City Of Swords. Alex Archer

      Oh God, can I bear it?

      Grimly I hitch forward on the chair, resting on my chest and shoulder to free my hands to the task.

      “Be careful, Emma. Keep your fingers still,” he warns as my hands tremble on my own fiery flesh.

      Again comes the awe-inspiring whistle of the ruler, and I steel myself. But it’s only a sighting swish.

      Let it be over and let it be soon.

      Finally they come—three fast cuts, exquisite and shocking, and delivered at a sly oblique angle across the vent of my behind.

      I howl and collapse, tumbling to my knees in a heap. At last it’s over.

      I hear footsteps, the clink of a bottle against a glass, the creak of leather upholstery. My prince is taking his refreshment after his labors.

      “Come here.”

      Sobbing, I attempt to straighten up—only to crumple again and then half crawl toward the wing chair.

      “There, there,” he croons as I reach the blessed haven between his long outstretched thighs and kneel on the carpet before him.

      My bottom is a swollen blazing mass, and I have to lean against his body…and against something hard that bulges beneath the denim of his jeans.

      I don’t deserve it, and I might not get it, but he knows what I’m thinking.

      “Maybe in a little while…” His voice is husky as he raises my chin and then puts his glass of delicious wine to my lips. “But first we have other things to attend to.”

      His smile is sweet as I look up at him, his adoring slave.

      “Well, sweetheart, I promised you’d come at six, didn’t I?” His gray eyes twinkle like stars. Clasping my hand, he urges to my feet. “If you can bear to sit on my knee, I’ll get you off.”

      Oh, I can bear it. I can bear anything for you.

      I come again at seven. I come at eight. And I come at nine, too.

      Plus One

      By Nikki Magennis

      “I’m so sorry,” Izzy said, frowning at the computer screen. “This shouldn’t happen.”

      “No,” the man replied. “But I’m kind of glad it did.”

      She looked up to find his jade-green eyes fixed on her. Izzy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

      “I think,” she said, “I haven’t had enough caffeine this morning.”

      He cleared his throat. “Well, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

      “Excuse me?”

      “You get a break, don’t you?”

      “Uh, yeah.”

      “When?”

      Izzy glanced at the clock. “Half an hour ago. But—”

      “Buy me a coffee. You can make up for the double booking and get your fix at the same time. If you like.”

      Izzy looked straight at him. Yes, he certainly was hot. And he had the decency to be a little nervous—an uncertain smile flickered over his mouth.

      She checked for danger signs. No obvious ax scars, no psychopathic thousand-yard stare. He had longish, dirty-blond hair and a dusting of stubble. Cords and a leather jacket. Unusual. They usually had an audience of elderly ladies for the lunchtime chamber concerts. Not scruffpot lovegods with hopeful grins.

      “I promise not to mention the screw-up to your boss,” he said, leaning in tight so his warm breath tickled her ear. He was nearly close enough for his stubble to scrape her cheek. And he pulled away so slowly that it made her pulse misfire.

      “I’ll get my coat,” Izzy said, her voice a whisper.

      * * *

      “I don’t do this kind of thing,” Izzy said, blowing on the surface of her coffee. The café was busy, and they were sitting in a cramped side booth. Opposite her, the guy let a smile spread across his face. She got a fluttering feeling in her solar plexus. Under the table, his foot butted against her stockinged leg.

      “Herbal tea more your style?” he said.

      “I mean—I don’t usually go out with strangers I meet at work.”

      He nodded. He let his gaze dance over her face and down to her plunging neckline, where it stuck. She had to fight not to follow the trail his eyes took with a finger.

      “That’s cool,” he said. His voice dropped through the floor. “To tell you the truth, I don’t usually do this either,” he whispered, just as Izzy felt his hand brush her knee under the table. Involuntarily, she gave a sharp intake of breath. He whistled, low, under his breath.

      “I don’t know what it is.”

      “What what is?”

      “Something about you. You make me want to do crazy things.”

      “Like what?”

      “Like this.”

      His knuckles grazed the nylon of her tights and dragged up over the curve of her thigh. He leaned over the table and brushed his mouth over hers with the lightest of touches, just enough to make her lips buzz.

      “Wow.” He pulled back and looked her over like she was a creature from outer space. “You make me feel kind of reckless. I think I like it. What about you?”

      For a long moment Izzy couldn’t answer him. She wasn’t sure if she was more stunned by his audacity or by the fact that she hadn’t pulled away.

      “I don’t even know your name,” she said at last.

      “It’s George.”

      She nodded, let the tip of her tongue play over her lips where he’d kissed her.

      “Izzy,” she said. “I think I like it, too.”

      He shoved a knee between her legs.

      “Shall I keep going?”

      Izzy answered without thinking. “Don’t stop.”

      He gripped her thighs. Izzy gripped the red leather of the seat. George’s jaw tensed and he clouded over. For a minute, she thought she saw something more than the lust of a stranger in his expression. As he worked his way over her, rubbing through the layers of material and nylon, they were silent. Izzy couldn’t help breathing harder, but she stiffened her spine and moaned and tried not to move.

      Behind them, the waiters shouted to each other in Italian. Outside, the city rushed past in a blur of blue traffic. Underneath the table, George’s hands kept busy.

      “Oh my God,” Izzy said, eyes widening.

      “You like that,” George said, pinching harder.

      “No—I mean, yes.” Izzy said, struggling to breathe. “Marcella. From work, she’s right over there.”

      “I should stop?”

      “No. I mean, please. Please don’t.”

      “Did she see you?”

      “Not yet.”

      “You’re blushing.”

      Izzy moaned, trapped in a cozy little booth, with a stranger’s hands between her legs. Her conscious mind screamed for her to run away. It seemed her body was pinned to the seat.

      Suddenly, George pulled back, straightened up and took a sip of his coffee. His hand shook a little. Izzy was left teetering on the brink and ready to scream.

      “What’s going on?” Izzy said, aware that her voice sounded desperate.