Heat Wave Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Amy’s Tattoo

  Spectators

  The Yacht

  Sex on the Rocks

  In Dependence Day

  Highway 69

  Who’s the Boss?

  Hot and Hazy

  The Waters of Biscayne Bay

  Bikini

  Double-Click to Enter

  Ocean Song

  Staying Cool

  Tan Lines

  Summer Intern

  Beating the Heat

  What I Did on My Holidays

  Heat Wave

  Girls of Summer

  Falling

  Boil or Bake

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Copyright Page

  for SAM

  Acknowledgments

  Sweet Violet Blue, Eliza Castle, Mike Ostrowski, Barbara Pizio, Thomas S. Roche, Kerri Sharp, Felice Newman and Frédérique Delacoste

  Bikinis off to all of you!

  Foreword: Fever

  VIOLET BLUE

  Heat does strange things to people. Not the kind of heat from a fireplace set with blankets and champagne. Not the heat from a motorcycle tailpipe, set to burn your calf unless you hug your driver tighter with arms and legs. And not the kind of heat from a candle, dripping wax onto quivering skin.

  Sure, those variations can make us feel electric and heady while sparking desire.

  They’re not the kind of heat that makes us strange, impulsive, sex-drunk. The kind of heat that only summertime, dance floors, and weather can create: thickening the air, giving us a feverish feeling inside and out when we know we’re not sick, and making us sweat.

  The stories in this book will give you that kind of fever.

  The effect that summertime heat has on us is epic—and if you’ve ever been in an actual heat wave, you know what I mean. I swear, if someone had invented the heat wave, that person is most certainly a pervert. Heat waves make us take our clothes off. We do exaggeratedly erotic things—for relief!—like rub our necks and chests with ice cubes, we’ll run though sprinklers fully clothed, we’ll even forgo panties just to try and keep things cooler, under control.

  None of it really works, of course. It’s tough to remain in control when the first heat wave of the season hits. After a long, rainy spring there’s this one day where suddenly you go outside and where there used to be people in pants and coats, hats and scarves—all you notice is that there is a lot of skin on display. Girls in sexy dresses for the first time in ages, showing bare arms, pretty thighs, and even painted toenails in sandals. Men in tighter shirts, showing off thick sexy forearms and biceps, and even sculpted calves and thighs on those who reveal more in shorts.

  It’s sex on toast. People move differently, and everyone’s checking out each other’s bodies. If a trip to the beach or park is in order, then it’s worse! Miles of skin. A celebration of tight and wet swatches of fabric teasingly hugging the most intimate and soft curves the human body has to offer. Everyone pouring lotions and oils all over their bodies and rubbing it in full well knowing everyone’s watching. And it’s like a real fever, like the heat got in everyone’s heads, because they’re rubbing these slippery, scented oils all over each other, too.

  Reading the stories in Heat Wave take you to this kind of place in time and space, and much more. Alison Tyler culled the most evocative stories and scenarios that a heat wave could conjure up—many of which are as much familiar as they are fantasies. And what potent sexual fantasies they are.

  Sommer Marsden’s “Boil or Bake” is so rich with erotic tension and punctuated with powerful visual storytelling elements, I could practically smell a beach bonfire in my hair when it was over. In it, a girl finishing the last days of her summer before returning to work finds herself at a beach fire with a muscled stranger: her heat-fueled impulses have her enacting a daring public encounter with him, onlookers be damned.

  In “Amy’s Tattoo,” author Shanna Germain perfects the feeling of reckless lust when it’s piqued by the revealing of flesh in the summer heat. After five years, a woman notices her female roommate’s tattoo for the first time and it sends her spinning into a frenzy of urgent arousal in a story about girl perv voyeurism.

  Like I said, we do things in the heat that we never thought we’d ever, ever do. Like the female protagonist in Savannah Stephens Smith’s “In Dependence Day.” Drinks with the boss and office coworkers lead to a quiet revelation that the boss is a dominant man and she, his underling, is a submissive female. What happens when they have a hot summer rendezvous at a seaside condo includes decadently romantic forced surrender as she strips at his command—and performs.

  The stories are many and varied, and each is arousing, well crafted and unforgettable. One of the dreamiest, filthiest, most achingly romantic, and truly memorable is from the editrix herself, Alison Tyler.

  In “Girls of Summer,” we find ourselves on the beach with girls checking out the boys, layered with the scent of pineapple coconut tanning oil and warm salty sea air. But a reverie goes somewhere far hotter, into the one that got away: a bad boy who courted, handcuffed, spanked, and wrung hot desperate sweaty orgasms out of our heroine, making the beach boys look pale in comparison to what this man does to her. And what he does, well, it’s worth the price of admission to this hot and heavy collection.

  Heat Wave is a devil in disguise: no innocent trip to the beach can be found between these pages. Perfect for poolside, when it feels like the barometer is going to burst, or a sizzling vacation read in the chill of winter. With its explicit erotic stories about outrageous sex spurred by searing temperatures—Heat Wave will give you fever.

  Stay cool, and enjoy this hot little book.

  Violet Blue

  San Francisco

  Introduction

  Summer...it turns me upside down.

  All right, I stole that from an ’80s rock song, but the statement is true. My favorite season begins with an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, yellow polka-dot bikini and ends when the boys of summer have gone. As a California girl, I live to indulge in the spirit of summertime year-round. The salt-scent of the ocean. The midday heat and the tropical oils and the drinks with paper umbrellas.

  But I suppose it’s heat I really crave. The heavenly sensuality of hot skin and warm breath, of sultry arousal. Of a sweltering kiss. Be it during a midwinter getaway or even in a fantasy daydream while under an umbrella in the wet wildness of a sudden rainstorm, I guess what I’m really saying is that summer loving is a state of mind.

  Of course, everyone has their own heat-flushed memory. Some recall making out on a Ferris wheel dipping over the top as the sun set. Or screwing on a deserted sand dune. Or yearning for the neighbor in her barely there bikini. For me, the perfect description of an erotic heat wave starts with Nice—not “nice,” of course, because naughty is so much more my style, but Nice, as in the jewel of the South of France.

  Good girls go to heaven.

  Bad girls go to Nice.

  That slogan-imprinted T-shirt greeted me when I stepped off the train on my first European vacation, and I must say, I liked the concept. It was time for me to find my naughty side. And where better to be naughty than in a city spelled “nice”?

  On my first evening in town, I went for a walk along the beach. I felt very French, walking along the rocky shore and watching the water. I was so intent on mentally preserving the postcard-perfect picture that I didn’t notice a man at my side until he began to talk, in rapid-fire French, obviously asking me something, or wanting something he hoped I could give him.

  He was handsome, with heavy black hair and
burnished, almost polished-looking skin. He wore his sunglasses up on his head, so that I could see his eyes matched the faded denim blue of the sky. But though I was intrigued, I shook my head and kept walking. Doggedly, he persisted, until I finally turned to him and murmured, “Pardon me, I mean moi. Je ne par—I mean, I don’t speak—” Immediately, he backed off, apologetic, heading down to the beach, where young lovelies splashed in the last shimmering rays of sun. I watched him longingly from the path, and when he reached the girls, he made them laugh with his words.

  I wondered what he was saying. What he wanted.

  But I guess I know. He wanted what everyone wants in the heat of the summer, as the sky turns pale pink, electric orange, shades of turquoise. I wanted the same thing, but I didn’t know how to tell him—not in French. Didn’t know how to tell anyone, really. I was far too shy to speak my mind in any language.

  Luckily, the authors in this collection don’t share my tongue-tied teenage trauma. They have their own sizzling scenarios, which they’re ready to bare to anyone willing to strip down and listen. These randy writers peel off their clothes with the abandonment of nude-beach lovers, and reveal their sensual sun-drenched stories in glimmering oiled-up perfection. Gathered together are the hottest sizzlers you’ll ever read, from the naughty midmorning escapade in Thomas S. Roche’s delightful “Tan Lines” to the pent-up lustful longing of Sage Vivant’s “The Yacht.” “Hot and Hazy,” by Debra Hyde, offers unusual ways to beat the heat, while “Spectators,” by Australian author Matthew I. Jackson, reminds us that summer comes at different times of the year in different locations. Several authors focus on exotic erotic experiences, such as Maxim Jakubowski’s “What I Did on My Holidays,” which gives a whole new spin to the mandatory post–summer vacation essay.

  So put on your shades, lube up with that tropical-scented lotion, and get comfortable on your canvas beach chair. Because these sexy tales are sure to keep you entertained long after the boys (and girls) of summer have both come and gone.

  Your Hot Child in the City,

  Alison Tyler

  Amy’s Tattoo

  SHANNA GERMAIN

  Ingredients: 1/2 oz. dark rum

  1/2 oz. light rum

  2 oz. pineapple juice

  2 oz. orange juice

  splash of grenadine

  Directions:

  On a hot summer day, fill a tall frosted glass with ice, pour in rum and juice. Float the grenadine over the top. Sit back and sip—works almost as well as a cold shower.

  I want to lick it. I can’t help it.

  It’s partially the color—that deep red, almost crimson, darker than any real strawberry would ever be—pinpricked into the pale skin of your lower back. It’s partially the excitement of seeing it for the first time, its beautiful round shape peeking out from beneath your white bikini as you lie in the backyard.

  I catch my first glimpse of it from the living-room window, where I’m watering the plants—pretending to water the plants—when instead I’m watching you. I’ve already pulled on my swimsuit and grabbed a book, ready to join you in the backyard for some summer sun, but now I’m stilled, stopped by the sight before me, unable to break away. I know you can’t see me through the window, but holding the watering can gives me an excuse to dawdle in front of the glass and savor the sight of you for a few minutes longer.

  You shift on the blanket, pull down your bikini bottom a little further in search of a lower tan line, and there it is: green crown, red berry glistening like a real piece of fruit, just asking to be fingered and plucked, sucked and swallowed. It’s almost enough to make me forget your lean runner’s legs, your bare back, the bright red braids that fall over the pages of your book. It’s almost enough to make me forget our vow—that we’d live together only as friends and roommates, that we would never ruin our five-year friendship by admitting there was something more.

  I can’t believe that in all these years I’ve never seen it. You must keep it well hidden beneath the sweaters and long shirts you wear. Is this on purpose? I wonder. Do you know what it will do to me?

  I hold the watering can at an angle, pretend I am concentrating deeply on the moisture needs of the philodendron, and feel my tongue start to ache inside my mouth. I imagine bending over you in the yard, running my tongue across the tattoo, feeling the bumps in your skin as though they are strawberry seeds, sucking your sweet flesh into my mouth. The bold red color matches your hair, makes your pale skin glow in contrast. I wonder if it’s the same color as your nipples, if they stand out like raspberries against your chest when they’re hard.

  I imagine being the one holding the needle while you lie in a chair, unable to see me, and let me press the colors and pain into your skin. You must trust me, I say, pressing my palm against your back to hold you steady, and you acquiesce, but I can feel the fear buzzing across your skin. I imagine you squirming just a little, trying to pretend that it doesn’t hurt, that you don’t feel the pain, that you’re really getting a tattoo for the way it looks and not the way it makes you feel. Why the small of the back, then? That one place where the pain is so intense that it makes your spine tingle with need. I know—I have one there too, but you’ve never seen it. It’s older than yours, a little more faded, a little softer around the edges. It says something, but I won’t tell you what, only that it’s waiting for someone to covet it, to run their fingers along it as though they’re reading erotica in Braille.

  My cheeks feel flushed, and I tell myself it’s from standing too close to the window, but I know that’s not the truth. Your head is down on your hands now, the book is closed, and I wonder if you’re sleeping or just daydreaming. Are you imagining us together? Do you ever wonder what it would be like if, just one time, you reached across the couch while we were watching a movie? Or if we allowed those casual bumps in the hallway to linger, stop, stretch out until our fingers were fumbling and pulling and stroking against skin? Do you ever, as I do, lie in bed at night, whispering your fingers between your legs, saying a name over and over so quietly, so softly, that no one but you can hear it?

  I watch as you stir a little and crack your legs open slightly. The sun is high in the sky and I imagine you’re sweating, baby beads of moisture collecting on your tattoo like dew. If I were to lay my tongue against it, it would taste salty and sweet, more oyster than fruit. Just the way I imagine your pink lips would taste in my mouth, if I sucked your sweet juices until you were dry, until you were crying for me to stop, begging me not to. The skin beneath your tattoo would be sunwarmed, juicy, ready for me, perfectly ripe, perfectly ready to be grasped with two fingers and pulled into my mouth. It makes me want to run my finger up your spine, find out where the soft fruit ends and the hardness of your bones begins, to find out what I can crush and what will crush me in return.

  I set down the watering can and run my hands down my stomach. Are you sleeping? I wonder, as I slip my hand into my bikini bottom, ready to blow it all if I have to, ready to lose our friendship, because I can’t sit here and watch anymore without touching myself, without at least pretending that my tongue is tracing the red fruit, tasting your flesh. I’m so wet that I don’t even need any lubricant—I just slide my fingers against my own pink flesh and rub, pretending that it’s your hand, that my own hands are squeezing your raspberry nipples, that when you’re done touching me I’ll be able to turn you over, lay you down on your stomach, finally taste the flesh beneath the tattoo. The thought of it makes me so hot I can barely stand up and lean my head against the window and close my eyes. I keep rubbing, praying that you’re not looking up, but hoping that you are, because I can’t stop myself, I don’t want to stop myself. The taste of strawberries fills my mouth and then I’m coming, trying not to bang my head against the glass as beams of pleasure shine through me.

  I take a few deep breaths, then open my eyes to see you lying just as you were before, your head resting on one bent arm. But as I step away from the window, I see you reach back and flick your suit do
wn, low enough so that it uncovers the very bottom of your tattoo. The gentle curve of the fruit, the way it points down and to the middle, as though it’s an arrow or invitation. Then you look over your shoulder and smile, and I realize that you meant for me to see it all along.

  Spectators

  MATTHEW. I. JACKSON

  “It’s like sport,” I argued. “Cricket’s for the backyard and footie’s with the mates before the pub.” I’ve never been one for sitting on the couch watching someone else have the fun. “Sport’s not meant for watching, and neither’s this.”

  “Come on, it’s just a jape,” she insisted. “I want to see what’s so great. I might be missing out on something important.” She looked at me, perhaps worrying that she might have dented my male ego. “Oh, come on, it’s just a bit of fun,” and she gave me her steel-melting pout.

  It was then that I knew I was lost to her game, even though it had started a month before, on one of those glorious Saturday afternoons we get after Christmas. The blue sky was interrupted more by birds and bees than by clouds, while the tangy sea breeze was just enough to cool my blockout-smeared back as I worked.

  Where we live, late summer is bushfire season and one must slash the undergrowth to starve any potential fire of the power to leap into the tree crowns, where no person might control it. A management issue and a reminder that we must learn to live with nature, the globe’s and perhaps, I mused, our own. And, so, there I was, in the gully beneath our house, slashing and contemplating these issues when, stopping the machine to replace the cord, I heard her.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what it was. I worried that someone was in pain before I realized I was listening to a woman at the height of her passion somewhere on the other side of our small valley. Out of curiosity more than arousal, I scanned the houses I could see, wondering which she was in, thinking she was so loud she might, perhaps, be on her balcony or in her backyard, but I could see nothing.