All She Wants

By Angharad Jones

Annabelle's bored and a bit frustrated by life. She fantasizes about amazing adventures with all manner of imaginary, sexy men, gleaned from every hot male she sees in her day-to-day life, but she's realized that it's simply not enough. Enter one good-looking, hot man, and he challengers Annabelle to look beyond her fantasy and embrace reality. Yes, it's great, she's enjoying herself thoroughly, but she wonders. Will she trade her fantasy life for a real one?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denise Gwen
• Release date: Jul 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005412883

Book preview

ONE

My Empress, My Queen, the servant purred as he poured a honey-glowing stream of scented oil across her back. Oil beads glistened on her skin as he smoothed the oil across her shoulders, massaging his way down to the dip in her back, all the way down to her round, firm buttocks. Tiny beads of oil slid inside the crack of her bottom then slipped down her bare skin, moistening her sex. His large hands, his expressive fingers, massaged the warm oil into her welcoming skin. She moaned under her breath. Off in the distance, the natives beat the drums.

Tom-tom-tom-tom, the drums sounded, resounding in her ears. She loved the sensation of his knowing fingers caressing her slender body, nurturing her fragrant skin. He cupped her buttocks in his hands, pressing her flesh fully. Firm, round, full, he murmured. She groaned, burying her face in the silk pillow. Shall we roll you over, Your Grace?

Yes, she gasped. That would be lovely.

He placed a thick, heated towel over her and helped her to roll over onto her back, adjusting the towel so it covered her breasts. With one eye half opened, she flashed him with a lazy smile. His loincloth, tied together with a leather cord, slipped dangerously low to the V-curve in his chiseled abdomen. His taut belly was sinewy and sculpted. She noticed a few curly black hairs peeking out from the top of his loincloth and shivered with a frisson of desire. He gazed down at her, his large, brown eyes warm and full. His olive-toned skin glowed, making him look as if lit from within. Demurely, ever so demurely, she pulled the towel up over her breasts, wondering at her sudden modesty. She felt vulnerable in this position, yet at the same time, curiously open, ready.

My mistress, the servant purred, his eyes dark with hunger. She turned her head to one side and noticed the loincloth clinging to his hips by a tenuous thread. All she need do to reveal him in his magnificence was to raise her hand and tug on the slim leather cord binding the loincloth to his body. He would stand before her, naked, raw. Shall I begin? he asked with a sultry purr. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

Yes, she whispered. He reached for the flask and poured molten honey onto her belly, massaging the warm oil into her skin. With the towel still draping her breasts, he worked his fingers up the length of her smooth skin and under the towel, until his palms cupped her soft breasts. He massaged the soothing oil into her breasts, squeezing, kneading, sculpting her flesh under his fingers as if he were a Michelangelo and she his muse. She moaned softly, writhing, her back arching.

My lady, he murmured, easing his way back down her belly, still massaging oil into her skin, working his way down to her thighs. With his strong, moist hands, he gently yet firmly parted her legs, massaging the oil deep into the cleft of her body, to the place where she stored her womanly secrets. She groaned again, writhing on the heated, padded table. The towel slipped from her breasts. She made no effort to catch it as it slid off her body, falling to the marble floor. The servant smiled and returned to her breasts, massaging them fully until they gleamed. Her areolas glistened like ripe black olives, burnished to a glowing ember. Reaching forward, she caught the edge of the leather cord holding his loincloth and pulled. The loincloth slid off his hips in a seamless, fluid movement. His massive cock sprang up, proud, erect. Those lovely black curls, which had been peeking out from his loincloth, curled around his manhood as if presenting a delicious bouquet.

Is my lady ready? the servant asked. He tweaked her nipples, sending shivers of desire flooding through her. She arched her back, writhing in anticipation. Oh, yes, she groaned. Oh, yes. The servant slid onto the table beside her, gently parted her legs, and placed himself at the point of entry. His fingers kneading her flesh at her womanhood, he slipped his fingers into her cunt, in and out, in and out, causing her to moan.

Tom-tom-tom-tom, the drumbeats rolled.

Aye me, she cried, arching her back with yearning desire. She watched as the servant rose then, his manhood fully erect, nearly bursting, his hands stretching her legs apart, and then he plunged in. Oh, the sensation, the feeling of his big, hard cock filling her up inside. Oh, how she loved the feeling, the sensation of it. He grabbed her hips, lifting them up off the table as he drove himself inside, throbbing, pulsing.

Tom-tom-tom-tom.

Big and sturdy, her stallion servant. She cried out in misery and joy as he drove himself deep, deep inside her, his moist fingers digging into her flesh, drawing her closer to him. Deep inside her, his cock fully penetrating to her core, his balls rubbed up against her bottom as he slipped in and out of her. He throbbed inside her, the shaft of his cock rubbing up and down her cunt, rubbing, pulsing, sending her into an agony, an exquisite agony of desire and longing.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

My mistress, he groaned into her ear. Their bodies joined as one, moist, their skin touching. He brought his massive chest down onto her breasts, crushing her under his weight in a delicious heat of comfort and warmth, safety and emotion. Her breasts, oily with the scented essence, flushed pink with the heat of him.

Oh, my God, he moaned. You are so delicious. He bit her ear. And then she felt it, that tingling sensation, the feeling of her orgasm. Like a freight train roaring around the bend, she saw it in the distance. She sensed it. It was coming. She contracted then released her muscles. He groaned with pleasure. She sensed he could feel what she was doing. She contracted, then released, contracted, then released. The sensation of the tickling came closer, drew near.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

She contracted, then released. At the final moment, she held her breath. Then, curiously, nothing.

My Grace, the servant said, but he spoke to her as if from the other side of the cavernous cave. What happened? The tickling sensation congealed then fell silent, still, as if suffering a sudden death.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

My Grace, the servant murmured. His voice floated away.

Ring-ring-ring-ring.

What? she said, her eyelids fluttering open. And in that moment, the servant disappeared, the heat of his body dissipated, and she felt suddenly cold. She looked around the cave—no, no cave, but a room—and then it all came back to her, hitting her right between the eyes. She’d been dreaming. Nothing more. Just a dream. She threw the covers off the bed. Dammit! The alarm clock was ringing off the table. She lunged for it, pushed the off button, and threw herself back against her allergy-proof, hermetically sealed pillow. She sighed with frustrated resignation. No servants. No tom-toms. No steaming flasks of molten honey. She was back to her old self, plain old Annabelle, lying in her queen-sized bed, alone. Dammit, she repeated, more softly this time. Tears of frustration filled her eyes. Another failed orgasm. Wrapping herself up into the sheet, she rolled over onto her side. She felt very much alone, very much abandoned. It was more than the frustration of the dream making her feel this way. She felt so alone, so lonely. Tears welled up in her eyes. She hated the idea of getting out of bed. She couldn’t bear the idea of walking around her cold, nearly empty apartment. But there was nowhere else for her to go. Home was gone. This was her home now. Cold comfort, that. She sighed, untangled herself from the sheets, and padded barefoot into the shower.

Maybe something will happen today. Something interesting.

Hah. Now she was dreaming.

TWO

Despite her inner turmoil, Annabelle carried herself as if she were the most confident girl in the world as she strutted up Fourth Street, dressed in a form-fitting gray tweed pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a sleek pair of black patent-leather heels. And, because she’d awoken feeling particularly vulnerable that morning, she’d added something extra, a little oomph to help her get through the day. Underneath her maidenly clothing—her prim-and-proper I’m-a-demure-librarian outfit—she wore a lacy push-up bra and a matching lace thong. It didn’t matter if nobody could tell what lay beneath her proper work attire. She could, and that was what mattered. She felt dangerously alive and erotic.

Underneath the prim skirt, with its charming herringbone pattern, her bare bottom brushed up against the silk lining, making her feel completely naked. It gave her a sensation of being very much in evidence in the world, even if she didn’t have anybody to share the sensation with. It took the edge off her loneliness. She checked her watch. She was early. The library didn’t open until nine. She ducked into the Starbucks on the corner of Fourth and Vine, dutifully took her place in line behind the other well-heeled Cincinnatians, and waited her turn. The pfft! sound of the espresso jets filled her ears as the heady aroma of fresh-brewed coffee assailed her nostrils. The line crept forward infinitesimally.

She stood tall in her heels, enjoying the strangely electrifying sensation of her bare bottom brushing up against the silk lining of her pencil skirt. She kept glancing furtively under her lashes at the other customers, wondering if they could sense that, if only they were to peek up her skirt, they’d see her exposed cunny, and all she had separating her nakedness from the outside world was a lacy strip of fabric? She felt so naughty, such a naughty girl! She smiled secretly to herself. She really was feeling better. The aching loneliness of the early morning faded away, dissipating into dust. Up ahead, near the front of the line, a man turned around to glance behind him. He cocked his head, straining to see.

Startled out of her reverie, she glanced behind her to see what attracted his attention. When she looked back at him, she jumped.

He gazed directly into her eyes. Excuse me, he called out. Can you check and see if there’s enough cream in the carafe?

The half-and-half? she asked.

Hold on just a sec, he said. He turned to his companion. Excuse me. He left his place in line and strode to the condiment stand where the carafes marked Skim Milk, Half-and-Half, and Two-Percent were perched next to an array of sweeteners and stirring sticks. He grabbed ahold of the carafe containing the half-and-half and shook it gently, cocking his head. After a thorough investigation, he said, flashing Annabelle with a sly, sidelong smile, there appears to be enough half-and-half in here to meet my needs.

But are you sure? she asked playfully. Completely sure? How do you know the carafe won’t be empty by the time you get back here?

Then, he said with a sly smile, I’ll just have to keep an eye on it, won’t I?

Yes, she returned in kind, you will, won’t you?

Hey, Henry, the man called out. We’re up!

That’s okay, Jack, Henry said. I think I’ll stay in line here with this pretty lady.

Pretty lady, huh? A tad old-fashioned, but I must admit I do rather like the compliment. Her face flaring with heat, she turned her head away, smiling to herself. See what happens when you live in the real world? Aren’t you glad you dragged your butt out of bed this morning?

The line crept forward, but for perhaps the first time in her life, Annabelle was in no particular hurry for the line to move fast. She so enjoyed the delicious sensation of standing next to this handsome man. Even if nothing else happened to her, she could definitely count on this interaction as the highlight of her day. She gazed at him through lowered eyelashes. A gorgeous man, with raven-black hair and deep brown eyes. She longed to say something witty, but nothing clever came to mind, and so she stood in a stultifying silence.

At last, unfortunately, she stood at the front of the line, smiling into the green eyes of handsome Carl, the red-haired barista.

Morning, Carl, she chirped in a manner most undignified.

Morning, Annabelle. What’ll it be? Your usual?

Oh, Henry said. So you’re a regular here?

I sure am, she said shyly.

One venti soy three-Splenda latté, Carl called out. He looked at Henry. And what would you like this morning, sir?

I’d like a venti house blend, Henry said, and would you mind filling up this carafe for me? I think it may be a little low.

Sure thing, Carl said.

Annabelle reached into her handbag for her Starbucks Card, but she looked up, startled, when she felt a restraining hand on her arm.

This is my treat, Henry said.

Oh, you don’t need to do that, she protested.

I know, but you look like you could use a treat.

I don’t look that pathetic, do I? she blurted out.

Henry regarded her with a curious expression in his brown eyes. No, he said carefully, but you do look kind of sad.

She gazed at him for a long moment then turned away. Henry proffered a debit card to Carl, who swiped it and handed it back to him, together with the receipt. Your drink will be over on the serving table there, Carl said.

Thanks, Carl. She eased over to the table and reached for her drink. She sipped. Mmmm, it was good.

Here’s the carafe, sir, one of the other baristas said, handing it over to Henry.

Would you mind terribly putting it back on the condiment stand?

No problem at all. Henry accepted the carafe in one hand and his coffee in the other. He grinned at Annabelle. Come and talk to me as I fix my coffee?

Sure. She longed for any excuse to delay leaving this attractive man’s side.

As Henry filled his coffee cup with Splenda and half-and-half, he chatted. This is my first summer here in Cincinnati.

Oh, really? she asked. Where are you from?

I grew up in New Jersey, but I’m a law student at Capital University Law School in Columbus.

So you’re a lawyer? He flashed a loopy grin. I’m starting my last year this autumn. I’m clerking at a law firm for the summer.

Are you having a good time? The moment the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake. Without quite intending to, she’d uttered a strangely sensual question.

He stopped stirring to gaze at her with a sly grin. A reasonably good time, he said in a low voice, but it could be better.

Waves of heat washed over her, and she ducked her head. Wow, what a flirtatious thing to say. Then again, she’d started down this path, so she may as well run with it. Leaning her hip against the counter, she said, How much better would you like your summer to be?

That got him. He gazed at her, the stirrer still in his hand, not moving.

Henry’s companion from the line sidled up beside him. Come on, Henry. Quit flirting with the pretty girl, or we’re gonna be late.

Henry started and glanced at his friend. Oh, there you are, Jack.

Jack extended his right hand to Annabelle. Jack Somersby. Pleased to meet you.

Annabelle Hughes.

Annabelle, a pleasure to meet you.

Henry held out his hand as well. Henry Jacobs.

Annabelle nodded. So nice to meet both of you.

Another customer approached the counter. They were blocking the way. It could not be delayed any longer. It was time for the three of them to head out toward their respective jobs. With Jack close on her heels, Henry held the door open for her as they eased out of the coffee shop. Standing on the sidewalk, being bumped into on all sides by commuters hurrying to their offices, they attempted a conversation, but it was desultory at best.

Well, Henry said at last. It was nice meeting you.

It was nice meeting you, too, Annabelle said earnestly. And thank you for my latté.

Tomorrow, Jack interjected, I’ll be the one buying your latté.

A quick glance at Henry confirmed what Annabelle already sensed. Henry didn’t like Jack horning in on her. Well, it was kind of nice for two men to be angling for her attention, but she knew which one she preferred.

Oh, you’re welcome, Henry said, recovering. He flashed her with one last, final smile, and together he and Jack turned south toward the river. They hurried across Fourth Street and disappeared inside the PNC Tower, located on the corner of Fourth and Vine.

So that’s where he works, she said to herself. In a lower voice, she added, He didn’t ask me for my phone number. Yet another failure to connect with someone. But at least this time I tried. I can honestly say that I tried. Still clutching her latté, she turned on her heel and headed north up Vine. Time for work. The encounter with Henry had been truly lovely. The trouble was, she wanted more, much more. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold out. The empty feeling inside her gnawed away at her insides. These quick moments of intimacy, although nice, didn’t fill her up anymore. She wanted, needed, to be filled up, and it was going to take more than a latté to do it.

THREE

Anne Morgan, the executive director of the Hamilton County Public Library, approached Annabelle while she reshelved books in the fantasy section. A stout woman who appeared to specialize in wearing unbecoming outfits, she clomped around the library in her sensible brown shoes; she wore her steel-gray hair pulled back into a severe bun. A pair of spectacles dangled from a tiny silver chain resting on her substantial bosom. She peered through these spectacles now as she stood near Annabelle and emitted a delicate cough.

Hi, Anne, Annabelle said, putting away a Mercedes Lackey novel. What’s up? Instead of responding, Anne fetched a heavy sigh.

Annabelle pushed the book into place, rolled her eyes, then turned to face the older woman. What’s wrong, Anne?

Oh, nothing, the older woman said, crossing her plump arms across her midsection. I’ve just got this problem, a little problem, but I was wondering if you could help me out?

Annabelle smiled to herself. Anne’s problems tended to be the garden-variety issues of an older woman living alone in a cluttered apartment, surrounded by, at last count, eight cats. Anne was the ubiquitous cliché. She constantly asked favors of people and, in particular, of Annabelle. Annabelle lacked the basic excuses that a lot of her coworkers fell back upon when being pressed into their civic duty—she didn’t possess a boyfriend, a husband, or children—and so Annabelle was the one Anne usually turned to when she needed a personal favor. Annabelle pulled an errant strand of red-gold hair behind her ear and focused her attention on Anne. What would it be this time? Babysitting the brood of cats while Anne visited her sister in New Jersey? Watering the flowers in the front garden box of Anne’s apartment, because heaven only knew when the superintendent would get around to doing it? Besides that, he knew next to nothing about the proper care and fertilization of Anne’s prize roses. Sure, Anne. What do you need?

My sister, Rosie, Anne began.

Oh. Okay. Anne wanted to visit her sister Rosie in New Jersey. And so, Annabelle figured, she’d be called upon to care for both cats and a garden bed of roses. No big deal. And she certainly had the time. Annabelle enjoyed nothing resembling a social life. Now, as far as a fantasy life, Annabelle had that in abundance, but she could indulge her fantasy life any time she wanted, even in a roomful of cats.

And he’ll be in town for the summer, so I was just wondering if you’d do that for me?

W–what? Annabelle asked, jerking her shoulders.

"He’s a darling boy, although I guess he’s too old for his tender-hearted old aunt to be calling him a boy anymore. Anne giggled with a self-conscious air. But if you’d just go out to dinner with him, maybe show him around the town, my sister would appreciate it so much."

Annabelle stared at Anne in horror. W–What? she stammered.

Anne placed a plump hand on Annabelle’s shoulder. "Pay attention, dear! Stop woolgathering! I’m talking about my nephew. I’ll introduce you to him later on this afternoon, when he swings by the library. Her gray eyes sparkled with barely suppressed merriment. You’ll love him. He’s just a doll."

Oh, oh, sure, Annabelle said, not quite certain what, precisely, she’d just agreed to do. She was certain of one thing. It involved quite a bit more than feeding a cat or watering roses.

---

Annabelle perched on a stool behind the information desk at a quarter to four when a tall, dark man sauntered into the library through the automatic sliding-glass doors. He approached the desk with insouciant ease and placed his large hands on the polished surface. His nails were nicely buffed. Clearly a man who cared for his appearance. Speaking of appearances, he looked eerily familiar. She felt she’d seen him somewhere before. Annabelle smiled at him. Hi. Can I help you?

Er, hello, he said, his smile widening into a broad grin. Aren’t you the girl I saw this morning? In the Starbucks?

Yes, that’s right. I recognized you right away but couldn’t quite place where it was that I’d seen you.

Did you enjoy your latté? he asked. He leaned in across the counter toward her with a sultry smile.

Oh, yes, she murmured. It was lovely.

Well. Now I know where you work.

And I know your first name, Annabelle added, but I hate to admit, I’ve forgotten your last name.

As I recall, Henry said, you said your name was Annabelle Hughes.

You’ve got a good memory, Henry.

Well, hello again, Annabelle Hughes. And I’m Henry Jacobs. He extended his right hand across the counter to her. She hesitated a fraction of a second, then took his hand in hers and shook. His hand was large and warm. She liked the feel of his hand. A frisson of desire shot through her, licking her loins with a sudden heat. Very reluctantly, she released her grip. It’s wonderful to meet you again, Henry continued, but I’m actually looking for someone. Do you happen to know where I might find Anne Morgan?

Annabelle gazed at the handsome stranger and blinked. Oh, she said, her voice catching in her throat. Your aunt mentioned you to me today. She wanted to introduce us. I think she wanted me to show you around the town. How convenient is that?

Now it was his turn to blink. She did? Well, isn’t that interesting? He looked genuinely surprised. Surprised and, dare she hope, a little bit pleased?

Let’s just say, Annabelle said, word got around that Anne has a—she was about to use the word handsome nephew, when she caught herself—a nephew visiting for the summer. She punched in the numbers on the telephone headset to page Anne.

Henry grinned, regaining his composure. Well, Aunt Anne does like to brag about me.

Aware that Henry was looking intently at her, Annabelle cradled the phone in the crook of her shoulder and chin as she slowly and melodiously spoke into the receiver through the loudspeaker system. Anne Morgan. Please report to the information desk. Anne Morgan. She could half hear how her voice sounded as it resonated through the halls of the public library. She liked what she heard. She spoke in a low, deep timbre. Her voice sounded, well, really sexy. Did the resonance of her voice and the mellifluous tone of her delivery have anything to do with her desire to impress this good-looking stranger? She set the phone back in its cradle and smiled at Henry Jacobs. She’ll be just a jiffy.

Good, Henry said absently, still gazing at her. Waves of desire rippled from him, bathing her