French Quarter by Lacey Alexander (small books to read .TXT) 📕

point of combustion. She’d been missing him too long. Her pussy throbbed and her thighs ached. Her breasts seared with need, as well, her nipples hard and pointed just inside the low scalloped edge of her bra. She whispered again. “Fuck me, Jack. Fuck me so hard I scream.”

To her surprise, he tilted his head, letting his heated expression be replaced with one of amusement. “Now, now, chere—what happened to stretchin’ things out?”

“That’s when we were seeing each other every night. It’s been too long, Jack.”

“I agree. I’ve been sufferin’ through life with a perpetual hard-on lately. But I can only guess you rubbed off on me somewhere along the way, ‘cause as much as I want to nail you to the bed with my cock right now, I also want to take it slow, make it steamy, make it…special.”

Liz let out a breath and felt guilty for the times she’d tortured him with hours of foreplay. Now she found herself wondering how he’d stood it. “It will be special. Whether it’s fast or slow, hard or soft, it’ll be special. I don’t want to wait.”

A slow, confident smile unfurled on his stubbled face. “Well, Mistress Liz, I’m sorry, but I’m the one takin’ control tonight, so you’ll just have to play it my way.”

Chapter 13

The words made her cunt swell even more. She was so wet for him, needed his big, hot shaft inside her so bad. How was she going to survive it?

“Go in the bedroom and lie down,” he instructed.

She thought of protesting, but decided it was futile. Just like her when she got her mind set on controlling their sex, she knew Jack wouldn’t give in until he was good and ready.

Once she’d reclined, she realized he hadn’t followed her. “Jack? Are you coming?”

She heard him chuckle. “My impatient petite fille,” he murmured from the other room. She thought it a vast understatement.

When he still hadn’t appeared a few seconds later, she couldn’t help touching herself. With one hand she began caressing her breast through her bra, with the other she delivered light strokes to her clit through the lace, thinking—please, Jack, please.

Finally, he appeared in the doorway, but to her utter surprise, he’d been…transformed. He stood naked, his big, lovely cock at full attention, stretched up past his navel, his broad chest draped with purple and gold Mardi Gras beads, his handsome face covered with a shiny Mardi Gras mask so that only his eyes, mouth, and dark-stubbled chin were visible. He looked as mysterious and dangerous as she’d ever thought him and her pussy seemed to clench, her nipples tightening as she studied him, this Bacchanalian man who looked ready to perform primitive sexual rituals on her.

Only as he approached did she realize he held more Mardi Gras paraphernalia in his hands. Leaning over the bed, he tenderly lifted her head and draped strands of the colored beads around her neck, across her chest. Around her shoulders he arranged a long purple feather boa. Finally, he placed a mask of purple glitter and sequins over her eyes. Suddenly, she felt as enigmatic as she thought him just now; something about hiding themselves behind the masks was almost as erotic as if they were two strangers at Mardi Gras who’d rendezvoused in this apartment for a primal sexual encounter.

“Get up,” he said softly.

The beads jangled together as she rose to her feet, gathering the boa around her. Following his lead, she took a few steps until, together, they stood before the long mirror on his closet door. “Look at you,” he breathed, his voice a barely audible wisp, coming even lower than that distant saxophone still playing somewhere beyond the windows and doors of Jack’s apartment. “The perfect Mardi Gras queen, looking for her king at a Bacchanal. Looking for the man worthy of fucking her.”

“You look very worthy,” she whispered, letting her gaze drop to his dick in the mirror.

A small grin formed below his mask. “Do you remember, chere, when you told me your fantasy about havin’ sex on a float in a Mardi Gras parade?”

Up to now, it hadn’t crossed her mind, but the question made her smile.

“Well, darlin’, it’s a long time ‘til Mardi Gras rolls back around. But come next February, maybe I can arrange such an erotic little treat for you. And until then, we can just consider this practice.”

With that, he stepped behind her and reached around to cup her breasts. As they both watched themselves in the mirror, he gently massaged them, causing the beads to click softly together, making her breath come heavy from the long-awaited pleasure. Dipping his thumbs into the lace, he first raked them over ultra-hard nipples, forcing a whimper from her, and then he pulled the lace edges down just far enough that her stiffened buds jutted out. “Such pretty breasts,” he whispered in her ear, twirling the sensitive pink tips between his thumbs and forefingers.

“Suck them,” she said.

To her shock, he responded with a laugh, then whispered, “Only when I’m good and ready, darlin’.”

The man was maddening.

His hands left her breasts then, slowly making their way down over the curve of her waist, the thin strap of blue lace at her hip, her thighs. She knew the tender touches were purposeful teases, and she endured them not only because he was giving her no choice, but also because she was starting to accept that she would do what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, on this particular night.

He turned her from the mirror to face him then, and slowly backed her into a wall. He pinned her wrists at either side of her head, his grip like a vise as he delivered a long, slow kiss, his tongue licking at hers. His hold never loosened as he rained kisses down over her shoulder, chest, the ridge of her breasts—finally his mouth closed over one straining nipple and she cried out. He sucked hard, just like she wanted, and