Something came up?
Livid, I ran to position and entered the stage in my wedding dress, approaching gorgeous Jake with the carnation in his buttonhole. This was our marriage scene and I was the blushing bride, but my cheeks were flushed out of rage, not modesty. Dan, who was playing the vicar—his one and only role—gave me a warning look when Jake slid the ring on my finger. Dan was trying to remind me that our kiss was meant to be subtle, but when he said, “You may kiss the bride,” and Jake pushed back my veil, it was I who dived in to kiss my groom. What was meant to be a gentle peck became a fiery clasp, and the audience whooped as Jake kissed me back. Our tongues slid together and he clutched my waist, as I ran my hands down his chest. He pulled away, eyes wide, and whispered, “Had a change of heart?”
Knowing that I had, I gave a nod.
In that moment, I’d worked it all out. Tonight I would pack my things and run to Jake. I had a vision of riding him in this white dress, our hips thudding as the netting crinkled around us. His smooth body arching, our rhythm growing quicker, the bedsprings squeaking in a building crescendo … He would rip off my veil, grab my breasts through the bodice, and I’d tear his shirt open, run my hands down his chest. All that muscle, just waiting to be felt! This dream made me so wet that I started rushing my lines. See, I needed our sex scene.
Now.
By the time Jake was pushing me up against the wall, and Lee and Tina were acting downstage, and the music was starting to build, I’d stopped feeling nervous and was enjoying Jake’s touch. His mouth on mine was violent, his kiss wet and deep. He raised my thigh and I hooked my leg around him, pulling him onto me like never before. He groaned loudly and I felt him growing hard—a fact that made me gasp. As he rubbed himself against me, I reached between us and unzipped. I saw his eyes jerk open, saw him catch his breath; felt my sex burning, so thirsty for his. Then he leaned into my ear, breathy and wet, and whispered, “God, let’s do it.”
I glanced toward the audience, and though I couldn’t see them—just a hundred silhouettes in a long, dark hall—I could feel their stares, could sense their growing pleasure, as we moved against each other. It was as if the whole room was holding its breath, swallowing, readying, leaning forward.
“Screw her!” someone murmured from a seat near the front.
“Is it real?” hissed someone else.
“Jesus,” said a female voice from just below the stage. “This is really hot.”
The music grew louder and faster. Jake grabbed my breast through the tight, boned bodice, and I reached down below again, guiding him inside me. He shuddered as he filled me, and the pleasure of his length made me arch, head falling back. How I groaned to feel him thrusting, feel his teeth on my neck, feel the shape of him inside me growing harder every time, feel the wetness of my clutching sex, my fingers in his shirt, as his warm scent rose.
“I’ve wanted you so long,” he groaned.
I said I felt the same.
I saw him glance out at the noisy crowd, who were muttering and gasping at our obvious display. There were excited whispers, ripples of chatter. Somewhere near the front, a man gave a groan. Turning back, Jake grabbed my face and kissed me, while his hips thrust harder and I spread my thighs wide. I pulled his shirt open, laying my palms on his chest, and felt the quick pummel of his heart.
I tried to call him gorgeous, but only managed, “You feel …”
The heat in me grew heavy like a perfect weight, burning, working deeper till I figured it would give—but no, it kept building as we bashed against that wall, our kisses now wet as my sex. The music burst into a growing crescendo, building and building, dramatic and loud. When at last I was so aroused that the nearness of my coming felt like pain, Jake began to fuck me in a beautiful stampede, and we groaned together, long and deep, the pleasure rolling through us. Only when it died did I notice I’d been drooling, with saliva trailing down my chin.
The actors’ voices behind us fell, and the lights grew dim. It was the end of the first act. The audience applauded, but Jake didn’t move.
“That was quite a performance,” I said.
He didn’t return the joke. Instead, I felt him smoothing my hair from my face. “Don’t tease me, angel. Say you’ll come to dinner.”
Gently, I told him I would. “We should go,” I added, “before the lights come up.”
I felt him slide from me, then raise me in his arms so I gave a little gasp of surprise. And humming an aria, he carried me offstage, my wedding dress loose, my cheek pressed against his lapel.
One Last Time
Saskia Walker
Why have you come back, Frank?
The last customer had left and I slid the bolts home, closing the world out. We were alone. Turning my back against the door, I stared across the pub at him. He sat at the bar as he had all evening, brooding and watchful. When I’d gone about my business, serving the other customers, he’d followed me with possessive eyes, making no attempt to hide the fact he wouldn’t be leaving when time was called. I’d requested space and yet here he was, back again—and on a Sunday night when he knew it would be quiet and I’d be locking up alone. Frustration welled in me. Why did he have to make splitting up even harder than it already was?
As I walked back to my post I was unable to stop myself from noticing the breadth of his shoulders through his worn leather jacket, the way his thick, dark hair brushed his collar, and the outline of his buttocks through snug jeans.
“What do you want, Frank?” I stepped behind the bar, picking up the bar cloth as I went. Moving quickly, I rubbed it across the polished wood counter, trying to ignore him, but his hand shot out and closed over my wrist, halting me.
My back stiffened and tension beaded up my spine. His demanding grasp made my heart trip. I silently cursed myself, because this is what he did to me, so easily. I was aroused by this simple action—an action that merely hinted at the immensity of his power and self-control. My resistance faltered, as he knew it would. My hand fisted inside his grip.
“I want you,” he whispered.
I tried to tug free, but couldn’t. “I told you, it’s over.”
I’d told him that the week before, and he’d stared at me for the longest moment, then nodded and left. Not even a goodbye kiss. I’d shoved my emotional armor into place, but deep inside I was hurting, badly. And now, a week later, he was back. Did he want to say goodbye properly, or did he think I’d buckle and give in to him?
“Mel, you also told me that you loved me.” His eyes blazed across the bar at me, so intense that I couldn’t look away.
My chest tightened, my hand slackening inside his grip. I did love him, and I knew that would never change, but Frank’s a long-distance trucker and he loves the road. “I need a man who is there for me at the end of the day,” I responded, as levelly as I could, “not someone who passes through every couple of weeks to show me a good time.”
“One last time, here and now,” he said. It was a statement of intent, not a request.
Our eyes remained locked,
