Lisa Cach - The Erotic Secrets Of A French Maid

He released her flesh and a moment later his hands were on her hips, urging her upward. He helped her onto her knees with her legs together, her forearms still on the mattress. She felt the blunt head of his rod against her opening, rubbing back and forth, its path becoming slippery with her moisture. He parted her thighs slightly and slid himself along the folds of her damp sex. His hips came up against her buttocks and he reached around to her front, his hand pressing downward on her mound as he slowly thrust between her slick folds.

She moaned deep in her throat as each thrust brought his head into contact with the nub of her pleasure. She rocked against him, joining his rhythm. His other hand cupped her breast, massaging it.

He pulled away, then pushed a big pillow under her and had her lie down on top of it, her hips raised up. Then he was parting her thighs and she felt him slowly enter her, thrusting in gradual, deepening strokes. Taking her without words, as if they were strangers.

When he'd made it halfway in he leaned forward, bracing himself on his rigid arms. She could feel the tension in him as he breathed her name and slowly thrust the rest of the way, embedding himself deep within her.

Emma instinctively wrapped her lower legs behind his back, her feet touching each other as she pulled him more securely to her.

"Emma," he breathed again, and began to thrust, his angle bringing his rod in contact with that one sensitive spot inside her passage. She mewled in her throat and tried to move with him, but it was nearly impossible. She could only grip him with her legs and let him take her as he would.

For the first time in her life, she felt an orgasm approaching from penetration alone. She dug her fingernails into the silks, her body clenching and urging the passion upward. She squeezed her inner muscles, wanting to grasp all of him that she could, and a second later felt him slow.

"Oh God, Emma," he said, and grabbed her hip with one hand, pushing her down against him as he slowly completed his final thrust and held motionless. His stillness was followed almost instantly by a pulse she felt at her entrance, and she knew he was done.

She dropped her legs from his back and he eased down on top of her. She could still feel the pulsing expectation of her own desire, of her body seeking its own fulfillment. Russ's breath was warm and heavy against the side of her face, and within a minute it became heavier still.

Emma scowled. He'd fallen asleep 7.

She wiggled slightly. He murmured and lay one arm along her own, gripping her wrist for a moment and then subsiding.

Her unslaked desire roused a flame of annoyance. She'd been so close! This was the second time they'd had sex, and the second time she'd had to go to bed hungry for an orgasm.

She wiggled harder, and then shifted to slide more of his weight off her back.

He came groggily awake. "Oh, sorry." He pulled the pillow out from under her and then turned onto his back. She moved to get up, but he caught her arm. "No, come lie with me."

"I have to get the towel," she said, not wanting to give in to the sleepy comfort of a postcoital snuggle. It wasn't postanything for her.

His lips tightened, and the sleepiness began to clear from his eyes. "I should go clean up."

Her annoyance warred with her liking of him, and liking won out. She pushed against his chest, making him lie back again. "Don't be silly. I'll be just a moment. Stay here."

She cleaned herself up and removed her veil, then warmed a washcloth in hot water and carried it back to him, cleaning him of the vestiges of their lovemaking. She set the cloth aside and climbed up onto the bed with him, letting him settle her against his side. She pulled lengths of silk up over them and then rested her palm and cheek against his chest.

He reached over and stroked his hand down her side. "You need to have your turn."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "That's not what this is about."

His hand moved over her hip and down to the edge of her sex. "I'll enjoy it more if I know that you enjoy it."

It was what she'd wanted five minutes ago, not now. Her mood was gone and some perverse part of her wanted to wallow in the injustice of the orgasm score. "I do enjoy it. Very much," she said, with a hair less conviction than might have been believable.

"Don't do that."

She tucked her face against him, knowing what he meant but asking anyway. "Don't do what?"

"Say things you plainly don't mean. Be honest with me, Emma. You've nothing to lose by telling me the truth."

She opened her eyes, staring at the hairs on his chest, and gathered the courage for honesty. "I do enjoy it. But I was very close to enjoying it a lot more-if you know what I mean."

He squeezed her arm. "Tell me when it's like that, so I can do something about it. Will you tell me?"

She nodded, but it was so much easier to try to please someone else, rather than ask another to please you.

"Promise?" he asked.

"Promise."

It was a promise she didn't know if she could keep.

Russ's world narrowed to the scraping of his skates on the ice and the rasp of his breathing inside his helmet. Skate full-bore to the blue line, stop on the outside edge of his skate, cross his other leg over, skate back to the goal line, stop on outside edge of skate, cross over, skate to red line, stop, cross over, skate, stop. He was doing line drills while his fellow players showered and dressed after the final game. Skate, stop, cross over, skate. Stopping on the outside edge of his skate strained the inner muscles of his thighs and the crossover demanded concentration and agility. The sprints from line to line sucked every last dreg of energy from his muscles. It was all he could think to do, to force thoughts of Emma from his mind. Thoughts of her, thoughts of the things they'd done together, thoughts of how he had forgotten who he was as he chased her through the apartment, his only goal to capture her nearly nude body, toss it down, and plunge himself inside it until the steel-hard ache in his loins was eased.

He'd turned into an animal!

Skate, stop, cross over, skate. It had been a favorite drill of his coach when he'd first learned to play, and had also been his coach's favorite punishment when he thought his team needed to get their act together.

He needed to get his act together. That sexually aggressive side of himself had frightened him afterward, realizing how slim his control was over his baser nature; how thin the wall was between civilized behavior and barbaric.

Worse yet was knowing that last night's escapade was just a mild version of what he would be capable of, given the proper circumstance. If he'd been born a thousand years ago and given a sword and a village to plunder…

Skate, stop, cross over, skate. And what about Emma? Had she gotten off on that power play? Well, technically she hadn't, though she'd complained that she'd gotten close.

He didn't know if he could handle many more nights like that. The role-playing, the freaky ideas, never knowing what to expect, never certain if he'd be able to perform-and aware that he'd left her unsatisified twice now.

He coasted to a stop, winded, feeling the nausea of overexertion. Crap. He used to be able to go twice as long. He was getting old.

The pop of a beer can being opened echoed across the ice, and he turned and saw Greg standing in the box with a beer in his hand, another sitting on top of the boards.

"Want a beer?" Greg called across the ice.

Russ skated over to him and climbed over the boards, propping his stick in a corner. He pulled off his gloves and helmet and took the can, popping the top and taking a gulp.