Sexy and Funny, Hilarious Erotic Romance Bundle (83 page)

Moaning and sighing, I came, a wave of orgasmic relief crashing over me.

He grunted and held my face with his hands, locking our mouths together. His cock tremored inside me and his body tensed, and he was coming too. He groaned like a beast, the pulsing of his orgasm commingling with my tremors.

I smiled, because it was even better than I'd dared hope. Oh, the fun we were going to have.

But then, just as quickly as we'd begun, he pushed me off him. He stood, went into his washroom, and shut the door. The lock clicked.

I lay there, alone on Smith's bed, for ten minutes. I waited for him to emerge, but he didn't. The shower went on. Did he want me to join him in there?

I found my panties, half-way across the room, and pulled them on, as well as my shirt.

The bathroom door was, as I suspected, locked.

Did this mean I won Round One? Or had I inadvertently done exactly what he wanted me to do?

I walked out of his room and back down to mine, where I locked the door.

It had all happened so fast, and I was satisfied, yet not satisfied. He hadn't even asked about birth control. I had an IUD, which meant I wasn't going to get pregnant, but could he have known? I'd filled out a lot of information and had that physical exam before coming to Vermont. That schemer, he knew everything, didn't he?

Curled up in my own bed, I grinned. Perhaps seducing me had been his plan, but I'd definitely given him something to think about. What wicked thing could I do to him next?

I'd appreciated his exciting slam-bam approach, but that wasn't going to cut it next time. I'd probably have to tie him up to get him to take his time. Tie Smith Wittingham up? I liked the idea of that.

The next morning, we had tea and toast for breakfast, and neither of us acknowledged what had happened the night before—not directly, at least.

Smith Wittingham sat across from me at the long table and said, as he spread a liberal amount of marmalade on some multi-grain toast, “Sleep well? I trust nothing went bump in the night.”

“Something went bump, but not for very long, and I immediately forgot all about it.”

He stifled a grin, his lips pinched tight. He hadn't shaved that day, and had light-colored stubble on his chin, picking up the morning sunlight.

He said, “I hope you're well-rested, because today may test your stamina.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” I sipped my Earl Grey tea.

“If we hit Chapter Six before dinner time, perhaps we can find a way to celebrate.”

I turned to look out the picture window. “Such a gorgeous day.”

“Then it's settled.” He crammed half the toast into his mouth and then spoke with his mouth full, “We'll hike into town for dinner.”

That wasn't quite the celebration I was expecting, but it sounded fun. I'd only seen the little town briefly, on my way there. It was what the older folks would call a “one horse town,” but I'd seen a few cafes and shops. There had also been the literal
one horse
, painted as a mural on the side of a watering hole.

After breakfast, I followed Smith Wittingham up the stairs, getting another look at his butt. I'd barely seen it the night before, but it was the kind of ass you want to sink your teeth into: round and firm. It was the kind of ass that begged to be spanked, because Smith was a very naughty boy.

Inside the office, I sat in the chair and he immediately began to pace the room, dictating.

I glanced over at the bed as I typed. Typing was the last thing I wanted to do, but… to my horror, within a few paragraphs, I got drawn into the story he was narrating.

Detective Dunham was visiting his client, Sheri, at her mansion, to get more details about the case. She seemed to be handling her grief well, focusing on adjusting her posture to display her tits at the best possible angle. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. Dunham kept going at her, probing. He probed and probed until he penetrated her veil of secrecy.

I stopped typing.

“Probed and penetrated?” I asked.

He calmly replied, “What would you say my vocation is?”

“Um… writer?”

“And what's yours?”

“Typist.” I withered in my chair.

He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. His voice soft and deep, he said, “And neither of us is the editor. The editor reins in the writer, pulls the writer back from the edge of the cliff. That happens later, though. The writer's job is to climb onto that motorcycle, rev the motor, and fly through the ring of fire.”

I whispered, “I'm sorry.”

He massaged my shoulders for a moment, his touch making my heart ache as much as my loins.

“I know you're more than a typist. I will come to a point where I'll need you. I'll need you more than you can imagine. And I'll ask you for something.”

I turned and looked up at his face—so sharp and intelligent-looking. Was it the nose? His was refined, almost pointy at the tip. He was so smart, probably a genius, and he knew it.

“I'm ready to resume,” he said, giving me a nod and a smile.

I shifted my position in the chair, straightened my back, and put my hands over the keyboard.

He stayed near me for a while, his hands casually touching the back of my neck under my hair and rubbing my shoulders as I typed. His confident touch took my mind to carnal places, and I had difficulty keeping my fingers moving over the keys, but we fell into our rhythm once more. At times, I felt like his voice was coming from within me, telling a story I'd always known.

We worked all morning, stopped briefly for lunch, and got straight back to work again. Detective Dunham was peeling back layers of the case, and history was revealing itself, like layers of paint and ancient wallpaper. Just when he thought he had his client Sheri figured out, we switched to her point of view for a chapter.

Sheri's back story included a difficult childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother was smart and worked hard, but their hold on a middle-class life was tenuous. As I typed the words, I felt a lump rising in my throat.

I didn't know how Smith knew, but he was telling me my own life.

In high school, I/Sheri fell in love with a teacher. Sheri's was a gym teacher, mine taught math. She'd fallen for his cunning lies and sad story about how his wife was cold and uninterested in sex, and this caused him to have an unbearable aching in his loins—an aching only a woman's touch would heal. They met after school, once a week. He picked her up at a skateboard park a few blocks from the school. They'd drive to an industrial area and he'd tell her how special she was as she performed oral sex on him.

Once, she'd worn red lipstick on one of their “dates,” and he'd yelled at her when he realized she'd gotten the lipstick on his underwear. He called her a dirty little whore and slapped her face.

On the drive back, she cried and cried. Instead of taking her home, he kept driving. She wondered if he was going to take her to a forest and strangle her, and she didn't care. Without him in her life, her days had no meaning. She sobbed until she was gasping for breath.

Bright, neon lights shone overhead. He pulled into a fast food drive-thru and told her to order anything she wanted, his treat.

He smiled at her, and she felt special again.

She felt…

I stopped typing. There were no more words.

Smith was absolutely quiet. I turned to find him sitting on a chair just behind me, his chin in his hand.

My voice shaking, I said, “Break time?”

“I think that's enough for today.”

“Are you sure?”

He got up from his chair and helped me to my feet. My legs were trembling, my knees unstable.

“Low blood sugar,” I said with a laugh. “I may need a pre-dinner snack so I can make it into town for the real dinner.”

He rubbed his forehead and stared down at the carpet. “We don't have to go if you're not up for it.”

“Of course I'm up for it!” I started walking out of the room and down the stairs, my legs getting stronger with each step.

A hike seemed like the perfect end to a day of writing—some physical exertion to clear the mind and restore the soul.

We didn't hike down on the same trail I'd come in on—the one with the murderous moose—but in another direction. That trail was longer, but would take us right into town, as opposed to the shorter trail plus a hike along the highway.

The dappled sun felt wonderful on my face. I'd put on sunscreen, as I always do when venturing outdoors with my fair skin, and it was just enough sun to feel good without threatening to burn.

Smith reached into my pockets and helped himself to one of the granola bars I'd brought.

“Glorified cookie,” he said as he unwrapped the foil.

“I'd rather have real cookies.”

He slipped his hand into my back pocket and squeezed my buttock as we walked.

“What's this?” I said, removing his hand. “Are we
that
familiar with each other?”

He grinned and raised his eyebrows. “This ass is mine for two weeks.”

“Excuse me? That sounds like something your womanizing detective would say.”

“And what would Sheri say?”

“She'd tell you to solve the damn case.” I stopped and stood in front of him, blocking his passage. I looked up and down his body, stopping on the crotch of his khaki trousers, then I reached down and grabbed him by the balls as I stepped in close. “She'd say, 'I hired
you
, Dunham. Your ass is
mine
.'”

Within seconds, he was firming up in my hand. I squeezed and played with his package, allowing that thick sausage of his to plump with excitement. I stroked along the shaft slowly, taking my time.

He leaned down to kiss me, but I turned on my heel and ran down the trail. I heard a twig snap and realized he was chasing me, not allowing me to put distance between us.

Adrenaline surged through my body and I ran faster. I didn't want him to catch me—not so easily, so I ran as hard as I could, jumping across the occasional puddle or fallen branch. I could hear his running shoes pounding against the ground, not far behind me. He was gaining on me.

I dodged to the right, off the trail, ducking between trees and under branches. I was panting now, running for my life, an irrational panic in my throat. I landed awkwardly after leaping over a stump, and went sprawling, my hands breaking my fall on the dried leaves and pine needles.

I struggled to my feet, aware of him closing in on me, his breath audible. I took two steps and he had me, his arms as strong as tree trunks, restraining me.

Crying out, I struggled to wriggle free. Even as I fought, he gripped me tighter, making escape impossible. I whimpered as he lowered me to the ground.

He was on top of me, his erection pressing into my hip bone. He sought my lips with his mouth, both of us breathing heavily. My hands were free, so I slapped him across the cheek.

His eyes widened, and he grabbed my arms, pinning them to the ground.

I whimpered as he kissed me again, and I went along, sucking on his lips and tongue, but then I twisted my head and bit him on the jaw.

He cried out in surprise and pulled away.

“Sheri, I'm trying to help you,” he said, still breathing heavily. “Someone was after you, but I scared him off.”

“Detective Dunham. I thought… I thought you were someone else. I was so scared.”

“You're safe now.”

“I'm not so safe with you,” I said, tilting my hips suggestively underneath him.

Still pinning my hands to the ground, he crushed his lips down on mine, smothering my moans as I writhed underneath him. I had leaves and dirt in my hair, branches underneath me, and I didn't care.

I wrapped my legs around him, squeezing him hard, my thighs like a vice grip. He let go of my arms to pry my legs apart. I fought him, squeezing his waist even harder, until he grabbed the flesh of my thighs between his fingers and squeezed hard.

I cried out in surprise and relaxed my legs. Now my hands were free, so I slapped him again, but playfully, not hard.

He thrust his hard bulge against the crotch of my shorts.

He growled, “Slap me again.”

I slapped the other cheek, harder.