Devastated to find her marriage has been built on a lie, Felicia goes back to her roots to figure out what she truly wants. Away from the swaying influence of Anton's sexual hold over her, Felicia discovers her true feelings, but can she express them to a man who seems to fear love more than anything else? ...
Devastated to find her marriage has been built on a lie, Felicia goes back to her roots to figure out what she truly wants. Away from the swaying influence of Anton's sexual hold over her, Felicia discovers her true feelings, but can she express them to a man who seems to fear love more than anything else?
This 9,500 word short story is the eighth installment in The Billionaire's Wife series.
I stopped sleeping so much. I dreamed about Anton too frequently: his voice, his smile, his surprised laugh. I dreamed about his hands on me, racing up my thighs, his breath on my pussy, his tongue deep inside me, clinging to me wherever he could find purchase, like a man afraid of being swept away. I dreamed of grinding my clit into his face. I dreamed of being tied up, wrapped in plastic, fucked until neither of us was afraid any more.
Stranger things have happened.
I made love to my clay. My fingers caressed it, thinking of Anton's skin. I pushed against it with my heels, my back arching, my mind wandering to our couplings. My thighs always rubbed together at inconvenient times, and I would flush as I tried to carve out the patterns of my head into the flesh of my creation.
It was beautiful, if I did say so myself. Beautiful and dangerous. Everything was there that made me think of Anton. No one who looked at it would think I was speaking of anyone else. It was my greatest work to date. Midday, when I should have been sleeping but couldn't stop thinking about it, I would get up and touch it through the wet towels I'd laid over it, preserving its plasticity until the last moment when I would dry it and fire it. I'd peek at it, and I would see all my hopes and dreams in it. My hands would wander my body, and I would grind my fingers into my pussy, thinking about Anton, but every time I came I never felt satisfied. Release eluded me.
I chased my memories of Anton, carved them into the clay, and hoped it would be enough...
Ava Lore was raised by wombats and lives to corrupt the innocent. When not writing erotic romance, she spends her time thinking about writing erotic romance and drinking enough iced coffee to kill a musk ox.
Ava yearns for you tragically. Please email her at , follow her on twitter (@authoravalore) or visit her blog at authoravalore.com.