Nice Girls, Naughty Sex Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  NICE GIRLS,

  part one - VANILLA

  A TECHNICALITY

  BEHIND BARS

  SIESTAS AND SPANISH LEATHER BOOTS

  NAME YOUR PRICE

  LOOKING FOR THE WINTERGREEN

  part two - DIRTY MARTINI

  AT A STANDSTILL

  A WELCOME THREAT

  DIRTY COP DOESN’T MEAN WHAT IT USED TO

  BLOW ME

  FOR HIS PLEASURE

  part three - LICORICE WHIPS

  GOOD DOGGY

  EVELYN

  CORSET

  A LESSON FOR CLAIRE

  SERVING MS. PADEN

  part four - OYSTERS

  PHOENIX

  AN OPEN LETTER

  DRAGON LADY

  HONEYMOON SUITE

  EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  Acknowledgements

  SELECTED TITLES FROM SEAL PRESS

  Copyright Page

  To Daniel James Falvey, the freest, sweetest heart.

  And always, to Joe.

  NICE GIRLS,

  naughty sex . . .

  Nice, naughty, chaste, slutty, submissive, dominant, passive, commanding, straight, queer, and curious as all get-out. Every woman expresses an amazing range of flavor and nuance when it comes to who she is as a lover. She can don the “good girl” garment for as long as she wants and shuck it when it’s time to get kinky. She can be a lady in the streets and a freak in the sheets, vice versa, or none of the above. She can try on new bedroom personas; try out new positions, techniques, and lovers; and all the while stay true to both her nice and naughty sides.

  Playful and incredibly sexy, this collection embraces that line between naughty and nice. Each erotic tale celebrates a woman who is pushing her own boundaries and taking a taste of something new, whether it’s a new desire, a new sexual role, a new lover, or even a new level of commitment.

  The stories are classified into four different flavors. Whatever erotic mood you’re in, you’ll be able to find something tantalizing and tasty.

  VANILLA—A classic flavor for the traditionalist in every woman. Creamy, smooth, and milky-white, with just a hint of the decadent. Vanilla offers stories with straight sex between one man and one woman. From sensual sex in a Spanish museum to a woman’s first time in the snow, these stories dance with exciting lovers in daring locations. Whether romantic or dangerous, they are all delicious.

  DIRTY MARTINI—Somegirls just gotta do it: having sex in a car with a complete stranger, using an unconventional sex toy to spice up a marriage, or seducing a group of chiseled lovers in uniform. Grab a stool at the bar, and drink down sex with a twist . . . of exhibitionism, sex games, foursomes, or moresomes. Now that’s a good martini.

  LICORICE WHIPS—Oh, the flavor of black licorice, so naughty, forbidden, and misunderstood. The bittersweet dance of domination and submission. Acts so daring they require ultimate trust, like taking the control you never knew you had, or relinquishing control and playing the very good pet. Dress in your best corset, and don’t forget your taste for pain.

  OYSTERS—Bisexual and lesbian fiction with a quality all its own. Entirely feminine, supple, and sensual. The soft meeting of women’s lips, first forbidden caresses, fantasies about past girlfriends, naughty displays of affection, and sultry lovemaking with the woman of your dreams. The sweet scents and creamy textures always go down smooth.

  part one

  VANILLA

  A TECHNICALITY

  Sommer Marsden

  Garrett’s eyes were bruised the night I met him.

  Was that the night of his wife’s tenth close call? Eleventh? I’m not certain anymore. I was there that night to say goodbye. My mom’s long battle with pancreatic cancer was winding down. The staff had set me in the waiting room like an object and told me that once the “team” had done their thing, they would “retrieve me”—as if I were a lost ball or a missing sock. I nodded my understanding and flipped through an ancient women’s magazine full of ideas for pleasing my man.

  I didn’t have a man. I had time to kill.

  After more of the same publications that could honestly be labeled as vintage, I stared at the wall-mounted TV. I could barely hear the weatherwoman as she predicted more snow and sleet for the evening.

  “Oh, good. Something to look forward to,” I said to him. He was the only person in the room besides me. I was desperate. And he was gorgeous, in a tortured, life-has-beaten-me-up sort of way. His black curly hair fell over his pale, pale forehead. Bright blue eyes burned in his thin face like twin gas flames. His lips were a bright blush of color in his face, the same color you see when you bite into an overripe plum. The bottom lip was full for a man, and for just one second, in my mind’s eye, I could see myself biting that lip and then soothing it with a kiss.

  I was more bored than I had realized, apparently—well past the point of hysteria. My mother’s illness had been long and hard and had given me plenty of time to prepare for her passing. If anything, I felt a sense of impending relief. For me and for her. Garrett just looked at me, the dark stains of fatigue under his eyes accenting the freckles on his cheeks that I hadn’t noticed at first. He was what my mom would have called “black Irish.”

  “I said, that’s something to look forward to,” I repeated louder, as if I thought he was deaf. He wasn’t deaf; I was just being a bitch.

  To prove this point, matching blotches of red appeared on his milk-white cheeks and his eyebrows inverted disapprovingly. “I heard you. I was thinking.”

  I watched that bottom lip move and had to cross my legs. A pulse had started there. Bored, tired, sad, and now . . . aroused. Or had I finally snapped? It was possible. Working full-time and caring for an infirm parent full-time left, well, no time. For anything. Some days it felt as if I forgot to breathe.

  “About?” My voice was petulant, and I wanted to start over, but I didn’t. I went on: “The mysteries of life? The great unknown? Why it’s called a pair of pants when it is clearly one item of clothing?”

  Uh oh. I was coming down with what I fondly referred to as exhaustion-induced snarkiness.

  “Why good people die or hover near death indefinitely while rapists and murderers and foul people with no souls are allowed to wreak havoc on our world,” he hissed and nodded bluntly at the TV, where the news continued to spill forth its tales of horror and mayhem from the day.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling stupid and cruel.

  “I’m tired,” he said to me, and then surprised me by bursting into tears.

  Score for Adriana. Bitch: one; harmless, beautiful man in the waiting room: zero.

  “Hey, hey, Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,” I yelped. I jumped up and moved to him. I squatted by his chair and, without thinking, smoothed my hands over that black, black tangle of hair. “Fuck. I’m being a raging bitch. I’m sorry. It’s just, my mom is dying. I’m here to say goodbye, and they shelved me in this waiting room. . . . ”

  Then the lightbulb went on, and I realized that he was sitting here, looking the way he did, in the same hospice facility I sat in. I sighed. “And I’m sure you’re familiar with this feeling, considering you are here. I’m Adriana.”

  And then I panicked. He looked at me with those swollen baby blues and those tender lips, slightly parted in his sorrow, and I couldn’t help myself. His vulnerability was too much. I yanked on the back of his head and kissed him.

  After a moment, I pulled back. His eyes flared, and his lips looked inflamed. I wanted to bite them. I shook my head. Clearly, I had gone insane.

  “I’m sorry. Sorry.
Oh jeez, I’m sorry.” Now I was babbling and I prayed for the nurse or the nun or the orderly to come and fetch me. Or a lightning bolt. A lightning bolt would work.

  “No. Do it again,” he said and pulled me forward by the neck. Hard. Forceful. His long, thin fingers contained an amazing amount of strength. I had just enough time to wonder if he played piano or guitar before his lips crushed against mine and his hot tongue demanded attention.

  I leaned in, clutching the fake oak chair for dear life. Buried my hands in that mess of hair. Our lips parted.

  “Thank you,” he said and bit me just above the collarbone. He was releasing some of his aggression, and it felt good; releasing his stress with his lips and tongue and teeth. Those impossibly long fingers found my nipple through my sweatshirt and pinched. The kind of pinch that shoots from my chest to my cunt, the pain singing a melody along my skin.

  “For what?” I asked and did my damnedest to listen. Was I really doing this? Was I touching him? I tried to focus on his words. It was hard with my hands sliding along the angular lines of his chest. He was so warm. When my fingers found his hard cock in his pants, I squeezed.

  “For kissing me. And for making me cry, to be honest,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve done that for a very long time.” He pinched me again, and I hummed low in my throat. This really wasn’t my style—acting like a horny teenager in a waiting room. But here I was, and I wasn’t about to stop.

  “Emotions are good,” I said dumbly and kissed down his throat. He smelled like leather and cinnamon.

  “So is this,” he said and bit my bottom lip. I whimpered a little and thought I might come before he touched me any more. My mind kicked into gear. Who was he here to see? Hopefully, a grandmother or a greataunt. That was my hope. But somewhere deep down, even during that first kiss, I knew. His wife. A sudden stroke. So young to have a stroke, but it happens. And then, suddenly, his spouse is in a coma.

  None of that had been confirmed the first time I kissed him. Not when I led him into the tiny kitchenette they kept stocked for visitors and locked the door. Not when I got down on my knees and unzipped his jeans. Not when he fisted his slender hands in my hair and pulled just hard enough to make tears spring to my eyes. Certainly not when he came in my mouth and I ran my tongue over his still-seeping slit, licking up the final gems of cum.

  I thought about the idea of his spouse as I leaned face forward against the counter and the edge bit into my belly. Right at that spot where the enamel was chipped. It tore the skin a bit, and I bled a little. She entered my mind as he stroked my clit with one fingertip and fucked me with three from the other hand. As he stroked my G-spot expertly, I clutched the box of assorted teas that my head rested against. And when I came, my cunt clutching around his fingers, on which I had already become fixated, he whispered, “Never fucking. Never fucking.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me or to himself. Even to this day, I’m still not sure.

  After that night, it became a regular thing. Our meetings. Our time. But not fucking. There was never any actual fucking.

  We snuck off to the kitchenette. We sequestered ourselves in broom closets. On more than one occasion, we hijacked newly emptied rooms or took refuge in the shadows outside on the starlit grounds of the facility. We found a way with each other—to touch, to kiss, to do anything that brought some comfort. Except that one thing. That was hers and was not for me. I accepted that.

  “After all, we’re not cheating. I’m not cheating. But it’s only on a technicality. I know it, you know it, and if she were to ever wake up, she would know it too,” he said to me one time. Then he kissed his way down my belly and between my thighs. His tongue was hot and wet. He whispered words I couldn’t hear or understand against my skin. I came three times.

  Over the holidays, I came in one night to see him sitting in the overstuffed armchair behind the door. A fluffy, sweet holiday movie was playing on the TV, the sound turned down so low it barely registered to my ears.

  “Lock the door, Adriana,” he said softly. His face wore its normal gaunt, exhausted visage. Dusky undereyes, black hair too long and hanging over his forehead. He was staggeringly beautiful to me. Staring at Garrett for too long made my chest ache . . . with love and loss and hope, all rolled into one.

  I locked the door, didn’t think anything of it. Over the holidays, the hospice staff was lighter, the visitors nearly nonexistent. Who wanted to spend the holidays in a care facility for stroke victims and coma patients and those doomed to die? The large majority of the residents didn’t even know if they had visitors at all. Why sully the holiday with that? The result of this thought process was a ghost town effect on the grounds.

  “Come to me,” he said.

  I knew his history. I knew how much he loved Julie. I knew how much he hurt over wishing that she would just die. And he did. He had confessed this to me with tears running down the hollows of his cheeks. I listened, with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair. Then I sucked his cock until he came with a sob. There was something in whatever it was that we shared—this nameless, odd connection that we had. It had no label, no compartment, and yet it offered a bizarre but peaceful comfort to us both.

  I walked to him. Stopped. Brushed that mess of hair off of his forehead and waited. He would tell me what he wanted, or he would take it without words. Possibly, he would remain motionless and silent until I simply took from or gave to him. I never knew how it would work, and I liked it that way.

  He stood, and I marveled again at how tall he was. Long and lanky. Garrett looked so unimposing when he sat, but when he unfolded himself from a sitting position, he towered over most. His arms and legs were long and sinewy. Not bulky, but lanky. He seemed to vibrate with unused power and energy. Potential.

  “I want you over this arm, Adriana,” he said, and then he bent me. Posed me on the thick arm of the huge chair. I straddled the padded armrest, and my thighs were spread fairly wide. He kissed the back of my neck, and my skin pebbled in goose bumps. The baby hairs stood up, and my nipples peaked in sympathy. A shiver ran through me as his hands moved to my thighs and pushed them just a bit further apart.

  “It’s me,” he said against my throat, and my eyes closed on their own. The pleasure of his touch on my skin always made me feel slightly sleepy and excited, all at once.

  “What? I don’t understand.” I needed to focus on his words and not his touch.

  “It’s me. The arm is me. I want you to ride it like it was me. Like I’m under you. It gets harder.”

  At first I thought he meant that his cock gets harder. I thought he was joking. But I saw no humor in his face. “What does? What gets harder?”

  “Not being with you. It gets harder, being able to only touch with my hands. Not being able to lie with you and fuck you and be inside of you. With my body. That is hard. And the after stuff. Wrapping you in my arms and just lying with you. Being in a bed and being lazy. All of it. I want it and I can’t have it. I want to watch you. See what you might look like from afar. I dream about it, you know. I dream about you.” All of this was said in his normal, soft voice. The words falling from his full, red lips as I gaped at him. Confusion and arousal swirled around in my belly, an intoxicating brew of emotion.

  “Then I need to take my pants off.” It was all I could think to say, and the swirling in my belly grew stronger. My throat threatened to close, and my heart beat so hard it hurt.

  I climbed from the chair, and he did it for me. Sweet Garrett, on his knees. He undid my button fly and placed soft kisses on my hip bones, then on my belly. I shoved my hands into his hair and pulled him closer, hoping he’d push his tongue against my clit. He did, just for a second. It was enough to start a flood of warmth between my legs and a weakness in my knees. “Do it for me,” he said and yanked the denim the rest of the way down so I could kick it aside.

  If I begged, would he give in? If I got down on my own knees, eye to eye with him, and begged him to fuck me? Begged him to shove into
me and make me come? Just one time? I would swear it to him. Promise him. Just one time. Just this one time. I’d be lying, and we would both know it, but would he give in? I wondered. . . .

  Instead, I stood and straddled the chair again. My now-swollen, wet clit rubbed against the harsh corduroy fabric. I let out a moan, the coarse fibers shooting warmth through me. A pulse started between my legs; my nipples grew painfully hard.

  I moved around until my clit pressed firmly against the resistance of the huge chair arm. I slowly started to ride it the way I would if it were Garrett beneath me. Except that if he were under me, I would be prone as my hips moved. My mouth would be on some part of him. I would be drinking in the scent of him and the feel of him. Rough skin, stubble, silken hair, jaw, the hollow of his throat where I could drop hot kisses. I would be touching him in any way possible.

  Because I could feel him watching me, I made sure to arch my back. When I moved against the chair, I made sure my ass looked its best. But somewhere along the way, the friction triggered pleasure and the pleasure triggered amnesia. I forgot to pose for him. I closed my eyes and focused on the image in my mind: the sight of him under me, looking up into my eyes, fucking me. I grew wetter and warmer with the pleasure of it. My cunt went tighter, and then tighter still. I could hear his callused hand on his skin as he jerked off. I wanted that in me. I pictured it happening. Him coming up behind me, spreading my legs, spearing me. Fucking me. Holding my hips and ramming into me from behind. Taking me. Taking me because however you wanted to spin it, at that point, I was his.

  “Adriana,” he said. His voice was closer. He had moved closer to me, and that alone pushed that tighter-than-tight feeling into the red zone. I swayed on the sofa arm, using and abusing the rigid lines of corduroy until the image was too much. The image of his head lifting and capturing my nipple in his mouth as I rode him, fucked him.