Celia sat at the bar in a five star hotel positioning herself so she had clear view across the lobby to the coffee shop. She should be over there, ready to meet the blind date her mother had set up for her with the son of one of her friends. Instead she ordered a glass of wine and took a sip. If Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop was as pompous and stuffy as his name, she needed all the help she could get.
The sip turned into a gulp when a man about thirty years old and thirty pounds overweight, dressed in dark conservative pants and a knit polo shirt that did nothing to hide his paunch, walked up to the coffee shop, cast a quick look around the lobby and scurried inside. Celia swallowed the rest of the wine and stood up.
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
She turned to see who’d spoken and her heart did a triple somersault. Beside her sat a vision of masculine perfection. Golden blond hair, clear blue eyes and a luscious mouth. His black t-shirt draped over a muscled chest. Blue jeans covered lean, powerful legs, his booted feet hooked over the rungs of the bar stool. Her mother would hate him.
Celia sat back down.
He shifted his stool closer to hers. “Can I buy you another drink?”
She nodded and her head swam a little. When the wine arrived, she sipped slowly.
“You staying at the hotel?” The husky rasp of his voice made Celia’s toes curl.
“I just came to meet someone.”
His lips curled into a delicious smile. “I’m someone.”
Heat burned through Celia’s body. Just once she wanted to rebel, to do something wild and wanton, to show her family she was more than a pawn to be moved into the correct school, the correct college, the correct job and worst of all the correct relationship.
She got to her feet, swayed a little then stood firm. “Do you have a room?”
He straightened. “Honey, are you sure?” He cast a glance at the wine glass in front of her. “Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.”
She grabbed his hand. “I know what I’m doing. I want you. Now.”
He got to his feet, towering five or six inches above her own five foot nine. He put his hand on her shoulders and leaned in close. “Honey, if you’re certain this is what you want, I’d love to.”
He pulled her close and the rigid cylinder of his erection pushed against her hip. She clenched her hands to keep from grabbing it right there in the bar, and gasped out through her tight throat. “Come on.”
They shared the elevator with other people, but when they reached his room he pushed her inside, spun her around and body slammed her up against the door. He bent his head and covered her lips with his mouth.
His tongue thrust in and out and hips ground against hers. Moisture flooded her, hot and ready. She reached out and undid the snap of his jeans. The harsh rush of air in and out of fevered lungs drowned out rasp of the zip. She shoved her hands inside and whimpered in delight. He wore no underwear.
Her hands closed around his hot, smooth cock.
He shoved his pants down to his ankles, pausing only to extract a foil packet from the front pocket, then he hiked her dress up to her waist, ripped her thong panties away, covered himself and thrust inside. She opened her legs wide hot, wet and aching to take him.
He angled his body and lifted so she sank down on his shaft, every thrust and withdrawal pressing her against its base. She writhed and twisted, needing the unbearable tension to break and push her over the edge and at the same time wanting more, more, more.
Her legs collapsed, but he held her upright, her back pressed against the wall—her hips bounced against it with each pounding thrust.
He groaned and her muscles tensed. The tension coiled higher and higher then snapped. She screamed and her body dissolved into pulsing waves of orgasm. Through the roaring of blood in her ears she heard him groan, felt his cock pumping as he came.
After a moment he straightened and gently withdrew. Celia started to sink towards the floor. He caught her in his arms, carried her to the bed, settled her on top of the covers and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He walked into the bathroom.
Celia lay there, too exhausted and far too satisfied to move.
When he returned, he’d removed the condom and his clothes. Celia couldn’t stop her appreciative grin. He looked just as good without clothes as he did with them. Better. His golden skin stretched across a firm body. She gasped. On his hip, low and to the centre, he had a small tattoo. Her tongue sneaked out to moisten her lips. She wanted to take a long, loving bite of that.
He sat on the side of the bed. “You gonna pull that dress back down and go?”
She lifted her head and looked down at the black material still bunched around her waist. “What do you want me to do?”
His eyes grew heavy. “I want you to stay.”
She pulled the dress over her head and flung it aside. “I want that too.”
He lay down beside her. She ran her hands idly over his stomach. He grinned. “I’m glad I decided to go into the bar instead of doing what my mother wanted.”
Celia swallowed. “What your mother wanted?”
He shrugged. “She set me up with a blind date with the daughter of some friend of hers. I decided not to go through with it so I went to the bar instead.”
Celia grabbed his hand and held it tight. “What’s your name?”
“Call me J. B.” He looked sheepish. “Who’d want to answer to a name like Johnson Bartholomew Winthrop?”
About the author: Alysha Ellis is a multi-published author who lives in Australia. When she isn’t busy drinking champagne, eating chocolate and letting her inner tart run free, she writes erotic fiction. Her favorite quote comes from Mae West… A hard man is good to find. Who could argue with that? Alysha tries very hard to be bad, because bad girls have all the fun. www.alyshaellis.com