Authors: Joanna Wilson
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons--living or dead--is entirely coincidental.
Howling Passion copyright @ 2013 by Joanna Wilson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles or reviews.
mesmerized. The naked flame danced under my quickening breath, and licked at the primitive centers of my brain. My instincts were well and truly in control.
Fighting them as best I could, the tiny, silver pot, etched with ancient Iroquois symbols, grew unnaturally hot against the pads of my thumb and forefinger. Warmed by the candle beneath it, the versipelli salve inside began to soften. But nowhere near quickly enough.
The white noise of the bath tub filling behind me slowly gave way to the relentless pounding of my heartbeat. I swallowed down the sickening heat that was radiating from deep down in the pit of my stomach, and pressed my thighs together to try and crush the burning ache in my loins.
Of all the times for me to come into season, why did it have to be tonight?
After much too long, the last globular hint of white in the pot melted into a thick, translucent liquid. I sighed with relief, pouring the salve into the rising water in an elongated figure eight. Turning off the faucet, I stirred it through with my hand, immediately feeling the tingle of the salve on my skin. I shrugged off my robe, letting it fall in a puddle on the checked tiles, and stepped into the claw foot tub
I lowered myself into the steaming water--hips squeaking noisily against the wet porcelain on both sides--until I molded to the bottom of the tub. Even though I was mercifully alone, the embarrassment still flushed my cheeks. I hated this body so much.
I slid down, dipping my head back and submerging myself entirely beneath the water. It was a futile attempt to cleanse my shame. When I resurfaced, I brushed my long, black hair back over my shoulders, the hot water removing most of its curl. My skin prickled all over from the versipelli. It distracted me from the throb in my pussy, but not yet dulling the ache. I lay back, resting my head on a folded facecloth on the edge of the tub, and closed my eyes, waiting for the salve to bring me some relief.
Attuned to my body, the sting of the vapor in my nostrils and lungs deepened with every breath I took. The tingle on my skin was strongest on my lips, nipples, and between my legs. It was almost unbearable. As I concentrated on the drum beat of my heart, I became aware of my hands moving of their own accord on my thighs.
I was caressing my smooth skin in slow, lazy circles, moving down the outside toward my knees, then back up my inner thighs until my thumbs trailed in the soft crease at the top of my legs. With each lap, my fingers roamed closer to my sex, kneading my flesh as I went. But I resisted the temptation to touch myself, instead sliding my hands up over my round belly, hugging myself tightly.
My forearms lifted my heavy breasts, my nipples breaking the surface of the water. The sensation of the cool air caused them to harden into puckered little points. Instantly, my pussy heaved with wanton desire. I was losing the battle.
Releasing my embrace, I uncrossed my arms and cupped my breasts. I lifted and lowered each swollen globe, exposing and submerging my engorged nipples one after the other. The contrast between the warm water and cool air fuelled my lust. It wasn’t long before I started adding my gentle, deliberate breaths to the sensation. I licked my lips, tasting the sour versipelli and spreading the prickling potion in my mouth.
Through heavy lashes, my nipples looked so good. At least I had great tits, I thought. I heaved up my right breast and flicked the tip of my tongue across the horny, pink stem. The jolt was electric, twitching all the way down to my pussy. Licking at my other nub, I took it between my lips and sucked. It was so deliciously indulgent.
I passed my right hand down over the soft swell of my tummy to the short curls of my pubic hair. Burrowing my fingers between the softness of my thighs, I felt for my aching slit. My lips were hidden away, nestled in the plump flesh between my legs, but my fingers found the sensitive, wrinkled folds.
Holding my labia apart with my index and ring fingers, I used my middle digit to slowly rub the full length of my pussy, spiraling at my opening, then again at my clit. Each time I teased my button, my entire body zapped with pleasure. Before long, I was grinding my finger in slow circles on my engorged bud. It took me right to the edge.
My climax burst through me, like a hot, flushing sneeze. I howled with ecstasy, rolling my head back over the rim of the bath, sending the damp face cloth slopping to the tiles below. But it wasn’t enough. I needed to be filled.
Overtaken by the power of my desire, I kept working my clit with my thumb as I plunged two fingers into my slippery cunt. The tingle of the versipelli spread deep inside me, which only heightened my lust. I frigged myself with wild abandon, furiously rubbing at the front wall of my vagina, causing my G-spot to glow white hot. I bucked and panted in the tub, water sloshing violently over the edge, until I was finally rocked by another intense, heaving orgasm.
Laying there, completely spent, with my temple resting against the cool porcelain rim of the tub, gentle waves of water lapped against my chin as I fought to regain my breath. The afterglow of my release embraced me in the warm, tingling liquid, and I felt my raging lust slowly subside.
Pulling the plug, I carefully lifted myself up and stepped out onto the drowned mat. I hugged a fluffy, white bath sheet around my body, burying my chin in my chest. The candle still flickered on the vanity, along with its reflection in the mirror. The two glowing flames stared at me like piercing, unworldly eyes. I looked up at my own, bright amber, and framed by thick, black lashes. They glared back at me with smoldering intensity
I roughly toweled my hair dry and brushed out the tangles. The heavy, damp curls clung to my shoulder blades as I clasped my bra on backwards, spun it around and snapped on the straps. I squeezed and bounced my full breasts into place, proudly smiling at how good they looked spilling out of my hands. My panties though, made me cringe. There was nothing alluring about the size eighteens I stretched up over my wide hips.
Inspecting myself in the full length mirror in my bedroom, I wasn’t happy with anything I put on. The shine of my leather motorcycle pants was hideous, to say nothing of the muffin top they gave me. And my blue skinny jeans just made my legs look fat, especially where they came together halfway up my thighs. After a lot of sighing, I ended up settling for a pair of black leggings.
“Oh, I just don’t know,” I whined to myself, smoothing down a black V-neck with three quarter sleeves. I swapped it for a white t-shirt that covered everything, but it was nowhere near sexy enough. I groaned through gritted teeth as I peeled it off and fished in my hamper for my burgundy tank top.
Smelling it carefully, it wasn’t great, but it would have to do. I peeled it on and flicked my long curls out the back. My tits looked amazing. They covered my tummy nicely, although my arms were a bit big. I shrugged on my black, leather jacket and folded the collar into place under my hair.
Regarding my reflection, I snorted a long sigh out through my nose.
As long as I focus on my cleavage
, I thought.
An intense feeling of anticipation interrupted me from my preening. I stilled, focusing on the sensation. My skin tingled, but it was different from the lasting effects of my versipelli bath. It was definitely excitement I felt. It was growing stronger. And it wasn’t mine.
“Connor,” I breathed, unable to keep the smile from my lips as I tongued his full name.
Connor James Bellinger.
I don’t know why I was able to sense him from so far away. I couldn’t with anyone else. Nonetheless, I loved it.
I slapped off the light switches and snatched up my keys from the hall table as I tore out of my apartment. I bounced down the four flights of stairs and almost hit the glass door to the street at a run. The cold night air blasted my face. It was fresh, and filled with the scents of the city. There was something so much more comforting in it than the warm, still air inside.
Standing on the sidewalk outside my building, I listened to my surroundings. A variety of chattering televisions, sadly much fewer conversations, a distant siren, complete with its wake of barking dogs, and the beautiful sound of Connor’s motorcycle. It was only a few blocks away. I couldn’t wait.
The monstrous roar of his Harley-Davidson announced his arrival into my street. He came into view two blocks over, leaning heavily into the corner. Connor’s honey blond hair strobed under the street lamps on his approach, and I caught sight of that gorgeous, arrogant grin.
Our eyes met, and I heard his voice in my head.
He dragged out each syllable of my name in that smug tone of his.
I imagined his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and then his lips pressing together, before bursting apart into that delicious smirk. And then I imagined what they would feel like on my skin.
, I thought, looking away.
He rumbled to a standstill in front of me. Leaving his bike running, he kicked down the stand and dismounted. “Stop what?”
I glared at him, emptying my mind of any thought or emotion.
Connor’s eyes narrowed, and he strode the three paces toward me, stopping mere inches away. He was an imposing presence, towering above me, his shoulders broad and powerful. He was a wall of brown leather and faded denim. But his usual confidence faltered.
As I stared up at him, I could see his nostrils flaring slightly, trying to take in my scent. He wasn’t getting anything, I knew. The versipelli had seen to that. Only the aroma of Mrs. Barona’s pot roast from across the street, the exhaust of his motorcycle, and that sandalwood musk of his that made my pussy throb. He sniffed at my hair, and his nose wrinkled. He wasn’t sure.
I was loving it.
Connor slowly stalked around me, looking me up and down as he went. I met his gaze each time he looked up, and blocked every thought. I turned my head, following him over my right shoulder, then met him again over my left. His curiosity though had given way to arousal, and I noticed his eyes lingering on my ass.
I couldn’t hide my discomfort, and was immediately overcome with self-consciousness. I felt his satisfaction grow at the discovery.
“Mmm,” he almost growled, far too pleased with himself.
I glared into his shining, sky blue eyes. My mind raged.
What the fuck are you looking at?
He grinned that cocky grin of his. “Easy, Big Girl.”
I dipped my gaze, my cheeks flushing. I was mortified. I just wanted to run back inside and hide in my apartment. But I couldn’t. Tonight was way too important.
I sensed Connor’s arousal elevating. I looked up and noticed him leering at my breasts. Pulling the lapels of my jacket over them, I zipped myself up.
Are we going to go, or what?
He strode back to his motorcycle and kicked his leg over the seat. I climbed on behind him and found new depths of shame as the bike sank under my weight with a strained squeak. Connor chuckled to himself, and my embarrassment quickly turned to anger, my growl falling into perfect harmony with the idling Harley.
“Hold on tight,” he called over his shoulder as he kicked the stand back into place.
As much as I didn’t want to, I wrapped my arms around his waist and braced myself for the deafening burst of acceleration. The power of his Harley nearly threw me off the back as we launched off down the darkened street. But as we sped through the night air, the concentration of aromas rammed up my nose distracted me from my flagging spirits.
Endless canyons of apartment buildings and office blocks loomed above us as we shot through the evening traffic. Connor expertly guided his bike between lines of cars queuing at red lights, passing them with only an inch or two to spare. Some of them blasted their horns at us in protest, but we were long gone a second later, flying into the next stretch of clear, open road. We hardly stopped, constantly flicking in and out of the pools of light shining down from the street lamps above.
It was exhilarating.
Before long, we hit the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge, roaring out high over the inky darkness of the Hudson River. The countless steel cables that hung lazily from the towers methodically whipped by, flickering under the illumination of eight lanes of headlights. It was somehow calming. I leaned forward and rested my head on Connor’s back, soothed by the cool leather of his jacket against the side of my face and the flap of my hair blowing in the wind. I always loved watching the glowing New York skyline as we came off the bridge. It was so beautiful. So impressive.