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Authors: Eden Bradley

A 21st Century Courtesan (15 page)

BOOK: A 21st Century Courtesan
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“Yes. Do it. Do it all.”

He licks his lips, making me want to reach up and touch his pink tongue with my fingertip. His mouth is so fucking beautiful to me, I can hardly stand to look at it. But I am just as eager to have him do the things he's talking about. I am burning for him, my body on that lovely, keen edge.

He lowers his body over mine once more, and his cock is hard against my leg, hard and long and so good. But in moments he is sliding down, trailing kisses over my stomach, scorching my skin. Then lower, his strong hands tearing my panties down over my thighs before he parts them.

There is no resisting him: my legs fall wide open for him. I wait while he looks at me, his gaze searching my sex.

With one hand he reaches out, brushes at the swollen lips, whispers, “Beautiful.”

Then his mouth is there, his breath warm against me for one lovely anticipatory moment before the soft touch of his lips. He is kissing me there, just as he did my mouth! And it is some sort of revelation to me, the tenderness of his mouth and his hard hands on my thighs. I have never felt anything like it. Pleasure shafts into me, deep and slow, like liquid heat.
And he is kissing me and kissing me with his soft lips. I am squirming, panting as he holds me down.

His tongue flicks out, whispering across my clitoris.

“Ah!”

Then again.

“Joshua!”

“Are you going to come?” he asks, his voice muffled.

“Yes!”

And it's true. I
am
going to come, despite that small part of me that struggles to hang on to some last shred of control.

“Not yet,” he commands.

I take in a deep breath, wanting to please him, to do as he asks, even more than I need to come. Knowing that I will come exactly as he wants me to. And that knowing gives me permission, somehow.

Yes, I am in his hands now. I can let it go.

He uses his hands then, pressing the lips of my sex closed with his fingers, and it feels so damn good, and it hurts maybe a little. But the pleasure is not the point; the point is that he is letting me know he is in command, and I understand it. I love it.

I am about to go out of my head.

“Take a breath, Valentine.”

I do, drawing the warm air into my lungs, along with the heady scent of desire: his as well as my own.

“Again,” he tells me, and once more I obey.

He holds the lips of my sex open with his fingers and bends down once more, his tongue driving softly into my body.

“Oh!”

He stops. “Not yet, Valentine. Hold back. You can do it.”

“Yes.”

Anything for him at this moment.

He begins again, his hot tongue moving inside of me, slipping out, like wet silk, like some small, lovely erection. And all the while his fingers massaging the lips of my sex. My swollen clitoris is left waiting, needy. I know he knows this. He knows exactly what he's doing.

The pleasure builds, a hard knot of need in my belly, my sex, my breasts. It's all I can do to hold the tide back. His tongue is sliding in and out of me, his fingers rubbing, pinching just hard enough.

“Joshua, please …”

I feel him shift, his tongue pulling out of me. Then his fingers drive inside, hard. My body arches against him, and he plants his mouth right on me, drawing my swollen clitoris into his mouth and sucking.

I explode, my body tensing, pleasure shafting into me like a blade. Lights ignite behind my closed eyes, a million stars going off in my head. And I am calling his name.

“Joshua! Joshua! Ah, God …”

Writhing against him, his lovely mouth still sucking, sucking, his fingers deep inside me, drawing my climax from me, milking my body for every last drop of pleasure.
Making
me come.

“Joshua, I need you. Please,” I gasp.

“Yes, now,” he says.

He moves away from me, and I am vaguely aware that he is pulling a condom from the pocket of his discarded slacks. He kneels on the bed, pulling me upright, then into his arms, so that I am straddling his lap, my knees on either side of his.

His cock is as beautiful as the rest of him, golden and strong. Reaching down between us, I brush the silky tip with my fingertips, watch him sigh in pleasure, his eyes fluttering closed. Taking him in my hand, I wrap my fingers around the hard length of him. He is big, thick. Lovely to look at, like
solid velvet in my hand. I stroke him and his hips pump into my touch. Then his hand comes down over mine.

“I need to stop.” His voice is low, rough with need. And the sound of it is intensely sexual to me. My sex gives a hard squeeze. “I need to make love to you, Valentine.”

Has any man ever said those words to me?

But I am shaking with desire; I can't think about it. Can't think about anything but him.

I help him roll the condom down over his rigid flesh, then he lifts me. I spread my thighs wider, and he grips my hips, lowering me onto his cock, impaling me, his dark hazel gaze never leaving mine. Pleasure drives into me, deep, hot, nearly paralyzing.

I am going to come again.

“Jesus, Valentine. You feel so good. So damn good.”

We hold still, his hands gripping my hips, pleasure dancing like electricity in the air between us, in our joined bodies. And there is a strange intensity to the moment that has as much to do with the way he's looking at me, with the way he makes me feel, as it does with his cock deep inside my body, his fingers digging into my flesh.

Then he begins to move, pulling me in close until my breasts are crushed against his chest, rocking slowly. The sensation is exquisite, his cock moving in and out of me, a gentle thrusting, the hard planes of his body against mine, so close I can feel the wild beating of his heart against my own. He moves his lips over my neck, sending shivers over my skin. And he is thrusting harder now, deeper, my hips moving to meet his. My clitoris is rubbing against his pubic bone, the pressure exactly where I need it. Desire is like heat lightning in my body, arcing into me with every stroke of his cock, every touch of his lips on my throat.

His hands are holding me so damn tight I know they'll leave bruises as he pumps into me, harder now. But I don't care. I need it, to be possessed like this. And I am hovering at that edge of climax, yearning for it, but waiting for him.

“Valentine … I'm going to come.”

“Yes. Please … come, Joshua.”

He drives hard into me, pleasure moving deep, and I feel him tense all over. And as his hips jerk hard, then harder, as his groan escapes, pleasure fills my body in a hot tide, like the ocean: that heavy, that powerful, as if drawn by the moon. And I am lost, my mind gone, as I come in long, shuddering waves. Over and over, and I can barely breathe. Doesn't matter. I'm coming and coming. And he is coming into me, moaning, our panting breath mingling in the pale afternoon sunlight.

And I feel something I have never felt before in my life. Something warm and light and frightening as he pulls me tighter into his arms, whispering my name into my hair.

“Valentine, Valentine, Valentine …”

Heat is seeping into my chest, expanding. How will I ever let him go? I can't do it.

I cannot do this.

Tears fill my eyes. I know this is more than I can ever have, this beautiful thing between us. More than I deserve.

But I have it now,
right now.
Fuck it. This moment is mine. Even / deserve to have this much.

I
DON'T KNOW HOW
I managed to sleep, but I did. Even with my mind whirling. How lovely to wake up in the late afternoon light, Joshua's body resting beside me.

His breath is shallow, slow, rhythmic. His face is almost
innocent as he sleeps. And so damn beautiful to me, my chest tightens, and I have to make an effort simply to breathe.

I shake my head.

Get it together, Valentine. He's just a man.

But I know that's not true. Joshua is so much more. It would be so damn simple otherwise. The fact that I can climax with him is only an outward sign of something that runs much deeper. It's something I'll need to figure out at some point: what it means for me, exactly, what it says about him, about the kind of person I am with him. But I can't do it now. I am so filled with wanting I can barely think straight.

I run my hands through the tangles in my hair, pulling hard on the knots there, needing that pain to center myself. I draw in a few deep breaths. Focus once more on his face, on the lines of his body, the way the shaft of light coming through the wooden shutters casts striped shadows across the smooth, bare skin of his chest.

I find myself wishing I had a good camera, some black-and-white film. He is art to me. He has somehow become this almost iconic figure of desire. His mouth is all soft and loose, his lips so plush. And I can't help myself; I lean in and kiss him. He comes awake, breathing into my mouth, sweetly. His arms go around me, pulling me to him. Absolutely unbelievable how good this feels: his mouth, these simple, sweet kisses, being held by him.

I realize I am happy.
Happy I

A sharp tug in my chest once more, but I ignore it.

“Are you hungry?” he asks me.

“I'm starving.”

“I'm a terrible date. I made you miss the lunch I'd offered.”

“Mmm … this was better.”

“Better, yes. Amazing.”

He strokes a lock of hair from my face, and I am caught up once more in his steady gaze, trembling beneath his touch. I want him to make love to me again.

Make love.

Like some alien language.

He turns, until we are on our sides, lying facing each other, our legs tangling. His hard cock presses against my belly. My sex stirs with desire, hot, thrumming through my body.

“How hungry are you?” he asks me.

“Fainting from malnutrition. But I can wait a little longer.”

He flips me over, pinning me beneath him, his cock slipping between my thighs, tempting at the entrance to my pussy.

“I'll make it fast, then.”

“Oh, yes. Fast and hard, please.”

He smiles at me.

“Condoms, Valentine.”

“In my nightstand.”

I don't even know why I keep them there. I never have sex in my own bed. This is my place. My haven. But it is his now, too.

Don't even think that…

No, too much to think of anything but watching him sheath his gorgeous, golden cock, feeling him slide into me as easy as water, sensation flooding my body.

His hands slip under my ass, and he lifts me a little, angling deeper, and begins a hard, pumping rhythm. I love this, the way he holds on to me, so hard it hurts, his fingers digging into my flesh.

Possessed, yes.

I am breathless immediately, panting, gasping with pleasure.
Drowning in it. He's going so damn fast and deep, burrowing into me. And desire builds inside me, driven by his thrusting cock as he holds me tightly, every surface of our bodies pressed together.

And still, I need more.

“Deeper, Joshua.”

“Yes …”

He presses into me, until there is a small flash of pain. But I need it. Need him to fill me this way.

My climax is waiting for me, hovering, and when he lowers his beautiful face to mine, sucks my tongue into his mouth, it's too much for me. I come, shivering, gasping into his mouth, between those lush lips.

In moments he tenses, and I swear I can feel his cock pulsing inside of me as he cries out, shudders.

We are covered in sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Like some lovely, intoxicating perfume.

He rolls off me, and we lie on our sides again, facing each other, both of us trying to catch our breath. His hand goes to my face, traces my cheek.

“I'll feed you now, I promise.”

He smiles, dazzling my already dazed brain.

“Alright.” I slide a hand over his shoulder, his chest, loving his silken skin on my palm. Does any other man have skin like his?

I know I need to eat. But all I want to do is kiss him. Touch him. I am obsessed. Reaching up, I trace the scar on his lower lip. Such a contrast to the lush flesh there.

“How did you get this, Joshua? Let me guess; it was something innocent. A bicycle accident when you were eight.”

“Why would you say it had to be something innocent?”

“There's something a bit innocent about you. Even about this scar.” I touch it once more, feel the texture beneath my fingertip.

He grins. “Oh, you think so? You have no idea how funny that is to me. To anyone who really knows me.”

“Then tell me what's not so innocent about you. Let me know you. Tell me how you got your scar.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “In a bar fight when I was eighteen.”

“Really?” Why does this surprise me so much? Why does the idea turn me on?

“It was a stupid college thing. Classic young, angry guy. That was before I realized I didn't have much to be angry about. I was still young enough to think the world owed me.”

“What else? What else about your life is less than innocent?”

He pauses, silent for several moments. Then, “When Dad died I took off and went to Europe. And I don't mean the usual tour of Paris, London. I wanted to explore the underbelly.” He pauses, runs a finger over my jaw. He's not really looking at me now. “It was a bad time for me. I went to Prague and drank absinthe until I puked. In Berlin I drank whatever was available, whatever they had in the clubs. Berlin is a hard place. I drank with strangers who stole my wallet while I was passed out cold on the floor of some girl's apartment. Who knows, maybe it was the girl who stole it. I went to Amsterdam and smoked hash. I went to the red light district and bought hookers.”

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