D. Turner - Turning up the heat

“Greedy, beautiful girl,” he whispered, his voice rich with approval.

His hand slid down the curve of her stomach, teasing the top of her slit. He teased her labia lightly, taking pleasure, she thought, in how soft and wet she was. He stroked her folds until they nearly parted for him, and then he found her clit again.

She flinched slightly; she was still quite tender, but he was right when he said that she was also greedy. Adele heard Bryce make an apologetic noise, and his touch eased up, taking the sensation from overly-intense to bearable. He pressed lightly, making her rock her hips. She was not as impatient as she was before and he stretched her pleasure out for her.

“Is this what my sleeping beauty wants?” Bryce muttered. “Would she like more?”

Adele murmured her approval, and he began to stroke her clit, occasionally dipping his fingers into her cunt to draw that dampness up. It was slow and gentle, perfect, and soon she was moving against him again.

There was nothing urgent about his touch or her motions. They were locked together and Adele could concentrate solely on the sensations she was feeling. She might have really been dreaming, and Bryce might have been something she imagined solely for her pleasure.

Her second orgasm built up slowly. She could feel it coming a long way off, feel it swelling inside of her.

“Oh, oh, Bryce,” she said, and then she convulsed, grasping at his shoulders. The sensations were blunter this time, but sweeter too. Adele let them carry her away as she went to a perfect blank space where she could only feel. She shook for several long moments and then she relaxed, looking up into Bryce’s bright blue eyes with a tremulous smile.

“All right,” she said softly. “I think I’m awake now.”

Ever since her halcyon college days, Raven dreamed of owning a bookstore. She made her dream come true by attending book fairs all over the world, finding great reads at bargain prices. She called her store “Raven’s Haven,” for that’s what it was, an oasis of warmth and welcome for customers to come in and browse for hours without feeling harried. Raven’s store carried an impressive array of limited editions, leather-bound classics and “quality paperbacks,” but little did her regulars know Raven had a secret cache of book for her eyes only.

These books included romance novels and self-help books on how to visualize the right man stepping through the doorway and sweeping her off her slingback heels. Night after night while reading of heroines being ravished over and over again, Raven imagined a suitor with gentle hands slowly unbuttoning her diaphanous robe while her lips searched for his in the glim of a candlelit moment.

It had been a slow week. Raven was sitting cross-legged on a stepladder reading a hot romance and showing off her shapely calves, when the doorbells jingled announcing a handsome young man who could have stepped right out of an epic tale.

She recognized him. He had been in the store many times over the past half dozen weeks or so. Never bought anything, but always smiled shyly before leaving. Maybe he was the starving artist type, though he was always well dressed. He was certainly a welcome diversion.

“You must be thinking about your husband or boyfriend,” the stranger murmured archly. He had a serious but open face and a voice which bespoke of sumptuous tastes.

“Oh, no! Though I admit you caught me with a racy romance! May I help you find something? I’m Raven, the owner.”

“Raven, I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Yale. I teach at a community college and my name is Yale. Feel free to plaster me with puns, everyone does.”

What Raven wanted to plaster him with was her tongue.

“I’m looking for a book on Paris in the 30s. It’s for a Francophile.”

“A friend?” Raven hoped he wasn’t shopping for a significant other.

“Yes, a colleague really. She and her husband are taking a sabbatical to France.”

“Bet you’d like to go.”

“Not really,” Yale said, leaning against the counter and boldly staring at her with desire. “I prefer local color. Like the deckle edge of pink I see hiding behind the gray silk of your blouse.”

Raven blushed and adjusted her camisole. She hoped he noticed how the seams of her stockings hugged the back of her legs as she hopped off the stepladder, flashing the lace tops of her thigh highs.

“I think I have just the thing,” Raven said in her flirtiest tone. “Follow me… if you dare.”

“I’m an intrepid sort.”

Raven found what she was looking for in her travel section; this book was a feast of literary lore. On the cover was a photograph of a woman sitting at a cafe gazing longingly into the camera. Perhaps she was waiting for a lover. She was wearing a jeweled turban, like an odalisque.

“I’ve often marveled at this photo,” the sultry bookseller said. “Here’s a gal sitting outside in what looks like a peignoir!”

When Yale pried the book away, his palm met Raven’s fingers and lingered long enough to send signals of lust. “It’s a dress of some sort. I always thought women were more glamorous in the 30s and 40s. And look at her stockings! They shimmer even in black and white.”

“I don’t suppose you noticed my stockings,” Raven pouted.

“Raven, I’ve done nothing but notice you for weeks. The way you move and carry yourself… like you’re so proud of your curves and womanly flesh. I’d be honored if you had dinner with me tomorrow night. That is, if you could close shop a little early.”

Raven looked dreamily into the green eyes of a would-be hero and knew she had to take a risk. Images of two naked bodies flashed in her mind: one round, soft and female, the other long, lean and masculine. Very masculine. She saw Yale pinching her panties between his fingers before tugging them off to explore her moist delta. She could almost feel his hands kneading her bosom before they rucked her bra over her shoulders. Her nipples were erect and tingling and she risked a quick glance at Yale’s crotch.

“Well, it is my shop. And I have just the dress to prove glamour didn’t die with Jean Harlow.”

Yale stooped like a gallant and kissed the bookseller’s hand. Suddenly, a panicky sensation hit Raven spang in the chest.

“I’m probably a bit older than you. More than a bit, I’m guessing. Is that a problem?”

“Methinks you’ll be sexy at 100. Right now, you look irresistible.”

To prove his point, Yale ran his hands down the length of Raven’s spine, pausing at the small of her back to pull her closer to his groin. He then grabbed her rear end with both hands and lightly slapped her pillowy bottom. He couldn’t resist.

Raven could just picture their first date: gentle hands, candlelight and more. Only, she hoped he wouldn’t be too gentle.

Raven had a stark, restive beauty that sometimes put men off but more often had them torquing to get a better look as she passed them by. Her glossy black tresses fell an inch or so above her shoulder blades and bounced to their own healthy rhythm. Men would lift their heads in a crowd to get a whiff of the rose or lavender shampoo Raven had used that morning. Her long, delicate neck was the perfect pedestal for a heart-shaped face. Even her mouth was provocative. Those plump, juicy lips could widen into a heartbreaking smile or collapse into a tender moue faster than a heroine can murmur: Take me.

She worried about the age difference between her and Yale.

“But women generally outlive men,” he reminded her with a chuckle. “So, when you’re a sexy septuagenarian still breaking hearts on the biblio circuit, I’ll be breaking open bottles of pills to enhance my, ahem, shelf size.