Passion Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  BIG-BED SEX

  MY DARK KNIGHT

  DEAR IN THE HEADLIGHTS

  THE CHERRY ORCHARD

  AUTUMN SUITE

  CONTENTIONS

  THE SILVER BELT

  FIVE SENSES

  Sight

  Smell

  Taste

  Hearing

  Touch

  THE ARCH OF TRIUMPH

  CRAVE YOU CLOSE

  AN EASY GUY TO FALL ON

  LINGUA FRANCA

  THIRD TIME’S THE CHARM

  RIDING WILD THINGS

  NO RISK, NO REWARD

  IF

  GETTING IT RIGHT

  THE MORNING RIDE

  THE EFFICIENCY EXPERT

  REKINDLE

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION: GETTING PASSIONATE

  Passion. It can mean greed, desire, affection, love or simply, emotion. You will find all of those and more in the stories contained herein. As you read these twenty stories, you too will be swept away by passion as you travel to Paris and Greece (and Beverly Hills). You’ll get stuck in an elevator, take a bubble bath and a bus ride (not to mention some subway foreplay and flirting) and explore nature in some very intimate ways. You’ll find couples, and couplings by men and women looking (whether they know it or not) to spice things up in the bedroom.

  Here, couples at all stages of their relationships (including the very beginning) kindle their passion in various ways, from exes who reunite to young marrieds on a naughty nature walk to first timers mixing business with pleasure. When Krista in “Crave You Close” by A. M. Hartnett tells Nicky, “I’m so used to having to hold my breath,” she is saying so much about their usual erotic m.o. At night, outdoors, she is free to make as much noise as she wants to.

  These couples explore getting kinky, precisely because they feel intimately connected to each other. They go places, literally and figuratively, they wouldn’t dare without the other. They revisit old flames and nurture new ones; indeed, sometimes the men these women crave, such as Maya does in “The Silver Belt,” are not their husbands at all, but someone else, someone special, someone who is seeing them in an entirely new light. Those stories mingle with other tales of longtime lovers ignited to fiery scenes within these pages.

  Passion can mean so many things, from the sexual submission of a caning to exploring new bodily territory—sexual experimentation, trying something you’ve fantasized about. It can mean makeup sex or role-play, a change of scenery or simply a change of thinking. It can mean looking at a lover, a husband, a boyfriend or a new boy toy with fresh eyes, sizing him up, baring yourself, daring him to come and get you.

  Just as in real life, there are lovers’ quarrels within these pages, slights real and imagined, as couples find tender, erotic ways to heal their hurts and become even closer. There is an element of real, raw emotion in the way love and desire can as easily tear us down as build us up that makes us appreciate each expression of romance all the more, because we know how truly special it is. I’m grateful these authors skip from playful romps to relationship-saving sex to tender memories to scorching sex scenes, together creating a book that will likely make you blush and make your heart swell.

  As the narrator in one of my favorite pieces, “My Dark Knight” by Jacqueline Applebee, says, “I’m a not-so-hopeless romantic. I believe that chivalry still exists, I hope to find quiet nobility in the most random of places, and I believe that people who love each other can live happily ever after.” She finds a dark, very sexy knight who she rescues, seduces, and then… But you’ll have to read the story to find out.

  Rachel Kramer Bussel

  New York City

  BIG-BED SEX

  Donna George Storey

  Have you stayed with us at the Beverly Hills Hotel before?” The well-groomed man behind the reception desk looked straight into my eyes and flashed his perfect teeth.

  Do I look like the kind of idiot who blows a thousand bucks a night on a hotel room?

  That’s what I wanted to say. What I actually said was, “No, this is my first time.”

  “Then it will be my pleasure to show you around our hotel,” the clerk said, scooping up the green and pink card key folder and gliding around the desk to my side. “This way, please.”

  I followed him through the lobby—coral velvet chairs arranged in a wide circle on a leafy green carpet—that was relatively quiet early on a Thursday afternoon. He pointed out the entrance to the famous Polo Lounge, then the route to the storied swimming pool where countless stars had lounged in the California sun.

  I nodded and smiled, shoulders back and chin high in my best imitation of a patrician spendthrift. Slipping into the elevator behind him, I noticed the generous girth of his index finger as he pressed the button for the second floor. My gaze swept over the rest of him, discreetly: a stocky brunette not quite handsome enough for a starring role in the movies, but all the more appealing for it. I guessed he was in his late twenties or early thirties, younger than me by just a few years.

  Not that it mattered. I was a happily married woman. Very happily married.

  “We have an especially nice room for you today,” he informed me cordially as we walked down the hallway, the jungle-leaf pattern on the walls illuminated by sparkling sconces.

  “Very good,” I murmured, still playing it cool.

  He slipped the card key into the slot of room 209 and held the door for me. When I stepped inside, I literally had to bite my lip to keep my jaw from dropping. My sister—my rich sister—had hinted she was going to splurge on my accommodations, but this was truly the most deluxe hotel room I’d ever seen outside of the movies. A short entry hall fanned into a huge living room with a plush sofa, armchair and large flat-screen TV at one end and a marble-topped desk with an elegant chair at the other. An elaborate fruit basket presided over the glass coffee table, and vases of fresh lilies bloomed in every corner.

  The clerk began his official tour, and I quickly realized I would need it. The closet door to the left of the entrance actually led into a full dressing room. Off to the left was the lavish bathroom, rich in mirrors and gleaming gold fixtures. The Jacuzzi bath was supplemented by a floor-to-ceiling glass shower stall, and I decided immediately I would try both, even though I was only staying one night. The shelves were stocked with stacks of fluffy white towels and toiletries, enough to bathe and dry the bodies of a chorus line of beauties.

  “You can raise and lower the curtain this way,” the clerk instructed me, pushing one of the numerous buttons on the wall. A low buzzing sound filled the room, and the pink balloon curtain above the tub slowly inched up to reveal a view of the garden in which the bungalows—the lodging of actual movie stars and moguls past and present—were hidden.

  Still in shock, I didn’t see the pièce de résistance until he guided me over to the desk for a quick introduction to the information folder and room service menu. Tucked away on a raised platform to the left of the sitting area was a king-sized bed, a length of gauzy material draped around the metal canopy frame like a set from The Sheik.

  “Wow, it’s like a fairy tale!” With that breathy exclamation, I showed myself for the star-struck plebian I really was.

  The clerk didn’t seem to mind. He smiled as if my delight made him truly happy. “Yes, this suite is one of the most charming rooms in its category. You’re very lucky.”

  Our eyes locked. I felt a sexual twang between my legs.

  Still smiling, he said, “Do let me know if I can do anything else for you. Our entire staff is at your service.”

  Only then did it occur to me to wonder
if I was supposed to tip him. I had plenty of cash on me, but BRENDAN SOMMERS—I thought to check his name tag for the first time—was no bellboy. He’d merit at least a twenty if not more, but then paying him seemed somehow indecent. Or was it just my sudden urge to request an immediate and very special service involving his brawny body and that great big bed?

  “I’m fine, thank you, Brendan. Thank you very much for the tour.”

  If he’d hesitated, I would have gone for my wallet, but he nodded, turned gracefully on his heel and disappeared.

  I fell back on the sofa and finally let my mouth gape open, as it had been threatening to do for the past ten minutes. I felt like I was in a major motion picture myself and yet watching one, too, because I couldn’t keep my eyes off of that mesmerizing bed. It was probably no accident that it was set above the rest of the room like a stage. In spite of the executive desk and the comfy sofa and chairs, this room obviously was made for one purpose only: wild, sweaty and very passionate sex.

  The problem was, short of calling back adorable Brendan to do the honors, the only other eligible candidate for a Beverly Hills Hotel fuckfest was back in San Francisco all tied up in important client meetings. My husband, Will, had originally planned to accompany me here for my reading at Book Soup, especially after my sister offered to come out for the event and put us up at her West Coast pied-à-terre. But a suddenly convened meeting with a demanding client scuttled our L.A. getaway. I consoled myself that I’d have a chance for quality time with my sister.

  The problem was, all I wanted to do now was loll about on that luscious bed—and not with a sibling.

  I grabbed a pear from the fruit basket and took a bite of the yielding flesh, my gaze still fixed on the stage set before me. My sister had told me that the Beverly Hills Hotel was second only to the Chateau Marmont as a favorite assignation palace for Hollywood’s many adulterers. While the real movers and shakers would surely spring for a fourth-floor suite, a minor producer or supporting-actor type had probably seen fit to blow a thousand on an afternoon’s delight in this romantic boudoir.

  Maybe it was a trick of the dusky light, but as I continued to stare, the ivory-colored quilt seemed to swell up, up into a mound, bunched just a little higher at midpoint. With a little more squinting, the shape resolved into two bodies, male and female, hips moving rhythmically, up and down. The sound of heavy breathing filled my ears, joined by a low feminine moan and the rustle of five-hundred-thread-count cotton sheets as the ghostly couple undulated on the broad mattress.

  My cunt muscles clenched almost to the point of pain.

  But it wasn’t the pleasure of the starlet and her producer that filled me with such longing. What twisted my pussy into a throbbing knot of lust was the thought of what could—and would—happen on that bed if Will were here with me.

  We always seemed to have extrahot sex in hotel rooms, with a special hit of shacking-up naughtiness in the budget places with the lumpy mattresses, threadbare towels and shrink-wrapped plastic cups. Whenever I could, though, I booked us rooms in rustic country inns or charming bed-and-breakfasts, because over the past seven years I’d learned an interesting fact about my husband. The bigger the bed, the better the sex, as if a grander canvas inspired him to new erotic heights.

  In fact, I could plot out a timeline of red-letter days in our sex life based on the size and luxury of our rent-by-the-night beds.

  It wasn’t the first time we’d done it in broad daylight, when we played on the mahogany canopy bed in the plantation hotel outside of New Orleans. It was, however, the first time Will had celebrated my nude body so lovingly, undressing me slowly, stretching my limbs across the wide mattress so that I was totally vulnerable and exposed. As I stared up into the rose satin sky above me, I felt tied to the bed and to him—a purely voluntary bondage. “Keep your eyes open,” he whispered as he stroked first my shoulders then the sensitive flesh of my inner arms, moving on to circle my breasts lightly with his fingertips then flick my throbbing nipples with his thumbs. Scooting down between my legs, he gazed at my secret place with such admiration and pleasure, my heart ached. “So beautiful,” he said, “like a satin flower.” I almost came from the heat of his gaze alone, so I was more than ready when he took me, pushing my knees up so he could go in deep. All the while he stared deep into my eyes, penetrating me that way, too, and when I came I felt like I was melting into him, body, mind and soul.

  The Victorian bed-and-breakfast in Mendocino had a beautiful four-poster, and this time Will did tie my wrists to the thick posts with my panty hose. Then he sat at the edge of the bed and looked at me for a long time, his lips curved into a sly smile. I finally asked him what he planned to do next. “You tell me,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.” He wouldn’t do anything unless I spelled it out in shameless detail. Where I wanted him to touch me and with what—fingers, tongue or cock? I had to tell him how hard and how fast, too, and if I ever stopped talking, he’d stop, leaving me panting with frustration. At first I was shy, but soon enough I got so carried away I asked him to do things I’d dreamed of but never had the nerve to ask for: lube his cock in my drooling mouth then slide it between my breasts, stick one finger in my cunt and one in my ass for a two-pronged finger fuck. The slippery power play of it turned us both on, with Will ordering me to order him. When I finally came around his cock, his finger still jammed up my backside, I thought my chest was going to explode, but I still managed to dutifully inform my “slave” of my climax with a babbling string of obscenities.

  The Stratford-on-Avon-style inn in Victoria, British Columbia, saw our most athletic sex, perhaps because the bed was so damned large. This time Will played no mind games, he just fucked me, sometimes slow and gentle, sometimes pounding into me like a piston. We rolled around on the mattress in every possible position—missionary with my legs trapped between his was the surprise favorite—leaving not a corner untouched by our sweat-drenched bodies. Finally he took me doggy-style, his fingers tugging on my well-sucked, pleasantly sore nipples. We both came at exactly the same time, my body swaying, lifting high above the mattress as if I were suspended in air. And I thought only Superman could fly.

  After that day, we had a name for what we did: Big-Bed Sex.

  And here, in tantalizing 3-D reality, was one hell of a big bed.

  If Will couldn’t be here, I figured at least I owed him a glimpse of what could have been, which might at least inspire him to some memorable welcome-home fucking tomorrow night. Aiming my BlackBerry at the alcove, I snapped a picture of the Arabian love nest. I took another of the Jacuzzi, realizing only then that the scalloped satin curtain over the tub bore a startling resemblance to a moist, pink vulva. Giggling as I imagined his face when he checked his email during a break, I sent both attachments with the simple subject line BBS. No explanation, not even a Wish you were here ;-).

  My husband would know exactly what I was saying.

  My reading that night went well. Naturally, a biography of unsung women screenwriters of the 1930s and 1940s would be enthusiastically received in this part of the world. Afterward, my sister and I took a few of my college friends who’d come to the reading out to supper at the Polo Lounge. I passed on the thirty-eight-dollar Wagyu beef hamburger in favor of a Caesar salad and a glass of pinot noir. The food was at best mediocre, but I had to admire the complacent self-confidence of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Obviously what was good enough for Marilyn Monroe in 1960 was good enough for the less-than-stellar guests of today.

  For most of the evening, I was too busy enjoying myself to dwell on the lonely night ahead. That is, until I slipped my card key in the lock and opened the door of my junior suite. Again I felt as if I’d stepped into a wonderland. The whole room was cast in golden shadow from the desk lamp and the even softer glow of the Japanese lantern beside the bed, all achingly romantic. Obviously the turndown service maid had been informed the room was occupied by a single guest tonight. The sheet, folded down on the left side of the
bed only, was meant to be inviting, but instead just reminded me I was alone.

  I tasted one of the bite-sized cookies set out on the porcelain plate on the nightstand—cinnamon pecan coins that melted like butter on my tongue. At least my mouth would get a hit of pleasure here tonight.

  I decided to try calling Will one last time to say good night. To my annoyance, he hadn’t replied to my email or responded to the two voice mail messages I left before and after the reading. He was probably busy with the meeting and then dinner with the client, but I was still hurt he hadn’t bothered to check in at all. And—the thought occurred to me—if I’d inspired him with those photos, a little “big-bed” phone sex might not be a bad way to make the best of our situation.

  Again the call went to his message box.

  I hung up, cursing him under my breath. Polishing off the rest of the cookies in a huff, I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face. I decided to wear the soft terry-cloth robe to bed and discovered that it rubbed my naked flesh in a very beguiling way. Then I got the idea to masturbate myself to sleep with a superhot fantasy starring a willing Brendan who would service my every depraved desire.

  Will deserved it for being such a workaholic prick.

  I was just crawling into bed to get it on with Brendan when I heard the knock at the door. I expected it was my sister, stopping by with a book she’d brought for me from New York. I padded over to the entryway. There was always time to diddle myself later.