Wilde Novellas

By: Janelle Dennison



He bit back a low groan at the lustful thoughts tumbling through his head. His groin throbbed, and he pressed a hand to his aching shaft, doing his best to rearrange and accommodate the erection straining uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans.

Her shorts came off next, sliding down her long, slender legs, leaving her clad in a pair of silky bikini panties that looked insubstantial enough to rip off her in the throes of passion. The thin fabric didn’t quite conceal the shadowy cleft between her thighs, and the sight of her standing there half naked and completely uninhibited was enough to bring him to his knees. He could only hope that he’d be fortunate to find himself in such an erotic position with her, to be able to press her thighs wide apart with his hands, inhale her warm female scent, and taste her desire with his lips, and the soft lick of his tongue.

He had to have her …

He scrubbed a hand through his thick hair, every nerve in his body strung tight as he waited for her to remove that last scrap of material. Much to his surprise and disappointment, she left her panties on while she dumped her clothes into the hamper, retrieved a pair of underwear and a nightgown from an armoire, then returned to the bathroom and the billow of steam curling from the tub. Setting her change of clothes on the vanity, she switched on a radio to a soft jazz station, turned off the water, and in one smooth motion shimmied out of her panties.

Sweet Jesus. Eric exhaled hard as he was graced with a quick glimpse of the smooth slope of her back and the more enticing curve of her buttocks, before she stepped into the steaming water and sat in the tub, immersing herself up to her neck in frothy bubbles.

He remained outside for another five minutes, just to make sure he had himself under control, and giving Jill time to lose herself in the relaxation of her bath.

Then silently, he made his way up to the house and came to a stop just outside the open double doors. Like the phantom lover he hoped to become, he kept himself blended in with the night shadows… and waited for the fantasy to unfold.



Jill finished off the last of her wine and sank deeper into the tub of lukewarm water, wishing that the one guilty pleasure she indulged in when she was feeling uptight would do the trick of subduing the tension thrumming through her body. No such luck. The fragrant heat of the water, mellow music, and sweet wine had relaxed her mind, but her body remained restless and needy. And it was all Eric Wilde’s fault for instigating such a thorough, dominating kiss, and for planting provocative, tempting ideas in her mind of the two of them together.

Sexually. Intimately. Carnally.

Her stomach clenched as another rush of desire settled low, beckoning her to finish what Eric had started in the elevator. She’d been excruciatingly aroused ever since she’d felt the hard length of his erection against her belly, and tormented by wicked thoughts of his thick shaft impaling her in a sleek, heavy glide, stretching her, filling her with hard, sure thrusts.

Her head rolled back against the rim of the tub and a low groan escaped her throat. Her sex tingled, pulsed, and she knew exactly how to give herself the satisfaction her body screamed for. Feeling defiant, she curled her fingers into tight fists against her sides, stubbornly refusing to cave in to her body’s demands. She was so damned tired of the solo, self-induced orgasms she’d resorted to for the past year and half. She wanted—needed—a man. Specifically, Eric. She hungered for his touch, and the warmth and firmness of his big hands branding her flesh. She ached to feel his mouth on her breasts, her belly, between her thighs.

Frustrated and aggravated at the direction of her thoughts, as well as Eric’s hold over her even in the solitude of her own home, she pulled the plug on her bath and abruptly stood up, determined to put her mind and restless energy to better use—such as immersing herself in the work she had piling up in her office—until she was too tired to think of anything but sleep. And then maybe, hopefully, she wouldn’t dream of a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed bad boy who’d starred in her most carnal fantasies for the past three months.

A man who’d made it clear with a kiss and the suggestion of an affair that he wanted her just as much as she craved him.

Water cascaded down the length of her like a lover’s caress, and her breasts tightened painfully as beads of liquid trickled over her erect nipples and down her belly. She shivered and, gritting her teeth against another onslaught of feverish sensation unfurling along her nerves, grabbed a towel and methodically patted down her wet skin, careful to keep the terry material away from ultra-sensitive places.

Slipping into her panties and chemise, she cleaned up the bathroom, then padded back into her master bedroom. Plucking the pins from the hair she’d twisted into a tight knot at the back of her head, she tossed the clips onto her dresser and let the long, wavy strands unravel until the ends fell halfway down her back. Separating the thick mass into three sections, she began braiding her hair so it didn’t end up tangled around her head by morning.

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