Lana Fox is a freelance author of erotica and non-fiction, who is co-founder of Go Deeper Press and Here Booky Booky. Her book-length publications include Cream: An Erotic Romance (Go Deeper Press), Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee (HarperCollins’ Mischief), Shameless Behavior: Brazen Stories of Overcoming Shame, and others. Lana’s articles and nonfiction appear at Spirituality & Health, Boston Magazine, Gaiam TV, My Yoga Online, and elsewhere. Her erotica appears in numerous anthologies including Best Women’s Erotica 2015. Fox has appeared on numerous podcasts and radio shows including In Bed with Susie Bright, and teaches erotic writing at Grub Street in Boston. She won the 2012 Non-Fiction Fellowship at the Writers’ Room of Boston, is represented by the Sarah Jane Freemann Literary Agency, and, under her other name, has won multiple literary awards. Find out more at godeeperpress.com and lanafox.com.
“So,” I said. “The job.”
She raised an eyebrow and slid a photo across the desk, before falling back into her seat, red lips glistening in the half-light. “Pretty little thing, she is. Husband wants her head.”
And because irony’s my fuck-buddy, I said, “What a gent.”
Then everything changed, because even when my fingers first touched that photo, hitting the tacky surface as I pulled it into view—even as I smelled Odette’s perfume beneath the tinge of tobacco—I knew something big was happening. I could feel it in my pulse, in the lightness of my head. I felt it in my groin, where I usually felt so little.
And then, I saw her. My final kill. She wore a red and white polka-dot dress that fell into a low V around her gorgeous cleavage, and a sash-like belt at her middle gathered in the material and gripped her full waist. She was turning to the camera, surprised peut-être, no smile on her face, just the beginnings of a startle. Her eyes were wide and brown, her mouth was gloriously wide, her lips plump and biteable. Brown curls fell loosely down her back, her skin as translucent as crystallized candy just begging to be licked. She had the look of a ’fifties beauty. I imagined her arranged on a pile of summer hay, her nipples hard and pink, her breasts full and luxurious, her pussy trimmed and ready, her slim fingers stroking over her belly, her hips. Her eyes—I knew already—would be innocent but tempting. I’d fuck her with a strap-on, or maybe with my fingers—Christ, I’d fuck her in every way possible. I’d moan like an animal, and she’d cry out. She wouldn’t stop coming. Not ever. Jamais.
I was so turned on just looking at her, that my body felt different. My nipples were hard beneath my tank-top, I could even feel the tattooed skin on my arm—the black snake coiling around my bicep—prickling as if the needle were still on it. Everything felt immediate and present, as if someone had lifted a veil from my body. This woman made me want to be right inside her, all the way in, fucking her with addiction. I’d come—I was sure of it—just to push my fingers into her. I’d come, just to feel her pussy clench me, to be tight inside with my hand on one of her breasts. Mon Dieu, I was wet. And it felt good. Why the fuck had I forgotten this burn, this need for flesh on flesh? This long-lost longing for perfumed skin?
Seven years and I’d felt nothing. Seven years of killing and no heat.
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