The Wicked Pleasures Bundle (Wicked Pleasures: Volume 1/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 2/Wicked Pleasures: Volume 3) (7 page)

Power is something we both understood.  It is not a passive thing; it doesn’t exist unless you wield it.

Now we had…we will again.  That is simply our nature, a fascination we share. 

Perfect.

REUNION

I can’t believe we are going to be face to face again.

Ten year
s is a long time to wait.  We’d kept up with each other over the years.  At first letters and emails, then Facebook, but we haven’t been in the same state let alone same city in a decade.

I’ve always had the biggest crush on him.  We’d dated a few months before graduation, went to the prom, and had sex.

Everything seemed perfect to a high school girl.

My first love and I’ve never forgotten him.

It was the best year and the best summer of my life. 

Perfect.

Then life happened.  We went to college on different sides of the country, and had found other lovers.  But we had stayed friends, and that was all that had mattered to me.

Now our ten year class reunion
is right around the corner and he is going to be there.  We have already made plans to meet…

…………………………….

Later in the
evening after all the festivities, Colt is sitting in my living room, drinking a beer as I sip on a glass of wine. 

It’s
quiet at the moment, one to savor at the end of a long day after dancing the night away.

He
takes a quick glance at me. 

Relaxing
, I slip my deliciously expensive four-inch heels off my aching feet and draw them up beneath my legs.

Watching
him considering my long, curled legs for several moments, I observe his gaze travelling slowly upward, to my face.  As I continue sipping, I know I am not as relaxed as I appear; my gaze hard and sharp, as my eyes are fixed unseeing on the rug. 

I know he’s waiting and
watching me, eventually I turn my head and look at him.  Searching his face, I arch my brows.  My message is clear. I am not going to be the one to make the first move.  When we were in high school, I had.  I was the one who flirted with him.   I was the one who had camped out near his locker in between classes.  I was the one who called.  I don’t want to be the one who takes it to the next level at our ten year high school reunion.  I have some pride.

Now, i
f he wants me, he will have to ask.  He needs to make his desire plain, lay it out.

There i
s no question that I want him.  My clit throbs just being in the same room with him. 

Raising a brow in reply, he
leans over and reaches for my hand. 
Thank, God
.  I sent up a silent prayer.

H
e got to his feet and began drawing me to him, waiting as I rose up on my toes.  I know that if he kisses me on the sofa, we might never leave it.  And I want this experience to be more comfortable then groping’s in the living room on an uncomfortable couch.

As
I straighten, his eyes lock on mine and my breath slows.   With his hold on my hand, he tugs gently, drawing me a step closer, still holding me captive with his gorgeous blue eyes.  I’ve always loved his eyes.  They are piercing and they see straight into my soul.

I do
n’t want to keep my distance.  I want to be wild and crazy tonight.  I want to take a chance and see where it leads. 

Before, I
’ve always been so eager—so damned impatient that I had wondered over the years if he had truly wanted me in high school, or if I had just made it too easy for him to say no.   But he seems to want me now.

His lips move
over my skin, hot with promise, until a heated flush now rises under it.

Lifting his
head just a little, he draws me closer still. I let my hand fall to his shoulder as his arm slides around me and he draws me in.  Against him, but I am not trapped or crushed.  I am right where I had hoped to be, wrapped in his arms. 

Bending his head again—stopping
just before our lips met.  He seems to wait a heartbeat, as if he wants me to realize his hunger.  To feel how desperately he wants me.  It matches my own desperation.  Ten years is a long time for passion to simmer.  He closes the gap and begins feeding me soft kisses.  Like gentle rain on parched ground.  He coaxes my senses to slowly unfurl.  He teases my nerves with the promise of paradise, as I part my lips on a sigh.

He doesn’t enter, instead dra
ws back.  Whispering across my lips, “I’ve missed you, Anna.  I want you, and you want me.  For tonight, let that be enough.”

Blinking
up at him, I wonder, knowing all the while I want much more.  He could do anything he wants to me.  I change my mind, he can take me right here on the couch or against the wall—I just want to feel his thick cock filling me, sliding into my wetness.  “Yes.” 

The word
drifts from my lips to his.

He kisses
me again, a tantalizing touch. 

He
murmurs his voice deep and low, “Invite me to your bed.”

That, I agree to without hesitation.  

My eyes on his, I draw back, my mouth swollen and wet.  Catching his hand as I did, then stepping back, turning and leading him from the room, to my bedchamber, waiting as he shut the door, then leading him to the end of my bed.

Turning to him, all I can do is wait
.  In the dim light from the open window, I meet his eyes.  I feel rather than see the desire in his blue depths, and I enjoy savoring it, drowning in it.  I want to remember this night for the rest of my life.  Perhaps this memory will keep me warm for another ten years?

His breathing hardens,
“I’ve fantasized about touching you again for years.”  His thumb moving over my fingers, stroking, then he releases my hand, stepping closer.  Raising both hands, he frames my face, tipping it up to his.  He looks down for one long moment, as if searching my eyes for an answer to a question he hasn’t asked, bending his head he kisses me again.

Longingly.

Hungrily, yet I can tell his hunger is leashed.  Greedily, letting me taste his wanting, yet holding back, not taking. 

I
wouldn’t stop him if he did, yet at this moment I am content to follow.  To let him show me what he wants.  Needs. 

His kiss is
deepening degree by degree, until a tide of response, of a longing to match his, rises up and swamps me.  Both my restraint and thoughts get swept away all at once.  Leaving only sensation and feeling to cling to.

I cling,
my soul rejoices.

He
holds to the slow pace.  Slow and steady.  Not the urgent fuck I was expecting.  As he slides his hand down my jaw, he teases me with the drag of his finger, down my throat wrapping his large hand over the back of my neck. 

Gro
wing restless, I reach for him.  He releases my neck, catching my hands, stepping into me as he eases my arms behind me.  Anchoring both my wrists in one hand, he traps them at the back of my waist, holding me within his arm.

With his free hand he tra
ps my jaw and angles my face so he can continue the deep kissing—drawing it out until I am breathless. Now he shifts his lips to my temple, cruising over my ear and down to press a hot caress in the sensitive hollow beneath.  “I’m going to fuck you, Anna.”

I
whimper, and try to shift into him, but he holds me back, keeping at least an inch between our bodies.  “Hurry.”

“Not yet,” he murmurs
, ducking his head, he tips my jaw so he can trace the long arching line of my throat with his lips.  I begin to shudder beneath his caress, and melt.  Willing to surrender to him completely, I want to see what he wants to give me.

He presses
his lips to the pulse point at the base of my throat, then sucks, bites, blowing a cool stream of air to cool my bruised flesh, continuing to nip at my flesh again before soothing it with a flick of his tongue.  I feel more of my impatience falling away.  Breathing in, I draw the masculine scent of his skin into my lungs, holding it there, close to my heart.

Lifting his head, he fi
nds my lips and kisses me again.  Still slow, still hungry he begins to lower his hand to my breast allowing the warm mounds fill his palm.

R
eacting instantly—I immediately want him to release my hands so I can sink them into his hair and set the pace.  I know he knows what I want, but he continues to hold me, keeping my hand trapped as he kneads, while his fingers search and, through the silk of my dress, finds and circles my nipple.  My body responds, frantic. 

My
kiss is growing hungrier, more demanding, yet still he holds me back.  He traces, strokes, runs his thumb over the furled peaks, until my breasts are swollen and firm, straining beneath the confining silk, the languid heat flows in my veins.

Only now does he consent to move on.  It i
s the work of less than a minute as he slips the straps of my dress down, releasing the pressure as he holds me to our kiss. 

I
sigh as he finally releases my hands and slides my dress down, letting it glide down my slender body until it slithers over my hips and down my legs to puddle on the floor.

Leaving me clad only in my silk bra, thong and thigh-
high silk stockings.  They are black, too—dark veils too insubstantial to fully screen my skin. 

He’s
seen me naked often enough in years past; but that was when I was a teenager, and that was a long time ago.  To see him transfixed now is a curious delight.  I shift, stretch, and watch his eyes track my breasts, my hips, tracing my waist.

Setting one hand to his shoulder,
I step out of my discarded gown and into him.

To my surprise, he catches me, his hands lock
about my waist.  Holding me as I am, the tight peaks of my breasts just brush his coat, trembling as the rough fabric scrapes erotically against my hardened nipples.

An excruciatingly tantalizing caress; I
need to get closer, to ease the ache in my heavy breasts, but he holds me trapped.

He looks into my face, searches
my eyes, my expression, in the dim light.  I have no idea what he sees as he bends his head, still moving far too slowly for my liking.  At least his lips close on mine and this time his tongue surges deep in my mouth.  Not in any fury of desire, not as I want, but with slow intent, a measured, unhurried, almost languid claiming that somehow, to my reeling senses, is strangely erotic.

With my lips and tongue, I
am trying to urge him on, to make him go faster, to ignite a roaring fire.

But he wo
n’t let me.  He holds to his slow beat, and refuses to let me push him.  Even though the heat between us is intense, he keeps it at simmering, steadily burgeoning, escalating, but totally under his control.

A shiver goes
through me.  As the kiss goes on, spun out, and leaves me slowly whirling along the outer edges of a vortex of pleasured delight.  A primitive shudder of anticipation runs down my spine.

He
pauses in his slow, devastatingly thorough claiming of my mouth, then the kiss changes and deepens as one of his hands drifts from my waist.

I
feel the brush of his fingers as they slide down my body, with his fingertips he traces—slowly—upward from my hip along my side to the underside of my breast.  Slowly reaching behind he unhooks my bra, letting it fall slowly over my shoulders and down my arms before landing on the floor. 

Mo
ving slowly, smoothly, he palms my breast.  At last skin-to-skin, he closes his hand about my flesh and the flames leapt.

Just so far.  They
flare and fall as he touches me—everywhere. As he claims every inch of my skin—unhurriedly, explicitly, as if he has all night and intends to use it.

His desire, his absolute intent to make me his
, to claim me, brand me, reach me through his touch.  Through every caress of his hard hands, through every sweep of his palms he sculpts my body, through every slow, languid, thorough exploration is all-consuming. 

It almost feels as if he is
trying to learn me anew.  Those long-ago times had been in some other life and we are both different people now. I am no longer a girl with a girl’s body, but a woman.

I
keep trying to push him, to let the flames free, but he keeps holding me back.  Gasping, breathless, as he caresses every inch of my lush body I want and wait for him to possess.

H
e savors my breasts at length, only with his hands, knowing I ache for more. 

“Later.” 
He breaths the words across my swollen lips then takes them again in a long, deep kiss, one sufficiently demanding to keep me absorbed—that together with his caresses leaves me no mental space to gather my resolve and push him. 

He ru
ns his hand down the long sweeping planes of my back, the indentation of my waist, the flare of my hips—he studies them all.

He set his thumb to my navel, and pr
esses in and out in a rhythm I know very well.  My hands are on his shoulders; shifting to his throat, fingers curling over his nape as I cling.  My heat rises within as he draws his thumb from my navel and skims his hand down, pushing past the silk of my panties and with the backs of his fingers he brushes the crisp curls at the apex of my thighs. I shudder, feeling my fingers tense at his nape.