City Of Swords. Alex Archer

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СКАЧАТЬ banter. His fingers casually stroked the base of my palm, sweeping downward across my wrist as he spoke, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The sensation of his fingers against my skin sent tingles up my arm and straight to my pussy, which was very nearly molten by that point. I could have listened to him talk for hours; his voice was deep and sensual, and lulled me into a sexy stupor. I tried my best to keep up my end of the conversation when the only thing running through my head was I need your cock inside me. In truth, there wasn’t much that could be discussed within a five-minute time span. But by the time the bell rang, I knew for sure that I wanted him—and I wanted him badly.

      This time around, the moderator announced that since we’d reached the halfway mark, we would have a fifteen-minute intermission. Number nine continued to hold my hand as he tossed his head toward the back of the bar, his eyebrow quirked up in an unspoken question.

      I could barely contain my own wicked smile as I nodded, and together we left the table. Most of the crowd stayed up front, clamoring for the bartender’s attention, while he and I slipped into one of the restrooms, completely unnoticed.

      I locked the door behind us and backed him up against the tiled wall, bringing my lips to his. He tangled his fingers in my long, brown hair as he returned my kiss with an eager passion. My hands roamed over his body, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles. Pulling his shirt out of his jeans, I slid my hands up his chest,and he groaned into my mouth as my palms glided against his flesh.

      I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his back and bringing our bodies closer together. Grinding my hips against him, I felt the erection that was hidden beneath his clothes—so hard, so perfect, and all for me. Number nine broke our kiss to speak, his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright as he held me at arm’s length. “Don’t you even want to know my name?”

      “Rules are rules,” I answered breathlessly, and he chuckled in response. I grabbed the waistband of his jeans to pull him close again. “We only have fifteen minutes, so you’d better make them count.”

      “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, returning his lips to mine. We made out furiously as he reached behind me to unzip my skirt. As soon as it dropped to the floor, he spun me around and placed my hands on the sink. I looked into the mirror in front of me and saw the reflection of our lust-filled faces, which gave me thrill. Number nine pushed my hair to the side and trailed a line of sensual kisses down my neck, making my eyes flutter closed as another rush of wetness flooded my pussy.

      “God, I want you,” he whispered, his voice hot in my ear as he ground his erection into my satin-covered ass cheeks.

      “Then take me—before we run out of time.” I was so turned on that I was practically panting. From behind me I heard the rasp of his zipper being lowered and the rustle of a condom wrapper. Then, seconds later, I felt him pull the crotch of my panties aside and thrust his hard cock inside me in one firm, smooth stroke.

      As he hit bottom, he sighed into my mussed hair. “You feel so good,” he whispered, pulling out and then rocking his hips against mine to slide his dick inside me once more. I bucked back toward him with every inward stroke, loving the feeling of his thick shaft stretching me and filling me. My body was acting of its own accord in response to my sexual hunger, my hips circling and grinding against him. I was so hot and wet that I was halfway to orgasm before we’d even started. But when he reached down the front of my panties to stroke my swollen clit, I let out a helpless whimper that I barely managed to stifle. My excitement was rapidly reaching its peak.

      “Are you going to come for me, twenty-seven?” His words were interspersed with gasping breaths as he continued to take me higher and higher.

      “Uh-huh,” was all I could utter, writhing against him and letting my body speak for me.

      “Good—I’m going to watch every second of it,” he said. I looked into the mirror once more, focusing on his handsome face as his fingers and cock took me over the edge. I cried out loud, staring into the reflection of his ice-blue eyes as I shivered through my climax.

      Seconds later, he moaned softly, and I felt his cock pulse within me. His hips jerked erratically as he came, holding me tightly in his arms.

      Just then, we heard the warning bell sound from the bar, announcing that intermission was over. Breathless and laughing, we rushed to make ourselves presentable and rejoin the crowd.

      It didn’t matter what his tag said—he was definitely number one on my list.

      Permission

      By Justine Elyot

      Now that I am in the middle of this long-term dream, alone with my

      campervan and a card deck of differing possible futures, I am not sure how to deal with it. Perhaps there are too many years of asking permission behind me. Perhaps I need someone’s permission to pursue the adventures I never had and be the person I never was. The freedom is strangely terrifying—just me, my cup of tea and the open road. Or rather, the open golf course, which stretches out beyond this car park, all twee and trim with its scissored grass and perky little flags.

      And suddenly it is just me, my cup of tea and the golf ball which has splashed rather neatly into it, covering my jeans with milky stains.

      The golf ball seems to be my guide. It is telling me something. Expect the unexpected, perhaps, or Don’t park near a golf course.

      I fish out the unassuming oracle and frown at it until it brings me my fate, in the shape of a man wearing-trousers and a shirt and a sheepish expression.

      “Sorry, sorry, oh God, did it fall in your cup?”

      “It’s fine. Tea from a flask tastes like plastic anyway. Here. Go back and swing, or drive, or whatever you golfers do.”

      “Swinging and driving both sound like more enjoyable alternatives.” He loosens another shirt button and pops the ball in his trousers pocket. “Swear not to tell anyone, but I hate golf.”

      I laugh. “I don’t blame you. Why play then?”

      “Friends thought it would cheer me up. A few rounds after my last day at work before I go home to my empty house.”

      “Christ. Life has it in for you, eh? I know the feeling.”

      He shuffles his feet inconclusively. He wants to stay but he feels he ought to go. He has a handsome, open face and gorgeously tanned forearms. For the first time in my life, I see that I am in a position to give, rather than seek, permission.

      “I’d ask if you fancied a cup of tea, but that was my last. I’ve got half a bottle of whisky in the van, though.”

      He smiles, edges a little closer to my folding chair and leans on the van bonnet.

      “That’s a very handsome offer. Don’t suppose you have ice?”

      “Alas, no.” I stand, and I am very close to him, close enough to feel his warmth and smell a mannish combination of toil and aftershave and breath mints. The base of his throat, disappearing down inside the loosened collar, is flushed. He has full lips but his eyes are tired. I forget what I was going to say. “Um.”

      “As it comes is fine,” he prompts, and I galvanize my sluggish self, heading inside the van to the coolbox.

      Something has happened to me, I think, trying to put my finger on СКАЧАТЬ