While mapping out writing projects for the next three months, I realized that I’ve inadvertently scheduled the completion of my first novel for mid-November, which just so happens to be NaNoRiMo or National Novel Writing Month. Granted, I started working on it back in March, but that’s beside the point. It’ll be nice to finish it in the midst of all that collective enthusiasm.
I began a flash fiction piece yesterday that has blossomed (or bloated?) into a short story. Technically, I’m supposed to be working on my next Frisky Feminist Press anthology submission, but when inspiration strikes, I like to indulge. Once this piece is finished, I’ll add it to my Free Erotic Stories page and post an announcement.
For now, enjoy a sneak peek of the story that’s currently burning a hole through my brain. ♥
He shakes his head. “You were nothing like I expected.”
“Oh? What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. But whatever those expectations were, you’ve surpassed them.”
“Then they must’ve been set pretty low because I’m kind of an asshole.”
“Yeah, but I like that about you. You don’t take anyone’s bullshit.”
“Except my family’s.”
“That comes with the territory.”
I nod. Oakley hands me the bottle and our fingers touch. Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“You’re still quick to blush, though. That hasn’t changed.”
“Shut up.” I smirk, swigging Pinot Grigio.
“I’ll admit to being a bit taken aback by your brashness.”
“You mean when I grabbed your junk on the ride home?”
“Yeah, that.” He grins.
The wine warms my belly and softens my mood. I’m coaxed back to that night in the backseat of Oakley’s car: our breath fogging the windows; his long, sinewy fingers sliding down the front of my shorts to stroke my clit; the smell of sweat and sex permeating the cramped space as we crash into one another, my insides convulsing around him.
My pussy tightens. I swallow. He swallows.
Oakley sets the almost empty wine bottle aside and comes to sit beside me. He stares at my mouth, his breathing heavier than before. I reach back and grip the edge of the couch, lifting myself onto the overstuffed cushion. He follows.
I lick my lips. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He cups my face in his palm, stroking me with his thumb.
I lean forward and touch my forehead to his. Our eyes close as we linger in this brief period of closeness, before lips and tongues and genitals touch. I lay my palm on his knee and slide it towards his groin. Oakley’s breath hitches.
Our lips graze one another and fuse. He’s cautious; his mouth brushes mine as though each kiss were a question, but as my palm settles over his swollen groin, a low rumble escapes his throat. Oakley’s mouth becomes insistent, his lips parting to allow his tongue to wet my lips, to slip between them and coax mine to come out and make friends.
I squeeze Oakley’s cock through his black dress pants. He groans. With my free hand, I tug my skirt up above my thighs and grasp his palm, lowering it onto my upper thigh. He slides his fingers towards my panties and moans as he makes contact with the damp fabric. I spread my legs wider. He massages my pussy through the thin material and my clit aches for him to press harder.
Pushing his palm against me, I bite his lower lip. “I need your fingers.”