Sex Objects Read online

  No discussion and no thought of noncompliance. He’d do anything she asked. Sexual addiction was suddenly a reality, one that brought a grin to his face. Once settled, he surreptitiously looked around. A tap on his shoulder and a finger under his chin had him eye to eye with Charlotte.

  “Tonight, I want you to watch the others in the room and decide if the activities you see interest you.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he said.

  “You learn fast, Jeff. You honor me.”

  He bowed his head and rubbed against her bare thigh, then lifted his head to watch. An hour later, he was sure this was a life he could embrace. He turned back to her and brushed his lips across her knee.

  “Seen enough?” she asked.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Charlotte stood, and he followed her back to her suite. She settled into a chair and indicated the floor in front of her seat. “Tonight, when we leave, you’ll take the contract home. Take a few days to read through it and decide what you will and won’t do. When you’re ready, call me.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Is that the name you’d prefer I use?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes gleamed with desire and control. “You’ve made your decision. Now I need to see if you’ll fit with what I want.” A smile played on her lips and Jeff couldn’t wait to see what she wanted.

  “You will pleasure me with only your mouth.”

  “Is this a test?” he asked.

  “Yes. You may refuse, of course, but that would put an end to our private association.”

  There was no way in hell he’d let this opportunity slip away. Crawling closer, Jeff moved into the V of her thighs and kissed his way to the center, determined to give her the best tongue she’d ever had.

  Just One Night

  Emma Jay

  Bridget O’Leary stared out the window of her fifteenth-floor office, down on the city. She loved San Antonio at night, the buildings lit up in blues and oranges, like it was always in Fiesta mode. But Fiesta was over and the heat of a Texas summer was upon them, a heat that made her want to do crazy things.

  In the hall, one of the paralegals she’d hired because she liked the way he looked, passed by the open door. Although she’d considered it, she’d never slept with one of her employees, and she never would. Restless, horny, she picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, dismissing this one, then that one.

  Only one man would do, only one man knew just how to please her, to ease the wildness, and he was easy enough to find.

  But he would not be happy to see her.

  Bridget walked into the honky-tonk and drank in the scene for a long moment. License plates and old gas station signs lined black walls illuminated by multicolored Christmas lights. The wall behind the bar didn’t offer a wide variety of liquor like most of the places she frequented, just multiple bottles of whisky, tequila and vodka. She doubted she’d be able to get a decent martini here.

  She passed blithely through the crowd at the bar and ordered a beer, ignoring calls of dismay at her boldness. Her cleavage in her black corseted top was displayed to advantage when she leaned on the bar, which got the bartender’s attention. He was smoking hot, broad shouldered, his head shaved smooth, tattoos vining down his muscular arms, but he was not who she was looking for.

  Beer in hand, she turned toward the stage, and the band already mid-session. That was who she was looking for—long and lean, in faded jeans, long fingers dancing over the strings of his guitar, cowboy hat tipped forward, but easily recognizable all the same, every movement as he worked the pedals in front of him pure grace.

  Damn, she’d forgotten how fine he was. A pang hit her in the center for the time they’d lost, all because both of them had been too stubborn to fight to keep what they’d had.

  She moved toward the stage, bottle dangling between her fingers, feeling confident in her corset and full ruffled black skirt, no panties underneath. She’d taken care to present herself like a wet dream. Hopefully, his.

  When he lifted his head from the guitar solo, she was standing at the foot of the stage, her beer bottle at his feet, and his brown eyes met hers right away. The speed with which they chilled took her aback. She’d known he wouldn’t be happy to see her, but that cold look…

  She wouldn’t let it defeat her. She let very little defeat her. Instead, she held his gaze as she drank from the bottle.

  He broke contact and stepped up to the microphone, his rough low voice sending vibrations right to her pussy. She masturbated to his songs sometimes, when she wanted to remember what it was like to feel his stubble on her skin, his weight pressing on her. She rubbed her thighs together now as she looked up at him, circling her finger over the mouth of her bottle, but he was pointedly ignoring her. He could ignore her all he wanted—she hadn’t gotten where she was by giving up that easily. She’d fought damn hard for everything she had.

  Everything except him.

  The band continued to play without taking a break, though there seemed to be some confusion about that by the looks the band members gave Nolan. He continued to ignore her. She allowed herself to drift back into the crowd. He knew she was here, and that was good enough for now.

  A few “cowboys” stopped by her table to ask her to dance, their gazes on her boobs, but she waved them off. She had one cowboy in mind, and only he would do.

  Finally the band took a break, and Bridget waited for him to come to her. She watched as he headed to the bar, then the men’s room, then went to fiddle with something on stage. She drank from her second beer, delivered by the waitress, compliments of the bartender, and waited.

  She wasn’t disappointed. One thing Nolan Forrester couldn’t resist was a challenge.

  “I see you’re still into exhibitionism,” he said, approaching from behind and tracing a fingertip over her bare shoulder.

  Her nipples tightened instantly at the caress. She angled her head to look at him. “And so much more.”

  His lips thinned. “And you’ve come here because…?”

  She shifted on her seat. “I think you know.”

  He straightened. “Not interested.”

  His stern tone didn’t discourage her. “I’m not talking forever, or even a few days. Just one night.”

  “That’s why I’m not interested.”

  She’d known that coming in, that he’d need some convincing after the way they’d parted. Maybe she’d put a little more faith in her outfit, and a little less in his stubbornness. Still, he’d touched her, and that was a start. She turned on the stool, her knees brushing his thigh. He didn’t step back. Another good sign. She leaned forward, her corset shifting so that her breasts swelled over the top, her nipples barely contained.

  He flicked a glance downward and his jaw tightened just a bit.

  Good.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  He snorted and reached for her beer, taking a pull. Hope rose. Damn, he was sexy, his throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath tanned, stubbled skin.

  She curled her hands into fists to resist touching. Not yet.

  “You’ve missed what about me, exactly? The sex, I’m figuring, based on the way you’re dressed.”

  “We were very good at sex.” Her mind raced, searching past the need for diplomacy. “I missed your voice.”

  He eased back, eyes hooded. “You came out to hear me sing. Dressed like that.”

  She leaned on the table. “I came to take you to bed. But hearing you sing made me remember what else I missed.”

  He bent his head, his cheek brushing hers. “Bed was never really our best venue.”

  A shudder ran through her. “No. It wasn’t.”

  He straightened. “Break’s over.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until he turned away and mounted the stage again.

  He didn’t look at her once during the set, and a couple of times she was tempted to accept an offer of a dance, just so he’d see. But she didn’t play games outside of the bedroom.
He’d come around.

  She waited as the band finished up, as the bar announced last call, as the band began to tear down, the crowd thinned, and she was the only person left, sitting at the same table. She was unaccustomed to feeling uncertain and rolled her shoulders.

  “Miss, we’re closing. You need to go,” the bartender said, no longer trying to hook up, just ready to go home.

  “I’m with the band.”

  He arched a brow and looked from her to Nolan, who looked at her a long moment before giving a slight nod and turning back to packing up his pedal board. He hefted it in one hand, looped his guitar case over his shoulder and picked up his amp with the other, then headed out the door. She refused to chase after him, but her patience was growing thin by the time he walked back inside.

  “Why are you still here?” he demanded.

  He’d taken off his hat at some point and now had hat hair, the crown crushed against his skull, the hair around his ears flipping up. She’d always found that adorable. “Not a difficult answer.”

  “So I’m guessing you’re not involved with anyone. Or are you trying to recruit me to be a third?”

  That zinged a little harder than she expected. “I know how you feel about that.”

  “I might not have a problem with it,” he said, easing closer, “if it wasn’t my woman who wanted to invite another man into our bed.”

  She brought up her chin, meeting his gaze, seeing the betrayal that still lurked there. “It wasn’t because you weren’t enough.”

  “Wasn’t it?” He straightened. “Nothing is enough for you, ever. The sex has to be crazy, the job has to be the most important, the house has to be showplace quality. I have no desire to live like that, Bridget. I don’t want to be wondering if you’re always looking for someone better.” He turned away.

  “There is no one better,” she blurted when he started to walk away. “No one knows me like you. I miss that.” She didn’t realize she had until she said it. “I miss the easy way you were with me, never wanting more, waiting for me, knowing what I needed.”

  He turned on his heel. “Don’t you hear yourself, Bridget? You, you, you.” He walked back to her. “Do you remember the last time you came to one of my gigs?”

  “You were playing at Cowboy’s Dancehall.” She did remember it, clearly, remembered the thrill of watching him onstage, knowing he was hers.

  “We’d been sleeping together a couple of weeks. Then you got that big case, the civil suit against the police officer, and were working night and day.”

  She remembered that, too. She’d been on top of the world—getting regular orgasms from a sexy guy and getting the case that would catapult her to partner.

  “And you stopped coming to my gigs. You stopped listening when I talked about my job. And the sex got crazier.”

  Oh, yes it had. She’d felt so powerful. They’d started out having sex in front of the open window, then on the balcony of her apartment overlooking downtown, but that hadn’t been enough. They’d fucked in the bathrooms of the best restaurants in San Antonio, and once backstage at a benefit concert while an act was on stage.

  And then she’d made the mistake of telling him her fantasy of having two men at once, and he’d walked away. She’d lived out that fantasy not long ago, and it hadn’t been everything she’d hoped.

  No sex had been, not since him. But to tell him that would give him too much power, and that was something she didn’t surrender easily.

  “I miss you,” was all she said, simply, and slid from the stool, ready to walk out. She’d come for sex, not guilt, not sorrow.

  But then his hand was on her waist, over the corset, and he was pushing her up against the wall, covering her body with his and slamming his mouth down on hers. She couldn’t stop the moan that rose in her throat as she wound her arms around his shoulders, pressing against him, feeling her nipples slip free from her corset to rub against his shirt.

  God, he tasted just as she remembered, spicy with a hint of the yeast from his beer, completely male, and he smelled even better. She wriggled closer when his fingers found her skin between her corset and skirt and traced a seductive line that shot heat straight to her pussy. She moved her hips against his as much as she could with him pinning her to the wall. He was hard. He couldn’t deny she still turned him on. She felt the proof against her belly.

  He eased back and for an awful minute she thought he would send her away. But he glanced down at her nipples, then over his shoulder where the band had reappeared after loading the gear.

  “Y’all head out,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

  The way the other members of the band responded gave no doubt they knew what he planned to do with Bridget, and that only added to her desire. Once the band was out of sight, flipping off the lights behind them, he two-stepped her across the floor to the stage, to music only he could hear, her nipples rasping against his shirtfront. Then he sat on the stage, illuminated only by the neon signs overhead, and brought her over him, straddling him, her skirt spread over his lap. Keeping his gaze on hers, he glided his hands beneath it, up over her thighs to her hips. His eyes widened, then darkened when he discovered she wore nothing beneath.

  “Should have known,” he muttered, and squeezed her ass before removing his touch.

  She held her breath when he bent his head to her breast, taking her nipple between his teeth and tugging, the pleasure-pain setting fire to her blood. She arched her back and threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him to her. Contrary, he released her nipple and broke her hold on him. Yes, this was why she loved sex with him. She never knew what to expect.

  “I don’t have any condoms.”

  That was different. They’d both always been prepared when they were together. One never knew when opportunity might strike. She reached into her skirt pocket and produced one.

  He took it from her and looked up at her. “I have a condition.”

  She smirked. “Is it contagious?”

  He scowled. “A condition before we have sex. Something you have to do for me.”

  She leaned forward and nuzzled his throat. “I like doing things for you. Nasty things, especially.”

  “Bridget.” He waited until she straightened on his lap, though she gave a little wiggle first. “I’m going to fuck you here.”

  She gave a hum of approval.

  “But then I want you to come back to my apartment and spend the night.”

  She stilled. “I thought you didn’t want to get involved.”

  “No. You didn’t want to get involved. You said one night. I want the whole night.”

  She wanted to ask what he expected to gain from it, but didn’t want to talk anymore. She wanted him inside her, and soon. “Yes, okay.”

  He regarded her a moment, as if to gauge whether or not she was playing him, and then he ripped open the condom. Both hands disappeared beneath her skirt and she felt him open his pants, felt the weight and heat of his cock against her bare thigh for just a moment before she rose up and took him deep, barely giving him time to get his hand out of the way before she pressed her hips against his and circled. God, he felt amazing, hard and throbbing inside her. She tipped back her head, savoring the stretch of him, the sensation of his hands on her ass, and smiled as she began to ride him.

  They found their rhythm easily, as if it had been days instead of almost a year. God, he was so thick inside her, she could feel every ridge, every vein as she moved over him, her thrusts shallow at first, teasing, punishing, before her libido took over and she began to ride in earnest, her hand hooked around his neck, breasts bouncing above the corset, which had slipped farther south. He leaned back on his hands and let her take charge of her pleasure, and his, his hooded eyes telling her he enjoyed the sight, the sensation.

  If anyone walked in on them now, they would have no doubt about what they were doing, and the idea spurred Bridget on. She hadn’t seen the bartender leave, after all, and imagin
ed him in the stockroom, watching her fuck Nolan.

  “I want to feel your hands on me,” she breathed, and he obliged, in no hurry. One of the things she loved about fucking Nolan—no matter how horny he was, he was never in a hurry.

  He stroked his fingertips down her bare shoulders, to her elbows and back up, before trailing them over the slopes of her breasts to pinch her nipples.

  “You ever wear this under your fancy suits?” he asked, using the lace that trimmed the corset to caress the tips of her breasts.

  “Sometimes. Makes me feel powerful.”

  “If those old men knew, they wouldn’t need Viagra.”

  She stopped moving and traced her thumb over his lips. “The only man I want to make hard is you.”

  His gaze sharpened with approval, and he reached beneath her skirt, tugging her legs forward, her pussy harder onto him, and grinding his hips up into hers. “Am I hard enough for you?”

  “Yes. God, yes.” The hair of his groin rasped her clit, and she pushed back in a bump and grind that made him groan.

  Then he tightened his grip on her ass and fucked her, driving up into her, their bodies slapping as passion overtook finesse. Their bodies slammed into each other, his cock so deep, the pleasure bordered on pain. Yet she wanted more, and gripped his shoulders to balance herself as she angled her hips, pistoning them over him. She tightened around him the closer she got to her orgasm, and like always, he read the signs and reached between them to pinch her clit, harder than usual this time.

  The orgasm ricocheted through her, and she pressed hard against him, fisting her hands in his shirt as she came. And came. And came.

  He swore and wrapped his arm around her hips, holding her still as he took over, thrusting up into her pulsing body, shouting as he came, too, in long hot pulses she could feel even through the haze of her own pleasure.

  She dropped her head to his shoulder to catch her breath for a minute, savoring the sensation of his arms around her, his heavy breathing, his jeans against her thighs. He hadn’t even undressed.