Bitten to the Core by Robin Slick

Chapter One

There are at least three things I should be doing right now.

If I were a normal person, that is.

For one, I should be painting. I spent two days setting up my studio in Tom Hunter’s screened-in porch and I have yet to do anything there besides stand in the middle of the room and admire my art supplies.

Or, I could be a really good person and go back to New York and run Rob’s restaurant, but I’ve been a really good person my entire life and look at where it got me.

Which brings me to my third and most important alternative. If I had half a brain, I’d be in Paris fighting for Rob, the alleged love of my life, but nope, I’m not doing that, either.

Instead, I ran away.

I packed my bags and rented a house with an open-ended lease in my favorite place in the entire world, a seaside town where I vacationed as a child—Ocean City, New Jersey. Long white beaches, deep blue water, an old fashioned boardwalk, and one hundred fifty miles from New York City. Of course, I had to pick the middle of winter when absolutely nothing is open except a library and a café swarming with candy freak church ladies, but what the hell, it made perfect sense.

Because as we have already established, I am not a normal person.

For me, going back to Ocean City was the equivalent of returning to my parents’ home and sleeping in my childhood bedroom while my mom stroked my forehead and told me everything was going to be all right. Except my mother died twenty years ago and my childhood home is now part of a strip mall housing a Denny’s and a Bed, Bath and Beyond but, oh well, this is the best I could come up with.

So, rather than take any kind of affirmative action, I pace the house like an over-caffeinated zombie until I run out of steam, plop down on the sofa, and turn on the television.

It seems that several weeks of unplanned celibacy have taken their toll. After only a few minutes of watching Ralph Fiennes on a syndicated talk show, I am sent into a total carnal frenzy.

Did I mention that I am a mess?

Not to use a cliché, but oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Two years ago, I was haughtily patting myself on the back, thinking I had somehow managed to successfully turn my life around. With my youngest son in college, I walked away from the roles of dutiful wife in a loveless marriage and cog in an unfulfilling corporate career. I packed my bags for New York City to pursue a career as an artist—something I had put on hold when my two boys were born.

But all did not turn out exactly as I planned.

For one thing, I fell in love. Apparently with the wrong person. And now I am minus one husband and one supposedly great boyfriend.

Alone again…naturally.

I sigh and turn my attention back to the television.

“So, Ralph, you were voted Sexiest Man Alive by People Magazine. What are your feelings on the subject?” the pretty young interviewer asks.

The enthusiastic audience cheers. I merely salivate.

“Sexiest Man Alive? You don’t say. I was not aware of that.” Ralph grins and leans back in the chair, crossing his legs in what he has to at least know is the Sexiest Man Alive position.

“You don’t read People?” she asks him in surprise.

“Afraid not, love.”

“Then I guess you don’t know that they also said you are a member of the Mile High Club.”

“Oh yes, that I did hear something about.”

“Care to spill the beans?”

He looks at her with a wicked glint in his eyes.

“I really can’t comment. The lady in question is in litigation with her employer.”

“She was a stewardess on the plane, according to People.”

“Well if it is printed in a magazine, then I suppose it must be true,” he says, clearing his throat for emphasis.

There’s a few seconds of dead air after that, but good old Ralph, smirk firmly in place, breaks the silence.

“Let’s move on, shall we? I have a new film to promote and I do believe you have a clip to show your viewers here and at home.”

No, no, your viewers at home want to hear about the Mile High Club! Come on, be a sport, Ralph. So you did it in the bathroom on the plane? You bad, bad boy.

That has to be hot as hell. I wonder if the lavatory in first class is different than the tiny metal closets used by us plebs in coach. Though really, the thought of being crammed up in such an enclosed and forbidden place with Ralph Fiennes makes my knees go weak.

There’s something just so nasty about that fantasy, between the motion of the plane, the idea that hundreds of people are just a few feet from the door—maybe someone is even standing directly on the other side, waiting for his or her turn and they can overhear everything…

Oh my.

I shiver while I rock back and forth on the sofa, both to keep warm and for devilish reasons I’d prefer to keep to myself.

“One more question before you give us a synopsis of the movie clip we are about to see, Ralph. Now I don’t want to go breaking any hearts here, but I also read you are no longer single. Care to comment?”

“I’m seeing one woman exclusively, yes.”

The audience and I groan simultaneously.

“Do you want to share her name with us?”

“Not particularly. She is an artist and isn’t in the business so you would most likely not know her, anyway.”

Oh, God. She’s an artist? I’m an artist, too! Come to me, Ralph. I’m here all by myself and available. You know you aren’t monogamous. No one in the “business” is.

“I understand that she turned down your sexual advances for two months before finally agreeing to sleep with you.”

Ralph stares at her like she is something he would normally scrape off his shoes, and I’m embarrassed to be even watching this program, but at the same time I am practically jumping up and down waiting for his answer.

“Was that in the magazine as well?” He arches an eyebrow and cocks his head. Between the British accent, his sweptback hair, and magnificent face, I am losing it.

“Yes it was, along with juicy side dish that you finally enticed her by doing impossible yoga positions while naked.”

“Good lord, did someone have a webcam in my room?” To his credit he laughs, but his host isn’t letting him off the hook just yet.

“So you are telling us this is something you do?”

What? What does he do? Use a webcam? Naked yoga? Naked yoga with a web cam and his artist girlfriend? Can I find it on the Internet? Is it on YouTube?

“Well, if one is to look at the actual definition of yoga, which is the conscious state of harmony of body, mind, emotions, and inner self, then it would make perfect sense that I practice it while nude.”

And then he slides off his chair and assumes the tree position while never taking his smoky, sensual eyes off the camera.

I run upstairs like a wild woman.

Make your mind a blank, I tell myself as I fall on the bed and kick off the covers. Just think about Ralph Fiennes, hot and heavy airplane sex, and naked yoga.

Which isn’t hard to do at all.

“Lift up your shirt, Elizabeth. Let me see your breasts,” I whisper to myself in a hoarse British accent which, big surprise, sounds nothing like my boyfriend Rob.

I do as I say and raise one arm over my head so that my bare tits are straining upward while I use the other hand to alternately massage them, stopping only to intermittently pinch my nipples.

“You are so beautiful. I want you completely naked. Take off your bottoms.”

“But I’m afraid.”

“I won’t hurt you, I promise. I want your first time to be something you will always remember.”

Oh, boy. The hell with the yoga and the plane. I’m about to lose my virginity to Ralph Fiennes.

I pull my sweatpants all the way down until they fall to the floor.

“Do you want me?”

“I’m not ready,” I whimper.

I slowly inch my hand between my tightly closed thighs. “I just need to touch your pussy. If you’re wet you won’t feel any pain. Open yourself for me. Try and spread your legs as wide as you can. All I want is to make you happy.” My fingers are relentless as I probe and stroke every inch of my body while I toss and turn on the bed.

“I want you to make me happy, too.” I bring my finger to my lips, wet it with my tongue, and run it gently along my clit, back and forth, up and down, teasing gently and then applying just the tiniest bit of pressure.

“Do you want to feel my cock deep inside of you?”

“Yes! Oh God, please!”

I thrust my entire finger all the way inside while rubbing myself back and forth with the palm of my hand.

“Grab my ass. I want you to feel me come.”

I take my other hand and place it on top of the one currently fucking me and force my finger in even further while simultaneously vibrating my clit with all of the frenetic movements.

I climax so hard I hear ringing in my ears and my teeth are vibrating.

Damn, I’m good.

It takes me at least ten minutes to catch my breath after that orgasm. I hug the oversized down-filled pillow, now a likely candidate for future debauchery, to calm down a heart that feels like it’s beating out of my chest.

So this is what I have been reduced to.

At least it works.

All right, I feel better now. Excellent. Time for a bath. I can’t believe I’m actually leaving the house tonight.

* * * *

“The Ocean City Poetry Society meets at the Ocean City Library, 17th and Simpson Streets, Ocean City, New Jersey, the last Tuesday of every month.”

When I heard the announcement on the radio earlier that day, I laughed out loud—half because knowing Ocean City the way I do, I found it hilarious—and half in relief because it was the last Tuesday of the month and I wanted to go, which was very good news. I seriously needed a reason to get out of the house. I had been moping around and wallowing in depression for weeks.

So thank you, Mr. Ralph Fiennes, and thank you, Ocean City Public Library.

I have my way with myself again in the tub. My clit is still swollen and it only takes a few seconds of a steady stream of warm water strategically sprayed from the hand-held showerhead to send my eyes rolling backward.

“Oh, Johnny!” I scream.

For, um, Johnny Depp.

Okay, so I’m a loser. But I’m willing to bet there are millions of other losers out there just like me.

Which is confirmed when I walk up the stairs and enter the reading room on the library’s second floor. The M&M gang is here, seated primly on metal folding chairs. One of them is knitting with a Bible on her lap. That would be Dottie.

I met Dottie and her pals last week when I went out to what I thought was a hip little café for breakfast. Yeah, well, they might have had cool specials like pumpkin pecan pancakes and coconut custard French toast written on the blackboard menu posted in their plant-filled window, but it turned out to be a hot spot for church ladies. There were six of them seated at a round table in the middle of the restaurant, all wearing red t-shirts emblazoned with a large M&M on the front and her name embroidered on the back in three inch yellow letters. If one was to believe what was written on her shirt and her proprietary air at the head of the table, Dottie was their fearless leader. I curiously watched them bow their heads and chant prayers over their coffee, both annoyed at the intrusion and maybe a little jealous of their ability to achieve spiritual contentment oblivious to other patrons sipping coffee and reading newspapers.

Though I did have a private snicker that their husbands must come in their mouths, not in their hands.

So here we were, together again, at the Ocean City Public Library. I grab a seat in the back and do a quick scan around the room. Oh, perfect. There’s the Waiting to Die Because We’re Stuck With Our Wives Since We Retired quintet—five men who hang outside Opal’s Apple Cider Donut Stand on the boardwalk all year long, even now when it’s boarded up and closed for the winter.

Hey, it’s cool. For once I’m the youngest person in the room, and by several decades yet. But, oh good grief, what type of poet could they possibly have booked? Am I going to have to sit here for two hours and listen to someone in a pink cardigan reciting Hallmark greeting cards?

Probably. I look longingly over at the refreshment table. Wine and cheese? No boxed cookies from the supermarket and pitchers of Kool-Aid?

Yeah, yeah, I really need to stop being such a snob.

The librarian steps to the podium and announces our special guest.

“Hullo,” says a warm, British voice.

What’s this? I glance up at the speaker. He is our poet? Oh, there is a God. Long, shaggy dark hair, five o’clock shadow, large expressive eyes and, if that’s not enough, he’s my apparent soul mate. Like me, he is completely dressed in black and wearing a t-shirt and jeans topped with a black leather jacket.

You would think by now I’d have learned my lesson about these types of men, but no, no, there you have it, I’m almost sliding off my chair with lust.

And then he starts to read from his work and our eyes lock because we both know I’m the only one in the room who has a clue as to what he is talking about, and at the same time I’m thinking it’s been two and a half months since I’ve had sex. My boyfriend is in France allegedly promoting a cookbook that we wrote and illustrated together, but what he is really doing is taking care of his ex-girlfriend, who may or may not be grievously injured as a result of a terrible motorbike accident in Paris.

I wonder how old the poet is.

Hopefully nearer to me in age than my eldest son, but upon closer inspection, my stomach sinks. I mean, he could be forty, but I doubt it, though he’s got the kind of look where he could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five.

Please let him be thirty-five. At least a six-year age difference wouldn’t fall under the dreaded May-December category, would it?

Oh, what do I care? He’s probably splitting from here the minute he finishes, anyway, unless the M&M gang kidnaps him and takes him down to the church basement where they will wrap his naked torso in chains and commit unspeakable sins.

Right, Elizabeth. You’re normal. Can’t you have thoughts like other people?

Nope.

It’s weird but everyone rushes out en masse as soon as the poet is finished reading. I’m so embarrassed on his behalf that I walk over to tell him that I think he is brilliant.

“Thank you,” he replies. “This is quite odd, isn’t it?” He waves his hand around the empty room.

“Yeah, it’s perplexing alright, but I’m only here on a vacation of sorts so I’m not hip to the natives and their culture system. What I can tell you is that this appears to be a very morally conservative town and they may have taken some offense to the material you read tonight.”

He looks shocked and is about to reply when the librarian appears in the doorway and clears her throat.

“I could use a drink,” he says instead, looking over at the refreshment table. Holy crap, someone already walked off with the wine and cheese. I wince and because I am a kind and caring person, I take one for the team.

“A drink? That sounds good to me. There’s a decent bar around the corner if you’d like some company. It, um, appears we’re being asked to leave,” I say loudly because the rudeness being shown this man is astonishing.

Okay, so maybe it’s not that I’m a kind and caring person who feels sorry for him. Let’s be honest here, what I’m really thinking is, “Fuck me, suck me, do what you will with me, Poetry Man.”

We walk out without so much as a goodbye or a thank you from anyone and five minutes later pull up a stool at Schooner’s Tavern, which is devoid of any customers. An ancient bartender watching a rerun of Murder, She Wrote on an ancient television tries not to show his displeasure at being interrupted.

But what the hell, this could prove to be interesting, and at least I’m back out in the world again.

As soon as I get the opportunity, I ask the poet how old he is.

“Twenty-nine,” he says, taking a swallow of beer. “And you?”

“Forty,” I lie. “In fact, today is my birthday.”

Hey, if I’m going to lie, I may as well lie.

He looks at me and grins. “This is the best you can do?”

I’m not sure if he means, “This is the best you can do?” because it’s a lousy fib, or if he means, “This is the best you can do—spend such a momentous occasion with a poet who had a speaking engagement at the Ocean City Public Library?”

But since I am now on my second vodka martini and it is well established that I am a cheap drunk—a very cheap drunk—I look at him and say, “What can I tell you, I’m horny.”

Apparently I am not that drunk after all because I am instantly mortified. Kill me now. Please. I’m begging you.

“Oh? Just how horny are you?” he asks, looking at me through those all too familiar man-in-heat narrowed eyes.

“Horny? Who’s horny? I’ve had great sex with myself the past seven days in a row,” I reply, adding to my heretofore-unknown plan for suicide.

He laughs. “What’s your name again?”

“Elizabeth. And what’s yours?” I actually had no idea, though I’m sure had I ventured outdoors in the past few days, there were probably posters plastered all over town.

“Andrew. Andrew Kent. You really didn’t know that, did you?”

“Nope. Sorry. I feel guilty, I swear.”

Not.

And to prove it I reach over in front of him and grab a handful of peanuts, half of which I drop on his thigh.

He brushes them off and shrugs. “Now why would you feel guilty?”

“I guess it’s a dumb reason, but maybe it’s because I’m a painter and you are a poet and we should all be aware of each other and support each other and all that happy stuff.”

“That makes absolutely no sense at all. But whatever. Let’s have a toast for your birthday. Cheers!” We clink glasses and I feel more like an idiot than ever. Worse. A cradle-robbing idiot.

“So, you are a painter. Is that what brings you to Ocean City, Elizabeth?”

“No. I’m here nursing a broken heart. Or not. I have no idea, actually. My boyfriend and I are separated at the moment, and I’m not sure if it’s real or in my head and...wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you are very pretty, you know.”

“I’m screwed no matter how I answer that, aren’t I?”

“In a perfect world, yes.” He grins.

“Oh really,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else.

“Really.”

There’s an awkward pause between us made worse by the sound of me furiously chomping on peanuts. This is because I am extremely nervous he’s going to feel me up or finger me in public in front of the pissed-off, ninety-year-old bartender, after which we will be arrested for lewd and lascivious behavior and make the headlines of the Ocean City Gazette.

Or, I’m going to end up in a body bag, identified by my dental records.

Of course there’s an even worse scenario—maybe he doesn’t want to touch me at all.

Who tells a total stranger that they’re horny? I mean, who over the age of sixteen, that is?

Luckily one of us is more mature than the other.

“Where do you live when you’re not nursing a broken heart, Elizabeth?” He playfully picks my fingers off of the bar and then tickles my palm. Okay, so much for him not wanting to touch me. When I don’t pull away, he starts making sensual love to my hand, pumping his thumb in and out between my index and forefingers. I pretend it’s not happening, just like I pretend there isn’t a warm, quivery puddle forming between my legs.

“New York. East Village, actually.” At least I think that’s where I think I still live, although the apartment belongs to my boyfriend Rob. Or is that my ex-boyfriend, Rob? He wouldn’t just put me out on the street, would he? Oh, who cares? I have money of my own now.

That brave voice is the alcohol speaking, not me.

“New York, huh? I should have guessed that. Somehow I doubt there are any other women in Ocean City, New Jersey dressed in black jeans and a Lou Reed t-shirt.”

“Sadly, there aren’t that many of us left in New York, either,” I reply. “But since we are drawing stereotypical conclusions here, I guess the same could be said for you. London, then?”

“Nope, New York as well. Coincidence, huh? But not the East Village—the slums of Brooklyn.”

“Slums? Who are you kidding, Andy—can I call you Andy? Brooklyn is all yupped up now. You aren’t a writer unless you have a Brooklyn address.”

“Trust me, I live in the underbelly. Poets are apparently not paid as well as painters.”

Since I am not about to launch into anything personal like my finances or worse, throw any emotional baggage at him on our first “date”, I stay quiet. Or as quiet as I can while he continues to lightly touch my fingers and I struggle not to spill vodka martini all over both of us.

He walks me home, I invite him in, and pretty soon we are sitting side by side on the ugly plaid sofa in my off-season rental home with our tongues down each other’s throats. I give silent thanks that Tom Hunter, the owner, had the good sense to use thrifty sixty-watt light bulbs throughout the place, making it both sexy and lit up just enough to see each other yet effectively conceal our age difference.

We take a short breather, but it is pretty obvious we are both about to burst with unabashed passion. While I shiver at the possibilities, anticipation is fifty percent of the experience and I intend to have it all.

“Can I get you something to drink? I have some Pinot Grigio,” I say huskily.

“Pinot Grigio would be lovely.”

I open a bottle of wine and we proceed to get even more wasted, and then at last—after another hour of teasing and touching and hints of what we’d really like to be doing to each other—we weave our way upstairs to the bedroom, giggling like kids. We collapse on the bed and simultaneously shed our clothes, haphazardly throwing them piece by piece at chairs and the dresser and even the floor, which is where everything ended up, anyway.

And then we are naked and glowing almost otherworldly courtesy of the pale yellow moonlight streaming in through the blinds. We study each other’s bodies with lust-filled eyes and the mood in the room suddenly shifts, turning dark and mysterious and erotically charged.

“So tell me what you like,” he whispers. We are on our sides, facing each other. His hands are on my hips and he presses himself up against me, hard.

“This,” I say, raising my leg and draping it over his backside so that my pussy opens and curls around his cock. “And this,” I add, shifting so that he can easily slip inside of me.

“You don’t want…you don’t need…any foreplay? You’re so wet, you’re sopping.” He gasps.

“You know, I just said that to myself earlier today,” I reply. “Oh, God, Andrew. You feel fantastic. What a perfect fit you are. Yeah, yeah, keep moving just like that. Oh my, who needs foreplay with someone like you?”

“You said that to yourself earlier today? Who needs foreplay?”

“No, no, I said I’m so wet. I said it out loud while I was bringing myself off.”

He stops for a minute and stares at me with glazed eyes.

“While you were bringing yourself off? For real?”

“But of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Yes, but few will admit to it.” He pants as I grind myself against him. “I want to watch you. I want to see how you make yourself come.”

“And so you shall.” I squeeze the back of his thighs, drawing him even closer. “But for now, I want to feel you deep inside of me, something else I coincidentally told myself earlier.”

“Do you always have dialogue going on while you pleasure yourself? That’s so bloody hot. Did you use a vibrator?” He thrusts himself all the way up to what feels like my breastbone and I moan loudly as he quickens the pace. I try to keep up with him and the sensation is exquisite. His cock is huge and—yeah, yeah, I know I’m drunk, but I swear I can feel it throbbing.

“My God, woman, I could fuck you all night like this.”

“Don’t make that offer unless you intend to stand by it,” I manage to say despite the fact that I’m about to have a seismic episode that very well may register a ten on the Richter scale.

Oh, hurrah, does this guy know his way around a woman. He has it down, baby, with exquisite control to boot, even after all that alcohol. What a lucky find.

He rolls me on my back and fucks me even harder and faster, but just as I begin that familiar, tingling climb, he senses he is going to lose me and it is still too soon for his liking. With a wicked grin he wisely switches up, changing his lovemaking technique to long, slow strokes—pulling all the way out, then sliding all the way back in and enticing me further by gyrating his hips.

Oh, as if that is going to keep me from going over the edge. Okay, then, may as well bring out the full artillery. I wiggle my hand down to touch myself and as soon as that happens he exclaims out loud and we both get wild all over again. His body goes totally out of control and he screws me deeper and deeper into the bed as if he is trying to dig his way to China before the heat rising from our bodies causes us to fuse together first, if not combust altogether.

In fact, I’m combusting right now. Jesus.

“Don’t come yet,” he breathes.

“I don’t know if I can hold back…it feels so good…oh, God…”

He stops and pulls out of me, appearing to shake and uncertain if he can hold back much longer himself.

“Let me suck on you for a bit,” I say, struggling to catch my breath.

“I don’t know about that,” he says dubiously. “Oh, what the hell. It’s a good a plan as any.”

Yeah, like he was really going to say no.

He shimmies up on his knees until he is straddling my face and I take only the head of his cock into my mouth, wrapping my lips around my teeth and teasing him with my tongue.

And then I raise myself off the pillow and apply a little suction—just the tiniest bit—while lapping at his shaft with sharp, little calculated licks.

“No, I can’t!” He pulls out and sits back on his haunches a bit unsteadily. “You little vixen, do you want me to erupt in your mouth?”

“If you’d like.”

“Oh, I’d like alright, but I’ll take a rain check which you can rest assured I will collect later. But for now, roll over, please.”

Uh-oh.

“On my belly? Err...not, um...you know, right?””

“No. Not that. No worries. Other than I think I’m going to fill every single pore of your body with seven liters of molten semen when I do come, that is.”

I turn onto my stomach and pull myself up on my knees so that I am open and exposed to him that way now. He groans, wraps his arms around my waist, and enters me doggie style. My hand never leaves my pussy. He grabs my breasts to both steady himself and drive me thoroughly out of my mind while relentlessly pumping into me. Once again I find myself struggling to make it last as long as I can, but oh no, I can’t. It’s too late, and I let out a strangled scream as I experience wave after wave of release.

He comes with a delighted growl ten seconds after I do.

Holy cow.

But a few minutes later, with the blanket wrapped around our ankles, he inexplicably ruins the moment by murmuring, “So what are you thinking about, now that you are forty?”

I stare at him incredulously.

“Death and disillusionment, mostly,” I say after awhile.

“Ah, it’s just like being twenty-nine, then,” he yawns.

Oh shit. I forgot to include dismemberment.

“Yes, exactly the same,” I say, looking around for a weapon, but all I can see on my nightstand is an emery board which is, alas, made of paper.

He misunderstands and reaches for me again, and I remember just what twenty-nine-year old men are good for. Funny how quickly I forgive him for his tactlessness.

He sits on top of me.

“How can you do this again so soon?”

“I stay hard for a while after I come. I won’t shoot any more seed, but I bet I can bring you off again,” he says.

Shoot any seed? For some reason, hearing him say this with that English accent is almost as good as the hand action he’s employing between my legs while thrusting in and out at a leisurely pace.

He’s a good pupil, this Andrew. He obviously pays attention to what a woman likes, which is a rare and admirable trait.

It isn’t until the wee hours of the morning, while I listen to this beautiful man-child snoring next to me, that I realize the magnitude of what I have done.

I mean, I just fell into bed with a total stranger and I’m supposed to be in love.

Flirting with Death by Regina Riley

Chapter One

Anna turned her head and yawned into the back of her hand as discreetly as she could. But she knew Trish could tell. Trish can always tell, she thought. She eased her head back and found Trish glaring at her. Of course. Anna gave a weak smile to her friend as she ran a finger around the lip of her narrow-mouthed glass, slowly tracing the curve. Some forgettable tune drifted across the barroom, fading into the easygoing conversation of the other patrons around her.

“What was the name of this place again?” she asked.

“O’Malley’s,” Trish said. “And don’t trash-talk it. I like it here.”

“It’s…” Anna paused and weighed her assessment of the bar against the likelihood that Trish would really force her to walk home. For a bar, the place wasn’t too bad; it was small but crowded, run down but clean, very busy but still very quiet. But most importantly, it was the exact opposite of that horrible nightmare of a techno dance club she just escaped from. She could still feel the steel stool shocking her spine at the loud rhythm of the club’s music, while she squirmed under the awkward stares from kids at least half her age. Anna smiled at the wonderful difference of the pub’s ambiance and finally settled on, “Nice.”

“Damn straight it’s nice,” Trish said as she folded her arms across her chest. “Nice and boring. Since that’s all you can handle lately.”

“Trish, please don’t start in on me again,” Anna sighed and pushed a stray strand of auburn hair away from her eyes.

“I paid nearly forty dollars to get us in that club,” Trish said as she poked her own chest with a well manicured finger.

“And I told you I don’t like dance clubs. I never did, even when Ben and I were dating—”

“Again with Ben!” Trish snapped. “I told you, no Ben tonight.”

Anna fell quiet and hung her head. Five years ago, an outburst like that from her best friend would have set off a chain reaction of whimpers and waterworks in the ever delicate Anna. But these days she didn’t cry much anymore. Five years of weeping had dried up most of her reasons for crying, as well as most of her tears.

Trish leaned in closely and whispered, “I’m sorry, girlfriend, but you promised. No Ben. No weeping widow. No sadness. Remember?”

Anna nodded.

“Just you and me and a night on the town,” Trish continued. “So you need to get into a good mood, pronto. Got it?”

“Sure,” Anna said. She tried to mean it, but her voice betrayed her with an undeniable hint of sorrow.

Trish reached under the table and clasped one of Anna’s hands into her own. . “I love you, woman,” Trish said. “And I know you love Ben. I must’ve told you like a bajillion times how jealous I was of you kids.”

The music paused, and as it shifted between songs a woman laughed. In the absence of the music, the woman’s carefree laughter was loud and harsh. Unknowingly mocking. Anna’s eyes prickled and burned as she clung tightly to Trish’s hand.

“And I know you miss him like hell,” Trish said. “You’re not the only one. He was like a brother to me, Anna. But he’s been gone for five years, honey. That’s a long time to grieve. A long time for anyone to be alone. Too long.”

Anna nodded again. She knew Trish was only trying to help, but she couldn’t wait for this night to be over with.

“So no more Ben until this date’s over,” Trish said. She patted Anna’s hand one last time before she finally let go. “Now sit up and look pretty. And you better start flirting. Either with one of these guys or with me.”

Anna lifted her head and eyed Trish with a wary gaze.

“’Cause Momma Trish is getting laid tonight,” Trish added. “One way or the other.”

A bubble of a giggle worked its way up Anna’s chest and before she knew it she was laughing. She sat back and let the laughter take her. It felt good. Trish always knew how to make her feel better. But even so, Anna seemed to laugh about as much as she cried these days.

“What are you laughing at?” Trish asked with a grin.

“I just can’t imagine spending the night with you,” Anna said.

Trish cut her eyes at Anna. “And just why the hell not?”

“Because,” Anna said between sighs and giggles, “as commanding as you are of your friends, I can’t imagine being your lover.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been told that I’m very gentle in the sack.”

“I don’t buy that. I bet you’re a drill sergeant. I bet it’s like sleeping with one of those… oh, what are they called?

“A dominatrix?”

“Yeah!”

“Don’t knock it till you try it, sweetie,” Trish said and waggled her eyebrows.

Anna rolled her eyes and shook her head. She could have guessed that Trish would be into that kind of thing. Nothing Trish did ever shocked her. Anna looked out across the pub again. “So, how did a wild woman like you end up in a quiet place like this?”

“My friend, Bob,” Trish said. She poked a long finger into her glass and swirled the dregs of tomato juice along the bottom. “I need another drink.”

“Who’s Bob?” Anna asked.

“You know. That couple that lives under me? Bob and Gary? Bob owns this place.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah,” Trish stood and nodded at the bar. “You want another Collins?”

“Sure. But let me buy this time.” Anna reached for her purse.

Trish waved a finger at Anna. “Nope. It’s on me.”

Anna narrowed her eyes at her friend. “Bob lets you drink for free. Doesn’t he?”

“Why else would I allow myself to be seen in a dump like this?” she said with a laugh. “Now pay attention, sweetie. I know it’s been a few years, so let me show you how it’s done.” She pursed her lips in a mock kiss to Anna, turned and sauntered away, towards the bar.

Anna smirked as she sat back and watched Trish work her magic.

The tall blonde walked through the bar like an Amazon huntress, flaunting and flirting the whole way, seeking her prey for the evening’s fun. She stepped lightly across the floor; moving along with expert ease in a pair of stilettos so high and narrow that they would have left a lesser woman sprawled on the floor. Her tight red dress clung to her wide hips and narrow waist like a hungry lover, leaving little to the onlookers’ imaginations.

Compared to Trish, Anna always felt plain. Where Trish was tall and lithe, Anna was short and stocky. Where Trish had a head full of long, golden tresses, the only way Anna’s short auburn hair had ever been described as was just hair, and nothing more. Anna knew she wasn’t an ugly woman; she was blessed with a full bust and had been told more than once that she had very sexy eyes. But eyes and boobs aside, watching Trish strut across the pub put the whole evening, as well as the last five years, into a harsh perspective. Trish is right, she thought, I am horribly out of practice. I wouldn’t know the first thing to say to a guy.

She watched as Trish smooth talked the bartender, placed her order, and then immediately set to flirting with both the man to her left and right. I wonder if she would notice if I slipped away. I wonder if anyone would notice.

“Excuse me?” a gentle voice suddenly asked.

Anna snapped out of her self-pity to see a man standing beside of her. The first thing to strike her was the fact that he seemed a little over dressed; he wore a three-piece charcoal suit, complete with black tie and silver cufflinks. She eyed him, up and down, which was no easy task because he was so tall. And lanky. His skin was pale, like alabaster dusted with baby powder. His hair was so black that it seemed to suck in the low light of the room. His eyes were the color of burnt coffee, dark and mischievous. His smile was a crooked mouthful of clean but untamed teeth, which somehow came off as charming. Hopeful.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

That was when Anna noticed the man was holding a chair. He had brought a chair with him to her table; a table already full of empty chairs. He wiggled the chair gently towards her and smiled wider. Anna looked at it as though she had never seen one before. Like she didn’t know what a chair was for.

“You’re kidding right?” she asked

The man lowered the chair, his eyes, and his smile. “I know. It’s a horrible pickup line. Isn’t it?”

Anna nodded. “It’s pretty bad.”

The man nodded in return. “I’m sorry. I’ll let you get back to your…” he paused a moment as he spied the empty glass between her palms. His face lit with another hopeful smile. “Can I get you another—”

“My friend is handling that for me,” Anna interrupted him.

He cocked his head. “Your friend?”

“Yes,” Anna said flatly. She looked up and caught a glimpse of Trish in a deep, passionate kiss with a young man at the bar. The blonde broke her lip-lock and then turned and kissed the young man standing on the opposite side of her. Anna rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help feeling jealous at the same time. As well as horny. She pushed the feelings away and turned back to the stranger.

“Thanks anyways,” Anna added.

“I didn’t realize you were here with someone,” the man said. He picked up his chair, gave Anna a curt bow and dipped his head. “I’m very sorry then. I just saw you sitting here all alone and I thought…”

“No problem,” she cut him off again.

“I guess I should have known better,” the man finished. He smiled again and added, “Why would such a beautiful woman be sitting alone?”

Anna’s breath hitched in her throat. It had been years since anyone had called her beautiful. Since anyone had held her. Touched her. Kissed her. As she watched the man carry his chair back to his table, she realized how cold she had been towards him. He was only trying to flirt, she thought. Why did I have to be so hard? But she knew she couldn’t seem to help it. She could practically hear her emotional armor rattle around her. She watched the man replace the chair and slowly slump into it. He pulled a small watch from his vest, clicked it open, eyed it for a moment, and then closed and pocketed it again. He sighed and hung his head, letting his dark hair tumble into his pale face.

And he suddenly seemed just as sad as she felt.

Nothing But Trouble by Jenna Byrnes

“I want you to spend the night with me. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

Adrian Scott blinked, wondering if his employer was serious. He’d never heard of such an offer, except in the movies. “Excuse me?”

“Do you really need me to repeat myself, or are you simply mulling my proposal over?” The man’s bright blue eyes twinkled. He always seemed to have a spark of mischief about him, along with a genuine smile that he displayed often. Today was no different. He seemed amused by Adrian’s reaction to his shocking statement.

Adrian had always found the man attractive, but never let his thoughts go past that. He ignored the thick, wavy blond hair, and handsome, chiseled face. The muscular physique of the man’s body looked like it belonged to someone in his twenties, rather than forties, making it hard to ignore. But Graham Elliott was not only his boss; he was also a very wealthy man. Way out of my league. Elliott owned the Las Vegas casino where Adrian worked as a waiter and sometimes bartender.

Tending bar was more prestigious and paid better, but nothing could beat the tips waiters made on busy nights. He’d pocketed several hundred dollars on many occasions. To Adrian, it was all about the money.

“What about Celina?” He was curious how Elliott’s live-in girlfriend might feel about the proposed arrangement. A stacked beauty— she had flowing red hair, tits out to there—and was a fixture around the casino. She and Elliott shared the penthouse apartment, which by all accounts was one incredible showplace. Adrian wouldn’t know; the man’s grand office was the closest he’d ever gotten to his employer.

Elliott flexed his fingers. “Celina and I have an understanding. I don’t worry about how much she spends on her daily shopping sprees, and she doesn’t worry if I don’t come home at night. I keep a suite on the floor below the penthouse for, shall we say, special occasions.”

Heat flushed through Adrian’s body. He knew his face was probably bright red. Even with the year-round tan afforded him by the strong Nevada sun; he blushed like an idiot when embarrassed. “Is that what I am? A special occasion?”

“I hope so. I’ve been watching you, Adrian. I like the way you look in the tight, black pants you wear to work. Makes me very interested to find out what lies beneath.”

His mind raced. He wasn’t seeing anyone, so that wouldn’t be a problem. But he really liked his job, and worried that if things didn’t go right, he might suddenly find himself out of work. “I’m concerned this could interfere with my job.”

“If you say no? Of course it won’t. All I ask is your discretion. Keep quiet, and things go on as usual. If I discover you’ve told anyone about our conversation, you’ll certainly be let go.”

It occurred to Adrian, he’d never considered saying no. “And if I say yes?”

A slow smile spread across Elliott’s face. “Nothing that happens between us will put your job in jeopardy. Again, all I ask is discretion—and a blood test. Hate to be crass, but I need to see the paperwork from a test done on today’s date, or after. I’ll provide you the same courtesy.”

Adrian looked him in the eye. “And fifty thousand dollars.”

The man’s eyebrows rose.

“For two nights. Eight at night to eight in the morning, I’m all yours.”

Squinting before he nodded, Elliott added, “I’ll accept those terms, in part. Make it three nights, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Adrian stood. “Agreed.” He extended his hand.

Graham Elliott took his time rising and reaching out to shake. His hand was warm, his grip firm.

The man squeezed his fingers, making a tingle zip down Adrian’s spine. He imagined those strong hands caressing other parts of his body. It was enough to harden his cock, right there in the office. He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry.

Releasing his grasp, Elliott reached for a business card. “Call me when you’ve got the paperwork. We’ll arrange a date to meet.”

“I will.” He tucked the card into his pocket. “Thank you, sir.”

With another nod and a very quick wink, Elliott turned and walked out the back door.

Adrian glanced around the office, taking a moment to compose himself before returning to the casino floor. Who would have thought it? Graham Elliott was gay—or perhaps bisexual, if he’d sampled the wares Celina flaunted around the bar and gaming tables. It was an incredible turn of events. And perhaps the most amazing stroke of luck he’d ever encountered.

Change of Plans by Jenna Byrnes

She dozed, but never really slept. Lights in the gate area dimmed, but people still came and went throughout the night. Occasionally she'd glance up at the TV screen, where the Doppler radar indicated snow falling and more was on the way in the greater Denver area.

Tom spoke quietly every now and then. Kelsie answered in a soft voice. People around them seemed to be sleeping, but she wasn't sure how they managed. The floor was hard and her back ached. Even leaning against Tom's warm form, she was cold and uncomfortable. She yawned as shivers ran through her.

He rubbed her arms with both hands, then tucked the blanket under her chin. "Want your coat on?"

"Nah. I want to be in Florida. Or back home, where I don't have to keep my guard up. My backpack is cutting into my side, and the floor is killing me."

He nuzzled his face in her hair. "Funny, I was just wishing for a nice soft bed, myself."

"You could have had one," she said regretfully. "You should be at a hotel with your friends right now."

Touching her chin with one finger, he gazed into her eyes and smiled. "I meant you and me. The only person I'm interested in being with is you, alone, somewhere private."

Kelsie inhaled. She felt the same way, secretly wondering if she was crazy. She barely knew this guy, but all she could think about was getting naked with him and wrapping their bodies around one another.

He hesitated. "Unless I misread your signals. Was it my imagination that you seemed to want me as much as I want you?"

"You didn't misread anything." She hung her head, embarrassed.

"Hey." He touched her chin again, lifting her face to meet his. "I know it seems fast, but we might not have a lot of time here, Kelsie. I want to make love with you."

"I don't know." She wanted it too, but quickie, one-night stands weren't usually her style.

"Have you ever been with a guy?" He mistook her hesitancy for something else. It made her laugh.

"Yeah. Jason Rutledge, star quarterback for the McPherson Bulldogs football team, after the Homecoming game. I let him score, and he went for the extra two points. It was a pretty great first time."

Tom laughed. "Was that your only time?"

"No. There've been a few others. I've never been with someone I just met hours before. And never with someone I probably won't see again. That's what has me uneasy."

"It's spring break! Weren't you prepared to go to Florida and have a little fun?"

"Um, yeah, with my cousin at Disney World. We're going to spend a couple days at Daytona Beach, but mostly we have a Mickey Mouse vacation planned." She gazed around the crowded airport. "Or we did have, anyway."

He squeezed her shoulders. "We can still salvage this vacation. You may miss a couple days at the happiest place on earth, but I'll bet I can make you pretty happy right here. I know a few things that Mr. Toad doesn't about wild rides."

Kelsie slapped his chest playfully. "You're nuts. I can't believe I cuddled with you all night long."

"Wait until you see what I have in mind for later." He raised his eyebrows up and down.

She grinned and shoved him away. "Sleep. All I can think about is getting some decent sleep. Maybe some coffee and something to eat."

"I need to use the john first." He stood, offering his hand and pulling her up.

"Go ahead, I can wait."

"Thank you." He took off for the bathroom and she glanced around. People were beginning to wake up, but no one was manning the ticket counter yet. Maybe they had time to eat before checking on their flights.

Tom returned and Kelsie grabbed her backpack, heading to the bathroom. She used the toilet then washed up, splashing water on her face and brushing her teeth. She looked and felt like hell, but it couldn't be helped. Sleeping, sitting up in an airport, did that to a person.

Tom waited for her outside in the lobby, and they returned to the restaurant for toast and coffee. When they'd finished, they strolled back to the ticket counter and waited for it to open. He looked around nervously, seeming to scope the place out.

"That security guard was right," she commented. "There are a lot of people patrolling here."

"Sure are," he replied, continuing to look around.

The clerk appeared and the ticket counter opened. Tom was first in line, and asked about their flights.

"The airport is still closed," the clerk told him. "Until the snow stops, we can't give you any information on when you'll be leaving."

"So we have to sit here and wait?" he asked incredulously. "We spent the whole damn night here, and we're no closer to leaving then we were yesterday."

"I'm exhausted," Kelsie tugged at his arm. "Can we find somewhere to sit?"

"One minute," he told her, and turned back to the clerk. "What happens when the airport reopens? Do our flights have priority over scheduled flights for today?"

The woman got a funny look on her face. "Actually, sir, they don't. We'll run the flights as they were scheduled today, and try to rebook all of yesterday's passengers on them somewhere. It might take a while to catch up."

He spoke slowly and firmly. "So you're telling me, when the airport reopens, we still have to sit around, waiting until you can rebook us on another flight?"

"We'll get to you as quickly as we can, sir. Some people on today's scheduled flights won't show up, so we'll fill their seats. People who went to hotels will be accommodated when they return. Those people sitting here waiting usually get the first seats out."

"So we could leave, and when we come back, you'll find us flights?"

"Yes sir. We don't even know when the airport will reopen at this point. We hope it'll be today." She shrugged.

Tom looked at Kelsie, and caught her mid-yawn. He turned back to the clerk. "We're exhausted. Sleeping on your floor isn't as great as we thought it would be. What are the chances of finding us a hotel room?"

"Probably pretty good. Lots of folks will check out this morning."

"Can you try, please?"

"Certainly. One room?"

He glanced at Kelsie again, then nodded to the clerk. "Yes. One room will be fine."

Deep Obsessions by Jenna Byrnes

Bobby made good on his promise to make amends. They dined at one of Urbana's most elite restaurants, Legittimo, an Italian ristorante—the name meant 'perfect'. Jade was touched by his thoughtfulness, and felt better about things as they were led to their table. At a small booth in the corner a candle glowed, throwing shadows off their tall wine glasses. A strolling musician stopped to serenade them, adding to the romantic ambiance.

She ordered seafood and he chose veal. He splurged and ordered both red and white wine. They ate, drank, and rubbed knees under the table.

"How was your day?" he inquired, keeping the focus of the evening on her. She noticed he hadn't mentioned his work once. It was the nicest evening she could remember in a long time.

"I had a very nice day. A few cuts, one perm, and Professor Quigley's wife came in for a foil-weave highlight. She's so funny, she made me laugh all afternoon. And vain—the woman is almost eighty, and still wants her hair styled to perfection."

"Wow, I can't imagine a woman being like that," he teased, smiling over his wine glass.

Jade chuckled. "Me either. The funny thing is she's trying to talk the professor into coming to see me for a haircut. His barber gives him a horrible comb over, and she thinks I could do better."

"I know you could. But he hardly has any hair, what would you charge him?"

"Are you kidding? Fifty bucks minimum. Seventy-five if he stares at my tits the whole time."

Bobby glanced at her revealing neckline and shook his head lustfully. "Might as well charge him the seventy-five. If he's human, he won't be able to resist." He licked his lips, and she smiled.

When he ordered dessert, he spoke quietly to the waitress so Jade couldn't hear. The woman nodded and left, leaving Jade watching Bobby expectantly. He merely smiled.

"What are you up to?" she inquired.

"Wait and see." His hand caressed her knee and moved slowly up her thigh.

Jade squirmed and scooted closer to him in the circular booth. If his hand moved high enough he'd discover she wasn't wearing panties, and they'd both get a thrill.

His fingers kneaded the fleshy part of her thigh. "Before I get carried away, I've got a surprise for you."

"On top of all this?" She glanced around. "Tonight's been perfect, baby. I don't need anything else." Flashing a grin, she added, "Unless it's jewelry."

He laughed. "Nope, not jewelry. I think it's even better." He pulled his hand back and removed an envelope from his jacket. "I'm taking you away. I arranged to get a week's vacation, starting the first of the month. That gives you two weeks to shuffle appointments and clear your schedule. We're going on a cruise."

"A cruise?" Jade squealed, looking at the tickets. "Are you kidding me?"

"No kidding. I've been neglectful, sweetheart, and I'm going to make it up to you. We're going to spend a week in paradise. We'll fly to Florida and cruise to Nassau, the Bahamas, St. Thomas, St. Maarten…seven days of sun, shopping—whatever you want to do." He raised his eyebrows up and down. "Of course, we don't ever have to leave our stateroom. It'll be completely up to you."

"Oh my God!" She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "I can't believe you've done this! I'm so excited."

"It's going to be fantastic, I promise." His eyes twinkled and Jade hugged his neck again. She had no doubt he was right. They'd never done anything this extravagant, but the timing felt perfect. It was something they both needed, and she was very excited.

The waitress reappeared, setting a plate in front of them. Jade smiled. A pile of luscious red strawberries was surrounded by a moat of whipped cream. The whole thing was covered in streaks of rich, dark chocolate. "Wow," she murmured.

"Thank you," he told the waitress, and she left. He wrapped one arm around Jade and raised a strawberry from the plate. Dipping it in foamy white cream, he brought it to her lips teasingly.

Jade opened her mouth for a bite but he touched it to her lip first, getting a dab of whipped cream on her mouth. She chuckled and he gave her the bite, and then finished the berry himself. With his free hand he rubbed a thumb over the spot on her lip seductively, and then licked the cream from his thumb.

Jade whimpered a soft moan.

With a satisfied smile, he fed her another half berry, finishing it himself. Dipping his index finger in whipped cream, he slid his hand under the table. "If I'm not mistaken…" he trailed off, his hand fumbling under her dress until he reached her soft pubic hair. "Ah, yes. Just as I suspected, no panties. Thank you for making this easier for me."

His hand parted her folds and Jade felt the cool whipped cream smear across her labia. She gasped as he painted her nether lips with foam, and then drove the finger inside her moist channel.

"This is going to taste so good later on," he said in a voice thick with desire. "In fact, I might drop my fork so I have to crawl under the table right now."

"Oh, Jesus," she breathed, wiggling her hips to encourage his finger's exploration.

"What do you think?" He drove the finger deep inside her pussy and she groaned.

"I think you'd better stop, or we're going to have a When Harry Met Sally moment, only it won't be a fake orgasm."

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. Sucking the slick finger into his mouth, he smiled at her seductively. "Mmm…"

Jade groaned again and picked up another strawberry. "We need to finish dessert, fast."

He nodded and grinned.

They ate a few more berries until she knew she couldn't take anymore teasing.

He paid the check and they barely made it to their car before he'd hiked up her little black dress and exposed her glistening sex.

"I'm going to fuck you senseless." He shoved her, ass first, into the back seat.

"Bring it on." Unfastening his belt, she tugged his trousers down frantically. She yanked at his briefs and they followed, his cock rampant and jutting forth. "Oh, yeah. I want that. Give it to me."

"You got it." He knelt on the seat between her thighs, grabbed his stiff rod and positioned it to enter her.

"Ouch!" Jade's head banged against the hard plastic handrail on the side door.

"You okay?"

"Yes, just cramped is all."

"We can go home and finish this—"

"No way!" she reached for his cock and pulled it forward. "Fuck me now! I can't wait any longer."

He eased his shaft to the tip of her opening. "You might hit your head again. I can't promise to be gentle."

"Just do it!" she growled, thrusting up to meet his cock. "Yes…" Jade purred as he entered her. "That's it."

"Please don't let the cops drive by," he muttered, finding his rhythm.

"The windows are fogged up," she panted. "We'll be fine." Jade didn't care if someone saw them. Sex in a public place was one of her turn-ons, and Bobby knew it. They'd come close to getting caught by the cops a few times, which it that much more exciting.

The Volvo rocked with their movements, but all she could concentrate on was the orgasm building inside her. "I'm close," she told him.

"Oh yeah," he encouraged. "Come on, baby. Let me feel it."

Her quivering vibrations began deep within, and when she peaked and cried out, spilled over into him.

Bobby groaned and shuddered, emptying a load of hot seed into her pussy. He shoved her hair away, sucking his way around her neck before planting a hickey on the back of it.

"Fucking-A," she murmured, the waves of her last orgasm flowing through her. Jade sighed, sated and satisfied with his apology.

"Like that?" He ground his hips against her lower belly one last time.

"Love that."