Two to Tango

This erotic story excerpt from To Tango, With Love by Ida Brady is published with permission.

Hot15 minsAdult MFContemporary
Erotic sexy story excerpt from To Tango With Love by Ida Brady

Alé tried the door of The Book Nook, surprised that it was unlocked. It was close to 7 p.m. and the streets were dark. He would have thought Tilda would be extra vigilant after all that happened. The very idea that Mathilda could be hurt made him physically sick.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was tired. He had had to fly back again to Sydney to run his musicality workshops, which helped drum up word of mouth about the performance, but it meant he had missed the last crucial week of group rehearsals.

The last time he had seen her had been that day at the studio. They had spoken a few times on the phone, but that was it.

It felt like an age.

He needed to see her, to make sure there was no awkwardness before tomorrow’s performance. He didn’t want to wait until their final rehearsals tomorrow to do it. Alé wanted to be sure they were okay.

He latched the door closed, making certain no one would wander in off the street. He’d remind her to lock up when she worked late. Not that she would take his direction willingly. Especially after their last argument.

Alé didn’t know what he would say, if he could say anything at all. The only thing he knew was that his life was so very different than it had been only six months before. He didn’t think that Isabella would have broken her ankle and he would have lost his leads. He didn’t think that he would be showcasing his sketches at The Book Nook or looking forward to spending his time with its owner.

His world had shifted. He was beginning to realise he didn’t want to go back to the way things had been. Before Mathilda. It frightened the hell out of him.

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Alé looked across to the nook. A few mounted wall lamps illuminated the space. Soft music carried across to the front of the store from her laptop. He didn’t hear any voices. She was alone. When Mathilda stepped out from behind a bookshelf, Alé froze.

She had cut her hair in to a sleek chin length bob, her bangs sitting diagonally across one eye, resting over her black framed glasses. He swallowed. She was wearing a white blouse and black skirt. As he approached, he noticed the small black heels. He bit back a groan of appreciation. She was a woman out of every man’s fantasy. Alé’s blood stirred just looking at her. When she walked across to the next set of shelves Alé called her name. She squeaked. Then slowly turned. Her blue eyes locked on his.

“Alé, what —” she took off her glasses.

“Don’t.” He walked to her. “Leave them on,” he growled. It was the feline smile that whipped across her face, the invitation in her eyes that had his resolve snapping. He pulled her towards him.

“I should wear these more often,” she purred.

The kiss was akin to striking a match. The fire that blazed between them became an inferno within seconds. His mouth demanded utter abandonment. His hands, supplication. Tilda gave him what he asked for and more. She moaned when his tongue beckoned, duelling with her own.

Alé’s hands stroked, his senses feasted. He teased her with his tongue and was thrilled to hear her moan. The sound was as heady as any drug. He wanted to give her pleasure; he almost shook with his need.

Alé ran his fingers through her hair, like blonde silk. He abandoned her mouth and explored the soft curve of her neck. Like an addict in need of a hit, he groaned. He wanted her with a desperation that had shattered his defences. But did she?

His hands gripped her waist. He needed to know she wanted this as much as he did.

“Mathilda, mujer hermosa. Is this what you want? Tell me. Do you want me?”

Her blue eyes captured his, they spoke of desire, a longing that made him weak. But he needed to hear her say it. Her words still burned him. He wouldn’t selfishly take what she didn’t freely give.

“Si, Alejandro. I want you.” It was more than enough. He devoured her mouth; his hands squeezed the delicious curve of her bottom. She quivered.

Dios mio.

He knew, but never could imagine such exquisite pleasure. It was painful to feel her against him, to feel himself hard and ready and yearning, but with so much between them.

The fact that she met his frenzy with her own fervour, only made it hotter. It ignited every burning need inside. He promised himself he wouldn’t make the same mistakes. That he wouldn’t get close. He knew it would be his undoing. He knew it could break him. But he didn’t care.

He nibbled her neck, tracing the smooth column of her throat, up to her delicate ears. Alé scraped his teeth along the round lobes, delighting in the way her arms clutched the back of his shirt.

She pleaded again, her breath coming in quick gasps, her body jerking against his. He held her when her knees began to buckle.

This was what it was like to feast after a famine. This was what it meant to have succour.

Alé walked her back against the shelves.

Hadn’t he fantasised about this scenario? He groaned when his body jutted in expectation.

Alé filled his hands with Mathilda’s breasts and thanked the heavens for womankind. Soft and lush. Nipples straining for his attention. He unbuttoned her shirt, released one round, heavy breast. His fingers quickly found the pink-tipped peaks, already hard and waiting. She gasped as he teased her. Then arched, wanting more.

“Mathilda.” He choked out, looking down at her, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and pink. “I’ve dreamt about this. This exact moment.”

“About taking you like this, up against the shelves, your legs wrapped around me while I pound into you. You’ve no idea what it’s doing to me right now. What you’re doing to me.”

Her fingers shook as she slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

“Well why don’t you just do it.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips, eyes almost violet, and beckoned, drawing his face to hers, branding him with a kiss that had his body pinning her against the shelves. Tilda’s nails raked down his back. She stilled when she felt the scars, then looked down at his bare chest. Faint shimmering scars marked his abdomen too. He fought against the embarrassment, the instinct to cover them up. She bent her head, tongue snaking out to lick his chest, to trace one of the silver lines.

Alé trembled. She commanded his body, just as she did him.

She stretched up, biting his neck. His hips bucked, and he pressed her harder against the shelves.

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Tilda flicked the clasp open at the front of her bra. She arched back, crying out as his tongue licked and sucked, bit and nibbled.

“I don’t — I can’t…Alé, please,” she begged. Her hips gyrated restlessly; her body strained for more.

He shifted lower.

“Let me pleasure you my — Mathilda.” The words tripped over his tongue and landed at the back of his throat. He shoved it aside and focused on the goddess before him. He wanted to please her. Wanted to hear her moans, feel her body tremble, just as it did now. He wanted to give her everything.

“I can’t — just —”

“You will stand it, Mathilda. Let me show you.”

He ran his hands up her skirt and approved of the black lace stockings that ended mid-thigh.

“You’re killing me. You know this, right?”

His finger slid aside the matching black triangle of lace. He kneeled before her, stroking her gently until she writhed. He teased her again and again, enjoying the damp heat. He kissed the silky skin of her hip. Far more intoxicating than any perfume. When he slipped one finger inside, she gasped his name.

She was tight. Like an iron glove around his fingers. And so hot. The combination drove him nearly to the edge. He gritted his teeth and kept his fingers gentle, rocking in and out of her wet folds.

She fisted his hair in her hands and begged him, sobbing his name.

Alé never felt more alive. Only when he was satisfied that she was ready, did he stand on shaking legs.

Tilda half ripped at the buckle of his jeans. She bit and sucked his neck, snaking her hands down to his bottom. He hissed and ground himself against her in reply. Finding the zip, she shoved his pants down.

Alé covered the hard, already weeping length of himself.

He was shaking with a need stronger than any dance they had shared.

In one move, he had her skirt up again, his pants around his ankles. Her hands were free to grip his arms, straining through his unbuttoned shirt.

Mathilda wrapped her legs around him and before she could say his name, he thrust into her.

They both stilled. He waited, for what felt like an eternity until she rocked her hips. His thick, hard length buried deep inside her.

Feeling her wet and warm, he pulled out, only to enter her again in one fluid motion that had them both crying out in pleasure.

Alé’s body was slick with sweat. He strained to control himself. He was nearly crazed with arousal.

If this was a sin, he would happily be punished for it.

Alé teased them both, moving in and out of her wet core. She was dripping and willing. And all his.

Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist; his hands gripped her bottom.

Every nerve ending urged him to pick up the pace.

“Don’t stop Alé,” she panted. “Don’t you dare stop.” She writhed and moaned, hips straining against him. She shuddered, tightening around him, once, twice. “Alé — oh God — I —”

“Come for me, amor. Dios Mio. Come for me, Mathilda.”

She cried out, writhing against him. She squeezed him like a vice. She came. Hard.

That was the moment when Alé’s control shattered. He drank in her moans, knew only the pleasure of her wet, shaking centre. Her soft, full breasts strained against his chest, the smooth silk of her thighs urged him on.

But it was the molten, pulsing heat that throbbed around his hard cock that sent him over the edge. The pressure built until his control shattered. He came, with her name on his lips.

Begging for more? You can buy To Tango, With Love or find out more about Ida Brady.

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