Can't Get Enough (7 page)

“Rebecca.” There was depth and richness to his voice. He was such a tall, broad-shouldered man, and the height of the stool only made him more ominous. His unforgiving eyes focused on her, scanning once again. Nothing was worse than an uncooperative model—except maybe when said model was also your wife. “Stay. Still.”

But it was terribly difficult to stay still. Carter had positioned Rebecca on a worn sofa, sprawled out on her back…naked. Completely naked. No draped cloth, no turning her back to him. She was fully exposed, full figure and all. Her only hope was the long, black hair that spilled over her shoulders. A collection of raven curls dangled at her plump breasts, but they didn't come close to offering ample coverage. In fact, when she tried to employ some tasteful strategy, Carter only demanded a more provocative position. She was completely at his mercy, and the chill of the open studio teased her exposed, olive skin. In fact, it made her really wet. It always did. These lunchtime rendezvous only ended one way, and her body was well aware. Carter was outwardly rather cold, but how he loved to appreciate her body—how he loved to make her wait. Time and marriage had done nothing to dilute their lust for each other.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her green eyes wandering away from his. The cheekiness in her voice always bought a smirk to his lips. She knew it. She didn't have to look. He knew she wasn't
really
sorry. “I'll try to stay still, Carter.”

But Rebecca was short on time. Thirty more minutes meant
the end of her lunch break. Thirty more minutes and she would be expected to be in her office, at her desk. She, too, was an artist—it was how she and Carter met, so many years ago—but Rebecca had largely taken the commercial route. She was an art director at a prestigious design firm. Her life was filled with logo designs, business cards, and websites. Her dirty, painter's smock was replaced with pencil skirts, blazers and heels. Carter loved that about her—Rebecca was a hardworking woman with a ball-buster reputation. With her own office and her own team of designers, her portfolio was regularly an object of envy. This lifestyle often meant long hours, but it came with great financial success. However, this also meant canceled dates, and Carter was not one to be abandoned without consequence. She'd have to make it up to him, and she'd have to do it his way…every lunch break for the next month. There was no debating this contract. Despite their differences, one thing was quite clear: above all else, she was undeniably his. He wasn't about to let her forget it. Little had Rebecca realized how addictive this contract would become.

Of course, she resisted at first. She always did, but the excuses were in vain. In fact, nowadays, she did so on purpose. It was fuel for his hungry, fiery eyes. She'd strip off her business attire, piece by piece, every afternoon, and pose for her Michelangelo. It was a willing, wonderful contract that occupied her mind throughout the workday. Just wait until noon. Contain yourself until noon. It was
very
difficult to focus on anything else.

A frustrated grunt interrupted her inner dialog. She turned her head, purposely moving to look over at her husband. Carter was looming with crossed arms. As he stood beside his canvas, Rachel desperately tried to force her eyes away from the tight jeans hugging his hips. Just observing his body's girth stole her breath; how easily she could remember his strength against
her smaller frame. His sun-kissed skin, his wrinkled shirt, his five o'clock shadow, his worn, dirty hands…

“You model like a novice.” Carter approached and placed a hand under her chin. He guided her face back to its proper place, away from him and his canvas. “Either that or you enjoy my frustration.”

Her body tensed, eyes on the ceiling as she tried to follow orders. Unexpectedly, she felt the soft fibers of a paintbrush against her skin, brushing, teasing, tracing her features. Carter paid great attention to her collarbone. Inching down her body with precision, he paused only for a moment between her breasts. The brush lifted, and she found herself lost in anticipation. Rebecca tried to turn her head to see him, but he only redirected her glance away once again. “Stay still.”

The bristles fluttered against her breasts, one after the other. Every so often, he would slyly brush at her nipples, an accidental flick against the hardened mounds. Her back arched, easing toward him. There was no need to beg. Her body so visibly wanted him: those curled toes, the way she'd bite at her lips. Carter knew, and he savored it. Staying still was obviously difficult for her, but his slow strokes were visibly torturous. Carter was well aware that time was not on their side—well, at least it wasn't on
Rebecca's
side.

Her cell phone chimed. It was the twelve-thirty alarm. It was time to get back to work.

Rebecca turned, looking at Carter with urgency. There was no need to exchange words. Her eyes begged, but his eyes refused. She could feel the smooth, finished end of the paintbrush toying with her moist opening. She was staring back at him in silence; his breath was heavy, his brow was tense. The smooth, wooden surface of the handle slipped inside of her. Its finger-like width slid rhythmically back and forth. Rebecca's
head tilted back and she allowed herself a long, satisfied groan. “Carter, please.”

“Commercialism has made you an impatient woman.” He was amused with her. “The best things in life are to be savored, Rebecca. The process is just as important as the finished product, and mastery takes time.”

It was the same lines he'd give at a gallery opening. It was the same logic he'd profess to students. Rebecca leaned toward Carter, defying his commands, digging her fingers into his unruly curls. They shared a heated murmur as their faces drew close, but the situation was far beyond words. It was a hunger that had possessed them for years, satisfied only in each other's warmth. Friends and family had teased that their puppy love would be a passing intoxication. Little did they realize how passionately and absolutely in love Carter and Rebecca were; the intensity when their lips met, the hunger as they kissed each other, was as vibrant and colorful as on their first rendezvous. The paintbrush slowly left her inner warmth, dragging against her opening. She was more than ready, and judging by the visible firmness in his jeans, so was he.

Her damn cell phone began to ring. How much time had passed? Was that the office? Rebecca slowly unbuttoned her husband's shirt, and she savored the definition in his chest. Button by button, down to his pants; the phone's ringing was meaningless. Her eyes traced up him; he was staring down with overwhelming need. Moments like these could have served as payback, but unlike her lover, Rebecca could never quite contain herself for long. Maybe Carter was right. Maybe commercial art had made her an impatient woman. She unbuttoned his pants, shifting and toying with his clothes before wrapping her fingers around the width of his firm shaft. She stroked him, their eyes locked. Carter's face was overtaken with lust, as he grunted under
his breath. Her fingers knew to tease his thighs. They knew the rhythm that took his breath away. The only means of heightening his ecstasy lay within the warmth of her mouth. Leaning forward, she kissed his cock, running her tongue up its length and flicking beneath the rim. Carter clenched his teeth, and his hands worked themselves into his wife's long raven curls. He pulled at her, moaning her name with such unapologetic passion.

Together, the two stood up, breathing in a moment of silence before Carter lifted his wife. The strength of his arms left her feeling weightless, pressing her back against the cold studio wall. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Arms around his shoulders, fingers clenched against his back, her large breasts squished into him. Skin on skin, his hands had a firm grip on her ass. Leading himself into her moist, eager slit was easy. Too easy, as she whimpered and tugged, desperately. It was his breaking point. At this stage, it was difficult to savor and much more enticing to devour. Carter's hips pushed upward and into her with an animalistic intensity. He lifted and lowered her with such ease. Her skin slapped against his with each rough thrust, and her lustful cries only drove him further.

The two of them were beyond dirty talk; their bodies were an extension of each other. When her moist walls tensed against his shaft, he knew it, he felt it, and he knew what it meant. Rebecca liked it
this
way. Making her climax was one of his greatest pleasures—that look in her eyes, the way he could make her sing. Nothing else sent his pulse into the same heated frenzy. Pulling her from the wall and laying her on the worn couch, he mercilessly ravaged her. Rebecca's voice filled the room—and Carter lost himself, filling
her
up, overtaken by his beautiful wife.

It was nearly four o'clock.

MUD AND PAIN

Tilly Hunter

D
ean was ahead already. I admired his ass as his soaked shorts clung to its contours. He was always faster than me, although in a race like this anything could happen. We'd trained for months for the ultimate endurance test, the Toughest Ten, bored with marathons and ironman triathlons. It was Dean who first turned me into a fitness freak. After spotting him lifting weights at the gym I found myself going more and more often in the hope of bumping into him and being able to watch him putting his magnificent body through its paces. It was the body of an underwear model. Or perhaps a sculpted Greek god.

One day, after we'd graduated to swapping names and terse hellos, he said to me, “Hey Joe, how about doing a marathon with me?”

“Sure,” I said, before engaging my brain. The most I ran was half an hour on the treadmill, never outdoors. I was just blessed with a naturally toned physique that looked like it saw the inside of a gym far more than my actual couple of hours a week. He
soon realized this. But he was patient, quietly sharing training tips, chivying me along when my spirits flagged and coaxing me to push myself, without ever sounding patronizing.

I guess it was the chemistry between us. He wouldn't have put up with me otherwise. Sometimes he slipped into sergeant-major style, even name-calling: “Come on you worthless faggot, get your butt moving before I order the lads to give you a beasting.” It was all playacting. He'd been in the army for a while. He told me he left because he enjoyed the rough treatment too much. He feared for his well-being. And that was the funny thing about our relationship as it became intimate. He was stronger, faster and could endure far more than me. But it was me who got to wrestle him to the floor, grab handfuls of his hair, slap him and call him my bitch. He responded in an immediate physical way, going weak at the knees, eager to drop and suck my cock or let me pound into his ass mercilessly.

“Fuck, Joe,” he'd say, “you do things to me. Things I haven't been able to experience with any other man.”

He knew I'd be watching him as he pulled ahead in the Toughest Ten. It wasn't just a run. It was a ten-mile course with ten obstacle stages—mud, ice, fire, water, walls and more to crawl, swim, wade or climb through. Designed by the military's elite, it put those crazy enough to attempt it through hell and provided the best endorphin buzz available without mind-altering substances.

Our training had covered most of the types of challenges we faced. More thoroughly than necessary, to be honest. I'd confidently bet none of our competitors had submitted to having their balls zapped in order to prepare for the electric fence field, where you had to hurdle or otherwise climb over a dozen electrified wire barriers. Dean saw it as an opportunity to expand our collection of toys. He invested in a “humbler” device that
locked his balls tight within a bar that curved around the base of his buttcheeks, keeping him bent over on all fours. It could be hooked up to an electro-stimulation unit with a nine-volt battery.

I tried it once. Once was enough. He loved it. Reveled in seeing how much he could endure. It made his cock hard and his ass gape. I made sure to turn off the power before I took him. It was always me who called time long before he'd give in.

But the electric challenge was last in the race. Right now I saw him plunging into the next one, a deep, wide pool of ice cubes. Like a kids' ball pool, only a lot less fun. He waded through, arms wide, broad shoulders battling. I tried not to think about how it was going to feel. We'd filled my bath with ice and lain in it until we were numb, but I knew moving in this was going to bring a fresh stab of torment with every step. I jumped, arms flailing. Shit. I felt the shock deep in my cerebral cortex.

I didn't want to move. I didn't want the ice to touch new areas of skin, to soak through new patches of Lycra and nylon. I focused on Dean's solid shoulders as he hauled himself out of the far end of the pool. He glanced at me, grinning insanely, before dashing off to the next obstacle, a crawl through mud under a low cargo net. I willed myself to lift a leg and lean into the ice, to paddle a way through with my arms. My body was losing sensation, my teeth starting to chatter. I'd gone from sweating with exertion and adrenaline to shivering uncontrollably. I fixed my gaze on a spot at the far end, a tiny dent in the wooden frame of the pool, and pushed toward it. If I stopped any longer, I'd probably never move again.

I reached that spot, touching a finger to the dented wood, and dragged myself over the side and out. Ice is meant to be good for tired muscles, but they just felt tight and heavy. I stumbled
on, a mile to run before the mud. Dean was probably already through it.

Occasionally I passed another competitor, mostly male, and the odd lean and muscular woman. Or I'd run past someone doubled over at the edge of the field, clutching a stitch. But then I saw the next obstacle and all my attention was taken by Dean, stopped on his belly under the rough rope netting as if he was in trouble. He was certainly in danger of getting crawled over if the main body of runners caught up.