Temptations--Three Book Bundle Read online

  Temptations 3 Book Bundle

  A collection of erotic stories

  Edited by Miranda Forbes

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2009

  ISBN 9781908917485

  Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2009

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY

  Contents

  Bliss Elizabeth Cage

  Not in my Wildest Dreams Cyanne

  Confession Kristina Wright

  The Window Cleaner’s Boy Carmel Lockyer

  Confidante Beverly Langland

  The School Reunion Kitti Bernetti

  Two’s Company Georgina Brown

  French Top-up Alicia Carter

  Getting the Cane Roxanne Sinclair

  Knuckling Under Shanna Germain

  Posh Boy Lucy Felthouse

  Tech Support Sommer Marsden

  On the Beach Primula Bond

  Open-Bottle Policy Jeremy Edwards

  In Media Res Beverly Langland

  No Pan Kissa Cyanne

  Room Service Alcamia

  The Travelling Circus J.S. Black

  Amour Noir Landon Dixon

  You Might Like It Penelope Friday

  Bliss

  by Elizabeth Cage

  I had mixed feelings about selling my lovely garden flat in a quiet country cul-de-sac, but I’d just been offered a job in London, a real career move, lots of dosh. I didn’t fancy commuting – been there, done that when I was ten years younger – so it made sense to find a place in town. I didn’t expect it would be hard to sell, and the estate agent said they had a lot of interest in my property.

  Rhiddian Davies was the first person to view. We’d arranged a Sunday morning, not too early (I like my beauty sleep), 11.30 a.m. to be precise. The other prospective buyers were scheduled to view after lunch. At 11.29 a.m., the doorbell rang. I like punctuality.

  ‘Katy Bliss?’ He was trying not to smile at the name. I was used to it. Besides, I adored that Welsh accent, the wonderful musical lilt, the delicious way he pronounced the words. I was a sucker for accents, had a thing about them.

  ‘Rhiddian? Come in,’ I replied. I gestured him through the door, noticing his long, slim legs in tight jeans, and close-cropped dark hair. He stretched out his hand for me to shake, and I noticed how long and elegant the fingers were. I wondered what his job was. Certainly not a manual one.

  ‘Mind if I take my jacket off? It’s raining hard out there.’ He slipped the leather biker jacket over his shoulders to reveal a black racer back vest – and a series of tattoos across both shoulders and down his back, a mixture of Japanese Kanji, exotic symbols and a colourful picture of entwined lovers.

  ‘Wow. They look impressive,’ I murmured, wanting instinctively to run my fingers over them, tracing the beautiful shapes.

  ‘You like tattoos?’

  I nodded. I loved tattoos on men. More than loved. I had a real fetish about them. The more the better. ‘What do they mean?’

  He touched his right shoulder. ‘This means Music. This one is Serenity.’

  I hoped he would peel off his vest so I could see all the tattoos that ran down his back. Behave yourself, Katy, I told myself. This guy is a total stranger. He’ll think you’re a nutcase. But the combination of his gorgeous sexy accent and these tattoos – it was like all my Christmases had come at once. Come being the operative word. Trying to maintain an air of professional composure, I said briskly, ‘Well, you’ll be wanting to view the flat. Follow me. As you can see this is the kitchen. Small but functional.’

  The walls were painted a clinical white and it was furnished with chrome units. Very functional, not feminine, my friends had told me on numerous occasions. I pointed out the fitted fixtures, my mind elsewhere. ‘Washing machine and fridge. Cooker. All staying. The place I’m buying is brand new, has all these things.’ The window was wide open but my kitchen felt rather hot all of a sudden. ‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked, feeling very thirsty.

  ‘Mmm, yes please. Something cold.’

  I opened the fridge, the waft of chilled air invigorating and welcome. ‘Coke?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘I’ll put plenty of ice in it.’

  He took it gratefully and sipped. Whereas I, intoxicated by his voice, gulped mine back, the dark frothy liquid dribbling down my mouth, tracing a journey down my chin and neck, and into the deep crevice between my breasts. I wondered if he noticed, part of me hoping he had. But he was probably too polite and ignored the rapidly forming coke stain on my white T-shirt.

  ‘The neighbours are friendly,’ I said casually. ‘I’ve been here several years and I shall miss the place, but needs must. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve been travelling in Europe the past year, so when I got back I rented, until I decided if I wanted to stay here or not. Think I will, if I find the right place to buy. But if I change my mind, I could always rent the place out.’ He’d finished his drink already and I downed another, aware that I was still thirsty.

  ‘Want to see the rest of the place? The bathroom’s there. Again, compact but well designed. Power shower, sink, loo. Bath of course.’

  ‘I like that it’s all white. Clean and bright.’

  He was standing close enough to touch, the smell of his sweat mixed with a citrus scent, a heady mixture.

  ‘And this is the bedroom.’ My tongue lingered on the word and I hoped he didn’t notice.

  ‘That’s big,’ he commented, his eyes falling on my huge queen-size bed.

  ‘I like big things,’ I replied, blushing at how crass that sounded.

  ‘Really?’ he grinned.

  ‘And this is the lounge,’ I continued, moving on hastily. ‘I think it’s a good size too.’

  Still grinning, he scanned the room, approving of the plasma-screen TV, expensive hi-fi system, dark blue leather sofa and matching blinds and polished wooden floor.

  ‘Very nice.’ He paused, considering his next sentence. ‘But I didn’t expect to see one of those in here.’

  ‘I wondered when you’d say something. You can hardly miss it, I suppose. And no, it’s not here to hold up the ceiling, in case you were wondering. No structural problems here.’

  ‘Clearly.’ And he glanced at my breasts.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it down before I leave. If there are any marks on the ceiling they’ll be made good.’

  ‘Are you a pole dancer then?’

  ‘No. I do it for exercise. It’s great for fitness, very popular exercise for women. Builds up upper-body strength and thigh grip.’ What was wrong with me today? He must think I was a raging nympho.

  ‘I can imagine,’ he replied. ‘I bet you look amazing on that pole. I’d love to see you dance,’ he added. Of course, I had heard that corny line many times before, when I had brought men back home with me – which of course makes me sound even more of a sex addict. But when he said it … was it really so difficult to refuse that hypnotic voice?

  ‘Sit down then,’ I replied, my voice taking command. ‘I’ll give you a dance.’

  At first he stared at me open-mouthed, not sure how to respond to this. Was I joking? Winding him up? I put some music on and messed about round the pole, feeling unexpectedly self-conscious. I was wearing a short denim skirt, my feet bare, toes painted slut-red. Slowly, his eyes still registering disbelief, he sat down on the leather sofa and watched as I started to move sinuously around the pole, pivoti
ng, circling, spinning, caressing the pole with my legs, my hands, rubbing my body against it, dancing for him. He soon appeared to be captivated as I climbed and inverted, the moves flowing seamlessly into each other. I had been learning to pole dance for four years, and I loved it. I ran my fingers through my long black hair, down my face and my body, pushing my firm breasts together, my hips snaking. Seeing the lust in his eyes gave me a massive buzz. I had forgotten that this was a stranger who was thinking of buying my flat. My head was somewhere else. Very, very slowly and gradually, I peeled off my T-shirt, high on adrenalin. To my delight, he was transfixed. Then I began to slip down the silky straps of my red and white polka-dot bra, though still keeping my breasts covered, teasing. He reached out a hand. I shook my head sternly.

  ‘No touching.’

  Like a naughty schoolboy who has been told off by the teacher, he sank back on the sofa, hands obediently by his sides. I climbed up my pole, crossed my ankles and, finally, pushed my bra down to my waist, revealing my brown nipples, which were already hard. All the time, I retained eye contact with him, noting his expressions, his reactions to the impromptu display he was getting. I slid down the pole and continued the dance, unhooking my bra. But instead of tossing it to the floor, I stepped towards him and, in a quick movement, wrapped it around his wrists, tying them securely.

  He gasped, ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What does it look like? I’m seducing you.’

  ‘You’re doing a great job,’ he muttered under his breath. I could feel his heart beating faster, his breathing more rapid now. I pushed his legs wide apart and occupied the space I had created, swivelling my hips, grinding my thighs, touching my breasts. I was loving every minute and I could see he was too. I leaned forwards, brushed my lips down the flies of his now-tighter trousers. I unzipped him, my fingers circling, squeezing. I felt him grow and swell in my hand and it gave me a feeling of power, which turned me on more. Big time. I had control over his cock – and his pleasure. And the more powerful I felt, the more aroused I got, and the more aroused I got, the bigger he became.

  He groaned and as I straddled him, his hungry mouth found my erect nipples, licking and teasing and sucking while my right hand continued to pleasure him. My left hand travelled down his back, clawing at his black, sweat-drenched vest, savouring those amazing tattoos.

  Then, without warning, he pulled his hands free and flipped me on to my back. ‘Your turn, dirty bitch.’ I think the sound of that voice alone could have made me come. His hands, meanwhile, were under my skirt, his long fingers searching for my deep, wet cunt.

  ‘No knickers,’ he remarked. ‘Slut.’ He quickly pushed my legs apart and knelt down between them, tonguing and tasting me, growling and groaning, while tantalising my clit with his thumb and forefinger. I swore and bit, the sensations too intense and raw. I knew I would soon explode, and when I did it would be very, very noisy. Then I came big time, yelling and shouting.

  He smiled. ‘Hey, maybe that’s the real reason you’re moving away, your neighbours complained to the council about the noise.’

  ‘Cheeky bastard,’ I replied, panting, trying to get my breath back. But before I had a chance, his hand was on the back of my neck, his fingers buried in my long black hair.

  ‘On your knees, cunt,’ he growled, tugging on my unruly tresses, forcing me to kneel. He pulled hard, yanking my head back so far that my neck hurt. It sent tremors through my body which culminated in my clit. I adored my hair being pulled – the harder the better – but the only time I had asked a past lover to do this to me, his response had been to tell me how weird I was, so I never asked again. Now, though, allowing this tattooed stranger to behave so brutally towards me, long-buried sensations were triggered and reawakened. He stood in front of me, grinning, increasing the pressure, using his free hand to trace the outline of my lips with surprising gentleness. I wanted to bite his fingers, to kiss and suck and lick, all at once. The combination of simultaneous tenderness and roughness was for me the most powerful aphrodisiac. I closed my eyes to savour the sensations. My body was on fire. Suddenly, he jerked my head to one side and pushed his rigid cock into my mouth, pushing and pumping forcefully, almost choking me. My jaw ached as he fucked my mouth, grunting and muttering, ‘Filthy bitch,’ but the position of my head and neck made it impossible for me to move. Finally, after one more violent thrust, he spilled his load down my throat. Seeing I could hardly breathe, he let go of my hair and pulled out abruptly. There was too much to swallow, and as I collapsed onto the rug, sticky juices dribbling down my chin and neck, he dipped his finger in and licked it. ‘Not as tasty as you,’ he concluded, adding, ‘Honestly, what some people will do to make a sale.’

  I sighed. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘Thought you just had one.’

  ‘Silver tongue, aren’t you?’ I laughed, struggling to stand on my wobbly legs.

  As we sipped Coca Cola on the rug, still hot and sweaty, he said, ‘You looked really sexy on that pole.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘In fact, I would love it if you could give me a repeat performance.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Now. And this time I’ll be ready for you.’ He produced a shiny condom wrapper from the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘I hope there’s plenty more where that came from,’ I grinned.

  He unzipped his jeans to reveal deliciously snug-fitting black boxers. ‘There certainly is.’ He rolled over on to his stomach so I could see the full glory of his wonderful tattoos, which covered his shoulders, back and snaked right down to the groove at the top of his gorgeous tight bum. I was in heaven.

  ‘Say something,’ I murmured dreamily.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You’re a horny slut, Katy Bliss,’ he purred.

  ‘And you’re a sexy Welsh dragon, Rhiddian Davies,’ I whispered, before turning him over and clamping my mouth over his already stirring cock.

  I wanted to eat him – all of him. I wanted that big hard cock inside me. I sucked and massaged with my tongue, teasing the tip, restraining myself from sinking my teeth in, instead letting them graze down the thick shaft.

  ‘Mmmmm,’ we both groaned in unison. When my mouth was filled to capacity, he withdrew swiftly, and I positioned myself on all fours, pushing my pert arse provocatively at him. He pushed my crumpled, damp skirt up around my hips and within seconds, I could feel his rock-solid cock entering me doggy style, thrusting energetically and purposefully, alternating slow, measured thrusts with rapid, hard jerks. I moved my hips rhythmically in response, as if his cock was my pole and I was circling it and gripping it with my muscles.

  ‘Now this is what I call pole dancing,’ I gasped.

  We pole danced like this for the next hour or so, exhausting each other. After our third dance, when we were sprawled across the sofa, hot and sticky, I glanced at my watch. ‘I’m afraid I have someone else viewing the flat,’ I said. ‘In ten minutes, to be precise.’

  ‘Male or female?’ he asked mischievously.

  ‘Male.’

  ‘Boy, is he in for a surprise,’ he teased.

  ‘What a nerve. As if I would –’

  ‘– seduce all your prospective buyers? Dirty bitch. And as if you hadn’t guessed, I love dirty bitches. The dirtier the better.’

  I stood up, smoothing my skirt down, while he pulled his jeans back on. The flat reeked of sex. I would have to spray the air freshener around, and pretty quickly.

  But before he put his vest back on, I had a question. There were two tattooed symbols, just above his lovely right butt cheek, that he hadn’t explained.

  ‘What do these tattoos mean?’ I asked, adjusting my bra straps.

  He gave me a cheeky grin and in his sexy Welsh lilt whispered, ‘This one means Make Love. And this one is Bliss.’

  Not in my Wildest Dreams

  by Cyanne

  Eight hands glided over my arms and legs in perfect rhythm, massaging out every tensi
on, not that I had much to be tense about these days. The angelic sitar player played and played and the four therapists worked in time with the music, a fifth drizzling an exquisite frangipani oil over my naked body. I had been prepared, like a sacred offering, for the final treat, and they were in no hurry, but I was alive and tingling at the thought of what was to come. My body hair had all been painlessly waxed off, my hair conditioned with the finest products nature had to offer, my make-up lightly applied, so I was looking and feeling my best for the amazing massage that the other women had told me about so excitedly.

  I opened my eyes and made eye contact with one of the masseurs, a well-built man of just nineteen or twenty, and silently pleaded with him to move things along to the next level. Though tall and muscular he averted his eyes from my gaze with a reverence bordering on embarrassment. My pussy ached from the teasing touch of four men, all working away expertly on my hands and feet, arms and legs, but so far avoiding touching my breasts, which were conspicuously naked and glistening with oil, or my throbbing pussy, which was just covered by a tiny piece of white muslin.

  I craved a finger inside me, and opened my legs slightly, hoping to tempt one of them in, but they just gently pressed them together, moving effortlessly as part of the massage. I sighed deeply. I couldn’t separate whose hands were whose as they moved all over my body, avoiding my pleading nipples by mere millimetres.

  How did I even get here? The letter landed on my doormat, thick cream paper with embossed gold lettering, inviting me to join Rich Bitch, an invite-only, super-exclusive club for women. Sounded like another scam to me. Since winning nine million on the lottery I’d had no end of begging letters, scams, invitations to invest, to join clubs and schemes, but this one intrigued me. There was no fee to join: it was strictly free to those who could afford it. There was no website or email address; in fact when I called the number the first thing Marilyn explained to me was that all communication should be on paper or in person. Anything electronic was too easy to intercept. It was starting to sound like a something out of James Bond, but my interest was sufficiently piqued. When I arrived at the huge house in deepest Dorset I was impressed by the cars outside. This was not your average Audi TT crowd; the club car park boasted a vintage Mercedes Gullwing, an Aston Martin Vanquish and a huge Maybach.