Roland DeForrest: The Erotic Quest of Dirk and Honey

“Ricardo,” she purred, and pulled free from his fevered clutches. “You’re making it extremely hard on me.”

His flashing black eyes twinkled with amusement. “ Sí . And you make hard-on for me. See?” Proudly he stepped back, revealing the tented front of his velvet robe. Slowly, like a master unveiling a work of art, he pulled loose the belt and opened the robe, exposing his erect demands. His sleek cock was the color of sandalwood.

Tempted, Honey eyed him for a long moment. Ricardo Prado was about the most appealing hunk of man she had encountered lately. Just over six feet of hardened flesh, tapered waist, slim hips, muscular thighs, with curly black hair and a boyish, devil-may-care charm that had won her over within moments of their meeting in Mexico City at the National Soccer Championships. Hailed as one of the world’s greatest players, a natural successor to the sensational Pele, Ricardo was to be the subject of her next exclusive and internationally published article. But ever since their arrival back at her palatial home in Hillsborough, California, his mind had been more on in-depth screwing than on in-depth interviewing.

“Pack it away, lover boy,” she sighed in resignation, and gathered her notes from the bedside table. “I’ve work to do. We’ll play later. I promise.” She threw him a dazzling smile and, tossing her shoulder-length waves of Titian-colored hair, walked quickly out of her bedroom, her full hips swaying provocatively under the sheer iridescent green of her chiffon caftan.

Like a dutiful puppy, Ricardo followed, the pout evident in his tone as he spoke: “Work, work, work… I want to fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“ You’re on vacation,” she said over her shoulder and headed for the grand staircase leading to the ground floor. “I’m on a deadline. Your interview has to be on the wire by this afternoon. And Honey Wildon never misses a deadline.”

He caught her arm, swinging her around, pulling her close, crushing her heavy breasts into his bare chest. “You’ve got time,” he growled good-naturedly, and pressed his mouth on hers. As they kissed, she could feel his hardness pushing at her belly like an insistent divining rod. For another moment she wavered, a demanding warmth rushing up from her loins, filling her with an intense desire. Reluctantly she broke away and gave a friendly squeeze to his hard-on. “Ricardo, you are insatiable.”

He frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“The male equivalent of me,” she answered with a smirk, and began descending the carpeted stairs, her knees weak from the fires boiling within her groin. “Now don’t follow me. The servants will see you.”

“Servants,” he snorted at the top of the stairs. “I not care about servants.”

She laughed gaily and kept descending. “That’s because they’re not yours. They’re mine. In fact, some were even here when my parents were alive.” At the bottom she paused, looking back up at him. He stood, feet splayed, frowning down, his robe wide open, one hand stroking determinedly on his hard peter. With his free hand he blew her a kiss. “Honey,” he said hoarsely, “you are one hot girl.”

“I’m a woman,” she said easily, and breezed out of his sight and down the hall into the study, her father’s former library. With fierce concentration and firm discipline acquired through her years as a top-flight journalist of international reputation, Honey was soon deeply involved in finishing her article on Ricardo. He had not been a difficult subject to capture on paper. His likes were simple: soccer, hot women, and fast cars, exactly in that order. What intrigued her, and what she had chosen as the slant of the article, was his familial devotion, an almost worshipful allegiance to his mother and his younger siblings. With the fabulous money he was earning as Mexico’s top soccer star, Ricardo had lavished the good life on his family while choosing to live by himself in relative austerity-except for his shiny red Porsche Targa.

When she was writing, time passed quickly for Honey, and now she was unaware that Ricardo, clad only in tight Speedo swim trunks, stood quietly in the open doorway, observing her. He had never encountered a hotter woman or a more beautiful conquest. Statuesque-nearly five-nine-her luscious body was a bountiful collection of soft curves and voluptuous endowments. Her smooth, unblemished skin was the color of fresh milk. Her breasts were full, rounded peaks and they strained at the filmy material of her gown. Her exquisite profile bent intently over the typewriter, and her long, dark red tresses gleamed like burnished metal in the morning sun, which streamed in through the French doors leading to the poolside terrace. As he watched her, he could feel himself thickening in his swimsuit. Never before had he had a woman who enjoyed sex as much as he did. The mere thought of her enthusiastic performances in bed caused his cock to blossom into a full-blown weapon. He wanted her desperately right then, right there.

He took a step into the book-lined room. Turning her astonishingly blue eyes on him, she smiled at his bulging swimsuit. “Why the periscope? Going for a swim?”

“ Sí . In you.”

“ Por favor, mi toro . Later.”

He rubbed the persistent throbbing in his nylon swimsuit. “No. Now ,” he demanded.

“Tough maracas, Ricardo,” she murmured. Honey had returned to the typewriter, her fingers raising a steady, electronic clackety-clack.

With studied nonchalance he moved behind her chair, peering over her bare shoulders and down the front of her low-cut caftan. As she breathed, the soft swell of her snowcapped peaks filled him with new urgings. With the same quickness that marked his performance on the soccer field, he shoved a hand down between her warm, soft breasts, relishing their fullness.

“Ricardo,” she complained, still typing. “You promised, when I asked you here, that you’d let me work when I had to.”

“You work too much,” he said softly and cupped one full breast, loving its weight in his sweaty palm. Bending down to nuzzle her long neck, he inhaled her sweet aroma-like a garden of roses on a hot, sunny day. It reminded him of her pussy, and that made his blood simmer.

Still typing, she arched her head back into him. “I love my work. As you do yours.”

“But I no work now. I play.” With a fingernail he flicked at one of her nipples, pleased to feel it elongating at his touch. He pressed the hard bulge of his swimsuit into the back of her head and demanded, “How long?”

“About seven inches, if I recall correctly,” she said crisply, and continued to type.

He jerked his hand free of her breasts and marched around the desk. Standing directly in front of her, he began tracing with his fingertips the long boner compressed painfully in his trunks.

She ceased typing. “Ricardo, why don’t you take a swim? Cool off for a spell. Give it a rest.”

Instead of replying, he yanked free his hard-on and pulled back the skin from its glistening head. He bobbed it at her, a lustful, sly grin on his darkly handsome features. Honey eyed the end of his pointing dick, noticing a small drop of moisture at the dime-sized slit. It was that mere speck of pearly fluid that crumbled her resolve. With a rustle of chiffon, she bounded out of her chair and, with heavy breasts swaying, flew to the hall door and closed it. She turned, leaning back against the door. “ El Máquina , take off those trunks.”

Willingly he obliged, pushing them off his trim hips and stepping out of them. Proudly, even vainly he stood, letting her drink in his aroused beauty. “Now you,” he ordered.