Best Women's Erotica of the Year, Volume 1 Read online

  “Please,” I say because I don’t know how to say anything else. I’m gasping and clutching at the cushion.

  “Please what.” He’s going to come soon, I can tell by his thick voice.

  “I want to—I want to see you…” Despite being naked and fucked and utterly at his mercy, I can’t say it. But Theo understands. He withdraws and flips me onto my back, dress still around my waist, and rams me again and again while I gaze up at him in his disheveled, panting glory. And then it’s happening again. My skin fills with glorious white-hot light, and I scream as I begin coming in violent waves with his cock still fucking me.

  Only as those waves lessen does he let go with a long groan and reach his end inside me. He falls on top of me immediately after.

  “There’s no hurry,” he murmurs, snuggling into me. Both of us are damp and hot. “Let him keep driving.”

  Soon I’ll adjust my corset, secure my hair. I’ll bid Theo goodnight as if he’s any gentleman escorting me home from the ballet, and I’ll go into my quiet home and up to bed. He will—if not tomorrow, soon—move on from New York with Madame Morgana and their séance theatre. But I won’t return to life as usual. A new century is dawning, and I’m going to rise like the sun.

  OPHELIA THE SECOND

  by Jade A. Waters

  Hamlet had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.

  It was almost as if our casting director had chosen him for those eyes alone. Brooding, dark and mesmerizing, they were half the magic of his performance. Night after night he stunned full houses with that penetrating gaze, capturing the essence of his character until his terrible, tragic end.

  His performance itself was magical, too, but I was so far past this after years of watching Philip act. Instead, I was lost in his tormented expression as he lamented and soliloquized to the darkened house, the tiniest beads of sweat forming along his temples under the burning stage lights. He practiced with me backstage, but often I hovered in the wings, silently admiring his movements. I’d memorized his lines, and I mouthed them as he spoke them. I knew everything he did by heart, really—the way he extended his right arm here, held his left fist aloft for emphasis there and stomped his foot to draw a gasp from the audience in the middle of his first monologue. It was like he’d lived his whole life to play this role. Despite the stark contrast in their personalities, Philip was Hamlet, and it was those eyes of his that linked them, not as windows to his soul, but to the character he’d captured straight from the tattered pages of his script.

  But this is how I felt about Ophelia and me—she was sweet and tender, a lost girl who died without love at every performance. Each night as I caressed the curtains, watching Philip’s glorious movements across the stage, I knew this in my heart.

  Ophelia, deep down, was me.

  Still, the reality was that Ophelia never got to have her love. She yearned, she obsessed, she went mad.

  And then she fell out of a damn tree and died.

  This is what preoccupied me as Philip opened the passenger-side door for me. He ran his fingers through his rich, wavy hair, and then reached out for my hand.

  “Well? You coming?”

  I tried to calm the thump in my chest, just like I always did when we got together outside of Esquire. I’d had a crush on him since I joined the community theater, but he’d been dating Tammy. Ever since, everything there seemed to be about Tammy. Tammy the star. Tammy the diva.

  Tammy, otherwise known as Ophelia.

  Tonight we’d ended up at Philip’s apartment. Somehow, I—Ophelia the Second—was walking up to his front door, watching his ass as he led me up the stairs. He’d changed plans en route to the bar, suggesting we go back to his place to drink bourbon and run lines—as if he needed practice. As if I would ever play the role of someone I longed to be.

  Tammy had been playing Ophelia for four months, and she reminded me every night that this was her role and I would never need to worry about taking over. I was merely the understudy: Ophelia the Second, Ophelia the Lesser. It was Tammy’s name that was printed on every program and across all the theater boards. She was Tammy Danes, community darling, headlining act and the lead actress in each play the Esquire Theatre had produced in the last five years.

  She was also Philip’s ex-girlfriend.

  Oh, we’d seen their drama everywhere—in the green room, in the parking lot, even on stage in rehearsals. It had been two years since their breakup, and while Philip kept himself tempered and humbled without needing Robert, our director, to remind them to knock it off, Tammy regularly made a scene. I knew the grief she caused him because he vented to me, his eyes bleeding the same tortured pain as Hamlet’s while he told me he wanted to escape her endless barbs and bitter commentary, and be with someone who loved like he did.

  Philip opened the door to his house, pausing beneath the porch light to grin at me. When I smiled back, he brushed his hand along my cheek.

  “Have I ever told you that you have the cutest smile, kid?”

  Philip guided me inside before I could speak. I don’t know what I would have said if I hadn’t felt the sudden glue of my tongue to the roof of my mouth, either. There was no point in getting carried away with my thoughts of Philip. I’d hoped that becoming better friends with him would get me over my crush, but instead I felt like the theater girl of my early college years, swooning over another cast member in unrequited love.

  It was ridiculous, really. Just as ridiculous as hoping Tammy would get laryngitis and I might finally have a night to be the real Ophelia.

  Philip shut the door behind us and headed into his kitchen. His house was exactly what I’d expected, modern and tidy, with acting awards lining one of the shelves of a bookcase filled with scripts and plays. His husky rubbed against my leg as Philip poured my drink, and when I sat down on the couch, the pup curled beside my feet. I patted his head until Philip took a seat next to me, extending my glass with a wink.

  “We always end up on a couch together, have you noticed?”

  I laughed, trying to ignore the delicious smell of his postshow sweat, and the way the couch dipped under his sturdy, muscular body, almost pulling me into his side. He’d changed after curtain into jeans and a button-up shirt with the fanciest of shoes, and he looked even more impressive in his modern garb than he did in his lace-up leather doublet and boots.

  “Guess so,” I said.

  I sipped the bourbon. It was hot going down, warming me more than I already was sitting in Philip’s apartment with him staring at me with those heavy Hamlet eyes. I attempted to ignore the fight of my heart. I was usually strong enough to resist these terribly silly impulses around him, but it was impossible not to want him, not to imagine Hamlet speaking to me, or Philip taking my hand, pining for my love like his character did later on for Ophelia.

  I suddenly felt like her—a naïve girl caught in the throes of some wild vision. It wasn’t madness, though it felt like it as he surveyed me.

  “Good show tonight, huh?” I asked, needing yet again to get out of my head.

  “Yeah. Tammy was on fire.”

  I propped my elbow on the back of the couch and frowned. He knew I didn’t want to hear about Tammy or her wonderful efforts playing Ophelia—I’d confessed it over brews a month ago when he took me out to celebrate a five-star review from one of the most critical journalists in the business. For some reason, Philip had been more surprised at the review than my frustrated comments with Tammy’s rude backstage behavior.

  “But it makes sense—whenever she’s a maniac off stage, she’s prepped for the role.”

  I snickered, a loose spiral of my hair falling in my face. Philip caught it in his fingers and brushed it back, and I stared at him, surprised.

  “We should have been on stage together,” he murmured.

  I shrugged.

  “Robert’s going to come around, Nat. Hopefully with the next show. You’ve got the talent.”

  “You’re sweet,” I said. I took another swallow of my dr
ink and placed the glass on his coffee table. Philip caught my hand.

  “I saw you in the wings tonight.”

  I froze. I’d been subtle, and he’d been so into his role I couldn’t imagine how he’d seen me.

  “You know I see you there, right? Mouthing the lines, both mine and Ophelia’s.”

  He clasped my hand in his and a fire sparked deep in my belly. Had the bourbon gone to his head?

  Had it gone to mine?

  “I’m convinced my best moments on stage are with you watching.”

  “That’s silly,” I said, but Philip nodded enthusiastically.

  “You should have been Ophelia. You’re perfect for the part. Your hair, your face. Everything about you, Nat—so charming and lovely.”

  I trembled in his grasp. Like Ophelia, I had to be going mad. Philip brushed back my curls, lifting the hair on the nape of my neck.

  “Let’s run lines for you.”

  “Why? Tammy is Ophelia, and she’s never going to miss a performance. Remember?”

  “Tammy is a terrible Ophelia. And one night, she will.” He tapped my nose. “Come on. Let’s practice.”

  “I need a script.”

  “No you don’t,” he said. He shoved back the table and crawled to his knees, ushering his husky off to his bed along the wall.

  And then he started running lines, beginning with Act III, Scene 1, right when Ophelia meets Hamlet. He said his first line seriously, as if we were actually on stage, and I shook my head at him.

  “You’re crazy.”

  Philip frowned. “I’m trying to prove a point. You’re an actress, let’s go. Play along.”

  I’d been on the stage many times. I’d graduated with a theater degree, after all, but my parts at Esquire had been minimal, with Tammy being the star she was. Sometimes, her rants backstage and constant insults made it easy to forget that I was once a big part of productions, too.

  “Well?” Philip nudged my leg and took my hand again, and I tried to ignore the peal of my heart.

  “Fine,” I said.

  We ran through this scene, Philip’s hand clasped around my shaking fingers the entire time. He was theatrical and gorgeous, his brow furrowing and his nostrils flaring at all the appropriate moments. When he peered into my face, I witnessed the same brooding depth he cast over the audience each night, except this time, it was directed at me.

  This time, he was Hamlet—and I was Ophelia.

  It was easy to fall into the part. I knew the lines, and he was brilliant, drawing emotion and depth into my voice that I never could when I practiced on my own in my apartment. Not without someone acting against me, getting as into the role as he did. He was magnificent. When we finished the scene, he stroked his fingertips across my palm with an encouraging nod. Then his lips turned up to form the incredibly charming grin the audience never got to see.

  “Lady, shall I lie in your lap?”

  I giggled. “Okay, I get it. Great scene. We can stop, though, I know the lines.”

  “See,” he said. “You are the perfect Ophelia.”

  I rolled my eyes and Philip leaned closer, the movement catching my breath in my throat. Both of us were quiet as he crouched on the carpet. For some reason, the way he’d touched my cheek at his front door crossed my mind. Then the way he’d grinned at me at intermission, and all the times we’d hung out backstage when he’d told me he loved talking to me. My pulse raced a little quicker.

  Had I missed something in my Ophelia obsession?

  Philip curved his hands around my knees, increasing the pace of my heartbeat.

  “And what a fair thought to lie between this maid’s legs.”

  “That’s not the line,” I whispered. The look on his face was different—not Hamlet. Not Philip. It was sweet and smitten, like the one I’d seen him wear as Romeo last year. I swallowed the lump in my throat as he inched his mouth closer to mine.

  “You’re right. It’s not.”

  I’d never seen him more handsome.

  “You’re perfect, Nat.”

  This had to be a dream—an Ophelia-inspired daydream that I had somehow wandered into.

  But then Philip kissed me.

  His lips, like his hands, were soft on my skin, and I surrendered to the press of his mouth. When I parted my lips, the tip of his tongue grazed mine and sent tingles down my spine. I opened wider, letting him in, and then we were kissing with all the passion I imagined Ophelia would have shared with Hamlet if she’d had the chance.

  “God, I’ve wanted to kiss you for months,” he whispered between kisses.

  I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Philip climbed onto the couch, taking me into his arms.

  “But more, I’ve wanted to be alone with you. Really alone with you, Nat—no drama, no Esquire chaos…”

  His kiss was fast to my lips as he guided me back against the armrest. I trembled as his hands roamed my sides, then my breasts, caressing me like I’d dreamed of more than I’d ever dreamed of being Ophelia. When Philip caught the hem of my shirt, I flashed him an eager smile.

  He drew it over my head and traced his fingers across my belly, then my bra, his dark, Hamlet eyes poring over me. My pussy flooded with heat, and I shivered with the depth of his gaze. He looked as serious as he did on stage, except happier and more lustful. I grabbed at his shirt and unbuttoned it down to his waist, the sweetest whiff of him filling my nose as I exposed more of his skin. When Philip shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, he stunned me with the chest I’d seen so many times backstage—but this time naked with me. He lay over my body, slipping his hands beneath my torso and unclasping my bra, then sucked my nipple into his mouth until I moaned.

  “You’re lovely,” he said, palming my other breast. “A beautiful, modern Ophelia.”

  I closed my eyes, escorted into his vision of me while he kissed my skin, then unfastened my jeans. My heart drummed as he tugged at them, urging me to lift my hips so he could pull them off and to the floor. When he dipped his face between my thighs I gasped at the hot air he blew through the lace of my panties. Philip breathed against me for an eternity, enticing me with slow teases of his tongue as I pawed at his head. Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my panties and looked up at me.

  “May I lie between your legs, Nat?”

  I whimpered in encouragement, my blood swishing in my ears as Philip eased the panties down my thighs, then off over my feet. His tongue was quick to my sex, circling my clit and lapping at my slick folds as he glided his hands over my belly and across my breasts. I bucked up against him, the effort of his mouth driving me to the precipice of ecstasy and drawing wild sighs from my throat.

  The awareness that my crush on him was real and mutual, coming to life like he did on stage, rushed into me almost as swiftly as my lust for him. I clutched at his hair and neck, delighting in his ferocity and aching to feel him inside, to consummate this play between us. “Philip, please,” I cried.

  Philip groaned, then stood. He peeled down the last of his clothes, and I pressed my fingertips over my mouth. I’d seen him in his briefs on occasion backstage, but it was nothing like this—his body shadowed with the dim glow of his kitchen light and his cock swollen and thick, exposed to me. He stepped out of the pile of clothes at his feet, his body gorgeous and firm as he crouched at my hip.

  “Are you sure?”

  I gripped his thigh with a whisper.

  “Oh yes.”

  Swiftly, Philip fished his wallet from his slacks and withdrew a condom. He sheathed himself and crawled onto the couch, his knee rubbing against my cunt, making me roll my hips in desperation. I curved my fingertips around his shoulders to steer him closer, and Philip guided the head of his cock to my wetness.

  “Be my Ophelia,” he said.

  “Yes.” I curled my arms around him, lost in this role we were playing. I was Ophelia to his Hamlet, Nat to his Philip. He pushed forward, anchoring the tip of his length inside me and sending spasms through my walls. “God, yes, yes, yes.”


  Philip thrust hard then, sinking all the way into me with a groan. His lips fell to mine as he groped at my sides, then swooped his hands beneath me to clutch my back. His strokes were long and deep, filling me as if he’d craved me, needed me. Like it wasn’t me aching to be with him on stage, but him aching for me to be there, acting alongside him in the love affair that had never had a chance to be.

  “You feel amazing,” he said. He slid his hand between our hips, massaging my clit with the pads of his fingers as he kissed me. The heat spilled from my folds and throughout my body, a surge of passion that rocked my core.

  “Philip!” I moaned. He thrust into me, again and again, his lips heavy on mine until I cried out in ecstasy, clawing at his back as he rode the convulsions within me. His broad chest smothered me as he sank all the way in, and then he was grunting and panting, crying my name.

  “Nat…Ophelia…God damn, yes.”

  Crying Ophelia’s name.

  We lay there for several minutes, silent and gasping. My lips were tight against his chest, and he’d buried his mouth in my hair. When his length slowly retreated from inside me, Philip leaned back.

  “I always wondered what would have happened if Hamlet got his Ophelia,” he said.

  I giggled, the contractions of my inner muscles forcing him out. Philip didn’t shift away, peering down at me with his beautiful eyes.

  “Me too.”

  He lifted his hand to my face, tenderly running his fingertip along my cheek and curling a strand of my hair around his finger. “I think, if she’d lived, he would never have let her go.”

  He kissed me as we lay there, and I wrapped my arms around his waist, delighting in his touch.

  For now, the role of Ophelia the Second would do just fine.

  REVISITING YOUTH

  by J. Crichton and H. Keyes

  Aya went out that night looking to feel. She had a glass of wine before she even started out, then put on her slinkiest black dress and headed into the glittering lights with all of her covered up in an unassuming trench coat. The streets of Tokyo were no place for a woman on the prowl; she’d learned after years of practice that going directly after what you wanted just wasn’t done.