Best Erotic Romance 2013 Read online

  “Oh, god, Ophelia, now you’re killing me.”

  I let the vibration of my stifled giggle buzz against him, and he let out a sharp moan. I took him deeper still into my throat, and his fingers stoked my neck, wrapping themselves in my hair. My persistent sucking was driving him mad. The beautiful cut of his hips rested beneath my hands, the trembling I felt now passed on to him. He didn’t let me go on much longer. Moving me gently up, he kissed me so hard I thought I would never catch my breath. Every time I thought he was finished with my mouth, he kissed me again, our tongues plunging, tracing, finding new places to go. I was above him, his cock resting mere inches from my dripping wet pussy.

  “I love you, Ophelia. I promise I’ll never be a jerk again.”

  “Sure you will. It’s one of my favorite things about you. You can’t go changing now. I love you too, Ted.”

  His name was barely out of my mouth when I felt the thick tip of his cock settle between my waiting cunt lips. He eased me down onto him, slowly inching me closer and closer to his body. When he slipped in to the hilt, I rested on his lap, unable to move. I thought my body was going to come apart. His hands wrapped around my hips, gently rocking me forward and back. Finally, my mind returned and I slid up and down his cock, feeling the sweet, deep pull of him with every stroke. I couldn’t look away from his eyes. His hands freed my hips and roamed my body, touching off electric shocks with each pass. I was so deliciously full; his cock stretching me open, hitting deeper with each thrust. He pulled me forward to devour my mouth with his sweet kisses, taking my mouth over and over. My clit was rubbing against his body, and I swirled my hips around in a circle as he plunged into me.

  I felt my body tightening, every muscle building with tension and pleasure. His thumbs rolled over my nipples, the tight flesh barely able to take much more. My body was shaking, and I felt my orgasm building in me, deep and powerful. Ted let his thumb drop lower, and I felt it stroke over my warm, wet clit, and I exploded. I cried out violently, gripping Ted’s cock deep inside me, contracting around him. I filled the silence of his room with my voice, releasing the pleasure that had been building. I rode against him, letting my body rise and fall again and again, as pleasure seemed to be coming in never ending waves. Ted’s hands dug deep valleys into my hips, and I felt his cock growing inside me as he grunted out his own orgasm, just as mine was coming to an end.

  We collapsed together, spent. I rolled off of Ted, my body succumbing to exhaustion. I felt like I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Ted wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into the safety of his embrace.

  “Happy anniversary, baby.”

  “Maybe next year, you’ll remember.”

  “Why would I want to do that? Getting punished is too much fun.”

  WAITING FOR ILYA

  Teresa Noelle Roberts

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Tom called, as Stacy walked in the door. “The steaks just went on.”

  She hurried to the kitchen, tossing her purse onto a chair in the living room in passing. Her well-thumbed copy of Parenting Your Internationally Adopted Child fell out and hit the floor, but she figured she’d pick it up later. After all, she’d just finished reading it for the third time on the bus home, and excited as she was about Ilya, she didn’t need to start reading for the fourth time right this moment.

  Two glasses of red wine perched on the shiny new kitchen counter. Tom was leaning against it, shirtless under a dark green apron that brought out the green in his hazel eyes.

  Stacy took a second to stare appreciatively. Busy as they’d been, she hadn’t taken enough time lately to appreciate how hot and sexy her husband was—although she supposed that wasn’t a terribly motherly thought and she should definitely work at thinking like a mom. “You must have gotten home early tonight. What’s the occasion?”

  “Do I need an occasion to open a bottle of wine and make a nice dinner?” Tom brandished the corkscrew dramatically.

  “I guess not.” She hoped she didn’t sound suspicious, but she was certainly surprised. They’d been focusing so much of their energy on the adoption and on getting the house ready for Ilya, and putting so much money into the house and the multiple trips to Russia that wine and steak did feel like an occasion.

  “It’s Friday night.” Tom set the corkscrew on the counter. “I figure we’re past due for a date night, especially since we won’t have a lot of chances for date nights pretty soon because we’ll have a son.” He grinned like he wasn’t much older than five-year-old Ilya himself. “Just three more weeks until we bring Ilya home! Isn’t that enough of an occasion—that and the fact that I love you madly?” He drew her into his arms and a kiss.

  As the kiss blossomed on Stacy’s lips, she remembered how Friday nights—and Tuesdays and Thursdays, for that matter—used to be. They hadn’t planned on buying a house yet, not until the adoption was completed and Ilya had settled into life with his new family, but this one had been such a deal, and had such a big, beautiful yard, perfect for a child to run around in and get healthy after his rough start in life, that they jumped on it even though it needed “a little work.”

  They hadn’t comprehended how much work, on top of the time and emotional energy going into the adoption.

  They needed this night. They really did.

  But they were on a timetable. Parents couldn’t afford to be selfish. “We were going to work on Ilya’s room tonight,” Stacy said in a small but persistent voice. They hadn’t expected the adoption to be finalized before September, but a few days ago they’d gotten the good news they could return to Moscow in less than a month to bring home the little boy they’d come to love over the course of their visits to Russia—a delightful, yet daunting surprise. “He deserves a room of his own. Though I suppose he might be happier in our room for a while,” she reflected. “After all, he’s slept in a dormitory with a bunch of other kids his whole life. Being alone at night on top of all the other changes might be too scary.”

  “All the more reason to enjoy tonight. Having a child will be a big change for us, especially if he starts out sleeping in our room. A wonderful change, but it’s going to cut down on date nights, not to mention spontaneous kinky sex. Better enjoy those things while we can.”

  Anger surged through her, protective fury for the child who was theirs in everything but the paperwork. Was Tom already complaining about parenthood when Ilya wasn’t even with them yet?

  As quickly as the anger rose, it subsided. Stacy knew these feelings were just a cover for her own fears. Tom had a good point. Even now, just working to get the house ready for their child, she’d been stressed and more than a bit horny, feeling like she shouldn’t take the time to fool around with her husband, but definitely missing it. But wouldn’t taking a night off for themselves, when Ilya was arriving so soon and the house was still a shambles, be perilously close to saying they weren’t ready for Ilya—that they didn’t deserve Ilya? “We’re going to be parents at last. It will make our relationship stronger. We shouldn’t worry about how it’s going to affect our sex life.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as she added, “But I do. I feel like I’m already letting it affect our sex life because I’m so nervous about making everything perfect for him. And then I feel like a horrible selfish person for even thinking that.” To her horror, her lips quivered as she fought back tears.

  Immature. Selfish. Ilya had already been abandoned by one set of parents who weren’t able to put his needs first. At least his birth parents might have had the excuse of being too young or too poor to take care of a baby. She had no such excuse. They were nearly forty, supposedly grown-ups with good jobs, though she was taking a long leave of absence and wasn’t sure she’d end up going back. “Maybe I’m not ready for this,” she confessed. “Maybe I never will be.” Maybe their inability to conceive had been the universe’s way of telling her that she wasn’t cut out to be a mom, wasn’t strong enough to make the necessary sacrifices.

  “I think it’s finally hitting you that coo
l as it is the adoption paperwork got fast-tracked, we’re getting our kid in a few weeks instead of a few months like we’d thought and we’re not as prepared as we’d hoped we’d be. Trust me, I already had my own freak-out. Hence the nice bottle of wine and the steaks…I figured we needed them.”

  For about the thousandth time in the turbulent adoption process, Stacy reflected that she’d picked a good man.

  And a very sexy one, although that was probably not the best thing to think at the moment, not when she was so shaky, not when she wasn’t sure if she wanted sex or a good cry or possibly both.

  Tom hugged her close, gave her another kiss. She tried to feel only the tenderness in the kiss, the love, but she couldn’t help it. The heat was there, too, and it sizzled into her. Her nipples crinkled and stood at attention. Her pussy twitched in anticipation. She pressed her breasts against Tom’s chest, circling them a little to enjoy the slight stimulation.

  Part of her felt like she should insist they get some work done on Ilya’s room before they gave themselves license to play.

  But the room would be there in the morning. They’d have plenty of time to paint and get the bright jungle-animal border up over the next couple of days.

  Stacy’s good intentions, Stacy’s fears, Stacy’s notions about how a mother should behave, were dissolving under Tom’s kiss.

  One of his hands cupped the back of her head, a subtle control that let her relax into the moment; into Tom’s touch, Tom’s body. The other hand pushed up her skirt. She was bare legged on this fine spring day, and her skirt was short. It wasn’t long before Tom’s hand was sliding inside the lacy hip band of her panties, sliding along the curve of her ass.

  Stacy adjusted her stance, spreading her legs to encourage that questing hand. Soon it gripped hard, a possessive gesture that sent a guilty thrill through her.

  She felt even guiltier when Tom gave her butt a light slap—not even a spank, more an exploratory tap to see how she’d respond—and she moaned and thrust her butt back in blatant invitation. She was a mom. Tom was a dad. Okay, their child wasn’t living in the house yet, but they were Ilya’s parents, or would be soon, as much so as if she was massively pregnant now and eagerly waiting for her due date. What kind of decent parents got into spanking games?

  The kind of parents they would be, apparently. It shouldn’t have surprised her, although on some level it did. They’d dabbled in kink, enjoying spanking and light bondage and occasional experiments with something more fierce. Why had she thought they’d suddenly become vanilla?

  If the thrill, the very primal need, coursing through Stacy was any indication, they’d find a way to play sometimes, even if it was late at night and at the opposite side of the house from where Ilya was sleeping. They’d have to. She wondered how much of her recent tension was anxiety about the adoption and how much was horniness, the need for a good spanking and a hard fuck that they simply hadn’t taken the time to indulge in lately.

  “I’ve been thinking we have to be June and Ward squeaky-clean Cleaver to be good parents,” she said seemingly out of nowhere, knowing that Tom would get it. “But Ilya will be better off if we’re just us and happy.”

  “Duh,” Tom said, not unkindly. “Though I suppose we’ll have to keep the sex in the bedroom instead of wherever we get the urge.” Then he spanked her again, harder this time, and before she could stop herself—before she could even remember why she thought she should stop herself—Stacy cried out, “Oh, god, I need that.”

  Tom whispered, “Take your panties off and lean on the counter.”

  The brand-new counter, the one they’d just finished installing last month.

  Not that long ago, they’d have “broken in” the new counter right away, celebrating the renovation by seeing how many ways they could incorporate it into sex. With all they had going on, playing had slipped from the list of priorities, though, so it hadn’t happened until now.

  Stacy felt a flash of sorrow about that, followed by a much bigger flash of lustful glee that it was happening now. The damn guilt tried to work its way back into her consciousness, but she made herself ignore it. Their little boy wasn’t even in the country yet, let alone wandering into the kitchen to wonder why Daddy was spanking Mommy. Definitely no reason to feel guilty.

  Before her overdeveloped sense of responsibility made her change her mind, Stacy slithered out of her panties, gyrating more than necessary to give Tom a good show. She braced herself against the counter, stuck her ass out and wiggled it at Tom.

  Tom gently, slowly, teasingly raised her skirt, making the simple gesture a ritual. The fabric slithered against Stacy’s skin. She bit her lip to stifle a groan of need.

  He ran his hand gently over her thrust-out ass. At that point, Stacy stopped trying to stifle her moans. The sound came out deep and throaty, shocking her with its raw, blatant desire. After feeling they shouldn’t fool around, Stacy was now frantic for it, as if her efforts at self-control had only served to arouse her more. Her pussy throbbed, her thighs felt slick and damp, and Tom’s featherlight touch was making her crazy. Forget that—the touch of the air was making her crazy. “Please,” she begged, “Please,” her voice hoarse with need.

  Tom’s hand came down hard on her ass. Pain and pleasure ricocheted through her body, jarring loose the guilt, the fear that she wouldn’t be a good mother, that she’d be too wrapped up in Tom and neglect Ilya. She wasn’t sure where the guilt and fear came from. At some point, now that she could see how absurd it was, she’d take the time to trace it back to its roots.

  Right now, though, she was going to let the spanking carry her away. Right now, she was going to stop thinking and ride the delicious combination of pleasure and dull pain.

  Each smack brought her closer to Tom, not the dad-to-be counterpart to her mom-to-be, but the lover she’d married and chosen to become a parent with, the whole package she adored including the kinks. The spanking and other minor fetishes were part of who they were together, a part of a love for each other so strong they knew they had to share it with a child who needed them. And they’d find a way to keep expressing their love for each other—their way—even while they made a safe and welcoming home for a child who’d never had one.

  A particularly hard blow jarred her spine—jarred her heart, too, letting loose the last remnants of grief that another woman had carried their child, that she’d never give birth to a baby conceived in the fire of her love and passion for Tom. She hadn’t realized she still harbored those regrets, thinking she’d replaced them with joy the first time Ilya smiled at them and said, in his laboring English, “I love you.” But maybe it was natural for grief and joy to coexist, like pain and pleasure.

  Tom spanked her several more times in rapid succession, too quick and hard for her to process immediately. It snapped her out of introspection and into orbit. Her drenched pussy gripped at nothing. She rode the rhythm of sharp shock transmuting to ecstasy, rode the waves of joy and panic triggered by Ilya’s impending arrival, rode her love for Tom to a place where she laughed and cried and came all at once.

  Crying, laughing, coming, she reached out for Tom and found he’d already unzipped his jeans. He slammed into her, his body slapping against her tender butt. At the same time, though, he kissed her neck and shoulder softly, sweetly.

  Her pussy fluttered and squeezed at him, and she pushed back to meet his urgent thrusts. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered.

  He didn’t. It was a wildfire fuck, fast and urgent, each of them egging the other on until it almost hurt but instead was beautiful. At the end, as Tom came inside her and she exploded again along with him, Stacy swore she smelled something burning.

  Then she realized she did smell burning. “The steaks!” she exclaimed, and Tom was laughing and cursing as he yanked his jeans up and hopped out the back door, still zipping up.

  When Tom came back inside, he was shaking his head and still laughing. “The steaks are charcoal.”

  “I bet June Cleaver wou
ld never burn dinner because she was too busy fucking,” Stacy mused out loud.

  “Technically, I burned dinner, since I put the steaks on,” Tom corrected her. “And I’m sure if Ward Cleaver forgot the steaks on the grill, he’d take June out for a nice dinner to apologize. How does sushi sound?”

  “Perfect.” She winked. “It’s light enough that it won’t weigh us down later. Quickies are good, but I imagine we’ll be having a lot of those as parents. After dinner, I want to take our time.”

  THREE NIGHTS BEFORE THE WEDDING

  Catherine Paulssen

  She hated the sheer idea of it.

  She hated the thought of having to feign enthusiasm over some sweaty Latin lover stripping on her lap. She hated that she was supposed to be thrilled to touch his slippery skin when all she could really think about was the warm, slightly dry skin of the man she loved. And she hated the drunken cows outside who had brought her into this situation.

  The forced fun of bachelorette parties hadn’t held any particular appeal for Imogene ever since the first leather-clad crotch had been shoved into her face at her cousin’s party seven years ago.

  Then, she had been appalled. Now, she was seething. And somewhat humiliated.

  “Get off—damn it!” In another fit of fury at the mere thought of it, she rattled at the handcuffs that bound her to a stylish wall radiator, its horizontal pipes shimmering in tarnished gold against the dark crimson wall. She stomped her foot and cursed as she tried to no avail to wriggle her wrists out of the metal rings.

  It must have been the stupidest idea she had ever heard. But her bachelorette bunch, consisting of two future sisters-in-law and their friends, had insisted.