lost its appeal for her. When she was informed that her Uncle Pat in Maine had died and left his house to her she saw it as a chance for a change. Maybe she was a little impulsive but she gave up her job in television promotion to move here and open up a little coffee shop. She discovered she liked cooking for people and the town had needed a new gathering spot since her Uncle had closed his bakery five years ago. Now, with a few of his prized recipes and a little big city flair, she was settling in. Except for this winter thing.

"Hey, Miranda, could I have a quick fill-up?" Jessie Chisholm, the bald owner of the local hardware store asked, holding up his cup. "People are going to be looking for batteries and candles today, for sure. I need to get back to the store."

"I'm sorry," Miranda smiled as she scooted over to pour hot coffee into his porcelain mug. "I think I'm freaking out a little over this storm," she fretted. "I just don't know what to expect."

"Well, you've got your firewood, right?" he asked her, ticking it off on the fingers of one hand. "And you've got plenty of water? Lots of food? And something to read in case the power goes out? Won't be any TV, girl!" he laughed.

"That's probably the scariest prospect for me, you're right!" she grinned. "Yeah, I think I'm set, theoretically. I just...well, it's my first winter," Miranda shrugged. "I'm a winter virgin," she joked.

On those last words the door from the outside opened, and Caden Doyle strode in, whipping off his gloves "Gee, I sure wish I'd heard the front end of that conversation," he said loudly, eliciting a laugh from the other customers at their tables. Miranda's eyes widened in surprise, she couldn't believe what she heard him say. He was normally reserved, or at least quiet.

Maybe he was loosening up. Or maybe business was good. Caden was a horticulturist who owned the local nursery, and during the winter he kept people in firewood, did woodworking and maintained cottages for the summer residents. Miranda didn't know too much about him personally other than that he was single, always seemed to have a good tan and had a strapping build that reflected his outdoor lifestyle. He was good-looking, handsome in a natural unpretentious way, not the L.A. girly-boy model type she was used to. A good way, she had to admit. They'd had pleasant joshing conversations when he'd come in, but she hadn't been able to get much more out of him. She didn't want to push the flirting; no sense in getting a reputation as a big city, big mouth hussy, not when she thought he was, well, pretty appealing. She hoped good things would come to those who wait.

"Go ahead and sit anywhere," Miranda called out to him, watching as he circled the room and greeted friends, finally taking a seat at a booth across the room. He picked up a menu and began perusing it as Miranda turned her attention back to Jesse. "So I shouldn't worry too much?" she inquired hopefully.

"The town hasn't lost anybody yet!" Jesse assured her as he rose from the bench and plopped down a bill on the table. "Keep the change, kiddo," he instructed, smiling, as he put his coat back on and walked out.

"Thanks!" she called after him, then did a quick sweep around the room checking on her customers, ending up in front of Caden's booth. "Made up your mind yet?" she asked, looking down at his tousled dark brown hair.

He looked up at her, his puzzled expression incredibly appealing. "What time is it, anyway?"

Miranda checked the clock on the wall. "A little after eleven."

"See, now I don't know whether to have breakfast or lunch," he chuckled. "I left the house early this morning without anything to eat, but the idea of a hamburger now seems weird, except so does pancakes."

"You've got a problem, buddy," she commiserated with a smile. "Why don't you just have some coffee until you can figure which way to go," Miranda suggested, pouring him a cup. "And hey, thanks for delivering that load of firewood the other day."

"You got it just in time, didn't you?" Caden said. "That's what I've been doing all morning. You going to be okay with this storm?" he asked, with some concern in his voice. "Being a winter virgin, and all..." Caden added, slyly.

"Oh, sure, thanks for asking," she smiled. "I guess for you, a big approaching storm is sort of like...whoopee!" She made an exuberant gesture with the coffee pot that sent the liquid sloshing around and nearly over the side. "Oops! I mean, good for business," she explained quickly.

He nodded and laughed with her. "That it is," he admitted, then went back to studying the menu. One of the other customers waved her over and she left Caden to make his decision.

"I'm still completely stumped about lunch or breakfast," he said when she came back to his table.

"Can I make a suggestion? How about a Monte Cristo sandwich? It's sort of breakfast, and sort of lunch, and completely delicious," Miranda explained. He looked up at her with his dark green eyes. "We do a ham and cheese sandwich then dip it in egg batter, lightly fry it, and sprinkle powdered sugar on top. You can use jam on it if you want, too." She tried to read interest in his handsome face. "I think you'd love it."

Caden smiled. "I think I would, too. Make it a Monte Cristo."