The Best Bad Idea

This good sex story excerpt from Semi-Tough Luck by Jackie Barbosa is published with permission.

Hot5-10 minsAdult MFContemporary
Female-friendly erotic story excerpt by Jackie Barbosa

So much for my hope that Ivan would turn out to be a horrible kisser and thereby convince me not to let this go any further. No such luck. He’s a stellar kisser. A champion kisser. Hell, he could be the patron saint of kissers. 

I’m definitely going to have sex with him, but he doesn’t need to know that. Not yet. Not when he’s worshipping my mouth like a penitent hoping for entry into paradise. Not when he’s using every technique in his arsenal to persuade me to go to bed with him.

He’s already got the part, but he’s so good that I can’t bring myself to cut the audition short. Being the center of the attention of the sexiest man I’ve ever met is something I want to savor for as long as possible. 

 We’re both breathing hard when Ivan finally blazes a trail of kisses across my cheek to my ear and asks in a hoarse whisper, “Ready for the next step?” 

The brush of his lips and the scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin of my neck sends a shock of pleasure straight to my core. His erection presses against me, hot and thick. The size of him—not just there, but everywhere—makes me weak-kneed with arousal. Fuck, I want this man naked. I want him pushing me to the bed, all strength and hardness and heat. Most of all, I want him inside me. Immediately, if not sooner. “God, yes,” I mutter. 

He lowers me gently until my feet touch the ground again. I only wobble a little when he releases me. We stumble and shamble to the bed, shedding articles of clothing on the way. There’s an awkward moment as we remove our sneakers and socks so we can shuck our jeans and underwear. 

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Once we’re both naked, we spend a few seconds just gazing at each other in mutual admiration. I knew Ivan would be in incredible physical condition, but I really had no idea what that would mean. He’s nothing short of art made flesh, every sinew sculpted to aesthetic as well as functional perfection. With the possible exception of his trunk-like thighs, his musculature more closely resembles that of a swimmer than a weight-lifter, well developed and sharply cut without being ostentatiously oversized.

And then there’s his cock. I wouldn’t say it’s oversized compared to the rest of him, but it’s definitely ostentatious, jutting out and up from the dark bronze hair at his groin. Anticipation floods my belly at the thought of him thrusting that exceptional portion of his anatomy into me. I lick my lips, and he lets out a low rumble of impatience. 

This is the best bad idea I’ve ever had.

Tossing the bag that contains my meager belongings onto the floor, I lie down on the bed and beckon him to join me. 

He stretches out along my right side, our bodies touching from shoulders to hips, and looks down at me with blazing blue eyes. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he murmurs. “I want to touch you. Is that okay?”

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For five full seconds, I stare at him, dumbfounded. We’re lying in bed together—naked—and he wants to know if it’s okay if he touches me? Isn’t that the entire point?

Except…the fact that he’s asking for my permission—especially when we’re lying naked in bed together—is kind of incredible. He’s not taking anything for granted, and it’s…really hot. If there’s anything sexier than a man waiting for enthusiastic consent, I can’t think of it.

“It’s more than okay. In fact—” I reach for his free hand and settle it over my breast, “—I think I demand it.”

Ivan closes his eyes, his jaggedly handsome features growing sharper with the effort to exercise restraint. He wants to fall on me like a beast in rut, but he won’t. I’ve never felt so desirable in my life as I do right now.

But then he does the most astonishing thing. Unlike every other man I’ve ever presented with the opportunity to fondle my breasts, which, I think it is fair to say, are my best physical attribute, Ivan doesn’t immediately take me up on the offer. Instead, he slides his hand up to my cheek and down along my throat to my shoulder, and from there to my upper arm. Sparks dance along my skin in the wake of his caress, and I realize he was being literal when he said he wanted to touch me, because that’s exactly what he’s doing: touching me, everywhere, as if I’m made of the finest silk, the softest velvet, the downiest feathers. 

I never particularly thought of my arms or legs as erogenous zones, but somehow, the more he avoids the places I do think of that way, the more aroused I become. I’m simultaneously desperate for him to touch me there—and at this point, I’m not even sure which there I mean—and reluctant for him to stop his caressing, massaging exploration of the rest of my body. By the time he actually deigns to cup my breast, the pulsating ache between my thighs is downright frantic, and I’m almost gasping for breath.

Ivan’s respiration is none too steady, either. Rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger—which sends another bolt of yearning straight to my clit—he captures my lips in a thorough, searing kiss. When we both come up for air, panting, I grab his wrist.

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“Please,” I mutter, “you’re killing me.” I push his hand downward as I spread my legs in illustration of what I mean.

A grin flashes across his face, softening his fiercely intense expression. He smooths the hair back from my forehead. “You want to come?”

Duh. “Fuck, yes,” I rasp, impatient. I don’t see anything amusing here. I’m not sure why he does, either. His cock rests against my thigh, and it’s hot and hard and he must be in no better shape than I am. “Touch me, fuck me, I don’t care. Just… I’m dying here.”

His eyes darken at my words, and whatever humor he saw in the situation seems to vanish in an instant. “Can I go down on you?” he asks, the question gentle, almost shy.

Like he’s worried I’ll say no. What woman in her right mind says no to cunnilingus? Apparently, I’m guessing, some woman—or maybe even women—he’s slept with. But okay, maybe not everyone is an oral sex fan. Hard for me to imagine, but different strokes and all that. 

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I tell him, and now I’m the one who’s possibly smiling inappropriately.

He moves with surprising speed for a man his size, sliding down between my open legs and positioning himself so his head is level with my pussy. My chest clenches with almost feverish anticipation as he leans down to press a kiss on the patch of curls at the apex of my thighs. I arch my hips in involuntary appeal, and his chuckle rumbles across my throbbing flesh.

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After what seems like forever but is probably two seconds tops, he settles himself on his elbows and, with a sigh of obvious pleasure, runs his tongue along the seam of my sex. It’s just an opening foray, a bit of a tease even, but then he really gets to work and… He doesn’t find exactly the right technique immediately, but when he does? Oh. My. God. The things this man can do with his mouth should be illegal. Or qualify him as the patron saint of pussy eating. One or the other.

His tongue flicks and swirls, the pressure firm and delicate and so perfect, I almost climax right away, but then he pulls me back from the brink with a long, savoring lick. Over and over. As if he can do this all night. Wants to do this all night. Soon, I’m practically in tears—half frustration, half relief—because as much as I want to come, I want to make this last. After all, I might never get oral from such a master of the craft again. My fingers twist in the bedspread as I try to keep myself from finishing too soon.

The orgasm takes me by surprise. It bursts, bright and sudden and too soon, because pleasure always comes too soon and never lasts long enough, but glorious all the same. He gentles but doesn’t cease stroking me as release shudders through me and, to my astonishment, induces a second, shorter but somehow sweeter climax on the heels of the first. 

When I’m breathless and boneless with satisfaction, he kisses my curls again, wipes off his chin with his hand, and levers himself back up to stretch out alongside me again. But he makes no move to do anything but snuggle against me and nuzzle my neck and cheek. I raise up on one elbow and give him a puzzled look. His penis is still huge and hard against my thigh, so I know it’s not that he’s lost interest.

“Uh…?” I begin, not sure how to phrase the question.

Fortunately, he doesn’t need me to be explicit. Cracking an apologetic and pained smile, he says, “I realized a few minutes ago that I don’t have any condoms with me. Wasn’t expecting to need any on this trip.”

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Damn. I could fall in love with this man if I’m not careful. I caress his stubbled cheek with the backs of my fingers. “Not to worry. I have some in my cosmetics bag.”

Honestly, it’s a sign of how carried away I got that I didn’t already think of this. Even if Ivan had a condom with him, I would’ve insisted on using one of mine. (I have my reasons for this policy.)

Rolling off the bed, I retrieve my bag from where I tossed it, open it, and take out my toiletry kit. I remove all three condom packets and set them on the nightstand. Maybe I’m being overly optimistic, but I’d rather not be forced to go through this procedure again later. 

Ivan watches me with blazing blue eyes as I return to the bed. “You’re very prepared,” he murmurs, his voice all heat and gravel.

“Preparation isn’t just for boy scouts,” I say piously, grabbing one of the packets and ripping it open. Shaking out the condom, I hold it out to him. “Do you want to put it on, or do you want me to?”

The expression that crosses his face is almost embarrassed. “I’d love for you to do it, but it’s…been a long time for me, and I’m really ramped up. Maybe I’d better handle it myself, just to be on the safe side.”

A long time, eh? I wonder what that means when you’re a professional male athlete who’s as panty-meltingly hot as Ivan Carlson? A few weeks? A month? 

Not that it matters. If he considers two days a long time to go without sex, I’m still going to have him. I don’t care if he’s promiscuous. I just care that he’s a) respectful and b) proficient. 

He takes the condom from my outstretched hand and rolls it over the impressive length and girth of his erection. I hope the standard condom size is big enough for him. If it is, it can’t be by much. But he doesn’t complain, which I take as a good sign.

“So,” he says, arching his eyebrows in a way that manages to be playful and intense at the same time. “Do you want to drive this time, or should I?” 

I can’t help laughing at the euphemism, because it’s so appropriate. But all I’ve wanted all day is the feel of his big, muscular body pinning me down. Trapping me. Making me take him. Maybe it’s contradictory, but the idea of being overpowered by a man I absolutely trust never to use force is a potent aphrodisiac.

“Oh, let’s not change drivers now,” I say and draw him down on top of me.

*

 

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