Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (56 page)

Robert Lyle.

Thinking his name made my lips swell up and my juicy areas water.

Oh, man. I had it bad.

And I could think of only one thing that would make me feel better.

Robert's big, hard cock, pumping inside me, sliding in and out. His hands on my ass, holding me steady as he nailed me. Anywhere. Any time. Preferably immediately.

Even if he didn't have a big cock, I still wanted him. In the mouth, in the vag, heck, I'd even go ass for him. My ass tingled with desire as soon as the thought crossed my mind.

I had it real bad.

Deena and I shared a cab so we could arrive together. We pulled up in front of the art gallery, in a dodgy part of town, at 7:15. I love Deena, and I do trust her, but I didn't tell her about the fairy. I would tell her, eventually, but not that night.

The cab driver didn't give us change, and I felt thirteen dollars was a bit much to tip on our low fare, but Deena gave me a look and made me feel cheap, so I climbed out of the cab and tried to shake it off. I'm not rich. There's a reason I live in a run-down apartment building and have to save up quarters to do my laundry. I'd been working at a casting agency, as the office administrator and quasi-Human Resources person for the last couple of years, but I was barely getting receptionist-level pay. Still, the work was interesting. All the cute guys, the actors who came to see us, were gay pretending not to be, so that was a downer, but there was never a dull day.

At least the rip-off cabbie took my mind off the lusty feelings waving out from my vagina. I felt like everyone could see me, everyone was looking at me, and they knew my private lips were slick with desire, hungry to be touched.

As Deena and I opened the door to the art gallery, something sparkled at the edge of my vision. I turned, looking for the fairy,
my fairy mother Rass
, but she wasn't there. Still, I felt her presence. She had known when I was touching myself earlier that day, so she could obviously see me even when I couldn't see her. That perverted little fairy. I'd be angry at her, if I wasn't enjoying the feeling in my loins, the excitement, just a little bit.

I'd never been so turned-on before. Lucky for me, I am a girl, and with my rock-hard nipples hidden under a padded bra, nobody would be the wiser that I was basically in post-foreplay mode, ready to get reamed. No way could a guy walk around the way I was, with a big, throbbing, heavy hard-on.

Oh, the
throbbing!

Unfortunately, I was so distracted my lusty thoughts that I walked right into a girl dressed in black and white, and she dropped what she was carrying. Champagne glasses smashed spectacularly to the concrete floor, shattering and spraying everyone with liquid. A few people screamed, including me.

The poor server, who must have been new at this, reached down and grabbed for a broken piece of glass.

I yelled, “Don't!” at the same time as a man came rushing over.

The server didn't take heed, though, and grabbed the glass. I didn't see the cut happen, because it was so fast, but I saw the blood begin to flow from her hand. The silly girl shrieked and shook her hand, spraying the area with blood. If you thought a bunch of people in fancy art gallery dress freaked when champagne hit them, you should see them get sprayed with blood.

I grabbed her by the wrist to get her to hold still. I'd worked as a lifeguard several summers, and was used to treating people cut with broken bottles (it happens more frequently than you'd expect).

“It's okay,” I said soothingly. “Let's just hold this for a moment and see if we can't stop the bleeding.”

She nodded and whimpered.

Deena, who was standing with her mouth open and her hands on her cheeks, was no help at all. With one hand on the girl's wrist, I used my other hand to pull at the drawstring of her mini-apron, planning to use the black fabric to stop the bleeding.

As I pulled at the string, her pulse throbbing beneath my fingers, her heaving, gasping breaths fanning my cheek, I got the sensation I was undressing her and we were going to make love. The weird thing is I'm totally hetero. I don't even find Angelina Jolie that attractive. And yet, holding the wrist of this mousy young woman in distress, I wanted to jam my tongue down her throat. I wanted to pin her against something and press my body to hers. Take her free hand and guide it into my panties. Moan into her mouth and rub up against her as she stroked my clit, fingered my opening, sucked on my nipples, and…

A man was there, crouching next to us, helping me get the black fabric apron up to the girl's bleeding palm, staunching the bleeding.

I looked into his eyes, dark green and captivating, and we both froze.

He was turned on. I could see it in his eyes, that look of desire. His eyelids were drowsy, his pupils large, his look focused and also unfocused.

I wondered,
Are you as turned on as me? Because if you are, I want you to fuck me. Right now. Any way you like it. I live to serve you.

He blinked and looked away, his cheeks reddening. I wondered with horror if I'd said that aloud, but the girl was only sniffing and staring at her hand, not reacting.

An older woman who was not dressed in a server's outfit appeared with a broom. She handed the broom to me, the dustpan to the man, and then whisked away the whimpering girl.

Come back
, I thought as I stared at the girl's round, delicious-looking bottom.

“We're a team,” the man said, his voice strong and sexy, confident and smart. Of course I didn't get all that from his voice alone, but from his smile, his good looks, and his body language. “Did she spray you?”

I checked my pink dress for blood and found none, but my legs were a little damp from champagne.

He had one tiny red dot on his tie, but his light-hued shirt and suit jacket appeared unharmed.

We were both standing now, up from the crouched position we'd been in to help the girl.

He nodded at the broom in my hand and said, “Are you going to sweep, or should we switch positions?”

Positions. I imagined him taking me from behind as I leaned over, touching my toes with my fingertips.

My pussy set off a five-alarm warning and began flooding my g-string panties with so much moisture, I worried about spills. Holding my knees and thighs together, I began to sweep up the glass, sweeping from muscle memory more than anything, because my higher cognitive functions were not happening, not with all the blood flow diverted.

He moved around gracefully, positioning the pan for me to sweep into it.

Deena watched us for a moment, then got distracted by someone she knew and disappeared, off to talk to some people.

There were people milling about, admiring the photographs on the gallery walls. There was even a demonstration happening in one corner, with the artist and his assistant “painting with light” or some nonsense. A trio of little white dogs ran about, begging for treats, and people were feeding them bits of cracker and appetizers. A woman with plastic fruit in her hair was dancing.

All of these things I was only dimly aware of, as though watching them happen from inside a fish tank, through glass.

Within my zone of interest, there was only this man, this sexy stranger. He took the broom from my hands, and his casual touch was like a trail of hot kisses across my hands.

He met my eyes again, and I knew he felt it too.

I struggled to find my voice and said, “I should go get cleaned up. I have champagne on my legs. Do you know where the washroom is?”

Without taking his eyes off me, he said, “At the back, but there's a line.”

“I don't want to wait.”

“Me neither,” he said. “Come, I think there's another room with a sink.”

I smiled at this as he led me away from the crowd. “A room with a sink? Don't you mean the kitchen?”

“Yes, but not the main kitchen.”

“Two kitchens,” I mused. “Will wonders never cease?”

He set the broom and dustpan next to a garbage bin. “This way.” He gave me a twisted smile and I realized he was holding my hand.
How did that happen?

We moved down a hall, away from the buzz of the crowd.

My hand was still in his as we rounded a corner and found a pantry-like room. There was no sink, but there were linens, and pitchers of ice water.

He tipped some water onto a white bar cloth and knelt at my feet. My legs shook a little, and then he touched my ankle, and his touch was comforting, friendly. The chilled water on the towel practically sizzled when it touched my skin.

“Your face is so familiar,” he said.

I gazed down at him, at those dark green eyes. He must have gotten laser eye correction. We were close enough that I would have seen the thin lines of his contact lenses. I'm a little weird in that it's something I always look for when I'm talking to a person. I look for the contact lenses in movies, as well, but actors usually remove them for close-ups.

“Maybe we know each other,” I said, playing coy.

He moved the damp cloth up and down my leg, wiping at the splashed champagne, most of which was evaporated by that point. Frankly, I was so hot, so burning up with lust, I would have been surprised if I had any moisture on my legs at all.

He glanced up at me through thick, dark eyebrows. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes. Don't stop.”

My head felt muddy, like I was under a spell, and I suppose I was. By the look of his eyes, the handsome man was also under a spell, though I didn't know if it had been cast by a fairy, or by me.

He wore a suit, an expensive-looking one, and there was nothing off-the-rack about him. His dark hair was neither too long nor too short. In high school, Robert Lyle had looked like his mother cut his hair to save the family money.

His hands moved further up my right leg, up to my knee. “Did the champagne get up here?”

No, it had not. “Yes.”

He slipped his hands up higher, under the hem of my pink dress, and dropped the white cloth, dropped the pretense, switching over to squeezing and stroking alone. I leaned back against a sturdy shelf full of linens and trays, the only furniture in the room, then lifted my left foot just enough to slide it to the side, parting my legs.

After I parted my legs, inviting him further up, he took the invitation.

As he touched my panties, between my legs, I expected another zap, a shock, like what had happened when I'd tried to touch myself to relieve the pressure. But I didn't get zapped, not in the same way.

Instead, I felt a rush of pleasure, of lust. That perpetual state of being aroused I'd been in for the last few hours broke wide open, like a dam breaking, and I thrust my hips at him. I grabbed his hand in mine and pushed his fingers into my pussy, hard. “Do it,” I said.

Still kneeling, his fingers scrambled to pull down my g-string panties. He couldn't get them off me fast enough, and I found myself moaning, begging him to hurry.

He got my panties down past my knees and I moved my leg to step out, just one side.

Then, he didn't take off my dress, but flipped up the hem and tucked it into the belt of my dress, exposing my pussy.

Oh, please eat me
, I thought.
Eat me up. Consume me. Lick me with your wet tongue and put out my fire.

He glanced up at me and then began to kiss my inner thighs, working his way up.

I wanted to grab the back of his head and guide him to where I wanted it, but I bit my lower lip and waited.

When he finally pressed the tip of his tongue to my clit, I almost lost my mind. My heart pounded, my pulse so loud in my ears I worried he'd hear my heart hammering and stop, and I didn't want him to stop. I didn't want him to ever stop. He licked up and down my swollen lips, his tongue darting at my opening as a detour, then returning to licking my clit. He moved his lips as well, gently sucking at my skin, his more forceful licks sending trembling waves of desire through me.

Desire?

How could I still be wanting, when I was getting it?

Ah, I wanted
him
, his cock, inside me.

I moaned again, and he was fingering me now, and licking like crazy.

“Hey,” I said, panting. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

He didn't answer, just kept licking and pulled his hand off me to undo his belt and trousers.

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the licking as he ran the tip of his tongue back and forth across my nub, then up and down. Soon, I'd have his cock inside me, and then I'd be able to orgasm. And I needed to orgasm. I thought I might die from the pent-up energy.

My fire was building, growing so tall and mighty that I began to fear the orgasm that was coming. I opened my eyes and glanced down, bending to the side so I could see past his beautiful hair, covering the head that was licking me. Below, he'd opened his pants and let his erection out. He was touching it with one hand, stroking it in rhythm to the licks he was giving me.

I repeated the question. “Do you want to fuck me? If you don't want to, that's fine. But I want to touch it. Can I touch it?”

“Yeah,” he said into my pussy. “Just a minute.”

He tickled my clit with just the tip of his tongue, sending waves of juicy build-up through me. “I'm going to come,” I said. “I want you inside me, I want to feel you inside me.”