Stolen Moments Read online

  I pressed the shutter switch, grateful that I had spent extra money on a camera that promised silence for moments when I wanted to capture shots of shy, elusive creatures. The bright light of the flash abruptly filled the room, and although I was quiet as I got down off my perch and rushed into the bathroom, I heard her shift on the bed behind me.

  Although the scent of her upon my skin left me light-headed with desire, I felt sticky. I thought that she would not fully wake until after I showered. I was mistaken. My heart sank, caved in painfully upon itself, when I came out to find that she was gone. I ran outside, mindless of the fact that I was naked and dripping wet from the shower. She was nowhere to be found.

  I went back inside and dropped down onto the bed that still smelled of her. I felt a hungry ache eating at me as I stared at the open phone book lying where she had left it. The brightly colored page touted ads for quick taxi services.

  I sat for several minutes, feeling dejected beyond belief that I had let her slip away, before I thought of downloading her image from my camera. I hooked up my computer and felt everything inside of me dissolve into warm liquid as the screen filled with the greatest, most unsurpassed photograph that I have ever taken in my life. As I said before, my girl was flawless, a rare creation of feminine perfection.

  I sat in front of my monitor for hours, reliving every moment that we were together. When I finally began cleaning up the aftermath of our lovemaking, I eventually found something that cut through the cloak of pain that enshrined me. One of my prints was missing. As badly as I hurt, I smiled, glad that she had something of mine with her.

  I also felt a niggling of hope. A small gold label that included my name, address and professional credentials was firmly attached to the back of the image she had taken, an image of fireworks exploding over Atlanta.

  Any Morning

  Karin Kallmaker

  With your body next to me in our bed, I surrender to sleep every night. My mind goes limp. My dreams wander whichever way they will. You burrow into me some nights and I don’t feel you there, not when I am deep in the arms of sleep.

  Every morning, when I wake, my mind climbs to a level of bare alertness. Are you there with me? Yes. Are you asleep? Can’t tell. My body stays asleep, still in surrender to the warmth of the bed.

  It was the very first morning we woke up together that you discovered I could respond to you and yet remain in that sleep-puddle state. That very first morning you whispered in my ear, “You don’t have to wake up. At least not much.”

  You like my body in surrender. Sometimes, when our fire is sizzling hot, you enforce my surrender with soft but effective accessories. But in the morning there is no need for anything more than your voice and the firm command of your hands to transfer me from sleep to your possession.

  The sheets rustle and I know you are there. I am not awake when your arm slides across my back and your hair tickles my shoulder blades. Not awake a few minutes later when you stir again and your hand wanders the length of my spine to explore the curve of my ass.

  If I weren’t asleep I’d purr. Your hands are treated with some kind of magic spell, because wherever you touch me I want to dissolve. My body stays still, relaxed, but I can feel my heartbeat start to increase.

  I don’t know what time it is. I don’t care. It might be Saturday, but it could be any morning. My skin is in rapture as your hand glides over me, and if I weren’t asleep, I’d moan when your lips press to the nape of my neck.

  Oh, you’re naked. I can tell that now. Your arm coils around my ribs and with one fingertip you find my nipple that’s barely free of the sheets. Such a gentle touch you have, at least for now. Your fingertip toys lightly and it’s a purely physical response for my nipple to harden. I’m not awake and my breathing isn’t increasing to match my heartbeat. I’m still in complete surrender to sleep.

  Your fingers travel back and forth between my nipples while your naked body presses against my back. Another kiss to the nape of my neck might draw a shiver from me when I’m more alert, but not right now—I’m asleep.

  Your hand is abruptly gone. Your body rolls away from mine. I can’t help it. I’m awake enough to moan.

  “Oh, so you might be not quite asleep?”

  “Maybe,” I mumble into the pillow.

  Your fingers come back and they are no longer gentle. A sharp tug draws a hoarse response from me and I shudder with a wave of arousal as your warm, firm breasts press hard into my back. In that moment I shift from the surrender of sleep to the surrender I have always felt in your arms. I am yours, yours to enjoy, yours to pleasure, yours to love. The transition is lightning-quick and dusts my arms and thighs with gooseflesh.

  “Get on your tummy.”

  I have barely complied when your body is fully atop mine, pressing me down into the bed. You coil my hands around the headboard frame, and I moan. This morning, like many, you want me this way.

  “Don’t let go.” Your voice is husky with want and I hear your breath catch as your hands roam the taut muscles of my shoulders and back. Your hips are moving against my ass and, oh, the sensation brings back so many memories of so many evenings in your arms.

  “Up on your knees, spread them wide. Show me—oh yes, show me that beautiful cunt of yours.”

  I can use my elbows for balance without letting go of the headboard, and the position—my back swayed, hips higher than my head—is vulnerable. I feel cool air between my legs as you settle a towel below me. After a pause, you kneel between my spread knees, then both sets of fingers slip through the folds of my cunt, spreading warm, silky lubricant over every inch of me until I am slippery and moaning hot.

  You’re quiet for a moment and I slowly draw in my breath. When you want me this way I know what you’re going to do, and in that still moment the anticipation of it brings a flood of my own to mingle with the lube.

  The heat of your body draping over me draws a moan of pure pleasure from me. Your slick fingers return to my nipples with a sharp squeeze. My moan sharpens, lengthens.

  “Awake now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this what you want?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Please, what?”

  “Please make me yours.”

  “Mine,” you whisper softly. Your voice is laden with tenderness and love for me. “Mine.”

  I close my eyes so I can focus on my body responding to you. I quell the shudder that runs through me as you firmly grasp one nipple while your other hand finds my aching clit. Two fingers close around it and then you squeeze my nipple and clit with the same relentless pressure.

  Nerves send equal messages of ecstasy and fire across my body. I gasp and arch as you play with me, reveling in the sensation of your touch.

  “Don’t come yet,” you order. “You know what I want.”

  Struggling for words, I can only nod frantically. The pressure on my clit with my knees so far apart, my cunt so exposed, creates an empty ache inside me. I want to be filled and yet you’re nowhere near my opening. The longer you play with my clit, the more I want you inside.

  You play my body until I can think of nothing but you fucking me. You turn me on so you can put out the fire, pleasing us both.

  “I love touching you,” you admit softly. “I love every inch of you.” I feel the hot, wet reality of your cunt on my calf. There is never any doubt in my mind that you are not dispassionately servicing your woman. I am not an object to be used, nor a piece of flesh to be consumed. You are deeply involved in my pleasure and it sparks your own. I could even describe everything we are doing now as prologue, foreplay, because when we are done your need will be as intense as mine is at this moment. “I’m going to enjoy every bit of you. Do not let go.”

  Abruptly the warm weight of you is gone and my hips convulse, trying to find you again. My nipples are sore against the sheets, sending prickles of sensation straight to my clit, which throbs in response.

  “Spread your knees more. Yes, oh yes, lik
e that.” One finger teases just at my opening. “Wet,” you purr. “You’re very wet now.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Please?”

  “Take what you want,” I say between gritted teeth. “What we both wa—oh yes.”

  Four fingers fill me and I am stretched, tight, but I know you won’t stop, and we both know what we can do together. You take me, completely, with your thumb tucked tight. I cry out but I can still hear your earthy groan.

  I want to let go, wrap my head in my arms and let the feeling of my full cunt overwhelm me to the point of tears. Sometimes you let me do that, let me slip deep into a place of pure feeling. Not today. Today I must hold on and stay with you.

  “That is so hot, so unbelievably hot, watching my hand go into you. I can never get enough of it.” I feel your other hand on the small of my back, holding me still. “Let’s do it again.”

  “No, stay in me,” I plead but you’ve already removed your hand as I shudder.

  Bracing my knees, gripping the headboard, I arch up to meet your thrust and take you inside with a rising cry of need.

  “Don’t let go or I’ll stop,” you say sharply, and I realize I was about to.

  “I won’t. Please don’t stop.” I want it so badly now. My inner muscles are trying to convulse with pleasure, and my G-spot feels enormous, as if your entire hand can’t cover it all.

  “Fuck my hand. That’s what you want.”

  Holding tight to the headboard, I shove myself as far down onto your arm as I can go. Mornings I can be so receptive and wild, wet, dripping. This morning is no exception, and the feeling of my wet trickling down my thighs makes me even crazier.

  “That’s right, that’s right,” you coo. “So beautiful, the way you grab my hand. That’s right…fuck yourself.”

  “I am,” I groan out. I am reaching the point of abandon and I feel again your wet cunt on my leg. I want to ravage you now, want to bury my face between your legs and feast. And I want to fuck you, fuck you until you feel like I do now, free to take it, love it, feel it.

  “So beautiful,” you say again. Your hand on my back is gentle and steadying now. You love me and you are helping me feel so good. The tenderness in your voice brings tears to my eyes. “Come when you want to. Come when you can’t stand it anymore.”

  It feels so good that I don’t want to come, but your hand leaves my back to toy with my clit. Short, gentle pulls, flicks with your fingertips, circles, and direct, firm touches—I am jerking at your every touch, pushing down on your fist. It’s too much to hold inside, all the feelings of love and surrender and lust. I scream, at least I think I do, and I am gushing around your fist, squeezing it so tight I would worry that I am going to break it—that is, if I could think beyond the spasms that start high inside me and pour down my entire body. The ecstasy leaves me, drenches the towel, your legs, your arm, and I push your hand out with a cry that leaves me hoarse.

  You pull me back onto my haunches, breaking my grip on the headboard. Wrapping my shuddering body tight in your arms, you anchor me hard to your thighs. You squeeze my clit again with your agile, clever fingertips and say fiercely in my ear, “Come again. Right now.”

  My surrender to your desire washes over me. It’s what I revel in, what you crave. I coat your thighs, screaming for breath, giving you what you’ve asked for, what you’ve drawn from me with your voice and the firm command of your hands.

  Limp, I am falling back to the bed. Falling into your embrace. Falling forever and always under your spell. A half laugh escapes me as the pillows greet me again.

  “Not bad,” you say, your body as limp as mine as you stretch out next to me.

  “Damned good,” I murmur, willing to transfer my surrender back to sleep. Sleep wants me, right then, and it is ordering my eyes to close.

  You are suddenly close to me, the wonderful smell of you, warm and loving. Gathering me into your arms, you tip my head back for a slow, lazy kiss. “I’m not done with you.”

  I swallow, hard. Sleep can wait.

  Lunch Break

  Saskia Walker

  “What can I get you?”

  I glanced up from my pocket mirror, and when I saw the attractive waitress who watched and waited, I was so startled I dropped my lipstick. Her gaze was direct, fearless, and powerfully sexual. My body responded instantly, my pulse rate rising.

  “Coffee, please, and a club sandwich.” I scrabbled for the lipstick. Her eyes never left mine, but she reached down and shifted the ashtray, nudging the lipstick back in my direction.

  “Oh, I just bet you take your coffee sweet and strong,” she whispered, low.

  “Yes,” I replied, mesmerized. “I do.”

  She gave me a dazzling smile, then turned and walked away, her hips cutting a rhythmic path through the low-slung tables and chairs in the sedate lounge bar. I sat back and watched, my fingers toying idly with the fitted jacket of my business suit, which lay abandoned over the arm of the chair. I had stopped on at Kilpatrick’s, the salubrious and rather austere London hotel, after the meeting with my client, the hotel’s publicity officer. He was sold on my advertising proposals and I was on a high. I just knew that if I had gotten behind the wheel of my Land Rover in that state, I’d have picked up another speeding ticket, so I stayed on to chill for a while. With the attention I was now getting from the waitress, it looked as if chilling wasn’t going to be an option.

  When she delivered my order she threw me another look filled with pure, raw sex appeal. She turned my cup in its saucer, facing the handle toward me. Her name badge announced that she was called Martine.

  “I’m testing out some new cocktails for the bar. Why don’t you drop by before you leave, and I’ll give you a taste of something good.” She winked. Well, that was direct. I felt the tug of the woman’s invitation from the pit of my stomach to the tip of my clit.

  “Thanks, I’ll do that, Martine.”

  I mustered a nonchalant smile, my fingers ruffling through my short, cherry-dyed crop, and watched as she walked away, her hips skirting obstacles. She knew that I watched. She stretched her legs back as she bent over the tables, the scalloped edge of her black skirt brushing, so tantalizingly, high against the back of her thighs, offering a glimpse of what appeared to be stocking tops. Her body was lush and curvy, her mouth a ruby pout. She cast sidelong glances back to me, her finger flicking quickly against the corners of her bow tie before smoothing slowly over her fitted waistcoat.

  I barely touched the sandwich; my appetite had been redirected toward the waitress. I had never been approached by a woman as forthright and blatant as her before—or as glamorous. It was one of those rare encounters when fizzing chemistry instantly anchors two people together. The situation made me very hot, but could I act on it? I was supposed to be in work mode. What the hell. Of course I could act on it!

  Martine smiled and her eyes flashed a welcome from under heavy eyelashes when I climbed onto the bar stool in front of her. She was a total sex bomb, with thickly fringed, dark brown eyes and blue-black hair clipped up at the back of the head. The occasional glossy coil escaped to hang tantalizingly over her eyes, giving her subtle cover as she glanced around. There were signs of an alternative edge beneath her smart uniform. She had an electric blue streak in her hair; both her ears were fully studded, and there was evidence of a nose piercing. I liked that. I also had a streak of die-hard glam-punk that refused to conform, despite my career. Through the thin white sleeves of her shirt, I could make out her tattoos flexing as she went about her business behind the bar, rapidly shaking a cocktail mixer in such a physical way that her figure was shown off to perfection. I imagined what it would feel like to be pressed hard against her, to rub against her naked breasts and touch her between those strong thighs. Maybe we would exchange contact details. Maybe we could meet, later on. My sex was heavy with the idea of it, the sensitive flesh crushed inside my G-string plump and swollen.

  Martine set up a tall glass in front of me, gave the cock
tail mixer a final dramatic shake, and poured me out a long, tall drink over crackling ice, popping in a smart black swizzle stick. She rested two provocatively speared cherries on the edge of the glass at the last moment, then pushed it over.

  “A new recipe, please have some…and tell me what you think. Compliments of the bar.” She gave me another wink. Her accent was heavy, either French or Italian.

  I sipped the vibrant red-orange drink, looking at the waitress over the two plump cherries. Martine watched, her lips slightly open, a devilish look in her eyes. The cocktail hit the back of my throat; it was ice-cold and zappy, exhilarating, instantly making me wow. I could taste cranberry juice and other fruits, grenadine, vodka, and something else, a mystery ingredient I could not identify.

  “Mmm…what is it?”

  “It is Martine’s version of Sex On The Beach,” she replied, putting one hand on her hip and the other elbow on the bar, resting her chin on her hand as she looked directly into my eyes. “Shall we call it…Sex In My Bedroom?”

  She is definitely coming on to me. I felt a rush of heat traversing my body, from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair. Was it the effect of the cocktail or the provocative woman who had made it for me?

  “Do you think you’d like that—sex in my bedroom?” she added, her voice low.

  Wow, direct wasn’t the word! My heart was racing. I breathed deep, trying to order my thoughts. I had never had such a direct come-on. This was one express lady. What would she be like in bed?

  “I think I’d like to try it,” I replied.

  Martine’s mouth slid into another wide grin. “I’m due my lunch break.”