Lily Evans - Unruly Urges

“You’ve got it.” I lean my forehead against hers. “You weren’t kidding, love.” I sigh as her velvety channel swallows my weeping cock hungrily.

I grip her hips and lift and lower her over my hard dick, her head thrown back, her lower lip caught enticingly between her teeth and soft squeaks huffing out as I slide her up and down my dick.

“I’m too…” she murmurs. “I can’t take much more.”

“Come, baby,” I give her permission. My skin feels stretched taut over my cheeks as her pussy grips me tight with the fluttery pulses of her muscles as she starts to let go. I place my left hand under her ass to give her more leverage and lean in pressing her against the wall and my chest. My lips wrapped around her throat and my teeth sink into the tendons as I suck her sweet taste into my mouth.

“Let go, Nina.” I hold her still and thrust deep. Reaching between our sweaty bodies, I flick her clit with the tip of my finger and she gasps, thrashing, bouncing harder and harder. Her heels biting into my low-back, but I can care less. She wants it and I’m going to give everything to her. I let her writhe over me until she comes apart in my arms.

“Come on, baby.” I lick and suck her throat as I cup her ass.

She rides through the waves of her orgasm, milking my cock with each spasm that starts deep in her pussy as I pump my cock and not two seconds later I come hard. And we both collapse in the foyer of our apartment.

My arms fasten around her waist, my head cushioned by the pillow softness of her breasts.

“How’s that for fantasy, babe?”

“Meet a tall, dark, gorgeous ‘stranger’ in a bar and fuck him senseless?” My head rises and falls with her deep inhale.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, that’s the one.”

Hunger gleams in her eyes. “Done and done.” She sighs. “Check that one off my bucket list.”

I pull back and kiss her, deeply. My perfect stranger.

My lips curls as I gingerly hold the phone away from my ear to avoid it sticking to my sweaty cheek.

“Well, what am I supposed to do, Ethan?”

“Of course I remember the Stephenson’s.” I remember the Stephenson’s. I lean back against my kitchen counter, the excessive heat almost all but forgotten with the mention of that last name. Do I ever remember that name. My legs turn to jelly so I sit down hard on my large leather ottoman. My sweat slicked legs stick uncomfortably to the leather. I stand back up again, my lip curled. High school. Hot summer night. Lake. Blanket. Virginity. Oh, I remember.

My eyes widen. “Oh, that’s right.” I roll my eyes, sigh, and shake my head all at the same time. “Thank God they do heating and air.”

“Uh, huh.”

“Well, do you have their number?” I roll my eyes again. “Yes, you’re the best big brother in the world, Ethan.” Not if my sarcastic, monotone deliver y has anything to say with it.

“Of course I mean it.” My mouth curls up in a silly smile.

“Give me a minute to find some paper and a pen.” I give up and hold the phone between my moist shoulder and ear, digging around in the kitchen junk drawer for the supplies I need. “Uh, huh.” I write. “Got it!”

“Love you, too,” I reply sincerely. “Kiss, kiss.” I make enthusiastic kissing noises into the phone. “See ya later.” I wait for Ethan to disconnect, then I immediately dial the repairman.

Come on, come on, come on. I tap my bare foot impatiently on the cool black and white tiles of my kitchen floor waiting for someone, anyone, to answer the phone. I study my toes calculatingly. I really should refresh my toenail polish. I wiggle my toes around contemplating the next color. Why does every business on the face of the earth have such horrendous hold music? I stick my tongue out at one of the fat chefs that hang on my sunflower yellow walls. A shudder rolls over my shoulders as Frank Sinatra croons about New York, New York.

I glance at the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes? Has the whole world’s air gone out today? I know. I know Frank. I’d start spreading the news that my air is out if someone would pick up the godda…

“Oh, thank God.” I groan aloud, my shoulders slump in obvious relief.

A laugh rumbles in my ear. “You sound desperate.” If I wasn’t so uncomfortable right now, the sound of his voice would stir my juices perfectly. It’s deep and dark and full of all kinds of wicked promises.

“I am!” I mop the sweat from my brow with a new paper towel. An entire roll lay in a damp heap on the kitchen counter near the sink.

“What can I do for you?” The deliciously deep voice asks.

My nipples pucker into hard peaks at all the things he could do for me. My hand finds my left breast, my thumb flicking over the distended nub. “My air went out during the middle of the night and I’m dying in here.”

“Luckily you called the right place.”

“My brother gave me your number.”

“Who’s your brother?”

“Ethan Jamison.”

“Well, damn.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I haven’t seen Ethan in years.”

“Yeah, he reminded me that your family was in the heating and air business.”

“I remember Ethan had three little sisters.” He paused. “Which one are you?”

“Meghan.” I take a deep breath. “I’m the baby.”

“Meghan.”

“Yeah, Meghan.”

“Damn,” he answers. “You were such a hot little thing.”

I snort. “Maybe I’m still a hot little thing.”

“Are you?”

I roll my eyes again. I can hear the chuckle in his voice. “I don’t know.” I shrug. “Sure.” I rock back and forth on the balls and heels of my feet. “I guess that’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“That’s beauty.” He chuckles.

“Huh?”

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.”

“Oh,” I say. “Beauty, hotness. It’s all the same thing.”

“I suppose.” His voice drops an octave, the sound vibrating down my spine through the phone. “So did you go on to write the great American novel?”

I frown, my bottom lip stuck between my teeth. “I’m published.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep.”

“What do you write?”

“Umm…”

“Come on,” I hear the grin again. “Maybe I’ve read one of your books.”

“I doubt it.” My nose wrinkles, and my lips purse. I’m silent for a few minutes, pacing around and around in circles in my kitchen debating on what I should say. It’s not as if I’m embarrassed by my work. I go to conferences. My picture is on the inside back cover of all of my books. So what’s the big deal? The big deal is that he’ll probably think I’m some kinda slut. All men seem to think that just because I write erotic romances, I’m a slut. Easy. Put out on the first date. Yada, yada, yada, and all that jazz.

“Ah, come on,” he draws out. “I’m not a total Neanderthal. I do know how to read.”

“Fine.” I hear the annoyance in my voice. “I write erotic romances.”

“Come again?”

“Erotic romances.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to whisper. My brow furrows and I hold myself still waiting for the usual response.

“Fuck,” he groans, his voice turned husky.

And there it is.

“Sorry. Not very professional.”

“I’m used to it.” I feel forced to add, “Happens all the time.”

“I think that’s pretty cool.” It’s almost as if he shrugged, even though I can’t see his shoulders move. “Writing is difficult in any form. Kudos.”

I snicker. “Did you just say kudos?” My shoulders relax a bit. “Just something I remember your dad saying when we were in high school.”

“His favorite saying.”