'This Time' by Sierra Cartwright

Helpless, naked, splayed and bound, Emily concentrated on her breathing. In. Out.

In...

She told herself to think about anything but what would happen next.

Her nerves were ragged, as if they’d been dragged across the wicked edge of the blade that glinted on the wall in front of her. Determinedly, she closed her eyes to block the image.

It didn’t help.

Nothing would.

He’d left her here on purpose, to think, to change her mind. Over the past year, she’d learned he acted only with deliberate intent.

She’d been a fool to leave...and a bigger one to return.

The fact he hadn’t sent her away when he’d set eyes on her two hours ago had shocked her. It had shocked him as well, she’d seen it in the steely depths of his grey eyes, the colour so dark and intense it reminded her of the North Sea during a brewing storm... Emily’s hand had frozen on the door knocker, the brass heavy and cold beneath the bite of England’s chilly autumn evening. It’d taken her a full five minutes, her back teeth chattering, to actually knock.

It’d taken his housekeeper at least that long again to answer.

“Agnes,” Emily said breathlessly.

“Dear me.” Agnes pressed her fingertips to the base of her throat. “You look half froze.”

“I’m here to see the master.”

Agnes swallowed deeply. She’d been kind to Emily, but that was before Emily had run away six months ago, sneaking out in the middle of the night with no word to anyone.

Emily watched indecision chase across the younger woman’s face. Duty and kindness collided, leaving a frown burrowed between Agnes’s brows. Evidently obligation to Sir Sterling trumped her feelings for Emily. “Wait here.” With that, Agnes closed the door.

Emily tucked her hands inside her pockets and huddled deeper into her coat, trying to keep out the vicious, humidity-laden wind. She waited. She paced. And she waited some more.

It was a test, she knew.

This time, she wouldn’t fail.

'213 High Street: Peepshow' by Christy Lockhart

It was a naughty thought wasn’t it? Sophie shouldn’t even consider masturbating in the back room of the shoppe. She should wait until she got home. There, in her small house, she could take a bath, light some candles, and have a nice glass of chardonnay as she pinned up her hair and slipped into her favourite fantasy.

She could. But why would she?

That would just prolong the inevitable.

The postman had brought a new toy. And Sophie was duty-bound to try it out and see if it actually worked. No sense selling something that might disappoint the public. She’d learned that lesson. Returns and dissatisfaction were a nightmare.

Well, that was just the excuse.

To tell the truth, Sophie couldn’t wait to see if The Clit Rocket actually worked. According to the sales literature she’d received from the manufacturer’s rep, the handy little device promised to deliver an orgasm that would propel her to ‘stratospheric levels of pleasure.’ Could it be? Could The Clit Rocket possibly be the holy grail of orgasmic pleasure? Well, for the sake of 213 High Street’s demanding and discerning clientele, she was always willing to find out.

She grabbed a pair of scissors and sliced through the tape sealing the cardboard box. Then she pulled out the packing material and tossed them in the general direction of the rubbish can. Her youngest sister, Gracie, was the neat one. She’d sigh, but she’d clean up the mess. No sense getting a dog only to bark yourself, Sophie always told Gracie and Katie.

That’s why things worked so well at 213. Gracie could organise a party for a thousand people in three point two hours. Sophie, as the middle child was adventurous and had never once coloured inside the lines. Katie, the oldest of the three, was management material through and through, or so her fancy university degree said. Even if it didn’t, Katie would be sure to tell them all, daily. Sophie just figured that Katie liked to boss people around.

After tossing the rest of the paper on the floor, Sophie pulled out a smaller box and opened that, too.

The packaging inside was red hot. Fireworks, in vibrant, shimmering silver exploded all over the exquisitely designed top. She opened the fire engine coloured box to reveal an innocent-enough looking toy. The vibrator part was red and shaped like a bullet. The device was cordless, which would add to the cost significantly, but for the perfect climax, the women of Widby were willing to pay nearly anything.

A remote control was nestled in a satin pouch. The manufacturer, bless them, had thoughtfully provided a battery.

After figuring out the intricacies of taking apart the remote device and inserting the flat, lithium disk, Sophie considered the variety of silicone sleeves that slipped over the bullet. The first surprise, actually protruded a bit, and was shaped like a mushroom. Probably as close to a realistic firework as they could get. It didn’t escape her notice that it also looked more than just a bit like the tip of a man’s cock.

Another sleeve had bubble-like dots. ‘For ignitable pleasure,’ according to the printed insert. The third had ripples, or ‘Blast off Ridges’ as they were called.

The marketing materials were perhaps over the top, but if she could sell the Clit Rocket, so what? Adult sex toys weren’t necessarily known for their sophistication, although the marriage of style and sensuality was definitely one that appealed to her.

She sprayed the bullet with antibacterial cleaner and selected the firework sleeve. She’d start with the explosion of sensation and go from there.

'Imagine' by SL Majors

About stinking time Adam showed up.

She’d been fantasising about him for months. And now it was time to turn those fantasies into reality. Chloe needed to be with a real man, someone who would give her what she wanted more than anything: A screaming orgasm. She was done with gents who offered polite, little tingles of release. She was definitely over faking it to save some bloke’s poor little, fragile ego. It was time for a writhing, exciting, suck-the-breath from her lungs orgasm.

And maybe, just maybe, Adam would be the one to do it for her.

She was already damp between her legs.

Damp? No, mark that one through. She was wet. Dripping, sopping wet. Finally. Finally, a man to make all her dreams come true. And it was about damn time, as well. It would be nice to have someone she wouldn’t have to coach. Being a thoroughly modern woman, she’d even told a few men specifically what to do and when to do it. Now! And with one fellow, oh, please, not so soon.

And where had it gotten her? Sexually frustrated, that’s where. She’s had no choice but to turn to a vibrator for company on long cold nights. On. Off. Clever, that.

But this man. Wow. More sizzle than a bonfire and firecrackers. Maybe a little treacle toffee thrown in as a bonus.

“Get on that bed, Chloe. Now.”

She shivered at the command in his sexy, wonderful voice. Command? From Adam? Not only was it unexpected, it was a total bite of delicious.

Now that she heard that tone, she was TTO —Totally Turned On. His voice oozed richness, dripped with seduction and had a ripple of brogue through it. Score!

The overhead light was dimmed, making it a bit difficult to see his features. But no matter, she knew them intimately. Since she’d seen his sketches months ago, she’d been feeding her nighttime fantasies with thoughts of him, him in her bed, inside her.

Although what it was about him that made her a quivering mass of hormones, she couldn’t exactly say.

His cheekbones weren’t sharply chiselled. No, they were more sweeping, inviting her to trace her fingertips across them. Usually, she was attracted to men with more angular features, but this time, this man... Well, it just went to show that you never knew what was going to appeal to your inner woman.

“I said, get on the bed.”

'Fed Up' by Sierra Cartwright

Elizabeth Driscoll was fed up. She’d had enough. She was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore... And whatever other ways she could come up with to describe her fury. All she knew was...she was pissed.

She so had not come all the way to England from the States a year ago to marry the man of her dreams and then sit home alone all day, bored out of her ever-living mind, lonely, and sexually unfulfilled.

No freaking way.

So, he was a hotshot barrister.

So, he had an enormous case load.

So, he was important.

So freaking what?

He’d chased her across an ocean and half a continent to woo her. Now he wanted her to be the little woman, keep his home nice and tidy, have his shirts ironed, his pants pressed, a nice, hot dinner waiting, along with a Crown Royal, neat, poured at the end of a long, hard day. Mr. Importance wanted his back rubbed a couple of evenings a week. Oh, and while he was working on a case in his study late at night, it was perfectly acceptable to refill that empty whisky glass.

If that’s what he wanted, he had married the wrong woman.

And wasn’t that too bad for him, because she was wearing his ring. He was stuck with her. For better or worse. If he kept it up, it’d be worse for him, much, much worse.

Enough was enough.

She was tired of being ignored.

Her cellular phone rang. Her heart leapt into her throat as she checked the caller identification. Jon. Even after all this time, no matter how angry she was at him, she was still totally, stupidly mad for him.

“Hey, baby,” he said. Even with the fuzziness of wireless service, his voice had the richness of a fine wine on a cold night.

Her shoulders dropped, her pussy moistened in anticipation. She loved his voice, especially when he whispered naughty things about what he was going to do for her.

And he’d do them, as well...

At one time, soon after they’d exchanged vows, he’d hurry home. She’d never forget the days he’d drop his briefcase and sweep her into his arms.

They wouldn’t make it out of the foyer before he kissed her deeply. With his mouth, with his hands, he’d take long minutes to let her know how glad he was she was in his home, in his life.

For the first few months of their marriage, she’d lost weight because they’d rarely made it into the kitchen for food. Instead, he’d carry her straight up to their bedroom, never minding the steep narrowness of the stairs.

“I hate to tell you this...”

She waited. She wasn’t going to make it easy on him.

“I’ll be late.”

Surprise!

“Beth?”

She sighed. “I’m here.”

“Look—”

She could picture him running his hand through his hair in frustration. Jon was dark blond, and every hair was perfectly tamed, cut and shaped into harsh submission. He insisted on presenting a good picture to his clients and the Court. Funny how there always seemed to be time in the schedule to see the hairdresser, but not his wife. “What time?”

“Nine?”

Was he asking permission? “Not a minute later.”

“Miss you.”

She had no doubt he was telling the truth. He just didn’t miss her enough to come home.

“Maybe we can get away to the country this weekend?” he asked. She recognised the tactic. Appeasement. Three months ago, those kinds of soft words had actually worked with her. Back then she’d still been a sucker. Now she was somewhere between low simmer and scorching mad.

'Balls to the Walls' by SL Majors

Callum O’Neil’s mouth dried.

He stepped out of the shower stall, still completely naked, and saw David Browning, his mentor, his trainer...he sighed...the man he secretly had a crush on.

David Browning, owner of Balls to the Walls, was standing in front of a sink, shaving. The mirror on the wall had odd shaped patches of steam clinging to it.

While he’d been in the shower, running soap over his chest, down his stomach, lathering his balls and slipping a slick finger into his anus, he’d thought of nothing but David.

Callum had imagined David bending him over the sink in a moment of passion and burying his cock deep in his tight little hole. His own balls would fill to exploding. When David pounded his prostate, Callum would explode, even without touching his cock.

The water had all but run cold as Callum stretched out his hands and used the wall for support. Even the fantasy of his mentor teaching him about man on man love had the power to bring him to his knees.

David obviously hadn’t noticed Callum yet, so he seized the rare opportunity to shamelessly, openly stare.

A snow-white towel was draped around David’s lean waist. Across his back were a few good sized scars. From what, Callum didn’t know. Rather than detract from

David’s good looks though, the ragged, raised scars only made him sexier.

The towel was fairly thin, not at all like the ones Callum had at home. But this gym-sized piece of material allowed Callum to see the length of David’s legs, along with the power in his thighs, and the tightness of his arse.

His biceps were well honed from hours at his own training facility, teaching and demonstrating, which he did while being supportive and full of encouragement.

He’d intentionally kept the place small, he said. It wasn’t a big health club. It was more like an exclusive studio in a primo location. David hadn’t bought a lot of equipment. Rather, he had a select group of machines that were top of the line and designed for maximum results. His list of clients was A-list, as well.

First class, all the way around. He worked with only one person at a time, and, as Callum knew, David gave each client all of his efforts and energy. Every time he was here, he felt unique and special, even if he occasionally caused more trouble than he was worth.

The older man’s patience had no limit that Callum had ever seen. Surely there had to be, though. No one was as rigid and self-controlled as David Browning.

There were times Callum was tempted to goad David, make him snap. He wanted to bust past the damn veneer of sleek sophistication and see the man beneath. And Callum had tried, oh, had he tried to get to the other man. He’d train hard, then completely stop, or he’d over-do it. If he wasn’t getting enough attention, he’d show up early, or, with a swagger, show up a quarter of an hour late. But he’d never shaken his mentor.

And that made him lust after him all the more. He’d fantasised about David the entire three months they’d trained together, and damn it, he was getting impatient with want and need. Especially now that he’d seen David in that oh-so-skimpy and tantalising towel. His cock stuck out in front of him, hard as a rock.

He needed sex; raw, passion-filled, down and dirty sex. He needed to be possessed. He needed to be fucked, and not just by anyone, by the one man who meant more to him than any other.

In his more rational moments, Callum wondered why David would take note of another wanna be footballer. He worked with dozens of men, young and old, in shape and out of shape, men with dreams and goals who came here looking for a magic elixir. In that respect, Callum was just another ordinary bloke.

David turned on the tap and rinsed his razor beneath it. He was old-fashioned, Callum noticed. He shaved with a Damascus steel and rosewood straight razor. A Zowada, if he didn’t miss his guess. He’d eyed one of them, himself, but he’d been too cheap to spring for one. Maybe he’d have to rethink his decision.

A two-sided Russian leather and linen strop lay on the side of the sink, and he actually had a shaving mug with the Balls to the Walls company logo on it.

If he didn’t miss his guess, David also used a badger bristle brush. Class. Everything about the man screamed class and elegance. No, screamed wasn’t the right word. Exuded. David would never scream, as much as Callum would wish otherwise.

'Everyday, in a Letter' by Christy Lockhart

He bumped his hips against her behind, trapping her between the countertop and his body.

She gasped at the contact. She hadn’t even heard him come into the bathroom. The man moved as silently as a shadow.

Meghan met his gaze in the mirror. Lieutenant Alan Denton, proudly serving in The Queen’s Royal Hussars. Oh. Yes. He was also her husband.

Sometimes she needed to pinch herself to remember that it was real. They’d only known each other a handful of desperate, passionate months before he’d put an engagement ring on her finger. Shocking her and all of her relations, he’d followed it with a wedding ring the exact same day.

Her insides melted and her pussy flooded with juices. Was it possible for a man to be any hotter? His mesmerising eyes, darker than the blue of the North Sea, and his black, regulation-length hair were startling in their contrast to one another.

He might have been in civilian clothes, but he wore them with military precision. His dress shirt was starched, and the creases were so sharp that she cheekily wondered how he didn’t injure himself.

She felt his erection against her backside. “Missed me, did you, soldier?” She’d missed him. She’d counted down the months, the weeks, the days, the hours until she’d get to see him. And having him home was more blissful than she could have imagined.

His arms came around her and he drew her even closer. “What do you think?”

He didn’t seem to care that she’d already taken off her make-up or that her hair was piled on her head, still damp from her bath. A couple of strands escaped and lay curled against her cheekbones.

“I think I want you to do something with that.”

“With what?”

“Your erection.” She rolled her eyes, earning a grin from him. “It seems a shame to waste it when our time together is so limited.”

He moved his grip a little, so that his hands were on her hip bones. He held her there so she couldn’t escape.

He had always been keen on capture fantasies, and if she told the truth, she liked them, too.

He’d chase her. She’d elude him.

She loved it when he found her, grabbed her, spirited her away, and then forced her to do his evil bidding.

There was no place she’d rather be than in his arms, and they both knew it. She supposed that’s what made the forced seduction angle to their lovemaking such a kick. The illusion she could actually deny him anything was as appealing as it was impossible.

“You’re reading my mind,” he told her.

Meghan wore no knickers and her robe was a frothy, silky thing that was so thin it was nearly sheer. He wore trousers, and, if her guess was right, no boxers or briefs. She could feel the exquisite hardness of him. And she wanted him inside her. Deep. She throbbed, just thinking about it.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What? Now? Something other than your hot body?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Now she was trying to wiggle away. Maybe it was his fantasy, after all…powerful Alpha male captures helpless female and ravishes her.