The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance Page 18

  “You,” I replied, breathless. “I want you.”

  “My lady, I am yours.”

  A ripple of power washed over me, through me, and then something deliciously soft cradled my head and back and bottom. I opened my eyes to find myself on a giant feather bed … and Lucifer leaning over me, one hand stroking my cheek.

  “Here,” he said, his eyes alight with passion, “in the privacy of my bedchamber, tell me how I should love you.” His hand dipped lower, outlining the shape of my collarbone. “Slowly?” Now his fingers traced the folds of my tunic, from my right shoulder down to the top of my breast. “Forcefully? What does my Lady Fury want of her lover?”

  His words made no sense. “My Lord Archangel, I want you. I want your body on mine.” I reached up to touch his hip. “Your phallus in me. I want you to explode inside of me.”

  “What of you, Megaera?” He brought his hand down more, just enough for his fingers to brush over my nipple. Tiny shocks ran through me, heating me, waking my senses and making me want more than just a small touch. He murmured, “What do you want me to do to you? For you?”

  “To come inside of me,” I said, voice thick. “What more is there to say?”

  He paused, his hand on my breast, his eyes like emeralds. “Lady,” he said, “what of your own pleasure?”

  “Your pleasure is my pleasure.” I moved my hand, and now I felt him beneath his clothing, long and hard and eager for me.

  “And yours,” he said roughly, “is mine.”

  Another hum of power danced over me, and then I was naked before him … as was he, propped over me. His body was a work of art, every muscle sculpted to perfection, every angle just so, every plane defined. Fine black hair covered his broad chest, tapering to a line down his torso until it thickened just above his legs. And between them was proof of his arousal, fully erect, stiff with need.

  “Megaera,” he breathed, “you are beauty beyond words.”

  He leaned down to kiss me again, and again, and then he was moving down to my chin, my throat, kissing and licking and making my heart gallop. His tongue circled my right breast, maddeningly slow, tracing its curves, working so very carefully to its tip – and, once there, he took my nipple between his lips and began to suck.

  I gasped from the twin sensations of wetness and heat, and the gasp became a groan as he flicked his tongue against my nub. He moved to my other breast, his teeth grazing my nipple, then his lips kissing away the small sting. Lucifer cast me a heated look as he suckled me, a look that went straight to my sex.

  Oh my Lord Lucifer, what you do to me …

  Awash with pleasure, I watched as he broke suction and kissed his way back up, over my breast, up more until now his mouth was on mine again and my eyes closed as I drank him in. As we kissed, I felt his hand on my cheek, then my neck, down lower, dangling now over my breast, his fingertips brushing its tender peak. I moaned against him, and he swallowed the sound.

  His hand moved down, and down, slowly making its way to my belly – oh, so slowly. Teasingly slow. Excruciatingly slow. He kissed me once more, and his hand crept over my stomach. His mouth on my jaw, my ear now, his breath hot on my neck. Down went his fingers, even slower, and my hips began to rock. Down more, and I felt my body coil tight.

  Yes … please, yes. Fill m.

  He darted his hand between my legs, one stroke and then gone, and I cried out, needing more. He glided a finger over my sex, and back again, over and back, and I was lost in his touch.

  “Megaera,” he murmured, “your pleasure is my pleasure.”

  And then he slid a finger into me, and the world caught fire.

  Rapture, primal and fiercely unforgiving, consumed me, burning away my past and my future, reducing me to nothing more than that moment. I floated, joyous. Ripple after ripple of bliss washed over me, eventually dousing the conflagration and leaving my body tingling.

  Lucifer withdrew his finger and brought it to his mouth. “This,” he said, licking my juices, “this is what I want. Your pleasure on my lips.”

  Oh … yes, Lucifer. Yes.

  He leaned down to kiss me, and I tasted the barest hint of myself on his lips before he dived down, his hands on my breasts, squeezing, groping as he kissed down my stomach, coming to the mound of curls at the apex of my thighs. Now his hands were between my legs, nudging them apart to reveal my sex, and I cried out as he blew gently over me.

  “Megaera, I want to taste you.” And then his mouth was on me.

  My head rocked back as he kissed me, licked me, made love to me with his mouth. He took me with his lips and his tongue, took me far away from Hell and Olympus and all of Creation as I spiralled further into ecstasy.

  Between my legs, the Light Bringer made a sound of animal passion as I came.

  Once the aftershocks ebbed, Lucifer kissed my sex once, twice, and then pulled himself over me. I smiled at him, too dazed to speak. His lips shone wetly, and I thought his mouth the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

  “My Lady Fury,” he said. “You taste divine.”

  Oh, my Lord Morningstar. Let me show you divinity.

  I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed, rolling until I was straddled over him, his hips between my thighs, his erection poised under my sex. Looking into his eyes, I grinned, rubbing myself over him, slowly, making him slick with my arousal.

  Your turn, my archangel.

  I kissed my way down his chest, savouring first one small nipple and then the other, enjoying his sounds of pleasure. My hands toyed with the fine hairs on his stomach, tickling him as my fingers wound their way down to his thatch of pubic hair.

  When I held his erection in my hands, he gasped.

  When I placed my lips on his shaft, he groaned.

  I kissed him and sucked him, took him deep in my mouth and lapped him with my tongue. His phallus throbbed, full of blood and restrained passion, and I stroked him harder, wanting to take him to the brink.

  “Megaera,” he growled. “Please …”

  For you, my Lucifer. All for you.

  His hands on my face, nudging me. I paused, looking at him as I kissed his tip. Desire shone in his eyes and, darker than that, need.

  “Together,” he said gruffly. “Let us come together.”

  I flicked my tongue against him once more. “Your pleasure,” I said, “is my pleasure.”

  With a last kiss on his shaft, I moved up until I was poised over him, my sex on his, my hands in his. My gaze on his. In his eyes, I was no creature of vengeance to be feared, no weapon to be used. Lucifer Morningstar looked at me, and I was simply a woman, wishing to be loved.

  And he was a man, wanting to love me.

  “Together,” I said, smiling as I lowered myself on to him. He slid into me perfectly, as if he’d been created just for me. I took him in completely, basking in his gaze, his grin, and we stayed like that for a small piece of fores h feeling, sharing, being. And then we moved, our bodies slowly undulating, smooth and rhythmic, faster now, making music as our bellies slapped together, skin on skin. Faster still, friction leading the way to rapturous release as something wild opened within me and swallowed me whole as Lucifer thrusted deep, bellowing as he came.

  We shuddered, our climaxes roaring through us and, in that magical moment, we were one – joined forever in the action, the declaration, of love, of life itself: together.

  And then the moment passed and we collapsed, limbs entangled, bodies spent, twin smiles on our faces.

  Time stretched as we lay together, content, our sweat drying. There was no Zeus, no Jehovah, no gods or mortals or demands. There was only the two of us, and the bond that we had created. And it was good.

  All too soon, the time came when we had to return to our lives. Lucifer pulled himself up and offered a hand to me, which I took. Standing, I looked up into his handsome face, into his eyes, and I smiled at what I saw.

  He still was the Light Bringer, dread ruler of Hell, one of the most powerful creatures in all of Creati
on. That was all too clear in his eyes.

  He was my lover, a man who gave me pleasure, who took his pleasure when I found bliss. And that, too, was in his eyes. It was that vision, that memory, which would stay with me whenever I would think of the king of the damned: Lucifer Morningstar holding my hand, his gaze lit with passion and something brighter – not in a flash like lightning, here and then gone, but instead a ray of sunlight, shining and constant.

  With a touch of power – his, because he had been the one to disrobe us – we were once again clothed, girded once more for the war of politics. We kissed again, softly, tenderly. Lovingly.

  “Megaera,” he said, touching my face, “my Fury.”

  “My archangel,” I murmured. “Do you believe me now, when I say that not everything is planned?”

  Lucifer laughed softly. “My Lady, it is just as easy to say that Jehovah intended for us to steal this time for ourselves.” He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Whether this was spontaneity or serendipity, I am truly grateful.”

  “As am I.” Suddenly shy, I whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Oh, lady,” he said, squeezing my hand, “it is I who must thank you. You’ve given me something more precious than I ever could have wished for.” He smiled, radiant. “You’ve given me hope.”

  “As have you,” I said, breathless with the realization. For if he was right, and all the pantheons would become part of Jehovah’s Heaven and Hell, then I would be free of Olympus’ hold – and would be seeing much more of Lucifer Morningstar.

  And if I was right, well, even with me bound to Zeus’s pantheon, who was to say that there wouldn’t be other such dalliances between Lucifer and me in our future?

  “My Megaera,” Lucifer murmured, kissing me again. I would feel the memory of his kiss on my lips long after he had pulled away. “My hope.”

  Spontaneity? Or serendipity?

  And in the end, did it matter?

  Another kiss, another lingering touch. And I decided that no, it didn’t matter at all. Whether by design or just because, we had each other – to console, to share, to love.

  And it was good.

  Shelter from the Storm

  Louisa Burton

  Am I totally and completely nuts? Marianne wondered as she twisted the key in the lock of Alan’s apartment door. He’d given her the key when he’d bought into this exclusive Upper East Side co-op six months ago, but she’d never used it because she’d never been to his apartment when he wasn’t there – until now.

  She let herself in, anticipating the look on Alan’s face when he came home from his Friday night poker game and found her waiting in his bed. Every light in the gleaming penthouse was ablaze, of course; Alan tended to leave things on when he went out. A jazz saxophone moaned its ardent lament from the CD player in the sprawling, white-on-white living room. Given the muffled sounds from the bedroom down the hall, he evidently hadn’t turned off that colossal new TV of his, either.

  Unbuttoning her trench coat, Marianne thought back to the man Alan had been before last fall, when he’d been made the youngest partner ever at Swift, Banks and McKee, one of Manhattan’s most high-powered law firms. He’d been more real, more down to earth when she’d met him, exactly a year ago today – 9 June – at a softball game in Central Park between his lawyer pals and her teacher pals. Could she thaw the corporate frostiness that had settled over him since then, she wondered, or was the old Alan gone for ever?

  She held her trench coat open and scrutinized her reflection in the mirrored walls of Alan’s foyer. I am nuts. He’ll laugh at me.

  No, he’ll love it, she thought, regarding the seductive outfit she’d worn to surprise him on the first anniversary of their relationship – pink vinyl micro-miniskirt and matching angora cropped sweater, partially unzipped to expose most of the white lace push-up bra beneath, which yielded a cleavage of cartoonish proportions. She had on mile-high silver stilettos and white silk stockings, the lacy tops of which peeked out from below the hem of the minuscule skirt, along with the clasps connecting them to the garter belt.

  Marianne smoothed down her carefully flat-ironed honey-blonde hair and rubbed away a smudge at the edge of her crimson lipstick, hearing in her mind the echoes of Alan’s many discourses on the subject of their lukewarm sex life. If you’d only loosen up a little, you’d get off once in a while. It’s not my fault it’s all over so fast. A woman’s got to entice a man to keep him going. You’d know this if you had more experience.

  Marianne had been a twenty-two-year-old virgin when she’d met Alan. In many ways, she still felt like one. Or, as Alan sometimes put it, “a classic, frigid little kindergarten teacher”.

  I’ll show him who’s frigid tonight, she thought as she headed down the hall towards Alan’s bedroom. The sounds from the TV grew more distinct as she neared the closed door. “Yeah, you like that, don’t you, baby?” a man growled softly. There came a sound like a sharp slap, and then another. “You like that, too, don’t you?”

  Marianne heard a woman’s shuddering moan, followed by a breathy, “Yes … oh yes …”

  Had he left a porn video running? Marianne wondered.

  She reached for the doorknob as the woman cried, “Yes! Oh, God, yes, Alan. Yes!”

  Alan? The door swung open. Marianne’s heart stopped.

  A statuesque redhead, wearing a few artfully arranged strips of black leather and snugly laced boots, lay face down on Alan’s colossal waterbed, her reddened bottom hoisted on a mound of pillows, her wrists secured behind her with a pair of chrome handcuffs. She squealed when she saw Marianne.

  “Marianne?” Alan leaped off the bed, brandishing what appeared to be a doubled-up belt. He was naked except for something that looked more or less like a black leather jockstrap festooned with studs. “What the hell … What are you doing here?”

  “Making a big, big mistake,” she said tremulously ashe backed out of the room.

  “What have you done to yourself?” There came a little snort of laughter as he looked her up and down. “Oh, babe,” he said, his expression both astonished and pitying. “You can’t be serious.”

  Marianne turned and fled on quaking legs. Over the clicking of her heels on the marble floor, she heard the girl on the bed say, “Is that the kindergarten teacher? Oh my God, Alan, she looks like the Easter Bunny in drag.”

  Their laughter echoed through the big, chilly apartment as Marianne yanked open the door and bolted out into the hallway. Don’t you dare cry, she admonished herself as she descended in the elevator, tugging her trench coat closed to hide her outlandish get-up even though she was alone. When the elevator opened, she sprinted past the nonplussed doorman and out into the night, driven by the need to put as much distance as possible between herself and Alan.

  It was her own fault, of course. She had a history of falling fast and hard for the wrong guys, guys who were incapable of returning her supercharged feelings for them. Of course, she’d thought Alan was different, which was why she’d finally given up that precious virginity of hers. But she’d been wrong about him, too.

  Well, if she couldn’t trust her instincts when it came to men, she’d just have to unlearn them. What she needed was to take a break from relationships – a year, maybe – to concentrate on figuring out how not to fall in love at first sight the second she found herself unattached.

  By the time she slowed down to a walk, her chest pumping, her mind whirling, she had only the vaguest idea where she was. It had gotten breezy, and the air prickled like it did right before a storm. She stopped and looked around at the buildings looming over the deserted cross-town street. If she could get to Lex and 53rd, she could catch the E or the F to her little studio apartment in Kew Gardens. The idea of taking the subway alone this late at night unnerved her, but she didn’t have enough cash on her for a taxi, having just assumed, like an idiot, that Alan would drive her home as usual; he jumped at any excuse to get behind the wheel of that new white Porsche of his, which he loved to di
straction. Probably the only thing he did love.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, leaning against a broken street lamp and burying her face in her hands. “You idiot. You naive little dope.” What had she been thinking, trying to remake the frigid little kindergarten teacher into a sex goddess? “You stupid, stupid, stupid …”

  At the sound of a car turning the corner, Marianne raised her head to squint down the block, groaning when she saw the familiar flash of white. He’d followed her. She turned away from him and strode purposefully down the street, wondering what smooth line of bull he’d come up with to mollify her. Whatever it was, he’d find some way to blame it all on her, of course. If only you were more responsive, this wouldn’t have happened.

  Hearing the car come closer, she wheeled around and stalked up to it, trench coat billowing, hands on vinyl-clad hips, ready to tell Alan just what she thought of him and his lame, self-serving excuses.

  The car glided to a stop as she approached, its front passenger window lowering. Leaning down, she peered inside … and froze.

  It wasn’t Alan at the wheel of the Porsche.

  It wasn’t even a Porsche; it was some nondescript middlebrow sedan. Marianne blinked at the driver.

  He blinked back at her. From what she could see of him in the dark, he was fairly young, thirty maybe, with an open face and a head of thick dark hair that looked impossible to comb. His attire – a rumpled sports coat, polo shirt and jeans – was as comfortably nondescript as his car.

  “Miss, are you all riht?” he asked. “I saw you with your head in your hands. Do you need some help, or, uh … Oh.” His gaze had lit on her breasts, of which he had an eye-popping vista, with her leaning over this way.

  She straightened up, heat flooding her face, but that only gave him a better view of the rest of her.

  “OK …” he murmured, contemplating the lace bands at the tops of her stockings. “Yeah, uh …” He raised big, dark eyes to hers. “Sorry, I, uh …” He shrugged. “I’m really not interested.”