Best of Best Women's Erotica by Marcy Sheiner Page A

what a good lover he was. She yearned to have him tease her again with his tongue, taste her ears and neck, nuzzle her breasts, and feast at the sweetness between her legs. She heard again the sweet phrases he had spoken, how he planned to work his magic and skill on the banquet that was Tara. Beneath his touch and fingers, words and tongue, she felt beautiful. He appreciated her size and muscles, her meatiness and strength, her artistry both in the kitchen and in bed.
    A small tear rolled down her cheek. It had been too sweet, like the pain in your head on a blistering summer day when you sucked in that first huge mouthful of ice cream. You wanted it so badly that the shock and pleasure reverberated throughout your body and focused on one nerve in your head. The anticipation had been like that. She had known somehow that the sweetness of the night would turn into the painful cold of the morning. But she couldn’t have stopped herself. Nothing else would do but to drink in as much of him as she could. She clutched this ache to her too, allowing the tears to roll down her cheeks and neck, to wet the pendant, now cool on her chest. Silently she sobbed, not wanting to disturb him, not wanting this moment to end.
    He shifted slightly and his face moved closer to her neck and found the small pool of her tears. Instantly he was awake. He assessed her with hooded eyes. Would he get up, begin the going-away process?
    He smiled his big brash smile and propped up his head with one hand. With the other he traced the tracks of her tears. “Miss Tara, no need to be crying now. We made us the sweetest dance last night.”
    She smiled, trying to hide the fear creeping through her stomach. He moved down, closing his mouth over her tears. He
kissed and licked them away. When he rose again a seriousness rested behind the light in his eyes. “Seems to me there is some bitterness in those tears. Is this going to happen every time we dance?”
    She searched his face, checking for any falseness in his words. What did he mean, “every time we dance?” She couldn’t reply—just looked at him, frozen, wondering.
    He laughed, yawned, stretched his arms over his head and rolled away from her. “You aren’t much of a talker, Miss Tara,” he said. Stretching some more, he rolled back to her. His fingers traced a pattern on her stomach. “But I like that. You’re like a wonderful stew—pretending to be simple, just hearty and filling, yet really subtle and deep. Well, it’s okay, Miss Tara, I’ll talk enough for the both of us.” He blew all over her body, chasing away the sweat. “Making a good stew takes time, you know. You’ve got to tend it well, stir it up. Add a little spice now and then. And you want to make sure never to burn it.” He stopped and looked deeply into her eyes. “I never ruined a stew in my life, Miss Tara. And I won’t leave this one unattended. I already told Mr. Beaumont that we would need to come to an understanding about my staying on here.” He hesitated. “Of course, that is if you’ll have me. What do you say, can I add a new ingredient to your stew?”
    She let out her breath and smiled up at him contentedly. He grinned at the change in her. He cocked his head to one side for a moment then reached down to kiss her, a slow velvety kiss that tasted of salt and sweat and chocolate and lovemaking. Tears welled up again in her eyes and he kissed those too.
    â€œI can see I won’t have to worry about this ever being bland,” he laughed. “Plenty of spice here.” His lips found hers again, his tongue probing deeply inside, lingering as he mixed their
juices together. He finally pulled away and they both gulped for breath.
    A ray of sunshine broke through the window and splashed across them. It lit him up from behind like the god she had imagined him to be. She caressed his cheek, the moon’s promise beating