Erotica Ebooks: Free ebook sample of "Coming Together: Under Fire" by Alessia Brio

Table of Contents

* Poetry is italicized

Introduction

Will Belegon

It is often said that lightning never strikes the same place twice. Unfortunately, fire is not so kind. In October of 2007, Southern California experienced what none thought possible: a firestorm which spread devastation greater than that suffered almost exactly four years earlier, in October of 2003.

I could list the lives lost. I could give you the statistics on the thousands of homes destroyed in San Diego and Los Angeles. But the numbers, staggering as they are, lose meaning eventually. We see them and we blink. After a slight clutching at our hearts, the effect fades—at least, for those of us who didn't lose a home or a loved one.

In 2003, I experienced something brand new. I stood on the roof of my childhood home and engaged in what would have been light banter with two men, also standing on roofs to either side of me. Our speech was light-hearted, but the subject was deadly serious. We were deciding when to abandon the homes we loved in order to save our lives. We stood, garden hoses in hand, as we wet the roofs and backyards.

"If it burns the tree on the top of the Cooksey's hill, we get down and leave." The tree went up in flames, and we stayed. "If the Moore's fence goes up, we leave." The fence began to burn. Flames surrounded us on three sides, and the street I once raced bicycles and rollerskates down was our only escape. The flames came within fifty yards, close enough to feel the heat licking our faces, before the brave firefighters appeared. Seemingly, out of thin air, or rather thick smoke, they materialized. They coaxed the flames up the hill and put out both the tree and the fence. Then they were gone, racing to help others, while we still stood on our roofs in shock.

We laughed. We celebrated, momentarily ignorant of the fact that others we knew were not so lucky. Then we fell silent. I believe in that moment all three of us realized that we could have died. We had all mentioned that possibility in the preceding hours, but I don't think we believed it.

I never realized until I came off that roof that my face was tinted with ash and soot. I was off work for three days due to smoke inhalation. My mother and grandmother were both evacuated from their homes and lived with me that week.

In 2007, I didn't face the flames so closely. But I tasted fear again: fear that my house would burn; fear that my family would be one of those left staring at smoking ashes. And I, once again, knew the sorrow of watching faces on TV as people confronted the incineration of every material thing they loved. Local newsman Larry Himmel stood in front of his burning home and broadcast in his grief. Once again, I faced those I knew, people who were not on television or in far off places, and heard of the destruction of their dreams.

I faced the specter of evacuation, something I had not faced in 2003. If the Harris Fire had turned south around Otay Reservoir, it would have roared into Chula Vista. It would have had a clear path to Olympic Parkway, bringing the flames very near my home. The embers from these fires were traveling in the strong Santa Ana winds for a mile or more. When you see pictures on television of streets where only two or three homes are gone, seemingly random, that's what you are seeing: the results of such floating embers, impossible to predict and impossible for the beleaguered fire fighters to defend.

I was lucky. I was not evacuated, and my mother was only under a voluntary evacuation instead of the mandatory order we defied four years prior. Thousands were not so fortunate. Nor were homes the only things lost.

Imagine your child had to return to school the next week and face a second grade class without its beloved teacher—because she'd been trapped in the early morning hours by the Witch Creek Fire and had burned to death in her garage, huddled with her boyfriend after a failed effort to escape.

Imagine you are behind on the mortgage and almost wish your home had actually burned—because the business where you worked did, and now you have a mortgage but no job. At least the insurance money would've staved off foreclosure.

Imagine you have outlived all your friends and even your beloved spouse, and now you have no pictures of him except the wedding photo some firefighter grabbed off your mantle and left in the street wrapped in a wet blanket; a last caring gesture in regret because he or she was unable to save your home.

Southern California came together as never before in October 2007. Lessons learned from 2003 saved dozens of lives and perhaps hundreds of homes. People waited in lines an hour long or more simply to donate blankets and food. Generous volunteers opened their hearts and homes to help their neighbors. Once again, we marveled at the selfless heroism of the firefighters and first responders.

And we began our road to recovery in all aspects of our lives. The Sunday after the worst day of the fires, the San Diego Chargers played a home game, brightening the spirits of the community as they rolled to an emotional victory. Our firefighters led the team onto the field, and our governor spontaneously snatched a microphone to praise the efforts of the first responders and volunteers.

In our own industry, the La Jolla Writers Conference continued as planned despite the fact that several presenters were affected. Alessia and I received offers of help from writers like Ken Kuhlken and Antoinette Kuritz, and support from people like David Morrell, Linda Lael Miller, Mark Clements, Tracy Hickman, and Lisa Jackson.

By buying this book, you too are helping. And though you may not feel your few dollars are important, let me assure you that they are. Almost as important as the knowledge that you care. Thank you.

Will Belegon, co-editor

www.willbelegon.com

Fire and Ice

Rachel Kramer Bussel

Her hair is in pigtails, short ones that look beyond adorable. On an older girl, this wouldn't work, but at twenty-two, they strike just the right balance between cuteness and flirtation. She looks just young enough that I get a slight chill, wondering if the six years between us signal my—or her—utter corruption. But she is an adult, and she sits surveying the party crowd, cigarette in hand. She's the co-host of the party but looks like she doesn't really care if people are having a good time, is waiting for it to be over so she can crawl into bed with her smoke and her stare.

While she's waiting, I check her out surreptitiously. I know she's mature enough to do justice to my fantasies, the ones she clearly wants to provoke with her short black denim skirt, patterned fishnets, and skimpy v-neck white T-shirt with black bra peeking out. Perfectly trashy. Her intense stare darts from the mess of disheveled hair she constantly pushes from her face, the better to hide from the world, though really she is the type of girl who desperately wants to be seen. You don't dress like that to be ignored.

We've met before, but you'd hardly know it, could call us strangers and totally get away with it. I know enough details to intrigue me, to find her the most fascinating girl in the room, a bundle of contradictions I'm dying to unravel. Otherwise, this party doesn't have much going for it. What had seemed like a fun night out has devolved into a crowd full of strangers, tired drinks, and canned music. Fun-by-numbers, but it's still better than watching the same old videos at home for the umpteenth time. And her; she makes it worth every idle minute of sipping my drink and trying to look lost in thought or at least casually busy. I stick around, knowing she's exactly the kind of girl who likes to be kept waiting, even if she doesn't know it yet.

Her skirt falls to mid-thigh and immediately makes me want to get under it, hiding and showing just enough of her leg, tempting and teasing me with the promise of what lies beneath. She's looking around with that calm, icy assurance that belies her years, but it's not that typical New York swagger, that Do-I-have-somewhere-else-to-be? /Is-there-anyone-important-here-for-me-to-talk-to? look.

I wonder where she culled her party guests, or maybe they're all her roommate's because nobody's paying her any attention, abiding the invisible "Steer Clear" on her forehead. I can sense the hesitancy as she takes each drag, fingers shaking infinitesimally, not wanting to admit to anything but her bravado. As I watch her, that is what I long to crack. In my head, I press my hand against her eager cunt, as I make her buckle underneath me, claw at the wall; drop her cigarette and her façade as she succumbs to what she truly wants.

Looking at her all cool and calm, a vision comes to me—her, naked, on her hands and knees on a bed, her clit sparkling with the silver hoop surely dangling from its hood, her wetness so palpable I can feel it before I even touch it. Me, ready to fuck her, my hands tingling with arousal, my pussy jumping like it's been touched by a violet wand. I squirm as I fight off the urge to touch myself, to do anything to offset the almost agonizing arousal that has overtaken me with this fantasy, and with that surge, I know that I'll have to overcome any lingering nerves and go to her. Just as I stride toward her, I see her walking toward me, and I fix my gaze on her, not smiling, not frowning, not giving anything away.

She halts right in front of me, so close we are almost touching, and holds her cigarette up to my lips for a puff. Normally, I'm not a smoker and can't stand the smell, but from her the tobacco is somehow erotically charged, and I inhale and then slowly let it out, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and stubbing it out before pulling her head in for a kiss. Her lips are soft and hot and moist and I slowly, sensually devour her mouth. I could spend all day like this, and instead of the frantic groping I'd anticipated, I move slowly, my tongue gently parting her lips and deliberately crawling along her mouth, teasing and tickling, coating her teeth and then moving back to her tongue and luscious lips.

Being so close to her mouth is making my pussy spasm again, hurrying me along when I would prefer to take my time, wanting both to savor and devour her. Her skin is hot, almost burning up, and I know that her pussy will be, too. I tease her, toying with her tongue, sliding it between my teeth, biting her lips, small, sharp nibbles that leave her wanting more. I want her to pant for me, beg for me, lose all sense of control as she squirms in her stockings, no longer giving a damn what any of the overgrown hipsters here think about her.

Memories of her surface, in that magically convenient way they do, coaxed forth not with the deepest of thought but the logic of the unconscious. I recall other parties, restaurants, where I've seen her idly playing with the candles, her finger darting into the flame, flirting with the heat to get to the wax, which she swirls around her finger, poking it into the wet, warm morass and then coating her hands with its flaky whiteness. I observed this for a while, the casual way she didn't flinch as she poked at the wax, utter concentration as she went about her solitary task. I myself have never even been able to draw my finger through the palest part of the flame, the heat scaring me off even though I know it will not actually burn me if I move quickly enough. Just the hint of that danger though excites me, and I know exactly what I will do to her once I get her alone.

I excuse myself and head for the kitchen, the tension between us suddenly too much for me. It's a welcome break, one I know she's not used to—once she has you in her clutches, you're usually trapped, but she doesn't really want the upper hand, just gets it by default most of the time and doesn't know how to get rid of it. This time, she won't have a choice. I feel the same familiar energy coursing through my blood, the kind that tells me I am about to do something that will change my life profoundly. It's not so much arousal as intense excitement, and I'm not all that surprised when she follows me into the kitchen, standing there silently as I pour myself another soda. When I turn around, she's surveying me intently with those dark, smoky eyes, rimmed in black but shining brightly at me, seeking something that I hope I can deliver. They are issuing a challenge, and I put down my cup, knowing that I have no choice but to take her up on it. I walk closer to her, also silent; the first one to talk will clearly lose this game, and I need to have the upper hand. I reach behind me and fish an ice cube out of my drink, bringing it to her lips, letting the icy droplets fall onto her neck and chest, drip down into her luscious cleavage. She opens her mouth and I slide it in, hearing it crack with the sharpness of her teeth.

While she bites, I do what I've been wanting to do all night, bringing my hand up under that skirt and pressing against the fire I find there. I push against her wetness, palpable even through the thin layer of clothing, my arm tilted so the edge of my wrists presses against her, not caring who might walk in; fucking the party host has its privileges.

I move away slightly and then bring my hand back, nudging her, tapping against her, forcing her to react. She bites down again, splintering the ice, grinding her teeth as I'm now grinding into her. I bring one of her hands above her head and the other quickly follows, and when I look in her eyes, they tell me all I need to know. She is mine, wholly, completely, just like that, and that look melts me. I have to catch myself, force myself to stand up straight rather than sinking down to the ground, pulling her with me.

Instead, I push my body flush with hers, biting her chilled bottom lip, licking along its plumpness. I bring my knee between her legs, feeling her sink down against me, needing as much contact as she can get, her pussy aching. I nudge her with my knee, then shove it hard against her and she whimpers, her nails digging into the wall, and then—just when she's dying for it—I pull my knee away. I turn her around with my hands so she is facing the wall, her gorgeously beckoning ass sticking out, the skirt sending the most heated of siren calls. I leave it in place for now and bring my hand back, spanking first one cheek and then the other. The impact is dulled by the layers of clothing but is meant only as a tease. In between smacks, I bring my hand back between her legs and push hard against her cunt, practically pushing the fabric into her, and I can hear her breath hissing out. I pinch her pussy lips lightly, then her clit, wanting just as much as she does to tear off her tights and touch her for real. Yet, I go back to her spanking, and she leans her head against the wall, no longer certain what she wants or needs, too overcome to do anything but stick her ass out and let me decide.

When it's too much for either of us to take, we make our way into the bedroom, a cloying, writhing mass. Candles dot the room, some in modest little glass holders, some big and bold enough to stand on their own. I push her onto the bed and dim the lights, and we are surrounded by darkness, with only the flickering flames to guide us. She moans quietly, catlike, and raises her arms above her head, making it easy for me to lift her skimpy shirt and push her skirt down around her ankles. I tear at the tights, the rip of the fabric ringing through the air, leaving her naked lips exposed. Of course, she's the kind of girl who doesn't wear panties, who thinks that's a cool, sexy statement, yet I have a hunch nobody's ever exposed her in quite such a way. I pull them off her and lean forward to bind her wrists with the webbed rags, and as I do she thrashes and moans louder, clearly in a different kind of heaven than the one she'd imagined.

Every stroke of my fingers along her skin, whether a light, easy fingertip over her bicep, or the pinch of a hardened nipple, makes her pant even more. She is struggling, frantic, needy, combative, but with me rather than against me.

I couldn't walk away now if I wanted to, the force of her lust would surely overpower me in a second. Her struggle is only with herself, with her need to strain and stretch, to feel the shivers that wrack her body as the fabric presses against that thinnest of skin on her wrists, as it sends tickles up through her arms, as I complement those gentle skin taunts with bites along her arm, her stomach, her thighs. I'm scraping, biting, stroking everywhere except her famished cunt, which she pushes at me, begging me to finally, finally fuck her like I've promised to all night, promised with my pinches and smacks, my kisses and clawings. But it's too much fun to watch her squirm, to watch her try to get a word out. Even a short one like "yes" or "please" simply becomes a ragged rush of air, a sigh, a moan, a clench. I stroke the backs of my fingers along her slit, so wet I almost slide inside against my will. Her feet try to kick off the skirt, but I tsk at her and she stops. She knows she won't get what she wants until I do, and keeps it in place, moving within the limited confines the fabric allows, her legs only allowed slight room to part.

Maintaining the silence, I keep my eyes on her as I walk across the room and pick up a small white candle whose flame arches into the air. I walk back, my hand cupped in front of it to further the fire. She stills now, slightly uncertain, not sure if she truly wants this particular fantasy to come true anymore, but damned if she does, damned if she doesn't, because the need is so clear in her eyes it could burn me hotter than this candle. I tilt it slightly, letting a few drips spatter her belly, and she jerks but keeps those cool dark eyes on me. I continue along, splashing droplets of wax here and there along her torso, darting along the path between her sumptuous breasts, rubbing the wax into her once it has fallen.

She is so still now, her body on high alert for danger, for pleasure, for anything that will ease the fire between her legs. I hold the candle still in my right hand and shove two fingers deep into her pussy, with no warning, and now she lets out a cry, a scream of arousal and frustration, of pent up need, of everything she has contained for far longer than the length of this party. I push further, then pull out and enter her again, her body easily navigable. I have to fight to control myself, to not throw the candle on the ground and myself on top of her.

There will be time for that later, but for now I go slowly, slower than each of us want but I know we will be grateful for it later. Delayed gratification is highly underrated, and I want to show her exactly how so, keep her on edge until she is ready to explode into a million pieces, a million tiny bursts of pleasure that leap from her body, coursing out in an orgasm worthy of a fireworks explosion, all bright light and loud boom, obliterating everything else in sight. I keep my touch light, stroking, teasing, feeling, rather than ramming them in the way I might do another time. I get to know her every curve, every lingering stroke telling me something new, feel each simple shudder, each reaction, a slow fizz that will build and build. I pour more wax; watch the way it melts within the holder, the hot liquid swimming and sloshing.

I watch it harden on her, and touch the residue, her skin slowly cooling beneath it. She looks up at me with glossy, wet eyes, filled with unshed tears of need and joy and fulfillment, eyes that have probably not cried in front of someone else in longer than she can remember. I pull my fingers out, paint their wetness along her leg and move up to kiss her. I kiss her hard now, strong and furious, wanting to push the tears back in, strike them from the record, give them to someone else. She is so fragile inside and I don't need words to tell me that this is more than a simple fuck to her, more than a one-night stand with some older woman she'll later brag about to her friends.

"I'll be right back," I tell her, needing a moment away. In the hallway, I feel like I need my own cigarette, but instead rush to the kitchen, not wanting to leave her for more than a few moments. I hurriedly fill a cup with ice, keeping it behind my back as I enter the room. Those eyes watch me so fiercely I almost want to blush; if I didn't know better, I'd say they see right through me, a sexual sci-fi heroine whose power lies squarely in her pussy.

"Close your eyes," I tell her, and her obedience is more powerful than a blindfold, a tacit trust placed solely in me. Power can't exist in a vacuum, only feeds off the need for others to respect it, and each time she does I feel it surge through my body, keeping me safe and alive, needed and needy.

I again hold a candle over her, moving lower down her stomach, letting it drip near but not onto her cunt, teasing her with the heat's potential to sear as well as soothe. While the candle is hovering, so close she can feel the heat without the actual wax, I fish out an ice cube and trace it along her tender slit and smile softly to myself as she arches her back and lets out a squeak. Her hand moves to sneak down toward me but can't, and I watch as the reality of her immobility passes through her brain. She wants to protest even though she knows she likes it, the body's instinctive urge to push away anything that might be threatening. But even if her hands hadn't been tied, I think she would have inched forward then lay still as she does now, her teeth gritted, eyes squeezed shut as she arches against the dripping ice while I keep rubbing it along her sweet skin before shoving it inside her, watching as the icy water dribbles out of her. As I shove the frozen cube inside, I let a drop of wax fall on her lower stomach. The combination of fire and ice proves too much for her, and while I work the cube into her deepest hiding places, she comes, clenching my fingers, pushing the cube out of her, letting out a roaring scream that has been building for who knows how long.

She shivers from the chill, from the orgasm, from all the intensity I'd just wrung from her, and I watch as she comes back down to earth, her face momentarily slack, at peace, no longer any façade to maintain. I hold her down by her bound wrists for a moment, letting her feel my weight, my power, letting her know that I want to be in charge of her again, but will let her go for now.

I untie the knot and let her wriggle free, then blow out the candle and place it on the ground, allowing her to relax in her post-climax haze. I trail my icy fingers along her arm, teasing her with the lingering cold. She shivers and I pull her close, wrapped her up in my arms. We huddle there, candles blazing around us, our bodies hot where our skin meets, cool where the breeze hits. She's still an enigma to me, but I've gotten a little closer to her core, and even if that's the closest I ever get, it will be enough.

†

www.rachelkramerbussel.com

Kindle

Shanna Germain

This is the story you like best of all:

How, my first year of fighting fires found me

naked in the bunk, Nick with one finger

against thigh, one at nipple. Station silent,

only tip of pipe into skin. Nick's thrusts

a thing I might like if I didn't fight fires.

In that silence—sirens—saved by the bell,

skins slipped separate, zippers zipped up,

Nick spit, "fuck!" to remind himself of where

we almost were. Me, I didn't care where

we were, only where we were going

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