Wanderlust

Anticipation warm in my belly, I began to kiss my way down his neck, his chest, and lower, lower, but he stopped me.

Glancing up, I asked, “No?”

He shook his head. “You don’t need the added salt intake when you’re already dehydrated.”

I snorted, then licked the curve of his abs. “You’re not that salty.”

“Not yet.”

My laugh was cut short by the shock of cool water on my belly. He had found that damned washcloth again and he used it to full advantage this time, rubbing it along my body and limbs, over my hardened nipples and down into the soft, damp valley below. He teased me through the rough cloth, dragging me higher to a sharp-sweet crescendo.

I shook in his arms, until he released me and moved downward.

His tongue replaced the cloth, a caress infused with the absolution we needed in the past, a prayer spoken against tender, swollen skin. He took me to heaven and then pulled me back down again with the sharp, swift thrust of him inside me.

It would always be this way, the ecstasy and the pain. They twined together in a path we would walk, unknowing and unseeing, each glad to have found a friend. All I wanted was to be with Hunter wherever his rig should take us. Across the country, around the world.

Like chasing rainbows and capturing each one in the smile it gave us.

THE END

Thank you!

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Yours,

Skye Warren

Check out these dark erotic books from Skye Warren:

HEAR ME

She doesn’t remember her past, only her training. She can’t talk, not that a good slave should speak out of turn. None of that matters when she wakes up in the warm, rustic room. Her new master is distant but kind. There’s only one problem: he doesn’t want her.

Longing for the shackles of safety, she pulls from the last dregs of her will to prove her worth as a slave. It seems to be working. He responds first to her body and next to her submission. The secrets of his past haunt the cabin, fraying the tightening bond between Master and slave, but it is her own memories that may finally unravel it.

Excerpt from Hear Me:

Thuds on the floorboards signaled the return of her Master.

He didn’t have a cane or whip with him, and that lent credence to the worry that he was getting rid of her, but she was too distracted by the food. He carried a glass of water and a plate with fragrant bread. Her stomach grumbled. She cringed in fear of reprisal and a small amount of embarrassment.

He set the plate down in front of her and pushed the glass into her hands. “Drink.”

It seemed unbearably luxurious, compared to the greasy scraps she was accustomed to. This room too, with its plain wood furniture and open window. Her new cage, gilded with cleanliness. She ached to keep it.

The cool water soothed her, revived her. He replaced the empty glass with a chunk of warm, crusty bread. She gobbled it up like the ravening animal she was. He tore off another piece from the plate and handed it to her, continuing to feed her from his hand until the plate was empty.

Warmth settled in her core and spread to her limbs, sated by both the sustenance and his kindness. No dog bowl held fetid water. No mealy scraps picked off the floor. Charity like this was unheard of, but she thought she understood the message. If she pleased him, this could be hers.

Whatever he wanted, she would do. She would have done it anyway, because he was her Master. She paid her keep with obedience. She might earn reprieve from the pain with obeisance. But this generosity came freely, and gratitude suffused her. Maybe he liked her.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

Her heart sank. They must not have told him about her. So much for pleasing him.

Bracing herself, she slowly shook her head.