Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 39

She reached down for his g-string. "I think you've still got some money in here." She slipped her hand inside.

He grew erect against her so fast that bills flew out and fluttered to the floor. "You are one crazy girlfriend," he said.

She pushed him back on the chair, his c.o.c.k coming up at her like the north pole. "And I come prepared. She took his hands and slid them up her legs, revealing her naked skin beneath her long skirt. He slipped a finger between her legs, sliding up inside her. "I hope TSA didn't have to search you."

"I wasn't concealing anything," she said, and straddled his lap, pulling the skirt out of the way.

He moved his hand to her waist, eyes closing as her folds parted for him. When she sat nestled against him, all the way down his shaft, he held her so tight and so long that emotion welled up in her again.

"You're here," he said. "It's not a dream."

"I am," she said, "and now you better pleasure me or you're getting coal for Christmas."

He opened his eyes, smiling up at her, and scooted down a little on the chair. "Prepare to get slammed." His hand s.h.i.+fted to her hips, lifting her up, and bringing her down so hard and so fast that she gasped.

"Better?" he asked.

Syria couldn't answer because he was doing it again, s.h.i.+fting her body to his bidding, grinding against her, then starting another long stroke. Laughter broke out on the other side of the door as somebody gave a speech, and Syria p.r.i.c.kled with the danger, the risk, and the willingness in both of them to do whatever the other wanted, anywhere they wanted it.

She clutched his shoulders and dropped her feet on the floor, helping him move with her, adding to the impact of their bodies slamming together. The heat curled up through Syria, starting at the burn between them, the slide of his skin inside her, and the pain of overworking her muscles, all combining to shoot her into a new level of pleasure. She was just starting to spiral up when the door opened and a shocked woman looked at them with an open mouth. Tyson stopped a moment, holding Syria close, but the woman simply backed away and closed them in again.

"I think you might be fired," Syria whispered. "And the cops might be on their way."

"Then I better hurry this up," Tyson said. He increased the speed and pressure, and now it was going, her body tightening, then letting loose, cascades of s.h.i.+vers crossing her body and gripping him where they were joined. Tyson slammed his c.o.c.k into her one final time and now everything burgeoned with warmth and wetness, his c.u.m flowing inside her as she relaxed down on him.

"I hate to f.u.c.k and run," Tyson said. "But we better run."

Syria burst into giggles as they s.n.a.t.c.hed up his money and their bags. He thrust his arms into the jacket and did a patchy job of connecting the velcro of his pants. They were running through the empty room and out the other side when the doors opened a second time.

"Go!" Tyson yelled, pulling on her arm as they dashed out into the night. "My car's over here!"

He unlocked the doors and they jumped inside. They pulled out of the slot just as two women came out the back door. Tyson careened across the lot, speeding their way to the side street.

"You are a mad mad woman!" Tyson shouted as they left the hall behind.

Syria laughed. "I am." She reached over and gripped his arm. "I'm mad about you."

He grinned at her, checking his rear mirror. "I'm glad you are. n.o.body's following. I think we got away with it."

Syria squeezed him. "I mean it. It's taken a lot of sorting out, but I finally realized what was going on with me."

They pulled up to a red light, the color splas.h.i.+ng across Tyson's face and the beard, still hanging from one ear. He pulled it off. "What's that?"

"I love you too," Syria said. "And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get us in the same city, and I'm fine with your work. I trust you."

He reached for her, and she pulled against the seat belt so he could hold her close. "Then I can tell you my Christmas surprise right now."

She pulled away just enough to look at him. "What is it?"

"I got a job with a national talent agency."

"As a stripper?"

The light turned green, and Tyson pulled through the intersection, then into another empty lot, dropping the car into park.

"No, as a booking agent. Actors and models, mostly. No more stripping, or at least no more taking gigs I don't want." He glanced behind him. "I'm probably done with the single ladies' auxiliary."

"Tyson, that is great!" Syria rested back against the seat. "So where is the job?"

"That's the best part. They have ten offices. We can go wherever we want. We can stay in New Mexico if you want, since you have your studio. Or come here. Or choose a different place."

Syria thought of Erik, and the proximity of his slaves, and the bondage people, and that restaurant she was pretty sure she couldn't never go to again.

"Where are the other cities?"

"LA of course. And New York and Florida and Houston and a new office in Vegas."

"Vegas?"

"Yes. They are growing quickly there."

"I could shoot some fabulous things there."

"I could send you portfolio work, easy."

"I could start over."

"We could both start over."

Syria unbuckled her seat belt and leaned over the console. "Let's do that," she said. "Let's move to Vegas."

He pulled her in close, his mouth in her hair. "Let's go."

And he kissed her again, a different sort of kiss, one Syria wasn't sure she'd ever felt before. It was kiss that said, this isn't for now, for a lark, for a one-off good time. But for real. For love. And maybe, even, for keeps.

More from Starla Cole

Aren't Tyson and Syria adorable?

Find ALL the books with Syria and Tyson on my web site: Starla Cole's Boudoir If you'd like to go back to when Tyson and Syria met, read Naughty Santa.

You can start at the beginning of Syria's journey as a photographer with Syria's Seduction.

Never miss a story by Starla by joining her mailing list!

About the Author:.

Starla Cole is a boudoir photographer and writer. She began her Boudoir Sessions stories after some crazy guy called her once and said he was so hot, she'd want to have s.e.x with him during the photo session.

After she hung up, she thought--hmmm. What if he WAS? And wrote the story Naughty Santa.

The characters Syria and Tyson seemed to decide they wanted an actual relations.h.i.+p, so the Boudoir Session series has continued. She has also started a series with her husband (who was *not* amused by the phone call) called Couples Play.

The Object of His Desire.

PJ Adams.

Part one: Wanted.

Even now, I'm unsure whether it was a genuine Jane Austen moment or the worst of cliches: eyes meeting across a crowded room, for heaven's sake.

What can I say?

I was nervous, in a crowd of mostly strangers and distant acquaintances.

I was feeling fl.u.s.tered after a difficult journey and finally arriving at this little chapel in the middle of nowhere later than I'd intended I hate not being in control.

I was unsettled by the rush of mixed emotions in my head. I was about to see my big brother again after far too long; despite following him across the Atlantic to England we'd drifted ever farther apart over the last couple of years.

I was thrown by the realization that his best man was Charlie, the ex who could still wrap me around his posh little English finger after all this time.

Under these circ.u.mstances a girl can surely be forgiven a lapse into cliche. No?

I'd driven for nearly four hours to reach this remote little Norfolk chapel. It had taken far too long to escape the tangle of London traffic, and even longer driving through the winding East Anglian lanes trying to find the place.

Deep breath, Trudy. I was here. I'd made it on time.

I stood outside the chapel and straightened my three-quarter length Anoushka G dress. Deep cornflower blue, with scooped neck-line and a lily fascinator pinned to my long auburn hair, even I'd admit that I felt good in my wedding outfit.

I realized I was falling back on coping strategies I'd developed in my teens: a constant interior monologue of commentary and pep talks.

You look good, Trude.

That dress will make up for all sorts, and you can get away with those sucky-in Magic Knickers you bought in desperation, because you just know you're the only one who's ever going to see them.

Nice shoes, by the way.

Whatever it takes.

I recognized a few of the faces of the guests milling around in the churchyard. They were Cambridge buddies of Ethan's. When I'd first come over from New Haven, I'd hung out with him in his college halls for a few weeks before landing my temporary job at Ellison and Coles, a wonderfully quaint traditional publisher with offices just off Covent Garden, right in the heart of London.

As we waited to enter the chapel, people smiled at me and nodded, but they were all in their own little groups and no one seemed particularly interested in me. I didn't mind. I wasn't in any mood for small talk, just yet. Instead, I checked my cell phone, only to find that there was no signal. I opened my mail just the same, and glanced through emails I'd already downloaded.

"You've got signal? Or are you just bluffing so you look busy even though you're here on your own and n.o.body's talking to you?"

I didn't look round. I didn't have to.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I said softly.

"But a good-looking b.a.s.t.a.r.d, right? You always did say that I scrubbed up rather well."

I turned. Honey-blond hair, sharp blue eyes, and the way the tuxedo and neatly pressed pants hung on his lean body... I took a deep breath and tried not to find him attractive.

Charlie didn't look a day older than when I'd last seen him over a year before, ducking a flying ash tray as he backed out of the Islington apartment we'd shared back then.

"Last time I saw you"

"You were a lousy shot. I only ducked to make you feel better about your aim. See? Even then I was looking out for you, babe."

"I only missed because I didn't want blood on the carpet. It was deliberate."

"You preferred that dent in the door?" The ash tray had made a nasty gouge in the wood-panel door on impact. I'd never got round to fixing it: my little memento of the year with Charlie.

"Okay, so I misjudged that one. I should have hit you with it."

"You look good, Trude."

"Too d.a.m.ned right I do. You think I'd come to my brother's wedding and look like s.h.i.+t?"

I was smiling by then. Our arguments went like that: they either got more and more intense or we'd end up laughing and wondering what we'd been fighting about.

"It's been a long time, Trude."