Between the Covers
THE SHEETS WERE SMOOTH. Cool. And that smell! Fresh linens scented with jasmine and orange blossom. She breathed in deeply as she settled down. For a few moments, she concentrated on just being there. On relaxing. On trying to let go of the minutiae … of all the ordinary and unimportant million things that had happened. Or barely happened.
She knew he wouldn’t mind if it took her a little while. He was patient. He would wait for her. Yes, he would wait for her.
The day had seemed like it would never end. There were arguments at work that had been exhausting. Her family was always demanding but today they had been relentless in their needs. She’d thought this would never come.
Her fingertips made circles on the bedding. She listened to the jazz she’d put on. The slow, hot music was perfect. Just loud enough to drown out the sounds beyond this room … beyond this house … beyond this world. Drown it all out so she didn’t have to be aware of anything but what was going on inside of this cocoon she was spinning around herself. Where no one else was invited.
No one but him.
She’d dressed for him, putting on a thin nightgown that clung to her and skimmed her skin. A pressure so light it was like butterfly kisses. For now, the silk was pulled down demurely, covering her to her ankles. Only the soles of her feet and her toes were exposed to the cool air.
Even with his first words her breasts began to push against the fabric. More of his words. More push. Even gossamer would have been too constricting now. Her breasts were ready to be released. To be touched. To be squeezed and pinched and …
No, not yet … all in time … because there was time … with him there was always time, and what a luxury that was.
As she relaxed into the act, he told her more about what he wanted and her imagination soared.
How would her skin feel when he slapped her?
How would her mouth be able to take so much of him inside her?
How would she react to being bound?
Scared? Excited?
Would it be frightening to do only what he allowed?
How could she accept being controlled?
She could accept it because this was control by invitation. This time she wanted to be told. Yes. Wanted him to demand she perform for him and do these things to him, and she wanted him to do those things to her.
It was all new. It was heady. She’d never imagined any of this before him. She would have been ashamed if anyone else had asked all this of her.
But not him.
The sensation between her legs intensified and teased. Hovering deliciously. The twinges and very first throb of an orgasm beckoned. Maybe there would even be more than one. Hard to come by more than one in most situations.
But this wasn’t most situations.
This was a sexual heaven. This was being taking by the hand and led gently into a different world where nothing was wrong … nothing was obscene … nothing was forbidden.
Orange moved to red. Red moved to scarlet. Scarlet pulsed to purple. Lightning jolted inside her. She flared.
Yes, he had been patient … but now he was demanding. He was a frightening lover. Yet, because he made sure she understood the word love was encapsulated in the word lover, she was safe. Everything he was suggesting, was insisting on, was all for one reason … to take her further into the colors … into the music … into the smells and the touches … all to make her feel more … and feel more deeply.
She didn’t understand how such a simple act made excitement like this build in her. How it aroused and hardened her nipples. How it made it so she could barely keep her hands away from the warm, wet space between her legs.
But she had to keep her hands away. Because he was telling her to. Because he was demanding she wait until he allowed her to have it. Because if she did, he told her, it was going to be better than she could conceive of. And she believed him. These promises he was making, here in the dark, in her private velvet and jasmine-scented secret garden were like no other promises she’d ever heard.
If she obeyed … if she followed where he led … he pledged she would find that deepest purple answer she craved.
There was sex and then there was ecstasy. There were orgasms and then there were orgiastic mind-numbing experiences. The kind that she disappeared into and got lost inside of. The kind that only he gave her. And only in this place and only in this way.
Passion could obliterate reality. She’d learned that from him. She’d found out that whatever you thought you knew about yourself, you could learn more. That every pleasure could be heightened. And turned to pain that turned back into more intense pleasure. She’d discovered that just thinking about this man, about his desires, his yearnings, and his demands created waves inside of her. She’d learned she could think about what he wanted and the waves would build. He’d taught her to block out the world and ride those waves and travel to other worlds she’d never been to before.
And no one could take any of it away from her. No one could interfere. No one could say she was wrong for giving into the fantasies he offered. No one could tell her she was dirty or pagan or that she was breaking her vows or hurting her children or abandoning her responsibilities or negating the teachings of her church or her temple. No one could stop her from the delight and joy and bliss that she now knew was her right—and such a simple right to claim at that.
Now he was asking for more. Demanding it.
As she gave him what he wanted, her own moans—throaty and raw—drowned out the music. Her own scent—the musky rich incense of her own heated cunt—overwhelmed the jasmine and orange blossom perfume. She was floating on the waves … waves he shaped by blowing gently on her ocean. Giving her the ride of her life. Again. And then, yes, again.
This wasn’t about power or pain … not about risk or reward … not about fidelity … this was what she took for herself. She gave herself up to him and his fiery, arousing words. And in giving, she got. He gave her burning, roiling seas that grew and grew inside of her.
Fingers moved on her lips. Teasing. Tickling. Rubbing in exactly the right way, in exactly the right rhythm. Slowing. Then hurrying. Slowing. Then hurrying. Inside, her seas burned hotter. His words were waves rising higher. Receding … bringing her to the brink. Receding. And then to the brink again. And then to the brink for the last time.
Her gift to herself was him. His gift to her was freedom. And fantasy. The ability to be a wild and abandoned sexual adventurer in this safe place under the covers … between the covers … because this is what erotica is … this is what it does. This is the gift of it.
Is there a secret? Yes. Anaïs Nin and Pauline Réage and Anne Rampling and Erica Jong all knew it. E. L. James knows it.
It is the secret behind all of our writing. And our reading. Arousal starts in the mind. And grows in the mind. The brain is the most erogenous zone in a woman’s body. That is our secret. And it is what we share.
M.J. ROSE has been reading erotica since she was eleven and found The Story of O on her mother’s bookshelves. Rose’s first novel, Lip Service, was chosen by Susie Bright for the Best American Erotica series. International bestselling author of a dozen novels, Rose continues to mix genres and include both the erotic and the suspenseful in her work. In addition to her fiction she has written three books on marketing for authors and is one of the founding board members of International Thriller Writers. Rose is also the founder and president of the first marketing company for authors, AuthorBuzz.com. Visit her online at www.MJRose.com.