More Than Words

By Olive Spencer

More Than Words -  Dive into this sensual collection and experience the exquisite interplay of passion, lust, and love. These short, sinful stories will leave you craving more long after the last page. With each new chapter, you'll find yourself immersed in a world where passion knows no bounds. Embrace the allure of forbidden unapologetic desire. With eloquent storytelling and a keen eye for detail, Olive Spencer's book of erotic short stories weaves a captivating tapestry that will leave you enthralled from the very first sentence.

 

This 29,000-word collection of short stories is certified to satisfy with stories like 'The Toy Chest', 'Dripping With Desire', 'Shower Me in Apologies', and 'Blindfold and Breed Me'. These stories contain adult themes and were written for consumption by adults only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruthless Publishing
• Release date: Jul 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223792635

Olive Spencer

Olive Spencer writes contemporary (and sometimes paranormal) erotic fiction. Her favorite things are chocolate, bourbon, Diet Coke, and fountain pens, in no particular order.  She loves writing so much, she invested in several cheeky authorish t-shirts (ask about her Tropes shirts!) Her prized possession – a hoodie with the phrase 'Professional Smut Writer'- gets plenty of odd looks in stores, but any publicity is good publicity. When not writing, she's watching hockey and talking smack online, listening to country music, or taking photos with her Papershoot camera. Olive is not a Gemini vegetarian but she is a fan of all things Reese Witherspoon, and she can quote Sweet Home Alabama by heart.

Book preview

ONE

DRIPPING WITH DESIRE

There’s a storm brewing on the horizon and the wolves begin to howl as the wind comes sweeping across the high-rises. She comes to me, a party princess in a ruined yellow dress, makeup smeared and cheeks burning pink. She begs me to take her in, to let her stay the night. She promises to be gone in the morning, just let her share my bed one more time. She begs me to give her something she’s never had. To make her feel something she’s never felt. Her eyes plead and her body beckons. I agree, on one condition – her dress stays on.

She’s always looked best in yellow, like a buttercup with bruised petals. There’s something wild in her eyes, something untamable. Her hair is a mess, her dress is torn, and her lips are bloodied and swollen. The way she looks at me with desire radiating from her gaze like glowing, green venom, unleashes my inner beast. I bring her inside, offer her a glass of water and plan all the ways I’m going to devastate her tonight.

The power goes off, and the candles come out. I light one, and I can hear the way her breath hitches. I light another, and her eyes flick over to mine. She bites her lip and pouts, pleading with her eyes. I’ve already told her she can stay, but I know she’s angling for something more.

Once upon a time, she wore a collar. No, not just a collar, not just anyone's collar. My collar. For years, she was mine, and mine alone. To see her now, free, unrestrained, untamed, makes me long for the old times. Those times when I could lock her up and throw away the key, keeping her in my tower for days and days. Those times when it rained and she would sit at my knee, her leash in my hand, her hand on my cock.Those times when she wanted to curl up in my lap like a cat and be stroked to purring. Those times when she was ravenous, when she was reckless, when she was ravishing. When she was mine.

Her water dribbles down the front of her yellow party dress, drawing my eye to her ample chest. Freckles paint her skin like a Pollock, dancing along her collarbone and between her breasts. I know the taste of those freckles, I know the scent of the skin at the base of her throat. I could draw her, like one of those French girls, with my eyes closed and map out every path the lines of her palms take from memory. I do not need to have her naked to have her bare before me.

I pull her into the bedroom, leading the way with a candle in hand. She knows the way to my bed like a lost cat knows how to get home. She doesn’t feel her way along the walls the way she once did. She strolls confidently into the room, sits on the edge of the bed, and lifts her skirts, revealing her pretty, pink, shaved pussy. I catch myself staring, and she clears her throat.

I shake my head and set the candle on the sideboard, watching the shadows it casts across the room. One might confuse us for Beauty and the Beast, the way the light distorts our shadows. One might confuse us for a couple from the way I stare. One would be right, one would be wrong.

I remind her of the old ways, tilting her chin to meet my gaze.

That’s not how this works. That’s how this has always worked.

Don’t you want me?

I don’t want you if I can’t have you.

Then, have me for the night.

She rises and crosses the room, stealing the candle from the dresser. She holds it in front of her face, the flame playing tricks on her features. One moment, she’s a beautiful princess. The next moment, she’s a painted whore. There is no in-between. She holds her finger to the flame, watches it dance, and when it burns too close to the tip, she moans.

She used to moan like that for me. She used to whimper, she used to mewl, she used to cry out my name in that same tone of voice. It’s been so long, it’s been too long. Will she moan for me now?

She tips the candle into her palm, letting the wax drip and cool on her skin. She winces but doesn’t shy away from it. She whimpers, closes her eyes, and relishes the pain. Her lips part, she tips her throat back, and lets a stream of wax drip down her chest. It collects on her skin like rain, trailing between her breasts. Black speckles paint over her pink freckles. The way she moans, the way she shakes, I know she’s putting on a show for me. Be my guest, princess.

How long does the dress need to stay on? She shrugs her shoulders and the straps slide down. More of her sinful skin is exposed and I fight hard to keep my resolve.

All night, baby. You take it off, you’re out on the streets.

She challenges me, dripping more wax over herself. She tugs the neck down until her tits nearly burst out the top. She draws the wax over the tops of each until she’s a whimpering, quivering mess. I step forward from the shadows, pry the candle from her fingers and blow out the flame. I drop the candle on the dresser and let it roll to the floor. I don’t care if it stains the carpet. I have other things on my mind.

Not tonight, princess, I growl, stalking toward her.

I thought you wanted to play, she pouts.

I do. But not like this.

I bare my teeth as I grab her around the waist and drag her to the bed, pushing her into the duvet. She lands with a thud and a squeal, bouncing slightly. She laughs and it rings through my head like a bell. I haven’t heard her laugh in so long, the sound haunts me. She won’t be laughing much longer, not tonight.

Her skirts rise once more and I smell her desire. Musky, floral, primitive, modern. Her pheromones combine into one perfect perfume and I want to bury my face in it. She props herself up on her elbows and parts her thighs, beckoning me with a glance. She inches her skirts up her legs, revealing more of herself with each tug.

I do not need her naked to have her bare.

The dress stays on, I remind her, closing in. I crawl across the bed to her on hands and knees, kissing my way up the planes of her legs. She stretches them before me as I worship her like the Madonna, while I worship her like whore.

I slide my finger along the length of her slit, and she gasps with need.

Let me hear you say it.

The dress stays on.

I kiss along the crease of her thigh, sinking my teeth into the delicate flesh until she moans. I’m going to mark her tonight. I’m going to claim her as mine for the rest of her life. I’m going to ruin her. I’m going to devastate her. I’m going to make her miss everything she had and more.

I latch onto her pussy and her skirts fall on top of my head. She smothers me in her scent, her desire dripping onto the sheets beneath her. My fingers slide inside her easily, as though they were a skeleton key in a locked door, and find their mark. I stroke her walls, I suck her clit, and I coax nonsense noises from deep within her soul. I bring her to the tipping point, I bring her to the edge, and then — I stop.

I know she needs more. I know my mouth is not enough. She needs salt on her ice cream, she needs hot sauce on her cereal. She needs pain with her pleasure. I’m going to give her that, and more. I’m going to give her everything she’s ever asked for and everything she deserves.

I sink my teeth into her. I bite her thigh hard enough to bruise as she comes, her slick coating my fingers. She cries out into the night, begging me for more. I slap her pussy, I nibble her clit, I dig my nails into her skin until she can’t take anymore.

She lifts her skirts as I slide from