Best of Best Women's Erotica (6 page)

I'll pay for this,
she thought. But the moon glowed high in the sky and she could feel it tickling the jewel. Earlier she had noticed how the moon and the sun were both shining on her
through the window. Together they had raised her temperature even before Mr. Charles had danced his way into her kitchen. The heat had forced her to open the top button on her uniform this morning. And now it encouraged sweat to run down the crevice between her breasts.

The dual light of moon and sun joined the female and male together. It caressed her face as his hands began to caress her body. She drank in the light. She closed her eyes as his hands stroked her arms, her waist, and then her breasts. She made up her mind to let the moon guide her. They said that the moon was the force behind the tides down at Toledo beach. She could let it be her force. He would be her sun. The gleam of his smile and the heat of his personality mingling with her dark yellow glow, all this would warm the night.

Finally, when she thought she could stand this ecstasy no longer, she pulled away. But she turned back quickly to take his hand. “We got work to do,” she said. Once she'd made up her mind, it was easy. The power of the moon remained with her, pulsing in the stone, making her movements liquid as she scrubbed and peeled vegetables. He seared the meat and broiled the canapés. She liked watching his quick, efficient movements. His hands deftly turned radishes into beautiful little roses to decorate the plates. The carrots became swirls of orange cascading around trays of succulent pineapple, honeydew, and mango. His strokes with the paring knife as he slit the fruit open were sure and sweet. She admired how each dish got its due—a pat here, a caress there. He kept up a running banter throughout, not seeming to care whether she responded.

She found herself smiling at the way it all seemed to be choreographed. Each of them twirled around the other, working, moving closer and then farther apart. Brushing past the other
casually, raising the heat each time. The friction created a spark so hot the kitchen seemed to swell in an effort to contain it. He watched her knead the bread dough, swirling it around in her fingers, working it to the peak of perfection. She allowed it to rise, and rise again. It was the only time that he was quiet. The moon surged within her and she knew they were equals; each had gifts to bring to the other.

She listened while he explained the exotic foods as he worked, turning each lecture into a love song. When he talked about the artichokes he stuffed, he warned her about the outside bristles, how they could prick the skin. “But if you're patient, you get to savor the sweet meat on each leaf and deep in the core.” He showed her how to gently scrape off the flesh with her teeth.

She was dripping by the time the meal was served by the silent maids in their black-and-white uniforms. Every pore of her body was open to him, ached for him. It was late. Now the moon poured in through the darkness that had settled over the landscape outside, shining on her dark skin and singing through the stone on her breast. He had faded a bit too. His once-clean white jacket was mussed and stained. The top button lay open and his skin glistened with sweat.

He pulled the dessert from the oven and motioned for her to bring over the chocolate sauce. Islands of meringue swam in the depths of black cherry richness, bubbling temptingly around the edges. Carefully he placed a serving in each dish. Then she drizzled the chocolate in lazy, seductive swirls. Each pass with the spoon was an invitation, each turn of the dish an answer. When the last one was done they stood silently, poised on the edge of the moment, swaying slightly with exhaustion, the soaring heat of the kitchen, and their desire.

She took charge now, dispatching orders to the maids about
serving the drinks and cleaning up. Then she reached for him. She took him to her cabin through the moonlight that graced the stone path. The moon encouraged her, pushed her, pulsed in time with her heart.

She left the door open and drew back the curtains. She wanted to see him in all his glory. And glorious he was. She sat on the bed and watched as he slowly unbuttoned his jacket, undid his shoes, and took off his socks, tucking them neatly inside the splattered black footwear. Then he removed and folded his pants, hanging them over the foot of her bed. She liked how neat he was, his body as tidy as his actions. His underwear and his smile gleamed white in the reflected moonlight and then only his smile remained. He spun in the light of the moon, humming that same tune he'd sung when he'd asked her to dance.

She stood to remove her clothing, but he stopped her. Kissing her slowly, his mouth moist with sweat and desire, he took over. He blew on her neck; it was cool and hot at the same time. He stepped behind her, unzipping her damp uniform and pushing the dress down over her shoulders. He nuzzled each shoulder before dropping the dress to the floor. It had been too hot to wear a slip and she was conscious of being exposed. She worried suddenly about her size as his hands roamed over the front of her while his mouth and tongue roamed her back. His thumbs circled her nipples through the cloth of her bra and she arched abruptly, caught by the depth of her arousal. He unhooked the cloth and allowed her breasts to swing free. He moaned a little, kneading her breasts as she had kneaded the bread dough.

Stepping back, he broke the connection to unpin her hair. With his skilled hands he began brushing it, using long gentle strokes with her grandmother's brush. Then he brought a cool
cloth and ran it across her body, rinsing away the sweat. She shuddered slightly. No one had tended her like this in a long time. Finishing, he washed his own body. Then he took her hand and turned her around, appraising her in that way he had. Then, in the same singsong voice he'd used to tell her about the artichokes, he described her body, comparing her breasts to the sweetest honeydew melons he could imagine, dark, heavy, rich. He inhaled the smell of them and his tongue traced her nipples. Finally, he popped one into his mouth and sucked, his tongue searching and probing.

“Just like our cherry dessert,” he said, and switched to the other dark mound. His hands were on her panties; he slid them down her thighs and allowed them to pool around her feet. “Come, Miss Tara. Dance with me.” He pulled her out the open door into the moonlight, and in the shadow of the blooming jasmine they swayed on their feet for a while, drinking in the light of the moon and the kiss of the gentle breeze. The gleam of his smile and the jewel on her breast sparkled. Then, as if planned, they danced into the bedroom. His lips met hers again. She returned his passion, sucking on his tongue, biting his lips. They hungered. They wanted to devour each other.

She couldn't say how or when she ended up on the bed, only felt herself falling onto the feather mattress as she had fallen into his eyes. Tara looked up at him. He stood, caressing her body with a look. She reveled in his admiration.

“We just need one more thing,” he said, and, grabbing her old robe, he sprinted across to the kitchen. He returned with the last of the chocolate and triumphantly drizzled it across her body, murmuring that she deserved to be garnished. She squirmed and squealed with pleasure as he licked off the sticky
sauce. He compared each part of her body to an exotic food and told her how he would lovingly prepare it. She was flowering, changing beneath his hands, his tongue, and his words, rising like sweet dough. Finally she could stand it no longer and brought him into her, wrapping around him, kneading him with her strong muscles. They climaxed together, fiercely. The moonlight caressed them as they lay in the dying heat.

Tara wriggled her toes in pleasure, stretching like a contented kitten. She loved the way her orgasm passed through her body, traveling down her legs and settling in her feet. His weight descended on her slowly; she felt the slackening in his muscles, the looseness as he gently slid out. She inhaled his peppery, musky smell. The fragrance of his sex, tinged with the scents from their work in the sultry kitchen, was delicious.

He slept, snoring lightly. But she couldn't. She spent hours going over each step; the food birthed together under their joint parentage, the sensuous smells, the ability to anticipate the other's movements. She hugged all these memories to her heart as she wanted to hug him. Instead, she stroked his back lightly so as not to disturb him. She wanted this moment to go on just a bit longer before she had to face the kitchen alone.

The new day was coming on fast. Their loving had lasted most of the night. The sun's morning rays nibbled on the edge of the horizon. The moon hadn't yet gone down—nor had the pounding in her veins ceased. Suddenly she hated the sun, cursing it for bringing her this sweet morsel and now coming to take him away from her.

He responded to her caress and snuggled his head down on her chest. She smiled at him. He was so small yet so perfectly formed, like a miniature god nestled in her arms. She liked the image of holding God. Overlooking the blasphemy, she thought
about what a good lover he was. She yearned to have him tease her again with his tongue, taste her ears and neck, nuzzle her breasts, and feast at the sweetness between her legs. She heard again the sweet phrases he had spoken, how he planned to work his magic and skill on the banquet that was Tara. Beneath his touch and fingers, words and tongue, she felt beautiful. He appreciated her size and muscles, her meatiness and strength, her artistry both in the kitchen and in bed.

A small tear rolled down her cheek. It had been too sweet, like the pain in your head on a blistering summer day when you sucked in that first huge mouthful of ice cream. You wanted it so badly that the shock and pleasure reverberated throughout your body and focused on one nerve in your head. The anticipation had been like that. She had known somehow that the sweetness of the night would turn into the painful cold of the morning. But she couldn't have stopped herself. Nothing else would do but to drink in as much of him as she could. She clutched this ache to her too, allowing the tears to roll down her cheeks and neck, to wet the pendant, now cool on her chest. Silently she sobbed, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting this moment to end.

He shifted slightly and his face moved closer to her neck and found the small pool of her tears. Instantly he was awake. He assessed her with hooded eyes. Would he get up, begin the going-away process?

He smiled his big brash smile and propped up his head with one hand. With the other he traced the tracks of her tears. “Miss Tara, no need to be crying now. We made us the sweetest dance last night.”

She smiled, trying to hide the fear creeping through her stomach. He moved down, closing his mouth over her tears. He
kissed and licked them away. When he rose again a seriousness rested behind the light in his eyes. “Seems to me there is some bitterness in those tears. Is this going to happen every time we dance?”

She searched his face, checking for any falseness in his words. What did he mean, “every time we dance?” She couldn't reply—just looked at him, frozen, wondering.

He laughed, yawned, stretched his arms over his head and rolled away from her. “You aren't much of a talker, Miss Tara,” he said. Stretching some more, he rolled back to her. His fingers traced a pattern on her stomach. “But I like that. You're like a wonderful stew—pretending to be simple, just hearty and filling, yet really subtle and deep. Well, it's okay, Miss Tara, I'll talk enough for the both of us.” He blew all over her body, chasing away the sweat. “Making a good stew takes time, you know. You've got to tend it well, stir it up. Add a little spice now and then. And you want to make sure never to burn it.” He stopped and looked deeply into her eyes. “I never ruined a stew in my life, Miss Tara. And I won't leave this one unattended. I already told Mr. Beaumont that we would need to come to an understanding about my staying on here.” He hesitated. “Of course, that is if you'll have me. What do you say, can I add a new ingredient to your stew?”

She let out her breath and smiled up at him contentedly. He grinned at the change in her. He cocked his head to one side for a moment then reached down to kiss her, a slow velvety kiss that tasted of salt and sweat and chocolate and lovemaking. Tears welled up again in her eyes and he kissed those too.

“I can see I won't have to worry about this ever being bland,” he laughed. “Plenty of spice here.” His lips found hers again, his tongue probing deeply inside, lingering as he mixed their
juices together. He finally pulled away and they both gulped for breath.

A ray of sunshine broke through the window and splashed across them. It lit him up from behind like the god she had imagined him to be. She caressed his cheek, the moon's promise beating securely in her heart and in the gem on her breast. Finally she spoke.

“What would you like for breakfast, Mr. Charles?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I HAVE NEWS FOR YOU, BOYS: THERE ARE HORNY women out there. There are women walking the streets and bookstore aisles, or riding trains, who are practically crying inside because they want it so bad. Either that, or I'm the only one. But I would put money on the fact that I am not the only one. Especially given what Jason has told me.

It's because of Jason that I don't have to prowl those aisles, those trains, anymore.

I first noticed him in Walpenny's, in the cookbook section. I was thumbing through a spiral-bound volume on Thai cookery when I caught him looking at me. Or maybe it was he who caught me. By that point, I was frustrated. It was a summer evening, cool and breezy, and though I wore a brief, swishy dress, and had
arranged my hair suggestively, I had not had good luck. The only mild interest I'd gotten was from people I had no interest in. And while I was starting to think I'd hump an aardvark if I had to, I knew better.