Velvet Kisses by Addison Moore
Wyatt opens all the windows he can. The fire has dwindled to nothing. But great news! Since Wyatt went all superhero and dragged the fire out with his bare hands, the odds of us dying of smoke inhalation tonight are practically nil.
Wyatt strides over and wraps his arms around my waist, his hands dripping down my thighs. “Now where were we?”
* * *
Wyatt glows in this dim light—and by light I mean moonlight. With all the windows open, it feels as if we’re about to have a romp in the woods at midnight.
“How about a nice warm bed?” Is it wrong of me to hope he has a fireplace in his room? I’m pretty sure Wyatt will want to steer clear of all things pyrotechnic for a while at least when I’m around. He’s lucky I didn’t burn his entire ranch to cinders.
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate picking me up and carrying me off to his bedroom like a caveman about to have his woman for the night. I love this sexed up, pent up, I-man-you-woman version of him. I don’t care if I set feminism back fifty years. Being carried off in the arms of a strong, gorgeous man is thus far the pinnacle of my existence. If there’s not a picture of Wyatt in the dictionary under the definition of a man, there should be. And if you look up weasel, you’ll find Will.
“To the bedroom!” he roars like a battle cry.
I pull his face to mine and start in on a dizzying kiss that feels far more intense, far hotter than that fire ever could. His passion, his frenzy meets with mine as we devour one another in a fantastically greedy manner. This is what I’ve always dreamed of, kissing my boyfriend in such a heady way that the world, the slight stench of smoke dissipates around you. Now, Wyatt as my boyfriend is something I can sink my teeth into.
Wyatt flops me onto the mattress, and I bounce as he climbs on top of me. He reaches over and picks up a condom, relaxing back on his knees as he prepares to cover that lap rocket he has pointing straight into space.
I take him in with the moonlight pouring its icy glow over his form. Wyatt looks as if he’s carved from marble—albeit a rather beautifully vulgar statue that I’d want for my personal collection.
“You’re impressive.” I bite down hard over my lip—with a mixture of excitement and fear—and I swear I taste blood. “But I bet you hear that all the time.” Perfect. Remind him of his other casual encounters. I’m sure twelve different girls just popped into his brain, and, thanks to my asinine mouth, he’ll be juxtaposing them to me for the rest of the night. Of course, I’ll be on the losing end of the condom because I could never compare to the one-night skanks he’s used to bedding. They might have garnered themselves a crappy reputation, but at least they’ve managed to leave a lasting impression with my boyfriend.
Boyfriend? Ack!
Strike three!
Say it with me three times fast: Wyatt James is not my boyfriend. Wyatt James is not my boyfriend. Wyatt James is not my boyfriend! Shit. The last thing I need to do is brainwash myself into believing I’m his faux girlfriend. I’m not his anything. We’ve more than drawn a platonic line in the contractual sex sand. Contracts were signed. We’re business partners both in and out of the bedroom. If he wanted me as his girlfriend, he would never have had me sign that ridiculous document.
My heart sinks a moment. Obviously he wants nothing more to do with me outside of enjoying my body—and, dear God, I hope he’s enjoying my body. If I can give him a tenth of the pleasure he’s gifted me, I’ll be happy. Wyatt James is my legalized sex slave, nothing less—nothing more. It’s the way of the future. One small step for Marley Jackson’s vagina, one giant leap for womankind.
Wyatt snaps on the condom and wraps his hand around the base before gliding up over the length of himself. A line of fire rips up from my belly just watching as he touches himself that way. He’s skilled—perhaps highly so. It makes me wonder if this is a daily occurrence.
“You like what you see?” he asks so nonchalant he might as well have asked about the weather.
“Yes. God, yes.” A nervous giggle emits from me.
“Good.” He runs his hand over his shaft once again, securing the condom in place. “Because we’re just getting started.” He gives my thigh a quick tap.
“Oh, right.” My legs widen to accommodate him. “We’d better get to work.” My heart does its best to drum its way out of my chest. A dull ache springs from somewhere deep inside as he inches his way toward me with that weapon of mass seduction.
“Marley.” My name growls from him warm and dangerously sexy like a tropical sunset on some exotic beach. Wyatt lowers himself over me, his cologne warming the air between us. He steadies himself on his elbows, his eyes glowing down at mine. “This isn’t work for me. I don’t want you to think of it as work either.” He pauses to dot a kiss to my forehead. “It’s pleasure—or at least it should be.”
“Oh, it’s pleasure all right.” My fingers coil through his hair as I pull him down close to my lips. “Wyatt, I love—this.” God, I almost said you! My mouth finds his, and we engage in a lusty exchange as my legs ride over his back.
There is no such thing as love. Even if there were, I couldn’t let myself fall in love with Wyatt.
We heat the bed with our primal kisses, his body writhes over mine, solid and weighted. This is happening—finally happening. There’s no fire in the vicinity, so already I feel as if nature is giving us a green light.
Wyatt runs his hand down my thigh as if prepping me for the big moment. “Let me know if I hurt you.”
“Okay, I’ll bite your ear real hard, how’s that?”
A dark laugh thumps through him. “Oh, sweetie, you won’t be able to reach my ear. Wyatt guides himself inside me horrifically slowly, and surprisingly painfully so. His head moves up about two feet from mine. I’m face to face with his chest, and, as it were, I can hardly lift my head off the pillow to kiss that.
“I want to kiss you,” I groan as Wyatt delves in slow and deep.
“Just a sec.” He grunts as he eases himself into my body, eliciting an entire series of choking sounds to crackle from my throat. Dear God, is there a mute button on this thing? It sounds as if I’m being hacked up to pieces. Clearly I now see the need for a conduct code of acceptable bedroom practices. Perhaps this can fall under the chapter heading of Tonality, Pitch and Intonation: Why your man might think he’s killing you softly behind closed doors and try not to burp on his penis for fuck’s sake!
Wyatt thrusts in further, settling in as if he’s been looking for a new habitat for Heavy D and the Boyz all along. He’s stretching and pulling and quite possibly ripping his way into my esophagus, and just as I’m about to cry out wrong hole, just to have him pull out for a brief second, he gives one last grunt as his penis high fives my cerebellum.
“You were saying you wanted a kiss?” Wyatt somehow turns into elastic-man as his face hovers over mine with a loose grin. “You’re so tight. Are you okay?” His brows dip with worry. The night shadows catch him in all the right places, contouring his bone structure, highlighting the fact he’s fiercely handsome—majestic in nature.
“Great,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage. Just the one word. I’m afraid if I open my mouth any further, he’ll be able to have a conversation with his own dick.
A part of me wants to say I love the feeling of this forest fire you’ve ignited deep in my vagina. Or I love the intense burst of white-hot pain that assures me even though I’ve had a previous vaginal stretching session with a man far less genetically endowed than the Goliath currently embedded in my person, I may, in fact, have been a born-again virgin.
I press my lips together and resist the urge to shout, By George I think you popped my cherry!
Wyatt slowly moves his way in and out, working up to a full-on pumping session while sporadically delivering mind-blowing wild kisses. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Wyatt is the master of both his domain and mine. He’s the king of the sheets. The god of getting down and dirty. If a lesson in the art of erotic love is what I’ve been looking for, then I’ve co
Wyatt’s scorching mouth runs a revolution over my face before he continues his assault on my nether regions again. God, it’s like the Battle of Little Big Horn—emphasis on the Big.
He drills in deep as if he’s waiting for oil to spew from my throat. Clearly this is my vagina’s last stand. I suppose that makes Wyatt Crazy Horse by default which is fitting seeing that he has about six dozen steeds roaming the property. Of course, Wyatt is my favorite stud. If he were a horse, he’d be one of those giant beasts that look as if they’re wearing furry white legwarmers, happily trotting their way through beer commercials.
“Is this good?” He groans from above before diving back down with a delicious heated kiss.
“Y—e—s.” I choke out the word into six evenly split syllables.
My skull hits the headboard repetitively with a dull thump. Great. I’m going to get a concussion and black out, thus missing the best sex of my life.
“You like being fucked don’t you?” He pants the words out over me as frenetically paced as his movements, and my mouth falls open. Just when I didn’t think Wyatt James could get any hotter, he turns up the dirty talk.
I’m half tempted to let him know I like a good skull cracking as much as the next girl but forego the smartass remark lest I bite my tongue off in the process. Instead, I manage to twist my neck just enough to land myself in the gushy pillow, neck-crick be damned, I’m not slowing this train down.
“Um, yes, I kind of—” Shit. That was supposed to be rhetorical, wasn’t it? Of course it’s rhetorical, stupid!
A pained smile twitches on my lips as he jostles further into me with his vigorous charge. I can only imagine the workout he must be getting. Who needs cardio at the gym when you’ve got a hearty game of lust and thrust waiting for you at home? In comparison to this Civil War reenactment, Will and I had taken tantric sex to a whole new level—otherwise known as hibernation. Come to find out, I’m more of a rough and tumble kind of a girl, and it took Wyatt James and his rock ‘em sock ‘em penis for me to see the lascivious light.
“Say it.” His voice is clipped and loud, pulling me from my momentary trance.
“Yes, I like being fucked!” I shout a little too enthusiastically and cringe because, well, open windows. “What about you? You like being fucked?” I cringe again. I’ll take a wild guess, that’s not something any man ever wants to hear. It’s safe to say dirty talk isn’t my forte. The word choice was embarrassingly unoriginal for one, and two, emasculating.
“Oh? Are you going to fuck me?” He gravels it out with a dark laugh, and suddenly I’m sorry the expletive ever drifted from my lips. “Come here.” In one acrobatically engineered move, Wyatt flips me through the air, and I land square over his hips as he nests comfortably into the mattress.
“Just like that I’m on top,” I marvel.
“Climb on board, sweetheart.” He runs his finger over the sole of my foot, and I jump landing right over the bulls-eye.
“Wow, you’re highly skilled at this.” Like some sexual ringmaster, but I leave that part out. It’s becoming crystal clear Wyatt has his mattress moves pretty well orchestrated.
“That’s it.” He groans. There’s just enough light streaming in from the window for me to see the ecstasy imprinted on his face. Wyatt sinks his head deeper into the pillow as his eyes squeeze tight.
He wasn’t kidding when he said climb on board. This is a serious pole to contend with. I’ll admit I’ve never really been on top. Like ever. I’m starting to doubt Will and I ever had sex. It was more of a ploy to pull me in on one of his masturbation sessions. That would explain a hell of a lot.
So like how does this work anyway? I lean forward and try to mimic his pumping motions, exhausting myself after three measly tries. Oh, wow, this is going to be a disaster. I can already feel the burn in my thighs, and, truth be told, I’m the last to appreciate a good workout. Wyatt is actually going to deflate waiting for me to get things underway. I give it a few more go’s, employing a few hopping moves, trying my best to convince myself that my thighs have suddenly morphed into springs, but I’m more of a lethargic duck than I am jackrabbit.
“You’re so damn good.” He taps my thigh lightly, trying to sway me to move things along while kneading my bottom with his fingers. Either Wyatt James is a bald-faced liar, or he’s never had a woman on top. Although I’m convinced it’s the former, I’ll excuse his need to bleed a little white lie in the name of encouragement. Wyatt is sweet that way.
I bounce harder, tiring myself out, just wishing it were me on my back smiling like a loon, doling out the encouraging thigh slaps. This is a helluva lotta work.
“At a girl. Keep going.” He grazes my back with his warm hands, reminding me of the fact that I might be cryogenically freezing to death up here, yet, again, sponsoring a serious case of mattress envy.
“Let’s switch positions,” I announce, trying to make it sound as if I’m up for anything when all I really want is to secure the warm, comfy spot on the bed and for Wyatt to do all the sex stunts and dirty talk. Come to find out, I’m more of a sloth in the sack than cheetah—although it’s not without a pang of consciousness. With an attitude like mine, I’m erasing all the hard work of the women who came before me (double entendre withstanding). Women have worked by the sweat of their brow to reduce their men to talking pogo-sticks. And here I am trying to manipulate my way onto my back. I wonder how many female forerunners of the sexual revolution finally decided, after a few less-than-celebratory thumps—meh—the missionary position is not that bad a deal.
“I’m in.” Wyatt, ironically pulls out, and the next thing I know I’m bent over the side of the bed as he plunges back inside from a standing position.
“Oh, that’s better,” I say mostly to myself as I cozy with the sheets he just warmed with his body. Plus, I’m sort of just lying on the bed like a log, enjoying the ride. It might not be a celebrated position, but it definitely has its warm and cozy merits.
“This good?” His voice is a hoarse whisper as his hips move with more urgency than before.
“This is perfect,” I eject the words like chopping an onion. It is perfect because, apparently, I am the definition of lazy sex.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he grunts out the words while digging his fingers into my hair and giving a firm tug.
My back arches in reflex to the erotic act.
Hey—maybe lying on my stomach and having my hair pulled is my thing? I had a feeling I’d discover new details about myself when I started on this journey with Wyatt, it’s just I didn’t expect to find that I’m basically an unenergetic whiner who likes to have her hair yanked now and again. This speaks volumes to so many things.
Wyatt exerts enough energy to thrust the two of us into the stratosphere. He’s panting and sweating and groaning, and good God, I’m suddenly aching to see his face. For as much as I twist and turn I only catch glimpses.
I grip the sheets and just enjoy the fact that Wyatt James, fire god, sex god, man with the walking stick for a penis is diving deep inside me, making me feel like a princess, desired, and beautiful—and I never want this amazing feeling to end. I press my bottom into him a bit. I’d like for him to at least assume I’m making an effort. I’m not really expected to make an effort, am I? And how is it that I’m the one with the sex article?
In hindsight, I’ve been coming from a place of little to no experience—prior to tonight, my vast laughable knowledge can easily be relegated as amateur hour. I have no right to even use the letters s-e-x in consecutive order. I’ve been blindly leading the masses with techniques dreamed up by my ingénue—mind you—vanilla imagination from the beginnin
Speaking of Baya, if she and Bryson rely on me as their fearless ringleader in the bedroom, then I should for sure consider taping one of my sessions with Wyatt and really show them how it’s done—sans the house fire of course. A good orgasm should never be followed by a visit from the fire department—not to mention their flashing lights really do bring all the neighbors to the yard. Before you know it, all of Hollow Brook is watching Wyatt’s fifth appendage swing like a pendulum, and a majority of the fire department finds themselves with penis envy. Not pretty.
Wyatt pumps harder and effectively evicts all residents of Hollow Brook from my mind.
The mattress shifts beneath me. With each thrust it slips further off the box spring until it eventually hits the wall, and I’m forced to grip the sheets for dear life lest gravity sends me sailing headfirst into the newly formed crevice.
“Shit!” Wyatt digs into my hips so hard, I want to cry out in pain, in sort of a good way. He seizes—gripping me with the force of ten thousand maniacs. His body throbs into mine a moment before he collapses onto my back. A sweet kiss lands on my ear. His chest is slicked with sweat, yet oddly cold to the touch, most likely from the arctic breeze whipping through the house, reminding us that we’ve managed to piss off Smokey the Bear in the dead of winter. “Did you like that?” He dots my ear with another searing kiss, and the iced air licks it as soon as he pulls away.
“Nope. I loved that.” I twist until we’re finally facing one another. “I’m sorry I was so darn useless.”
“What are you talking about?” He presses out a panting grin. “Believe me, I couldn’t have done it without you.”