Can't Get Enough: Erotica for Women Page 11

  The night something did, it was a Thursday. Not a hugely busy night out in Newcastle, but a sort of amping up tended to happen on Thursdays, everyone getting ready for the weekend, desperate for Saturday to come. Onstage, Jack was feeling a little desperate, too, hair sticking damply to his forehead and smoke in his eyes. Tom was close enough that Jack could see the thin line of spit connecting his tongue to his teeth when he opened his mouth; could see it snapping when Tom grinned and launched into the chorus. Jack wanted to be the one to snap that line of spit himself, tongue to Tom’s tongue, tracing the shape of his teeth. There was one at the front that was slightly crooked; another a little farther back had a rough sort of chip in it, from where Tom had come off his bike and bashed his teeth on the handlebars. Jack knew these things, had felt them, learned them, like none of Tom’s girls ever had. Tom caught his eye, and Jack felt a rush of possessiveness surge up in his chest like a serpent, violent and a little untrustworthy. God, but home was a long way off. Not for the first time, he almost wished he lived in a hut on the Quayside, just so he could get his hands on Tom that much quicker.

  After the set, he gathered his things quickly. It had become a routine for both of them, however many irritated looks Keith threw their way, no matter what he muttered about the two of them being sissies all of a sudden, desperate to get home to bed. Jack slung his guitar up onto his shoulder and moved out into the dank corridor, waiting for Tom to catch up to him with a smile, and a “C’mon, if we run, we can make the bus.”

  When Tom emerged, what he said instead was, “Loos.” He tossed his head, indicating, and at first, Jack didn’t realize what was meant, what was up. Head still pounding with phantom bass and hours-ago beer, Jack followed him, but it wasn’t until they got to the bathroom and Tom fisted a hand in Jack’s shirt, tugging, that he realized.

  He realized.

  He should have protested, questioned, he knew that. But Tom was leaning his bass, heedless, against the bare wall beside the sinks, then reaching for Jack’s guitar, and the look on his face was set, determined. Jack didn’t want to interfere with that look. It set his heart fluttering in his chest, confused in a way that felt warm and restless and good, knowing that this was Tom’s idea; that Tom was taking responsibility for it so Jack didn’t have to.

  “Jack,” Tom said, and his eyes flashed to the bathroom door before his hand moved from the front of Jack’s shirt to his collar, then his hair, clenching in it where it was thick at the nape of his neck.

  “The bus,” Jack said, halfheartedly, and then cursed the impulse that had made him, but Tom was smiling, ignoring his babble, and the next thing Jack knew was the tension in his scalp as Tom’s hand tightened, pulling him forward.

  “They run all night,” Tom said. He locked the door of the end stall behind them and looked at Jack, all wide dark eyes and mussed dark hair and dirty, unacceptable sex appeal. Jack wanted to pin him to the wall and rut against his thigh.

  “Jack,” Tom said again, low, drawing Jack’s attention back, and then he was unzipping his leathers and Jack could feel his heart trying to fucking escape from his chest, practically; pounding and thundering like a washing machine trying to rattle out of its pins. At the back of Jack’s mind, he still knew, still understood, that he shouldn’t want this. Tom might have been a girly sort of boy, but he was still a boy, and right now, he looked like one, all sweat and stubble. But Jack was hard in his pants all the same, breath coming fast, and as Tom’s zip went down, all Jack felt was his heart rate accelerating where there should have been disgust, should have been some sure, conservative, masculine part of him wondering what the hell Tom was doing.

  Then he saw the flash of pink between the teeth of Tom’s zip, and his heart stopped.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jack managed, voice a strained thread of a thing. “Did you—?”

  “Too fucking far back home,” Tom said, and shoved his leathers down to his knees. Pants out of the way, that left only a pair of pink knickers struggling to contain Tom’s dick, and Jack swallowed a lump in his throat.

  As long as Jack was working his way into a pair of knickers, anything was okay.

  “You sordid little tart, Tom,” Jack said, voice breaking. Tom smiled at him, eyelashes dipped, and shifted his legs, spreading his thighs a little wider. Then Jack was on him, biting at his mouth, nothing delicate about it. There was no time for delicate in the sticky little toilets in the George, due to be locked up within the next fifteen minutes, but moreover, there was no time for faffing around when Jack had Tom there, pants around his knees and back against the door, waiting, ready. Ready for anything.

  Tom was loud. God, they both were; that had always been the problem. Jack found that the moment he took his mouth off Tom’s, he had to put a hand there instead, two fingers thrust between Tom’s parted lips just to keep the noises in. By the time Jack had withdrawn those two fingers and worked them up between Tom’s legs, Tom was shifting and squirming and moaning, and Jack stopped the sounds with his mouth, sucked them off Tom’s tongue.

  The toilet stall was too small for the two of them, really, barely big enough for one person, but they managed. Jack was too turned on not to manage, could have fucked Tom in a suitcase at the moment, probably, if it had been the only bloody option. He shoved at the tangle of Tom’s trousers, dragged them down until Tom got the picture, kicked off one boot and tugged his socked foot out of the trouser-leg. That was enough, Jack decided, mind run ragged; the leathers were uncomfortable and clingy and he couldn’t be fucking bothered to wait for Tom to get them off entirely. Tom seemed not to disagree. Jack maneuvred himself onto the closed lid of the toilet and pulled Tom into his lap; shoved up into him and bit his lip as Tom let gravity pull him fully down onto Jack’s dick, head back and long throat bared. It was awful, but the twisting heat in Jack’s stomach told him all the same that this was better—this, Tom in his sweaty T-shirt and half-off leather trousers, face rough with a five o’clock shadow—than any time he could remember with Tom in full feminine ensemble, dress and stockings and makeup. This, just Tom, was better, and Jack could stress about it; wanted to stress about it; but Tom was in lingerie, still, after all, wasn’t he? Tom had been wearing those fucking pink knickers under his pants for the whole set, and that thought set Jack’s mind spiraling off its fixings, Jesus Christ. Tom had played a whole fucking set in pink knickers just so Jack would fuck him after, and Jack would have had to be dead not to prickle with sweat at that realization, breath catching.

  “Jack,” Tom rasped out, throat ragged and torn from hours of singing, bitten fingernails pressed into the meat of Jack’s upper arms, “Jesus, oh, Jesus!” He spread his legs wider, bare thighs sticking to the tacky leather of Jack’s pants as he worked himself up and down, back arched and tendons straining.

  “Yeah, babe, there you are,” Jack said, nonsensical, as he fucked up into him, hair sticking to his forehead and self-possession lost somewhere between the ache in his groin and the look of abandonment on Tom’s beautiful face. “So fucking pretty, aren’t you, aren’t you, aren’t you—Tom—”

  The look on Tom’s face when Jack emptied himself inside of him was almost as gratifying as the look that followed when Tom, too, spent himself, wet and sticky all over Jack’s stomach. Afterward, they cleaned up hastily, slipping out of the back entrance since the front one had now been locked. They shouldn’t have done that, Jack thought, as they moved quietly toward the nearest bus stop, undoubtedly to tumble together into either Jack’s bed or Tom’s, bare limbs entangled. They shouldn’t have done that. It made a difference, knickers or not.

  But it was late, and Jack was tired. They got off the bus in Byker, made their quiet way up to Jack’s bedroom and collapsed into Jack’s bed. Tom tucked one leg between Jack’s, and he sighed sleepily against Jack’s neck, warm and contented. Jack knew he should be taking stock of things, but like this, it was hard. Like this, there was just Tom, his best friend, lately his fucking everything, and Jack couldn’t bring himself to ca
re why he felt better with Tom in his bed, only that he did.

  They shouldn’t be doing this, but Tom made it impossible to resist. That was all there was to it.

  SLEEPLESS NEED

  Monica Corwin

  My hands itched, the blood hummed under my skin and I was starting to get the shakes. I grasped my coffee cup between my hands, the heat seeping through the ceramic, warming and steadying my fingers. It had been twelve hours and—I glanced down at my watch—thirty-seven minutes since I last had sex. The weight of him still felt imprinted on my body, even now, though his scent was long gone.

  The diner I took up residence in was empty save the cook and one seedy-looking waitress behind the counter. I had ordered pancakes almost a half hour ago, and they still hadn’t arrived. I supposed it was a good time to get some writing done. The pen that twined through my hair was blue. It slipped from its hold easily, the two other pens keeping the bulk of my hair confined to the messy bun. My notebook was already open on the table. I had just finished reading the last entry.

  Writing and sex are my only two vices, each fueling the other and each keeping me at a modicum of control. I am a sex addict. I want it all the time, no matter where, no matter with whom. Sometimes I can stanch the urge by reading old journal entries, but sometimes not. For some reason I was feeling it worse today than yesterday.

  I tapped my pen down on the notebook, imagining last night’s romp, letting it fill me up and take me back to his arms. The bell above the diner’s door snapped me from the phantom lover’s embrace, as did the beautiful specimen that entered.

  Sharp and instant, the longing enveloped me. Each breath in and out of my lungs became more difficult as my body went molten. He looked around, his eyes meeting mine for a moment as he swept the room with his gaze.

  I watched him as he sat toward the other end of the diner. His skin was toffee-colored. The need to run my fingers through the silky black curtain of his hair struck me, and I was on my feet before I could stop the impulse. The waitress was in the back somewhere, the cook nowhere in sight. I walked slowly across the black-and-white-checkered tiles until I stood next to his table.

  One perfectly arched brow rose as he noticed me. I captured my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down, trying to take some of the edge off, maybe get out at least an explanation before I jumped him. We stared into each other’s eyes, and I knew what he saw in me. A somewhat overly curvy girl with striking blue eyes and a smattering of freckles, with pens sticking out of her head. Not necessarily a wet dream come to life.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Hi,” I started. It was not the most eloquent way to start what was soon to become an awkward conversation.

  “Hi.” A small grin played on the corner of his lip, and the only thing that I could think about at that moment was licking that tiny corner. I pushed the air from my lungs, depriving myself of oxygen so my body could get a grip.

  I swallowed and gulped air before opening my mouth again.

  “Do you think you could come outside with me for a second?”

  His brow wrinkled but he must have been intrigued because he stood up and followed me out the door. The bell announced our exit.

  “I want you.” It was a simple enough explanation and oddly, it usually worked.

  “You want me, like, you want to have sex? Right now?”

  “Do you need me to spell it out with Hooked-on-Phonics for you?”

  He chuckled, and even that sounded sexy falling from his lips. I was about five seconds from pushing him against the wall and enticing him to take me, but I was saved the indignity. He grasped my hand and led me to a pickup truck around the side of the diner. Even with the lust-filled fog clogging my brain, I registered the secluded spot and appreciated it.

  He spun me around and lifted me up on the downed tailgate of the truck. The water from this morning’s rain soaked into my jeans but I didn’t care. My hands were up his shirt, running across his already hard nipples. Like most Native American men, he was hairless, and it was sexy to feel smooth hot flesh under my fingers. The notion that I was going to take control of the situation was quickly divested as he shoved open my thighs and placed his narrow hips between them. His lips took mine possessively, and his hands tangled up in my messy bun. He was hard, hot and rough; perfectly suited to my current mood and the general cloudy gloom left in the air from the early morning storm. My senses woke slowly, reveling in the salty taste of his lips, the scent of ozone pressing around us. Most of all, I was attuned to the heat of his body soaking through my clothes.

  I broke my lips away from his to focus on freeing the erection I felt through his jeans.

  “Guess I didn’t need to spell it out for you.”

  “You never did, I just couldn’t believe my luck.” The sexy smile was back but faltered the moment his dick sprang free into my palm. He was more thick than long, my fingers barely meeting as I gripped him. He growled when I ran my hands up and back down the smooth ridges of his length. That small innocuous sound sent a shock of longing through my body.

  I was done playing games. I released him, took off my jacket, laid it flat in the truck bed, and climbed farther into the back. My jeans and panties came off before my ass met the jacket, already chilled from the wet steel underneath it.

  It didn’t take him long to catch on. He pulled his pants up enough to climb between my legs.

  “Condom?”

  My body was starting to take over, my mind blanking out at the onslaught of need coursing through my veins.

  “Right pants pocket.” My voice sounded hoarse and I no longer cared. The only thing that mattered was getting that penis inside me.

  He glanced at my face as he slid the condom down, the end snapping in place as he checked the fit.

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  I didn’t answer, only pulled him down by his hips, fitting his head against my swollen, wet opening. He removed my hand from between us in an almost crushing grip. I started to shake as he pushed the end in only a tiny bit. Locking eyes with mine he delved his hand into my hair, releasing the heavy weight and scattering the pens with a plastic click.

  The moment his grip tightened against my scalp he shoved himself inside me to the hilt. It was brutal and I cried out from the force of it, my ass sliding against my jacket.

  I tried to sit up, to meet his hips with my own, but his hands in my hair yanked me back, baring my neck to his lips. He took full advantage, sliding in and out of me as he scraped his teeth down my neck. Some of the tension coiled through me released as my orgasm slowly climbed. He pumped in and out of me harder, using the end of the truck bed to gain leverage. My body was awake, alive, and I felt like Aphrodite herself being taken, consumed, utterly rendered by this sexy stranger.

  I held on to his back with one hand, my nails digging into him. The other gripped his soft length of hair. Some of it escaped my hands and fanned out around us. A tendril here and there would brush my breasts, my waist, and it heightened my senses even more. My breathing came faster as I wrapped my legs around him, trying to crush his body harder into mine, my feet catching in the opening of his jeans around his knees. One of his hands was next to my head to hold him off my chest, the other was still tight in my hair, both of them closed in a tight grip. His hips pressed harder into me and my back bowed, trying to get him deeper, even though it wasn’t possible.

  “Fuck. I’m gonna come. Come with me, baby.”

  His words hit their mark, driving me straight over the edge. My orgasm crashed through me, wave after wave of poignant pleasure. Just as it started to wind down he slammed into me one final time, holding himself inside me. A grunt registered in my ears as he carefully released my hair. Half of his weight rested on my belly as he tried to regain his bearings.

  The edge of the need was asleep, and now only the usual simmer kept me aware of my longings. I could deal with the simmer. I had done it for years. Lying still and languid, I waited for him to get off me, savoring t
he weight and heat of him, committing it to memory.

  I would feel every second of this encounter later, once the endorphins left me and I started to feel the need again. I should have been ashamed. I didn’t even know the name of the man still inside me.

  He climbed down off the bed, baring my body to the chilly air. I followed him down and rearranged my clothes on before turning to face him. This was always the awkward part. To my surprise it wasn’t this time. He leaned down and gently kissed my forehead, tucking my hair away from my cheek, then walked away.

  I waited a moment before following him back into the diner. My pancakes were finally ready. I looked at him from my table, and he gave me a wink.

  I smiled and started writing.

  THE GIRL ON YOUR SKIN

  Giselle Renarde

  How could I complain? I was breaking my own rule.

  Nesta and I made lots of rules when we opened up. She wrote them down in the back of her daybook, and we kept those pages pinned to the corkboard by her computer:

  Don’t bring dates home

  Don’t fall in love

  Don’t rave about how great the sex was

  Don’t come to bed smelling like another girl

  The list went on, but I was hung up on that last point in particular. All night, I’d been tossing and turning in my sweat-soaked sheets. TV was boring. I went to bed with a book, but the book was boring, too. Brought out my vibe. Didn’t do a damn thing. The room felt different when I was alone in it, when I knew Nesta was fucking someone else.

  Waiting was killer. Lying alone in our bed, I waited to hear her key in the door, waited for the hinges to creak, for her to unzip those big boots and kick them off in the hallway. Even the sound of her breath, the shallow guilt as she tiptoed to the bathroom, flicked on the light, closed the door—it was all there, right in my ear. The squeal of the shower. I heard every step in the process like an echo as I waited for Nesta to come home.