Read Bedding Down, A Collection of Winter Erotica Online
Authors: Rachel Krame Bussel
He was the one, in the end, who pulled away. “Let me help
you with the corset,” he said huskily, “and get on the bed. I want to be in you.”
She was already turning around so he could reach the laces,
even as she teased, “I thought you liked the corset.”
“I do, but I want to feel you. See you. The corset’s sexy. But
you’re gorgeous.”
It wasn’t necessarily easier having him help with the corset—
she’d gotten good at managing on her own and it seemed to be
new to him—but it was certainly more fun.
Onto the bed then, with a mountain of covers pulled over
them, the linen sheet cool underneath her and Sean lying over
her. Like Mr. Whitney had promised his bride, he kissed his
way down her body—suckling her nipples until she moaned
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and rolled her hips with need, exclaiming over the corset marks on her hips and belly and licking them “to make them better.”
He reached the reddish curls of her mound, buried his face
there, took a deep breath as if enjoying the bouquet of a fine
wine. Brenda made a small noise, half crazy with arousal, and
put her hand on his head.
She didn’t think he’d needed the hint, but he certainly took it.
Brenda didn’t have time to enjoy a full demonstration of
Sean’s oral skills, though—after the long tease and the hot letters, a few flicks of his tongue were all it took to send her into convulsions of pleasure.
There was a brief interruption while Sean fished a condom
out of his wallet. (She was amused—and a little relieved—to
catch him checking the expiration date on the packet. He might
be sexy as hell and a big-time flirt, but he hadn’t needed the
“just in case condom” in a while.) Even with the interruption,
she was still twitching with aftershocks when he repositioned
himself between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her pussy.
He’d said he enjoyed hearing her beg, hearing her admit just
how much she wanted him. And since she did want him, and the
hotter she made him, the hotter she got, and so on, she opened
her legs a little wider, rolled her pelvis, looked into those amazing blue eyes, and whispered, “Please. Please fuck me.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather have a cucumber?” He pressed
against her as he said that, teasing at her already sensitized clit with his head.
She smacked him on the ass. To her surprise, the yelp he let
out sounded awfully happy. “Sounds like you liked that.”
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He shook his head, a bemused look on his face. “I think I did.
Who knew? We’ll have to talk about that. Later. Much later.”
He pushed into her slick pussy, just the head at first, giving
her a few seconds to appreciate how thick he was, how delicious he felt there, how much she wanted to feel more.
Wonderful as the long teasing had been, she’d have to be su-
perhuman to be patient any longer. She raised her hips, grabbed his ass, said “Now,” and gave him a push all at once.
“The lady desires something?” he purred, and slid the rest of
the way in.
He froze, buried to the hilt inside her. His eyes widened,
looking impossibly bluer in the flickering candlelight. His
mouth opened. He looked like he was striving to make the per-
fect clever, wicked remark, but couldn’t find words.
Then he started to move.
Oh God, did he start to move.
He was like the blustery weather outside, fierce and elemen-
tal and inexorable. He was howling like the storm and cutting
through all her defenses like the wind cut through the walls.
He was wild and dangerous and beautiful as the snow. But he
wasn’t cold. In the freezing room, he was fire, and she was burning with him.
After his earlier delicacy and restraint, he was letting himself go crazy now. Each stroke jarred her to the core, but in the
most pleasurable way, raising her up off the bed and throw-
ing her down again. Each stroke touched someplace new, some-
place wonderful, sending another wave of icy-hot ecstasy out to drown her. The storm was raging and she was raging, gouging at
his back and ass with her nails, urging him to fuck even harder
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even though if he did he’d break her in two—or at least break
the antique bed.
She came, and it didn’t end. Not multiple orgasms, because
that implied stopping at some point and then starting again.
This was one long spiral of pleasure, rising higher and higher
without respite, without conclusion.
It was almost too much, but at the same time it wasn’t
enough.
It wasn’t enough until Sean’s face, already red, contorted to
something beautiful but scarcely human, some god or nature
spirit, maybe the face of the storm itself. “Yes . . . Brenda . . . ,”
he cried and she almost didn’t recognize her own name, but she
recognized the way his muscles clenched and released, the way
that even with the condom between them he seemed to surge
into her.
They fell asleep tangled in each other and woke to early light
peeking between the velvet drapes. Brenda crawled reluctantly
away from Sean’s warmth, wrapping herself in her velvet coat, to look out onto the white world. The snow had finally stopped,
but it didn’t look like they’d be going anywhere for a while.
Not that she minded (although she’d be happy when the po-
lice could come out and take charge of the two idiots in the cel-lar—maybe she should toss them some bagels). Sure, the house
was chilly, but she suspected she and Sean could find ways to
keep warm. Something about watching her play with herself,
for one, and something about spanking him, for another. They
could probably make the spanking go both ways, because she
was curious about being on the receiving end herself. So many
possibilities—and for once, so much time.
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And now, in the light, they could really see each other.
Brenda crawled back under the covers, snuggled close to him
and kissed him on the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“I was awake. I was just about to roll over and grab you when
you got up.”
“It’s a beautiful, cold snow-covered day and it looks like we’re stuck with each other.”
“
Aw,
damn. Whatever shall we do?” He rolled over and
grabbed her, and for a few glorious minutes there was nothing
but his body, his mouth, and his clever hands.
Then he stopped, pushed himself up on his arms, and looked
down at her. “Brenda, I have a confession to make.”
She froze. She couldn’t tell if he was serious or not, couldn’t read the dense blue velvet of his eyes, couldn’t read what lay behind the sudden absence of his usual grin.
The silence lasted longer than she liked. Finally he spoke. “I
applied for the job just knowing it was for a security guard.”
Brenda nodded. It had been a blind ad; she knew because
she’d written it, hoping to get at least a few applicants who
weren’t dreamy kids who just wanted to work at the “castle” and would fall apart at the first sign of a real problem.
“But I took it because of you.”
Gulp.
“I had another offer, from a resort out by Blue Mountain
Lake. Paid better and I could have lived on-site. But after I
saw you again at the interview, I knew I’d have to take this job and then ask you out like I didn’t have the nerve to do in high school.”
“I refuse to believe you pined for me since high school.”
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The roguish grin came back. “Not exactly. But you intrigued
me, and I thought about you. Wished I could go back in time
with what I’d learned since then and sweep you off your feet—
or at least really get to know you. So when I got a chance, I took it. Plus you grew up really nicely.”
“You, too.” Brenda breathed an inner sigh of relief. “At least
we both had ulterior motives. So I don’t have to worry about a
sexual harassment lawsuit?”
A snort. “No way. But I hope you don’t mind if I harass you
for sex every chance I get.”
She grinned. “It’s only harassing if one of us doesn’t want
it. And I don’t think we’ll have that problem. So what kind of
harassing for sex did you have in mind this morning?”
He stretched. “I’m not sure yet. So many possibilities. I
know—why don’t you grab those treasure letters and we’ll see if we find anything inspirational?”
SOPHIE MOUETTE
is the pseudonym for two widely
published writers of erotica, romance, and speculative
fiction. Sophie’s first novel-length erotica,
Cat Scratch Fever,
was published in 2006 by Black Lace Books. Sophie’s
short erotica has appeared in
Best Women’s Erotica 2005
and
2007,
various
Wicked Words
anthologies, including
Love on the Dark Side, Sex in Public, Sex with Strangers, Caught
Looking,
and
H is for Hardcore.
For more information, see www.cyvarwydd.com.
by Shanna Germain
Six thousand dollars. Six thousand and fourteen dollars to be
exact. How much maple syrup would she need to make to come
up with that much? Dulcie started to do the math in her head
but gave up when the numbers started to come clear. A lot, that’s how much.
Before she’d died, her grandma had asked Dulcie to keep the
family maple syrup business alive. Dulcie had said yes, of course, but now it seemed an impossible task. Not only was the business in debt, but Dulcie hadn’t sugared since she was teenager—she
wasn’t even sure if she’d tapped the maple trees properly. And
would she be able to turn the sap into syrup? She had no idea.
Dulcie stepped through the snow in her grandma’s old barn
boots. If she was back in Syracuse now, she’d be, what? Sitting in her tiny little apartment, grading her students’ essays on
Jane
Eyre
and
Paradise Lost
. Drinking a bottle of wine likely—she’d gotten in the game of taking a drink every time a student wrote the words
orphan
or
torturous.
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Now, she was back in the place she thought she’d left behind.
Her fingers were freezing, she was wading through the woods
in knee-deep snow and she was mucking up her grandma’s last
wishes.
“Fuck,” she said into the gray air. Her breath made a cloud
of white against the bark of the maple in front of her. Well, at least her tap was still in the tree. And there was even sap in the bucket. Maybe she was doing something right.
Dulcie poured the sap from the tree into one of her collec-
tion pails. Not even half full. Not even half enough. She put her hand on the rough bark of the tree in front of her. “C’mon baby, you have to do me good this season,” she said. “Please . . .”
“Well, I can try, but I can’t make any promises.”
Dulcie’s heart cranked in her chest. A man stood near the
hedgerow, dressed like a hunter, in camouflage pants and coat.
He had big brown eyes, like a doe, and his wool hat was pulled
down nearly to his brow.
Cold air swept over Dulcie’s tongue, and she realized her
mouth was open. She forced herself to close it. She didn’t see
a gun, but she hefted the half-full collection pail in her hand.
She’d hit him with it if she had to, even if it meant spilling the sap.
“This is private property.” She tried to make her voice big-
ger than she felt. “And it’s not even close to hunting season, so you might want to rethink whatever it is you think you’re doing here.”
He grinned beneath his hat. Deep dimples curved into his
scruff-covered cheeks.
“Don’t remember me,
huh?
” he asked.
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“No, do I know—”
But then he pulled off his hat, and she saw the long thin scar
that ran through his right eyebrow up to his forehead. The scar she’d given him when they were, what, fourteen? Fifteen? God,
how he’d bled. She’d been the one who’d cried.
“Jesus, Travis? You scared the hell out of me. I was going to
take you out with my pail.”
“Hmm,”
he said. “Not the welcome I might have expected.”
“Expected?” Dulcie tried to look at him without being ob-
vious about it. He was taller than she remembered, although
she wasn’t sure that was possible, and wider, too. She couldn’t see much of what he looked like, under all those clothes, but
she guessed that he still spent a bit of time chopping wood or
gardening or something. He had a country build, through and
through.
“I heard you were back,” he said. “Figured we’d run into each
other at some point.”
Jesus. She hadn’t seen him, in what, seven, eight years? Who
was she kidding—she knew exactly how long it had been. Eight
years and two months. And still, when he said that, her body did that thing, like all her cells were straining toward him.
“Your hair’s longer,” she said.
He touched the ends of it, the dark blond strands that nearly
reached his chin. “Yours is shorter.”