|Publisher:||Start Publishing LLC|
|Product dimensions:||4.90(w) x 6.90(h) x 1.00(d)|
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Clara needed a vacation — badly. She couldn't find more than a part-time job, her apartment was too small, and she'd been single so long that she was sure her mother thought she was a lesbian — mostly because she'd asked Clara last week. In her dire situation, the best and cheapest idea she could come up with was to spend an off-season weekend at a ski resort.
The place was all but deserted when she arrived. Perfect. Clara went up the steps to the check-in office and approached the front desk. A man about her age with dark hair was working diligently on what she thought was paperwork. But she soon realized it was a crossword puzzle. He looked up just in time to catch her amused grin. His handsome face took her off guard.
"Do you know a seven-letter word for showing appreciation?" "Fucking?" she guessed, without thinking.
He stared at her, and a corner of his mouth lifted up in a grin. Clara felt her face flush.
"Or ... valuing?" she stammered. "My name's Clara Paulsen, and I have a cabin reserved for this weekend."
"Here you go, Clara." He handed her the keys and a form. The way he said her name sent shivers down her spine. "Fill this out at your convenience. You're in cabin five."
She practically ran back to her car. Her cheeks were still burning and the early spring heat wasn't helping.
She followed the signs until she found the cabin in a grove of sparse trees. She grabbed her suitcase, opened the front door and went inside, then peeked out the living room window. The hot tub was on the back deck. What to do first? She glanced back at her suitcase. Might as well start the trip off strong and indulge herself in a little personal pleasure. She went into the bedroom and closed the blinds, then unzipped her suitcase, took out a vibrator and stripped down to her tank top and underwear before settling back on the bed.
She twisted the bottom of the erotic contraption, starting on a low setting. With the hunky desk clerk in her mind, she pressed the buzzing vibrator against her panty-covered clit. Her body responded immediately to the stimulation. Her breasts puckered, her thighs clenched and she felt heated sensation rush through her veins. She closed her eyes and sighed, bringing a hand up to touch her breast, squeezing her nipple, sliding her hand under the flimsy fabric for better contact. She imagined his hands were on her. What did it matter? He was hot, and she'd never see him again.
Then she realized her vibrator wasn't the only thing buzzing.
Clara froze. All thoughts of finishing herself off flew from her mind. She opened her eyes and turned off the vibrator, senses alert. The other buzzing continued. A wasp was flying around, bouncing against the ceiling, looking for a way out — or a victim. She flew off the bed and out the door, slamming it shut behind her. She was on the phone in an instant, calling the front desk.
"This is Randy, what can I do for you?"
It was the same sexy voice, but Clara was in no position to enjoy it.
"There's a wasp," she managed.
"I'll be down in a sex. I mean sec."
He was teasing her, but she couldn't even manage to feel irked. With a rush of embarrassment, she realized she was dressed only in her underwear. But there was no way she was going back in the bedroom for her suitcase. Her half-crazed mind was still trying to figure out a solution when Randy gave a quick warning knock and burst in, flyswatter in hand. He stared at her exposed, disheveled form, raking his eyes hungrily over her smooth, supple body.
"Wasp!" she reminded him urgently.
He broke from his reverie and opened the bedroom door. Clara heard a few smacks, and then he appeared in the doorway again, that cocky grin plastered on his face.
"Sorry for, uh, interrupting you."
The flush returned to her cheeks. His eyes were glued to her damp panties.
"Is there ... anything else I can do for you?"
Clara found herself nodding before her brain had fully comprehended his intention. Instinct was taking over. He closed the distance between them and brought his lips down on hers. Clara trembled. The pleasure she'd built up earlier boiled in her veins once more, and she eagerly returned his caresses. He smelled so good; the scent of his skin was all masculine musk. She could feel Randy harden through his jeans, and she moaned into his mouth, arching against him, begging for more.
Randy grabbed her ass to lift her, and she automatically wrapped her legs around his waist. He took her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She tugged impatiently on his shirt, and he removed it, allowing her to explore the ridges of his hard muscles while he unbuckled his jeans and pulled out his cock.
It had been so long for her. He was perfect. She took his hard, thick length in her hand, pumping it experimentally, relishing the feeling of the firm, silky organ against her skin.
"I want to be inside you," he breathed in her ear. He ripped her panties down her legs and pressed his fingers into her moist heat just to take them out again and lick them clean.
"Condom?" she requested breathlessly, impatience winning over foreplay.
He took one from his pocket and sheathed his cock. Her vibrator was still on the bed, and he grabbed it. She gave in to his control. Randy turned her over, ready to take her from behind. He activated the toy and held it against her clit as he entered her. The excitement of the random encounter mixed with pure pleasure already had Clara on the edge. She felt each skilled inch as he slipped into her, and she gasped in a desperate attempt to catch her breath.
He hit the sweet spot inside of her and pumped in and out slowly. But Clara was ready. She was so close. The vibrator buzzed insistently against her sensitive clit, and this living, breathing, incredibly sexy man was inside of her.
"Fuck me," she breathed.
Randy delivered, picking up speed. He groaned against her. She could feel him shaking; the vibrator slipped. She replaced it with her own fingers, giving him the freedom to use his hands for support, making it easier for him to slam into her.
"Yes," Clara moaned.
The waves crested again. Pleasure rose up within her until she was near bursting. Randy's movements were growing more frantic. He straightened up, grabbed her hips and pulled her quickly against him. The orgasm crashed over her, and she cried out his name. Randy choked out a few curse words, shuddered and collapsed.
They lay on the bed together, trying to catch their breath. Randy stripped off the condom.
"Thanks for ... everything," Clara said finally.
He grinned at her.
"Thank you. You were right, you know."
"With the crossword. It was valuing." Clara smiled, and Randy spoke as an afterthought. "But I like showing my appreciation this way better."CHAPTER 2
NO BLAME, NO SHAME
I'm on my way to the ladies' room when I spot them: Jessica and Peter, getting down and dirty in the conference center's little glass-doored library.
And I don't blame them. I'd do Jessica and/or Peter in a second, if I ever got a chance. The next best thing has to be watching them do each other — and it looks like my beneficent bladder has escorted me straight into the path of the next best thing.
The hotel designers have placed one of those icemachine alcoves directly opposite the diminutive library, and when I instinctively back myself into it, I can tell right away that the angles and lighting would make it difficult for me to be seen.
Whereas Jess and Pete are quite easily seen.
Oh, yes. At the moment, she's kneeling on the couch, and he has her pants down. He's tickling her bottom, and she's giggling lewdly and thrusting her starkly bared ass upward at him — more, more.
I don't blame her. My mind doesn't blame her and my pussy doesn't blame her and my own tickle-loving asscheeks certainly don't blame her.
I might have thought that my three-drink need to pee would prevent my getting properly turned on by what I'm observing. I find, on the contrary, that it only further encourages the horny electricity that warms my groin.
And the self-indulgent silk panties I've worn to this evening's event feel complicitly cool against my hot cunt, as if my arousal were a beautifully wrapped gift from an admirer.
Now he's kissing her — kissing all over the creamy globes of her behind. Gradually he centers in on the crack, which he slowly follows south. I'm riveted, wondering when his lips will make it to her cunt — caring as much as if it were my own.
Her whole body telegraphs a new level of joy when he arrives there. Peter really gets into it, slobbering like an animal.
And I don't blame him.
My hand gets busy in my conference slacks, initiating an oh-so-productive breakaway session with my pussy.
Soon I realize I'm practically on the verge of wetting my silk, because I've refused to cut short my thrills by exiting to the restroom. But no problem — it's feeling sexier than ever to hold it, to jiggle there while I watch them from my makeshift voyeur station, the dull ache of fullness grounding the twin tickles of excitement and urgency. Even while I'm teasing my clit into a frenzy, I clutch my brink-hovering bathroom need like a security blanket.
I'm in a kind of kinky paradise, frankly — who knew how exquisite it could feel to be having vicarious sex and anticipating a killer piss at the same liquid instant?
Pete finally removes his muzzle from Jessica's snatch, and he makes the excellent decision to pull her pants the rest of the way off. When he gets everything past her feet and tosses it all offstage, I'm given a glimpse of pink panties in transit.
And, speaking of panties, I notice I'm actually tinkling in mine a bit now — dribbling trickles of pee through my cunt-slick fingers because, yeah, I'm full of cocktails and so turned on ... and it all feels so fucking good, even the maverick drops of piss kissing their way down the smoothness of my thighs.
Jess is now on her back, with Peter eating her tits. She's writhing like crazy, with her legs splayed, and thanks to the generous library lighting, I can see how wet she is. The effect suggests to me, in my present state, that she has to pee and it's starting to seep out ... but I remind myself that, no, it's not that Jess has to pee, it's that she has to be fucked — and her desire is what's seeping out.
Peter is, to say the least, hip to her desire, and he doesn't let much more time elapse before getting out his gorgeous, tautly swollen cock, and putting it up Jessica's lust-drenched hole.
I'm trembling with arousal, and even the hum of the ice machine sounds libidinous. As for Jess, she's getting pumped so well that their couch is shaking; Jess, who doesn't have to pee just now.
But, sweet fuck, I do, and the sensation of holding most of it back while the hot little trickles continue is almost better than sex. I know that eventually something will have to give — my ass will claim the nearest toilet seat or, so help me, I'll wet my pants gloriously right here — but for the time being, I'm in a fabulous steady state, just relishing the warm erotic buoyancy of it all.
Peter's delicious butt is supremely tight and he's working it intently, while Jess looks like a beautiful rapture of female flesh, all O-mouth and closed lids and hungry thighs.
Oh, god, they're both coming.
And, yes, now I'm really wetting my pants by the ice machine, having the best goddamn orgasm of my life and pissing relentlessly — totally surrendering control to pleasure, excited to the point where I have no shame and wouldn't dream of relocating to a bathroom stall, even if it weren't so emphatically too late.
Because it's a privilege to wet myself in tribute to them — to have glued myself to this spot until I pissed my freakin' panties, because I couldn't take my eyes off them or get my hand out of my pants.
I guess, after three drinks, I'm what you'd call a romantic.
It's a marathon: a marathon pee and a marathon climax; a double-fucking-decker marathon of ecstasy. And I don't even mind that Jess and Pete have noticed me through the glass; that they're watching me dissolve into a blissful, perversely glamorous mess, leaking my passion all over the floor, staring out at them with my glazed but unflinching eyes ... and wondering if they envy me for this moment.
Because I wouldn't blame them.CHAPTER 3
WASN'T IT GOOD?
One problem with community musical theater is that the songs say more than you can ever say in life. Characters stand on either side of the stage, oblivious to each other, and pour their hearts out without hearing the other also singing about love or hatred.
In Chess, for example, the wife and the girlfriend of Anatoly sing about how they aren't right for him — each thinks that what he wants and needs is the other.
It's madness, each sings, that he won't be mine.
The song is the only time the two women appear on stage together, though they don't acknowledge each other's presence.
That was a damn good thing. Because the other problem with community musical theater is that you end up being in shows with the same people over and over.
And it was more than a little awkward to be sharing the stage with the wife of the man who used to be yours.
I glanced stage right, but Lori wouldn't meet my gaze.
I could only guess what she was thinking.
Ironically, she had the lead role, that of Anatoly's girlfriend. The wife — my part — didn't even show up until Act II.
One scene together. One song. Her sweet soprano to my strong alto. Our voices weaving, dipping, soaring, intertwining around a single theme of forbidden love, too short and too soon taken away.
No, I did know what she was thinking.
It was seven years ago, during a production of The Pirates of Penzance. We played women in frilled bonnets and flouncy dresses, pretending to be innocent. But what woman doesn't have a weakness for men in pirate outfits, tight pants and open shirts baring an expanse of firm chest?
We were younger then, and daring to the point of foolishness. Lust was in the air, not just for us. We probably weren't the only ones who snuck off to the orchestra practice room, "borrowed" key clutched in hand, breathless with danger and desire.
A heady combination.
In the darkened room with barely any space between chairs and music stands and instrument cases, we pressed up against the baby grand piano that gleamed black as night. The cover slapped down over the keys, and we held our breath until the strings' vibrations faded, and no one knocked on the door.
Wasn't it good?
Our fingers fumbling with unfamiliar costumes, frantically groping over the fabric when the fastenings proved too difficult. Nipples so hard, so jutting that they could be tweaked and twisted even through the many layers. Muffled cries of delight at the pleasure, muffled cries of frustration that it wasn't enough.
Shoving a skirt out of the way, reaching up underneath the heavy, draping cloth — modern underwear was easily dealt with, for both of us.
Bent over the piano, feeling it rock against the wheel clamps that kept it from rolling. Would either of us be able to play piano again without thinking of this?
But there was no thought. Only maddening sensations of stroking and probing. Juices smeared, mingling, the sharp scents filling the stuffy room. Everything slick and hot, trembling thighs and thrusting hips.
Wasn't it fine?
There was the steady rise toward a desperate crescendo, both of us screaming almost soundlessly into the sleeves of our costumes, tearing our throats but not caring, not even thinking about our voices.
Then slinking back to the rehearsal, taking our places on stage after the break as if we'd just gone out to grab a coffee. We were certain that everyone knew — but nobody said a word, not then, not ever.
Not even us. We never dared again.
One scene, that's all we have to get through now. We haven't spoken in seven years — why should it be hard to keep silent now?
Isn't it madness, she can't be mine?CHAPTER 4
THE THINGS A WOMAN WILL MAKE A MAN DO FOR HER
Sasha calls her husband, Tadd. She knows he's in an important meeting. He knows she knows he's in an important meeting. When he recognizes her work number, his heart beats a little faster; there's an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He takes the call.
Tadd is wearing his finest suit: gray wool, bespoke. He picked it up in London on a business trip. He's wearing a silk tie and a pure cotton shirt. He's making an important pitch to a client, trying to persuade a hedge fund manager his law firm is the right one to steer the fund through the twenty-first century. While Tadd practiced his pitch earlier, his wife knelt before him, his cock in her mouth. He stared at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror next to their bed, talked about disclosure document guidance and managing quarterly filings, while Sasha performed her wifely ministrations. When he could no longer focus, Tadd closed his eyes and pulled her hair into his fists. Every time his cock reached the wet, soft back of her throat, he groaned. When he came on her face, he said, "Let it dry there. I want you to fall asleep with me on your skin." Sasha was happy to oblige.(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Gotta Have It"
Copyright © 2011 Rachel Kramer Bussel.
Excerpted by permission of Start Publishing LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION: SHORT, SWEET AND TOTALLY SEXY,
NO BLAME, NO SHAME,
WASN'T IT GOOD?,
THE THINGS A WOMAN WILL MAKE A MAN DO FOR HER,
TOO WONDROUS TO MEASURE,
TIES THAT BIND,
LUCKY NUMBER FIFTY-ONE,
LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULER,
DINING IN THE DARK,
CRUSHED SATIN ORGANZA,
NOT ON THE MOUTH,
HOT BUNS ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON,
FEEL THE BURN,
THE DIRTY THINGS SHE SAYS,
LAUGHTER IN HADES,
THE QUICK STOP,
AFTER TEN YEARS,
OVER HIS SHOULDER,
PUNISHMENT BEFITTING THE CRIME,
A FORCED WITNESS,
NOT A BANG, BUT A WHIMPER,
REMEMBERING THE WRINKLES,
MEET ME IN THE KITCHEN,
OVER THE LINE,
NOT JUST A MYTH,
THE TIPPING POINT,
THE ADVANTAGE OF WORKING FROM HOME,
A GOOD STIFF ONE,
ABOUT THE EDITOR,