Best of Best Women's Erotica by Marcy Sheiner

swing free. He moaned a little, kneading her breasts as she had kneaded the bread dough.
    Stepping back, he broke the connection to unpin her hair. With his skilled hands he began brushing it, using long gentle strokes with her grandmother’s brush. Then he brought a cool
cloth and ran it across her body, rinsing away the sweat. She shuddered slightly. No one had tended her like this in a long time. Finishing, he washed his own body. Then he took her hand and turned her around, appraising her in that way he had. Then, in the same singsong voice he’d used to tell her about the artichokes, he described her body, comparing her breasts to the sweetest honeydew melons he could imagine, dark, heavy, rich. He inhaled the smell of them and his tongue traced her nipples. Finally, he popped one into his mouth and sucked, his tongue searching and probing.
    â€œJust like our cherry dessert,” he said, and switched to the other dark mound. His hands were on her panties; he slid them down her thighs and allowed them to pool around her feet. “Come, Miss Tara. Dance with me.” He pulled her out the open door into the moonlight, and in the shadow of the blooming jasmine they swayed on their feet for a while, drinking in the light of the moon and the kiss of the gentle breeze. The gleam of his smile and the jewel on her breast sparkled. Then, as if planned, they danced into the bedroom. His lips met hers again. She returned his passion, sucking on his tongue, biting his lips. They hungered. They wanted to devour each other.
    She couldn’t say how or when she ended up on the bed, only felt herself falling onto the feather mattress as she had fallen into his eyes. Tara looked up at him. He stood, caressing her body with a look. She reveled in his admiration.
    â€œWe just need one more thing,” he said, and, grabbing her old robe, he sprinted across to the kitchen. He returned with the last of the chocolate and triumphantly drizzled it across her body, murmuring that she deserved to be garnished. She squirmed and squealed with pleasure as he licked off the sticky
sauce. He compared each part of her body to an exotic food and told her how he would lovingly prepare it. She was flowering, changing beneath his hands, his tongue, and his words, rising like sweet dough. Finally she could stand it no longer and brought him into her, wrapping around him, kneading him with her strong muscles. They climaxed together, fiercely. The moonlight caressed them as they lay in the dying heat.
    Tara wriggled her toes in pleasure, stretching like a contented kitten. She loved the way her orgasm passed through her body, traveling down her legs and settling in her feet. His weight descended on her slowly; she felt the slackening in his muscles, the looseness as he gently slid out. She inhaled his peppery, musky smell. The fragrance of his sex, tinged with the scents from their work in the sultry kitchen, was delicious.
    He slept, snoring lightly. But she couldn’t. She spent hours going over each step; the food birthed together under their joint parentage, the sensuous smells, the ability to anticipate the other’s movements. She hugged all these memories to her heart as she wanted to hug him. Instead, she stroked his back lightly so as not to disturb him. She wanted this moment to go on just a bit longer before she had to face the kitchen alone.
    The new day was coming on fast. Their loving had lasted most of the night. The sun’s morning rays nibbled on the edge of the horizon. The moon hadn’t yet gone down—nor had the pounding in her veins ceased. Suddenly she hated the sun, cursing it for bringing her this sweet morsel and now coming to take him away from her.
    He responded to her caress and snuggled his head down on her chest. She smiled at him. He was so small yet so perfectly formed, like a miniature god nestled in her arms. She liked the image of holding God. Overlooking the blasphemy, she thought
about