My snog today comes from my short story “The Architecture of Desire”, part of my FF collection Her Own Devices. If you enjoy lesbian erotica and romance featuring a wide range of characters, I recommend the book. And now the price has been reduced to only $2.99! Get your copy at Amazon, or a wide range of other quality retailers.
When you’re done with my Sunday kiss, head back to Victoria’s Sunday Snog page, for lots more oral action!
She began by kissing me. There was nothing tender or romantic about that kiss. Her tongue poked rudely into my mouth. Her lips were hard and insolent on mine. That kiss stole my breath, liquefied my sex, and turned my knees to rubber. I would have stumbled and fallen against the steel shelving, but she held me upright with one muscular arm around my waist. With the other hand, she assailed the buttons of my crepe blouse, tearing them open without regard for the delicate fabric.
She had none of Marietta's refinement, none of that measured sensuality I had been missing so much. I was grateful for that. I wanted her brash youth, wanted her fire to burn away my memories and my regrets. By the time she released me, I was gasping. I could feel the hot blood in my cheeks, sense my smeared makeup. My clit was hugely swollen, throbbing with my racing pulse.
She pulled back from me and looked me over, hands on her hips. “You liked that, didn't you?” she mocked. “I knew you would. For the last two hours, you've been at that corner table, nursing your drink, watching me tend bar. Dying to get into my pants. It's true, isn't it, Ms. Fancy Architect?”
A part of me wanted to slap her face. The rest ached to throw myself at her feet and bury my nose in her denim-sheathed crotch. I stared at my hands, embarrassed by my need.
My blouse hung open, a button torn away. She reached in and brushed her fingertips across my lace brassiere. “Take it off,” she said. A slight huskiness in her voice betrayed her own arousal. As I obeyed, my nipples tightened to hard little bullets. I carefully draped my blouse over the ladder behind me, then stood bare-breasted before her. Do I look old to her, I wondered, flabby and overblown? She grinned at my discomfort. Nevertheless she was a bit flushed and her breathing seemed faster than normal. I felt a tiny thrill of triumph at her desire.
Want more? The book includes nine tales of lesbian love, including the previously unpublished “Burn, Baby”.