Cream: An Erotic Romance Excerpt

Caroline is a jazz singer at the Cry River Club. She is on the rebound from her true love and master Marcus Sir, and is currently dating a guy called Luke. That said, Marcus Sir sometimes attends her performances at the jazz club…
By the time I’d launched into “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” Marcus Sir had pinched himself a seat at a shared table. I could feel his stare following me, undressing me, as I sang. Those dark eyes traveled all over my body—in the hollow of my throat, on my collarbones, my nipples, and lower, traveling through the core of me, right down into the soles of my feet. It was as if my skin instantly warmed wherever his stare touched me, leaving a palpitating heat, like the memory of a kiss.

That stare of his was trained on me, intense, dark, and wanton. But the worst of it was, when everyone else applauded at the end of the evening, several people rising to their feet (including Shelley, I might add), Marcus Sir simply watched me, only breaking his smoldering stare to knock back a swig of whisky before rising and heading for the door.

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I was stunned at his rudeness. What the hell did this mean?

I was still upset about this when the last few fans were wishing me goodbye, and pianist Nora was returning her glass of water to the bar, ready to go home. Even when Luke had slung his arm around me and showed me off to his accountant friends, I was trying so hard not to be mad with Marcus Sir.

How dare he refuse to applaud me? How dare he treat me with such disdain? I wasn’t one of his students! I deserved better than that.

When Luke’s hand caressed my buttocks through the satin, my body remembered how horny it was, and I knew I had to get him alone. That’s why, a couple of minutes later, we were tumbling into my tiny, unkempt dressing room at the back of the bar, with Luke’s mouth hot on mine as he kicked the door shut behind us.

He couldn’t get me over my messy dressing table fast enough, and my body, thirsty from Marcus Sir’s stare, tingled all over when he touched me. In less than a minute, he yanked my dress up over my hips, and I could hear him unzipping his flies. “You were so fucking hot,” he was telling me, his voice growly with lust. “Every man in that audience wishes they were inside you right now. And who gets to screw you? Me, the lucky dog.”

With Luke, I was always “fucking gorgeous” and always “his” and he always said that everyone else “wished they were fucking me.” There was something enjoyable about feeling so claimed, but I often wished he’d be tender, too.

“Jesus, Caz, you’re wet,” he groaned as he pushed into me. And I was. I was dripping. That’s what Marcus Sir did to me, even when I was on a fucking stage, even when I was performing for a whole damn room.

Luke started to thrust into me, with his gorgeous, sumptuous rhythms, and I was starting to really heat up, my climax in sight. But then suddenly, the door swung open to reveal Marcus Sir standing tall, his stare blazing.

I saw him first because Luke was still pumping away when I asked Marcus Sir, “Oh my God, why are you here?”

He stared at me, an unspeakable horror in his dark eyes, and he looked so vulnerable, so utterly astounded, his mouth opening to speak, then snapping shut again, that I realized in an instant what he was feeling.

Marcus Sir was insanely jealous.

Luke had noticed him by now, but had only slowed his thrusting to say, “Who are you, perv? Get out of our faces.”

Marcus Sir didn’t pull his stare from mine as Luke thrust into me again, and I could feel the emotion pulsing between us. I could see this much: he was shocked and hurt to see Luke fucking me, and he wore this suffering all over his face.

Sir clasped the door frame as if he might stumble towards me, as if finding us together had taken the air from his lungs. “Caroline,” he said softly, “address me properly.” Then he added on desperate whisper, “Please.”

Luke was fucking me harder now, and I hate to say it, but it felt sublime.

Without missing a beat, I gasped, “Always, Marcus Sir,” because in that moment, I knew who my master was—nothing had changed.


I saw affection glint in Sir’s eyes, and a smile hovered at the edges of his lips, as if he’d never expected me to be so true.

“You’re sublime,” Sir told me under his breath. For a moment, the room seemed to lose its air.

“Wait,” announced a panting Luke. “This is your ex?” he asked me. I said nothing, but his voice filled with a full-bodied triumph, as he told Sir, “Oh yeah, watch me fuck your sub like a maniac, old man!”

Then suddenly, he was thrusting so hard that my pussy could hardly contain him—he was plowing me, fucking me deep, groaning with abandon, and I was coming oh so hard, the dressing table shuddering against the wall. As my pussy filled with pleasure, something crashed to the floor and shattered—my perfume bottle, as I’d find out later—and my orgasm clasped me, like pure white light. Luke came, too, with a primal roar, filling me with a force I’d never yet felt from him, and in a moment, my witless body was climaxing again, clasping hard around his cock, making me gasp and mew. When I recovered enough to think of Marcus Sir—and what I could tell him to make up for this shit show—I saw the door had closed.

Marcus Sir had gone.

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About The Author

Lana fox
Lana Fox
Lana Fox is Co-Founder and Senior Editor of Go Deeper Press—a publisher of stories for brain and brawn. She also runs The Mermaid Voyage: A Two-Week Journey of Erotic Self-Discovery.  Lana’s articles and posts on sexuality have appeared in Boston Magazine, Spirituality & Health, Glo Magazine, and elsewhere.  She has widely published her erotic fiction, and she recently released a novel, published by Harper Collins’ Mischief, called “Confessions of a Kinky Divorcee.”  Her nonfiction self-help book is represented by the Sarah Jane Freymann Literary Agency and she can be found online at: and . Follow her on Twitter and Facebook.
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