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far down onto your arm as I can go. Mornings I can be so receptive and wild, wet, dripping. This morning is no exception, and the feeling of my wet trickling down my thighs makes me even crazier.
    “That’s right, that’s right,” you coo. “So beautiful, the way you grab my hand. That’s right…fuck yourself.”
    “I am,” I groan out. I am reaching the point of abandon and I feel again your wet cunt on my leg. I want to ravage you now, want to bury my face between your legs and feast. And I want to fuck you, fuck you until you feel like I do now, free to take it, love it, feel it.
    “So beautiful,” you say again. Your hand on my back is gentle and steadying now. You love me and you are helping me feel so good. The tenderness in your voice brings tears to my eyes. “Come when you want to. Come when you can’t stand it anymore.”
    It feels so good that I don’t want to come, but your hand leaves my back to toy with my clit. Short, gentle pulls, flicks with your fingertips, circles, and direct, firm touches—I am jerking at your every touch, pushing down on your fist. It’s too much to hold inside, all the feelings of love and surrender and lust. I scream, at least I think I do, and I am gushing around your fist, squeezing it so tight I would worry that I am going to break it—that is, if I could think beyond the spasms that start high inside me and pour down my entire body. The ecstasy leaves me, drenches the towel, your legs, your arm, and I push your hand out with a cry that leaves me hoarse.
    You pull me back onto my haunches, breaking my grip on the headboard. Wrapping my shuddering body tight in your arms, you anchor me hard to your thighs. You squeeze my clit again with your agile, clever fingertips and say fiercely in my ear, “Come again. Right now.”
    My surrender to your desire washes over me. It’s what I revel in, what you crave. I coat your thighs, screaming for breath, giving you what you’ve asked for, what you’ve drawn from me with your voice and the firm command of your hands.
    Limp, I am falling back to the bed. Falling into your embrace. Falling forever and always under your spell. A half laugh escapes me as the pillows greet me again.
    “Not bad,” you say, your body as limp as mine as you stretch out next to me.
    “Damned good,” I murmur, willing to transfer my surrender back to sleep. Sleep wants me, right then, and it is ordering my eyes to close.
    You are suddenly close to me, the wonderful smell of you, warm and loving. Gathering me into your arms, you tip my head back for a slow, lazy kiss. “I’m not done with you.”
    I swallow, hard. Sleep can wait.

Lunch Break
Saskia Walker

    “What can I get you?”
    I glanced up from my pocket mirror, and when I saw the attractive waitress who watched and waited, I was so startled I dropped my lipstick. Her gaze was direct, fearless, and powerfully sexual. My body responded instantly, my pulse rate rising.
    “Coffee, please, and a club sandwich.” I scrabbled for the lipstick. Her eyes never left mine, but she reached down and shifted the ashtray, nudging the lipstick back in my direction.
    “Oh, I just bet you take your coffee sweet and strong,” she whispered, low.
    “Yes,” I replied, mesmerized. “I do.”
    She gave me a dazzling smile, then turned and walked away, her hips cutting a rhythmic path through the low-slung tables and chairs in the sedate lounge bar. I sat back and watched, my fingers toying idly with the fitted jacket of my business suit, which lay abandoned over the arm of the chair. I had stopped on at Kilpatrick’s, the salubrious and rather austere London hotel, after the meeting with my client, the hotel’s publicity officer. He was sold on my advertising proposals and I was on a high. I just knew that if I had gotten behind the wheel of my Land Rover in that state, I’d have picked up another speeding ticket, so I stayed on to chill for a while. With the attention I was now getting from the