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unpublished “Burn, Baby”.
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