Published: May 5, 2014
Stories and Authors
Eight mistresses of the erotic bring you eight original, never before published stories to excite and arouse, including USA Today Bestsellers Alessandra Torre and CD Reiss, and NY Times Bestseller K. Bromberg.*******************************************
These are not your mother's erotic stories.
We're not giggling about foul language over tea, or avoiding smut talk at the Tupperware party.
This book is slick fingers and flesh on your lips. It's twisted bodies late at night when the city sleeps and the moans fall where no one can hear them. This book is pain and pleasure, lust and passion, a body brought to the breaking point. It's drenched in the the musk of sweat, shuddering at the touch of a Master.
It's not your mother's erotica. It's yours.
by Alessandra Torre
I was raised right. To mind my manners, keep my knees together, to put my napkin in my lap. But somehow, with one look at the dark sexuality that is Brett Jacobs, I forgot my Southern graces. They may have gotten lost in the pushmeupagainstthewall and takemehere action that occurred. In the clothes-ripping ohmygod action that followed. They may have, along with my sanity and common sense, deserted me, leaving me with bruised lips, ripped panties, and multiple orgasms.
Midnight. Thirteen hours left in paradise, then our hungover selves will be strapped in and flying back to ATL. I hang an arm around twin necks, inhaling the scent of hairspray and feminine energy, leaning my head back, weight on their shoulders,and bellow the chorus of Sweet HomeAlabama, the club singing along, my mouth breaking into a grin too big too contain, the familiar tune never failing to raise my spirits. Never mind that,between the six of us, we’ve set foot on Alabama soil less than ten times. It is the anthem of the South, and seeing as it took Jena flashing the Bahamian DJ her breasts to get it played, we own every syllable of the damn thing.
The last chorus rings out, and I release the girls, spinning on the floor, my arms up, getting bumped by sweaty bodies, the dance floor getting tighter by the moment. A heavy bass begins, drowning out the country chorus and starting back into the hip-hop that had been dominating the speakers all night.
I slow my hips, glance at our table, seeing Beth and Tammy there,the rest of us sprinkled between the dance floor and the ladies room. I am pushed forward, hands settling on my waist as a stranger tries to pull me into his crotch-thrusting imitation of a dance. I yank at his wrists, shooting an annoyed look over my shoulder, and move to our table, snagging my purse off its surface and moving toward the neon lit exit sign. Air.
I need air. Air and a moment to regroup, focus. Come to terms with the fact that none of the men in this club will be taking care of my needs tonight. None of them seem worthy of a drink. Too young. Too immature. Too available. Too … not who I am looking for.
I bang through the exit door, the rush of cool night kissing my skin. I take two steps to the right and lean against the brick exterior wall, legs out, head flat against red brick. God yes. I almost wish I still smoke. I remember the escapes from life that it provided, the moment to take a pause from the world and do nothing but relax. Now, I don’t need the nicotine—just the combination of air and quiet are enough to ease my tension and take me one step closer to I-Can’t-Even-Remember-His-Name-Ville.
I sense the presence before I see it. In the shadows to my right. I stiffen, lowering my chin and staring, confronting whoever it is with my gaze. Then he speaks, and I relax, need and heat and want flooding my body with just the scrape of my name. In that one word, that one growl, every lieI’ve told myself is exposed. I need him. My body needs him. Wants more. I had behaved in the hallway of the 8th floor. I had made a mistake. I don’t intend to make another.
He stalks forward, in a suit, his hands leaving his pockets as he walks, his head level, stare direct, and eats me with his eyes as he moves without hesitation, not pausing until he is suddenly against me, his hand firm, gripping the side of my face, his mouth taking mine in a possessive kiss that has me back against the wall, his palm against my skin almost hurting me in its need. I gasp for breath when I can grab it, his kiss desperate, dipping,pulling me tighter. I love it.
“I need you,” he grunts, his free hand sliding up my thigh,pushing my dress inappropriately high, his fingers gripping, squeezing, the heat of his palm sliding over my skin like he owns it, his large hand ending on my ass, and he feels every inch of it as if he is memorizing, worshiping,taking it in his mind as his own.
“Yes,” I gasp, lifting my leg and hooking it around him, the shift in my body opening the place between my legs, his fingers finding and running reverently over the line of silk that keeps me tied to the edge of sanity.
The door next to me opens, shielding us for a moment, and I freeze behind it, my body tensing.
His hand drops from my face, wrapping around my body, the other hand returning to my ass, both of them working in concert and lifting, carrying me into the dark shadows where he had just stood, a new wall replacing the brick, this one rough stucco, and I feel lines of it dig into my sunburned skin as sets me down, his mouth taking a break from the kiss and moving to my neck, the rough journey letting me know the level of his need.
Further proof is against me, his pelvis pressed tighter than possible against my own, the hard ridge of it against my sex making my breath hitch with every twitch of him along me. God, I want this man. Am made weak from his touch yet have never felt this aggressive.
Feather soft brushes against silk. Teasing. Torturing. His hand keeping my leg in place, though there is no way I’m moving it. Not when it opens me up to him. Not when it keeps that iron against the place where I want it most.
My panties are so wet it is embarrassing. I pant against the night air, struggling for silence, the murmurs of the couple who have stepped outside breaking the silence of the night, the orange embers of their smokes reminding me of their presence, their attention on each other, a giggle escaping from their conversation and sending a moment of intelligent thought to my head.
Am I really being humped in the shadows against the side of a building? Is this beautiful man really running the pad of his fingers back and forth, lower and higher, finding the—oh my god. My head drops back, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes me when my silk-covered clit is brushed by his fingers.
Jesus. It’s not a curse. It is a thankful message sent upward. I have been lost and now, in that light brush against my most sensitive place, I am found.
He chuckles against my neck, his fingers moving back an inch or two, until they are back at my soaked opening, pushing on the indent there,the silk moving far enough inside for me to feel the brush of skin on skin, andI just about lift off the ground in my need for more.
“Don’t stop,” I gasp.
“Honey, I’m not going stop until you fall apart in my hands.I need that. I’m not releasing you until it happens.”
TOP 10 TV SHOWS THAT DOMINATE ALESSANDRA'S TV
1. Vikings (I'll take a threesome with the two brothers ANYTIME)
2. Black Sails (almost makes me want to be a wench)
3. The Good Wife
5. NCIS: Los Angeles (LOVE me some LL)
6. Family Guy (Stewie just said that!)
7. Spongebob (I'd blame it on the 11 year old but... we love SB)
The Erotica Consortium was the brain child of CD Reiss. In December 2013 she asked JA Huss to help her pull together the hottest erotica writers to start a private Facebook group that would encourage support in all areas of bookish things. Members of The Erotica Consortium were personally invited by JA and CD and the group is complete with six additional authors: Shay Savage, Andrea Smith, KI Lynn, K Bromberg, Ella James, and Alessandra Torre. BEND is their first anthology together