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Free Erotica - Bad Angels by Rebecca Chance

Valentine’s Day may be over, but that doesn’t mean romance should be done with. And when we say ‘romance’ we mean ‘sex’. This wonderful free activity (we know some of you see it more as a hobby!) puts colour on your cheeks and a spring in your step, and is equally fun enjoyed by yourself or with others joining in!

Like the friendly peeps we are, we want to ensure you’re in the mood for fun & frolics as often as possible, hence why we talked our lovely author-friends into treating you to *free* top-class erotica every week (you’re welcome!).

Today we’re enjoying a teaser by uber-glamorous Rebecca Chance – she of the high heels and dirty mind…

(One of the main storylines in BAD ANGELS is this couple: Aniela, a nurse, has been looking after Jon, a mysterious patient holing up at the very luxurious Limehouse Wharf apartment building. Jon has had plastic surgery so his face is battered like a boxer's, but his body is stunning and there's already so much sexual chemistry between them that they've kissed each other passionately. Now, even though it's strictly against the rules, Aniela finds herself drawn to his apartment late at night, and, somehow sensing her presence in the corridor outside, Jon has opened the door to find her there…)

Slowly – giving him warning of what she was going to do, so that he could dash back inside his apartment if he wanted to – Aniela stepped towards him. She found herself wishing, fervently, that she wasn’t dressed in her unflattering nurse’s uniform, her blocky white shoes; but then, she thought in a flash of self-doubt – what could I wear that would look better on me? I’m pear-shaped, I don’t look good in jeans, I don’t like my legs very much so skirts aren’t much better… at least if I were in a nice pair of high heels, my feet wouldn’t look so big –

She was close enough to him now that their bodies were almost touching. She could smell his natural scent, warm and musky, with that clean-soap smell overlaying it; Americans, she thought idiotically, are always so clean. They must wash three times a day.

There was no point looking up at his face; how could she read his expression, when he didn’t have one? So, feeling as if she were taking her life in her hands, she reached out and touched his chest, something she had been longing to do from the moment she saw him.

He could get me sacked for this, she knew. Okay, he kissed me yesterday, but Mr Nassri won’t care about that. Private nurses get paid more, we’re expected to smile and put up with patients being a little frisky from time to time. A Corsican gangster, having a nose job at the clinic, had been famous for his wandering hands, and all Mr Nassri had told the nurses when they complained was to move faster.

But showing up at a patient’s apartment in the middle of the night… stroking his chest… initiating contact, rather than just letting him kiss me – that’s completely out of bounds. One call from Jon and I’ll be kicked out on my big bum faster than you can say Happy Christmas.

Unless… unless…

Unless he puts your hand over his, big and warm and surprisingly rough with callouses, and slides your fingers underneath the border of his thermal shirt, against his skin. Over his heart, which you can feel beating, fast and hard. And then lets you move your fingers further, tangling them in the hair on his chest, which you’ve also been longing to do ever since you saw him first, stripped to the waist and lightly-oiled with sweat…

His hand over hers gave Aniela the confidence to look up. His mashed-up face didn’t bother her at all. She was so used to seeing patients in various states of recovery that his bruises, his splinted nose, were just another part of her job, and what she saw, as she gazed at him, was that his eyes were very earnest, and very clear, and maybe even – which sounded mad even to think, with the strength she was feeling beneath the palm of her hand, the musculature and poise of his body – maybe even a little frightened.

Without hesitation, she reached up with her other hand, tilted his head towards her and kissed him.

It was just as immediate as it had been the day before, just as sweet. And just as tentative. Aniela had another crazy thought, which in itself was crazy; she had gone for years being nothing but sensible and practical and working all hours that God sent, saving almost everything she made, either sleeping or watching mindless Hollywood romantic comedies in her down time, and now, ever since setting eyes on Jon Jordan’s extraordinary body and damaged face, it felt as if she was doing nothing but having the most insane ideas.

But she couldn’t help it. She was remembering a film she’d seen months ago, an old film, on late at night, called Starman, beautiful and sad, about an alien who came to earth and became a beautiful, blue-eyed man, the dream of the lonely heroine; the kind of man who could have any woman he wanted, but was so new in that gorgeous body he’d assumed that he hadn’t had any at all. Because Jon Jordan might have been given a whole new personality along with his new face, or at least had his memory of any contact with a woman wiped clean. He kissed her with the sweet eagerness of a teenage boy with a girl he really liked, and the caution not to give offence, not to have her withdraw her favours because he had gone too far, presumed too much, pressured her too fast. There was a space between them, Aniela sensed intuitively, that was hers to fill.

And she realised, with the same flash of intuition, why he had pushed her away before. It hadn’t been rejection of her; it had been his own fear of doing the wrong thing, embarrassment at the brief clumsy moment when his teeth gazed hers.

Well, I’m a nurse! she thought, a spring of laughter bubbling deep inside her. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s how to coax people, gentle them along…

She pushed him very slightly, backing him into the apartment, giving him a cue that he immediately picked up upon; his arm locked around her, holding her closer as they moved inside and he kicked the door shut with a swift efficient movement. Her head tilted back further, she dragged her hand, reluctantly, from his chest and slid it round his shoulders, pulling his head down even more, kissing him with everything she had, showing him vividly, wordlessly, how much she was enjoying it, how much she wanted his tongue to slide into her mouth, his arms to wrap tighter and tighter around her, his erection, hard as the musculature of his chest, as the leg pressing insistently between hers, tilting into her, making her dizzy with excitement and the sheer heady rush of being wanted so much.

Aniela pulled her head back, a sudden thought striking her even in the middle of the best kiss she’d ever had in her life.

‘We have to be careful,’ she said, trying for some reason to sound professional and serious instead of a gasping, lust-crazed stalker.

‘Of course,’ Jon said instantly. ‘But I don’t know if I have anything - ’

‘No! Of your face!’ she said, giggling an insane, girlish giggle that made her sound like a silly teenager. ‘You mustn’t strain your face – you’ve had major surgery, you mustn’t do anything too strenuous - ’

‘Aniela - ’ Jon’s hands framed her face, holding it, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs. Again, it was the oddest thing not to be able to see on his face how he was feeling, and he seemed to sense this; he shook his head impatiently, as if in frustration.

‘I don’t know what to say,’ he managed. ‘I’m not really good with women. I haven’t had much – I haven’t been - ’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘If this is your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about being here, that you want to stop, please, for the love of God, just be honest with me! I don’t think I can take much more of this – you must know how I’m – the reaction I’m having to you - ’

He cleared his throat, arching his lower body away from her.

‘No – I really did mean your face,’ she said, half-laughing, half-desperate with the urgency of her need. ‘I want to fuck you, I promise. I want to fuck you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.’

He froze. She couldn’t tell why, but she didn’t care; she just wanted to convince him to keep going. Determinedly, Aniela slid her hands down his back, just above his buttocks, pulling him close again, a moan rasping from her as she felt his hard cock once more against her inner thigh. Beneath her palms, the small of his back was damp through the thermal top, and his body jerked in response as she pulled the top up, stroked his bare skin, traced the declivity of his spine down to the cleft of his buttocks, felt his own hands grip her own bottom, lifting and grinding his cock against her even harder, his strength immense, effortless; he was lifting her off her feet, something no lover had ever done in her life. Incredulously, solid, big-boned Aniela felt her feet leave the ground, and she squealed in surprise, clinging to his neck for dear life, sure that he would stagger and slip under her weight.

But there wasn’t the slightest hesitation in the strong arms that were holding her up, the thighs that were braced for counterbalance. She felt him swivel, turn their bodies so that her back was to the wall, and then, even more amazingly, he shifted, one hand now taking her entire weight as her legs wrapped round his waist, the other hand sliding between her legs, clumsily but surely unbuttoning the lower part of her skirt, reaching up, and closing, awkwardly, firmly, around her crotch.

The world stopped. She buried her head on his shoulder, clinging to him even tighter, the sheer heat of his palm between her legs overwhelming; she realised she was rocking against him, moaning into the damp smooth skin of his neck, as he rubbed her like Aladdin did his lamp, not with any skill or experience yet but finding his way, listening to the sounds she was making, concentrating hard, using the heel of his hand till she was completely beyond words, and then, wanting more, wanting to touch bare skin, rising up to pull inexpertly at the waistband of her tights.

She couldn’t bear him touching her at her waist, especially with her leaning forward like this, the bulges and rolls of solid flesh even more apparent. Reaching down, she managed to grab his arm, to push it down again, to whisper in his ear:

‘Rip them – just rip them - ’

He never needs telling anything twice, she realised, as his fingers twisted into the crotch of her cheap, 40-denier, off-white uniform-approved tights, pulled and tore it open; he snagged the lace trim of her pants, hesitated for a moment, and then, as she thrust her hips at him in mute approval, beyond words again, he ripped the cotton too, the strong muscles of his forearm flexing easily, making light work of tearing the fabric.

‘Can I - ’ He pulled back his head, looking down at her, and she couldn’t look up at him, was too far gone already, could only moan a ‘Yes’ into his shoulder, dragging the thermal top aside so she could kiss his skin, lick him, taste the salt of his sweat, brace herself, shuddering, for the feeling of his hot hand between her legs again.

‘You’re so wet,’ he said in wonder, sounding as surprised as if he had never had sex with a woman before. Two fingers slid inside her, and his gasp was louder than hers. ‘So wet - ’ he groaned, ‘so wet and hot -

Aniela was sandwiched between him and the wall, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, spread wide, spread wider as he fumbled at his boxers and stepped into her even more tightly, his cock springing up through the slit he’d unbuttoned, up and into her, making her scream into his shoulder and then bite down in sheer primitive excitement as he slammed his full length into her. He was right, she was dripping wet, her body open, completely and utterly ready for him. Both his hands cupped her buttocks, bracing them, lifting her even a little more as his thighs rose and fell, like pistons driving. She thought, as she clung to him, as she felt her pelvis shudder under the impact of his strokes, of the Starman image again, but now, ridiculously, she was imagining another alien, the Terminator, all tensile steel and titanium, strong enough to lift anything, to fuck her so hard she thought she was going to faint, and she sank her teeth again into the sweating skin of his shoulder, kissed the salt trail, reminded herself that he was flesh and blood, her hands sliding down his arms and wrapping around the hard, round apple bulges of his biceps, feeling the flexing strength with each stroke.

He yelled something she was too far gone to hear, one last, even more frenzied thrust slamming her head back against the wall; the next thing she knew, something hot was trickling down her inner thigh, and Jon was collapsing against her, squashing her against the wall, his face mushed into her, her legs spread so wide now that her groin was hurting. Her heart was pounding so fast she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t say anything, for several breaths…

(Gentle reader, I had to cut the scene here so it would fit on the Sh! website. But it continues, in this vein, for a whole chapter, and it's by no means the only erotic scene in BAD ANGELS…)


If you fancy finding out what happens next, Bad Angels is available in our Hoxton Store.

Rebecca Chance is the pseudonym under which Lauren Henderson writes bonkbusters. Under her own name, she has written seven detective novels in her Sam Jones mystery series, which is optioned for US TV, and three romantic comedies. Her non-fiction book Jane Austen’s Guide To Dating has been optioned as a feature film, and her four-book young adult mystery series, published in the US, is Anthony-nominated. As Rebecca Chance, she has written the racy, Sunday Times bestselling bonkbusters Divas, Bad Girls, Bad Sisters, Killer Heels, and Bad Angels. Born in London, she has lived in Tuscany and New York, and she travels extensively to research glamorous locations for the books. She is now settled in London, where she lives with her husband. Her website is www.rebeccachance.co.uk. You can find her on Facebook as Rebecca Chance, and her husband is on Twitter as @MrRebeccaChance.



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