NIA FARRELL’S AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Nia Farrell is a founding member of the Wicked Pens and a multi-genre award-winning author who is published in nonfiction, poetry, music, freelance articles, and children’s books, with one documentary screenplay under her literary belt. She’s an old soul and a period reenactor who’s been into corsets for centuries, although she wears them more to Civil War events these days.
Nia has been involved in the metaphysical community for over twenty-five years. She is a Reiki Master and crystal healer whose work encompasses this and other lifetimes. In her book Something More, BDSM and submission are tools for healing post-rape PTSD. Something More is a Finalist for Best BDSM Book of the Year, Ménage Category, in the 2016 Golden Flogger Awards.
Her debut books from The Three Graces Series, Something More, Something Different, and Something More, have been called new age erotic romance – kink with a paranormal twist. Soul mates, reincarnation, karmic fallout, shamanism, and psychic abilities come into play. Personal experience and extensive research go into crafting her characters, but it’s her sense of whimsy that has made fictional Posey, Minnesota, the ménage capital of the United States with a Monty-Python-themed diner that’s central to the plotlines.
Nia was fortunate enough to meet her soul mate early on. She married her high school sweetheart, raised two children, and began writing at her husband’s suggestion. She has been published in erotic romance since 2015.
What readers are saying: “When you read as many [books] as I do, it’s great to be able to go back to favourites and favourite authors. Author Nia Farrell makes our nights horny, our husbands happy, and makes me miss a ménage and toys. Please keep writing!”
Best Selling Author Felicity Brandon: “If you love sensual, emotional and powerful romance with a definite D/s dynamic, you should be reading Author Nia Farrell!”
Audio narrator La Petit Mort: “We loved the story. So, so hot. You write very well. Imagination and execution with the keyboard, a rare combination.” “There are few authors that I would choose (!) to read. You are one of the few.”
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NIA FARRELL’S BOOKS
The Three Graces Series:
SOMETHING ELSE August 25, 2015
A menu sits to my right, waiting for him to show. Across from me, Nico scans both sides of the laminated page and sets it down, his decision already made. I take longer, wrestling with my baser meat-loving self when I know I should shun it, but really, where’s the fun in that? I turned vegan once in high school. It lasted all of two weeks, but I stayed quasi-vegetarian for three years. Dairy, eggs, and seafood gave me the protein I craved, but it took cutting out the warm blooded meat to raise my vibration and get it to where I needed it to be. Because that’s when the dreams started. Visions of the past lives we’ve shared. Memories of the three of us.
Poised on the brink of our next go-round, I have to wonder why we keep coming back like this, like frigging musketeers. Is it because we’re stronger together, or dysfunctional apart? Jesus, I’d like to think I don’t need them, but I know how much more, how much stronger I am since meeting Nico. My body thrums to think of what it will be like to have both of them with me.
When Nico smiles, I realize I’ve let it fly free. It flies again, out of my mouth, towards the door, where Lena’s cousin stands, scanning the room. He feels me. Sees me. Disappointment flattens his smile when he notices Nico’s head and realizes we won’t be alone. Squaring his shoulders, he comes anyway, willing to share me if that’s what it takes. And it will. It will.
Having the two of them, belonging to them both—how can I settle for anything less?
Nico stands and offers his hand. “Nicolas White,” he says warmly. “Grace’s friend. Call me Nico.”
Friend. Amazing what one small word can do. The difference in him is palpable. The threat neutralized, he grasps Nico’s hand and shakes it. “J. T. Santiago.” He flashes a look my way and imparts his great secret. “Jesus Tomás. My mother can be clueless.”
For a moment, I see the problems it caused him. In grade school. High school. The military—at least until he became a SEAL. He earned his initials and respect, but facts are facts. He was named at birth for a savior and an apostle. One knew his mission and his worth; the other was riddled with doubt.
His mother is more intuitive than he’s willing to admit.
The SEAL thing intrigues me. While I’m processing that and memorizing his smell—wind and leather, exhaust fumes and musk, Nico does the honors. “J.T., sit, please. We haven’t ordered yet. We’ve been waiting for you.”
At what sounds like a double entendre, I snap my gaze up to meet Nico’s and see that he knows it, too. J.T. is our chosen one, but how much will it take to dispel his doubt? Surely he’ll feel this…this thing—whatever you want to call it—that we three share. How can he not feel it, when its reconstruction has been building between us, bridging us since birth?
Conversation starts with basics. How young I am, how old they are. We’re born four years apart: J.T., then Nico, then me. I know just enough Chinese astrology to understand the significance. Four years and eight years—optimum compatibility. Nico and I have already figured our version of Asian medicine wheel signs. He’s the shaman’s turtle in the North. I’m a phoenix in the South. Traditionally, J.T. would be a white tiger or green dragon, but my feeling is that he’s pure black jaguar and is still making karmic payments on debts incurred in a past life priesthood.
The three of us end up ordering burgers. Half pound Angus beef monstrosities. Rules forbid sharing but at the end of the meal, black foam sandwich squares will haul home tomorrow’s lunch in the small coolers we pack for fair dates.
J.T. orders a nonalcoholic beer to match Nico’s. Neither of them drinks and drives; there’s no way J.T. will down a true brew and risk riding his Harley home.
“Where’s that?” I ask, trying my best to keep my fact-finding overt. Sitting next to a psychic isn’t ideal for keeping secrets, and he has them. God, does he have them.
“Newton,” he says. We learn than J.T. co-owns a martial arts dojo here in Franklin and a gym where he lives, half an hour away from here, in the opposite direction of Posey, the quaint, touristy town nearest our lake. Posey is a solid forty-five minute drive. Not exactly close, but doable, if we can convince J.T. that the hour-plus drive is worth it. The commute might actually work in our favor, make it easier to persuade him to move in with us.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Right now we’re feeling each other out, getting to know each other, establishing pecking order. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who’s on top and who’s on bottom. The question is how Nico fits into the equation. He’s been quiet about past lovers, male or female. In a show of solidarity, he has been celibate since meeting me, so we’ve both been doing without while waiting for J.T. A bigger hardship for Nico, I’m sure—although a psychologist might have a field day with little ol’ virginal me, listening to me rant about missing something I’ve physically not yet experienced.
Soul memories can mindfuck, I tell you. Twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes. I remember them all.
J.T. notices my submissive traits: keeping my eyes down, letting the two men lead the conversation, listening more than talking. And I notice his dominant traits: paying attention to my needs, making certain Cherry finally brings the glass of water I ordered when we first got there, asking if my burger is cooked the way I like it, complimenting my hair and flowing New Age dress, asking me the standard getting-to-know-you questions.
I tell him where I was born, where I went to school, where I work, where we live.
“You need to come out,” I tell him. Please please please. “It’s too cold for swimming, but on warm days, the fish still jump. Or we could kayak.” We have two, but a neighbor has several that he rents to campers, fishermen, and the occasional waterfowl hunter looking for a better way to retrieve downed birds.
Nico seconds the notion. “Sure,” he says, lifting his beer in a toast. “Bring your stuff. Spend the weekend. I’ll give you my room, or there’s a couch.” His choice of words reminds J.T. that, so far, we are friends and nothing more. Hopefully that’s about to change.
The warmth in Nico’s eyes makes me wonder if he’d rather share his room—his bed—with J.T. alone. It would let the two men bond before adding me to the mix. Trouble is, I can’t get a handle on J.T. What’s he up for?
I need J.T. to want us. Both of us. I want what I’ve seen. What I’ve dreamed about. The three of us sharing a bed, together, sometimes with me between, sometimes with Nico. When we looked at properties, a master suite large enough for a California king was near the top of our list. So far Nico’s been sleeping there alone, just him and those big, talented hands of his, fisting himself into oblivion.
But I can almost hear J.T.’s doubting Tomas. The man doesn’t trust himself. I sense the same darkness he does, the part of him that makes him afraid he’ll cross a line and hurt someone.
Wounded spirit. And not just in this life. Nothing that simple. Nothing that easy. Not that healing PTSD is ever easy.
Suddenly, I see him, struggling, hurting, lost. Crippled with “soldier’s heart” and shell shock in at least two wars he’s experienced without us. With the vision comes the knowledge of why we are here this time. To help him mend. To help him heal. He’s been trying to dispel the darkness when he needs to embrace it. Harness it. Learn to live with his shadow self.
I can almost feel his collar on my neck and see the ink on Nico’s.
I exhale softly and commit. “Or my room,” I offer, looking up when Nico stiffens. It’s all he can do to remain silent and passive, but he’ll do it because he’s the beta male here. Two alphas and me? We’d end up tearing each other apart.
J.T. locks his gaze on mine and cocks his head, considering. “You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks as he slides his hand beneath my skirt like a heat-seeking missile. He has his answer when he finds my panties soaked. “What about Nico?”
“I…We…” Words are lost when he slides a finger between my pussy’s swollen lips and his thumb finds my clit.
“J.T.” Nico makes sure he has his attention before dropping my bomb. “She hasn’t been with one man, let alone two. Not yet. But it’s what she wants, if you’re interested.”
Wow. He didn’t just say that, did he? My temperature raises two degrees thanks to the fucking full body blush I’ve got going on.
“Seriously?” J.T. stops his finger where it’s at, gripped to the first joint by my exceptional tightness. He looks at me, skeptical, his black eyes revealing nothing but the roiling heat of a man on the edge of conflagration. He lets out the thinning leash he’s struggling to hold onto and pushes into me until he’s knuckle deep. Pulling free, he brings his finger to my lips and inhales sharply when I suck my juices off him, knowing what he wants and giving it to him without one word being spoken.
“Fuck, yeah.” He pulls out his wallet and tosses enough bills on the table to cover the three meals and tip. “Let’s go.”
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SOMETHING DIFFERENT September 29, 2015
The lake house’s thermostat is warmer than I set mine. I’ve got to save pennies; J.T. and Nico want to keep Grace naked and healthy. I get it. I do. But I’m sweating even before I start orbiting the twin suns, and there’s no cooling down unless I take something off. I’m wearing a camisole under my sweater, so the girls keep covered, sort of. The guys like it a little too much. Jackson rips licks of stripper music from his guitar, and Jacob starts peeling, swinging his tee over his head and letting it fly.
So much beautiful skin. So much beautiful ink. If I had you guys in my bed, I’d read myself to sleep every night.
Nico snorts, and I realize I didn’t just think it. I fucking said it.
The twins look at each other like they’ve won the goddamn lottery.
“Well, well.” Jackson locks his gaze on me. There’s heat in his eyes, a passion for more than the music we’re supposed to be making. He sets down his guitar and takes off his shirt, revealing his tats and his pierced nipples. My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips. Dropping my gaze, I count the black keys on my keyboard, understanding the feeling of being caught in between. For all my experience, I sense that I’m a little out of my league here.
Thank fuck, Nico’s got my back. He leans over to whisper in my ear. “Channel it,” he says. “Don’t fight it. Feel it. Let it flow through your fingers so I can hear it.”
I pick up my guitar. Stringing chords that shouldn’t go together, I find what makes them work. It’s like nothing I’ve ever written, nothing I’ve ever heard. When Nico adds his flute, Jackson’s and Jacob’s jaws drop.
Magic. Pure, simple, elemental, it evokes memories of a young white girl, taken against her will. Finding a way to survive, to accept, then embrace the harsh facts of her new life, only to be torn from it, forced to return to a world where she’s no longer welcome, and all she wants, for the rest of her life, is to go back.
“Damn, little sister.” Nico turns off his digital recorder. Thank fuck at least one of us got it. I truly don’t know if I could do it again. I might be able to come close, but to re-create it exactly would be like writing a short story, setting it aside, and writing it again, verbatim.
“Anna. That was…wow.” Jacob is pretty much speechless. Jackson rubs his chest, making the barbells through his nipples glint under the lights. When I get up and go to the kitchen for a chilled bottle of water, he follows me.
There’s six feet three inches of male heat on my back when I grab one of the reusable glass bottles and close the refrigerator door. He bends down to murmur in my right ear; his nose nudges the row of hoops that rim it as his breath dances over my skin. “I don’t know where you went,” he says, “but I sure as hell hope you go there again—and take us the fuck with you next time.”
I catch myself leaning toward him, like I’m drawn by a goddamn magnet. There’s no denying I want them. I’d just like an idea of how this needs to go down. Before I give myself a chance to chicken out, I flat out ask him, “Do you two do everything together?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.” He lifts his hand—the one that has L O V E tattooed on his fingers—and strokes my arm, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. “If you know our music, you know us. It won’t be gentle, and it won’t be quick, but I can fucking guarantee we’ll give you the best sex of your life, gatita.”
If anyone else called me kitten, I might take offense. But the Spanish rolling off his tongue has an oddly erotic appeal.
Now I’m curious. “Kitten? You want to tell me where that came from?”
“Ever try to catch a feral cat?” he asks me, sliding his hand up to my shoulder and flexing his fingers around it. “Even a kitten will shred you to ribbons. But you’ve got the spice to go with the claws, don’t you, gatita?”
Shit. The temperature in here just raised ten degrees. Needing to chill, I twist off the lid, slam back a mouthful of cold spring water, and nearly die of brain freeze. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
Jackson chuckles. “That’s the plan.”
“Since when?” I stop rubbing my forehead long enough to throw a look over my shoulder. I flick my eyelashes at him, daring him to flirt some more. We kind of skipped that part when we went straight from heated looks to promises of three-way kink.
“The diner,” he says. “You gave as good as you got. You sounded like you could handle us.”
“Mmmm. My hooker voice. And how did I look?”
I’m fishing. He knows it. I know it. We’re both aware it’s not a deal breaker, but his answer could put a whole new spin on things.
“Like you’d dare anything. Risk anything. You were…hot,” he rumbles. “Fucking hot. I wanted to drag you into the back and bend you over a sink and—”
“Is that what you want, brat?” He underscores the last word with a slap to my bottom, his tone full of menace.
I shiver, and not from the chilled bottle I’m holding against my chest.
“Ah,” he says, sounding pleased. “Then here’s a word of warning. A little sass gives us an excuse to get creative. Disrespect us, or anyone else, and we’ll keep you on the edge so long, you’ll be begging us to put you out of your misery. No Mercy,” he whispers, turning me to face him.
Up close, his tats are even more amazing. I’ve never wanted ink, but I’m giving it serious consideration.
“If you’ve wondered about the band’s name, there it is. From a former groupie when we were still performing as The Thomason Twins. She had a sweet little pussy, but she wouldn’t watch her mouth. When she figured out we’d never let her cum, she moved on. Bitch lasted four weeks. Longest fucking month of my life.”
I can’t help it. Lifting my free hand, I palm his chest to feel his piercing and his nipple peaks against it. I drop my gaze, and see a distinct tenting of his jeans. Impressive.
“Yep, I feel your pain.” Slanting him a look, I wonder if they were thinking music and hoping for more, when they bought me an excused absence. If he’d known, would Kirk have given me time off work for bad behavior?
Not that it matters. I’m theirs, or will be.
I pat his chest and tell him straight, “You’ve got tonight plus eight days to treasure me. Mess with me, and I’ll have Grace and Nico sic J.T.’s ass on you.”
J.T. runs a martial arts dojo in Franklin, forty-five minutes away, and trains in a variety of disciplines. The women’s self-defense classes are always full. Grace and I pulled strings to get our favorite waitress Rae into the current one.
My threat makes him laugh. Laugh.
“Jackson.” I draw out his name like a middle school teacher about to deliver a lecture. “The man is a former SEAL and MMA. He’ll lay you low and not leave bruises.”
That makes him snort. My gaze fastens on the two thin silver rings that pierce his nostrils, something I never would have considered attractive, let alone sexy, until I saw them on him. Next thing I know, he’s doing a signature Jonathan Rhys Meyers move, smiling coyly with his lower lip caught between his teeth, just before he winks. Dammit.
“Think again, sweetheart. From what we’ve heard”—two, three, four—“J.T. is too busy domming Grace’s ass to save anyone else’s. You’ve got until the end of tonight’s session to make up your mind. One time offer. In or out. We’ll share nights with Nico, since that’s why we’re here, but once you commit, you’re ours 24/7, comprende?”
The thought makes my panties wet.
I meet his gaze. He knows he’s got me.
“I’ll need clothes.”
“Some,” he says. “You’ll be naked most of the time.”
Yep, gonna need pairs and pairs of underwear. Eight days’ worth. That is, if they’ll let me wear them when we’re away from their motel.
“May I make a suggestion, Sir?” I stress the title, and the Dom in him comes out to play. “When we’re done here, if you’ll follow me back to my apartment, I’ll show you my stuff, and you and Jacob can pick what to take with us for the one hundred ninety-two and however many hours we have left.”
He studies me with his baby blues, looking both pleased and impressed.
“That’s right,” I say smugly. “Someone else might have named the band, but I can do math.”
One brow cocks. He puts his hand over mine and flexes his pec, teasing me back. “Do you think she couldn’t?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. And don’t think you’re gonna trick me into dissing her. I plan on coming tonight. Long and hard and more than once. I’ve been known to wear men out, but I’m pretty sure you boys can handle it. I just hope one of you likes anal.”
“Fuck,” he growls, grabbing four more water bottles. “Let’s go write music.”
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SOMETHING MORE October 15, 2015, Golden Flogger Finalist
The news I’ve been expecting came this morning. I’ve been holding my breath, dreading the day he’d get out. I knew it would happen, eventually, but I’ve spent four years burying the memories that would lead him to my door. If, by some miracle, he manages to resurrect me, well, let’s just say he’ll find me changed. I’ve learned how to defend myself. I’m not helpless anymore.
The two women who’ve made that happen are seated in my section. Grace Murphy and Anna James are my customers, but in the months I’ve worked at Wink’s Diner, they’ve also become friends, of sorts, even though they don’t know me. Not really.
No one in this town truly does.
I landed here by sheer luck. I’d been running and hiding for so long, it was hard to break my habits. I’ve set down roots, but I still haven’t let anyone in. And if I tear away and leave now…the thought that I might not see Anna and Grace or Mrs. Turley again reminds me of all that I’ve lost, everything I’ve been forced to give up, time and again, because of him.
Because of them.
Table Four’s order is up. I load my tray, paste on a smile, and deliver plate lunch specials to the sheriff and his dispatcher. Sherry knows that something’s off, but she acts normal, bless her, and refrains from commenting. As of this morning, she’s the one person in town who’s not clueless of my past.
When I found out Cruz was being released, I broke down and showed the old news clipping to Sherry, more comfortable sharing with another woman who can understand what I went through. If anything happens…well, she’ll know where to start looking, anyway.
I’m hanging by a thread that unravels with Grace’s announcements. She just found out that she’s pregnant; now she and J.T. are getting married. The thought makes my head spin. How does that work in a threesome? I’m guessing that Nico will be the best man?
Somehow Anna manages to top that news. She’ll be leaving soon, joining her mega rock star lovers on the last leg of their worldwide tour, but she promises she’ll be back for the wedding.
Anna sees how close I am to losing it. She thinks it’s because of what she’s said, but she doesn’t know the rest.
“Rae, sweetie. It’ll be okay. Jackson and Jacob are good to me. Honestly, they’re the best things to ever happen to me. If you doubt it, ask Grace. You know she lies like shit.”
Grace is a psychic medium. If ever I needed a reading, it’s now.
Ignoring my other tables, I clear my head and manage a smile for them. Beneath my clenched stomach, my guts are churning. I’m afraid to let her in, for fear of what she’ll see, but forewarned is forearmed. “What do you say, Grace? What can you tell me?”
Grace bites her lower lip and gets the faraway look that she has when she’s “channeling.” Her gaze abruptly shifts to the diner door, and her face starts losing its color.
This is so not good. Grace’s pale Irish complexion is freaking white when she turns back to me.
“Whose names do you have on you?”
Shoot. This is why I haven’t let myself get close to Grace. She sees things. Knows things. What was and what will be. I came here to be free of my past, to carve a future for myself, for us, free from the Colson brothers. They don’t own me, despite the ink they talked me into when I was young and naïve. When it was exciting that Cruz was a bad boy biker and Cam, was—well, he’s still a porn star.
Four years, and I’m still hiding, even from these two women who’ve been nothing but kind.
Such a fraud.
I can’t look at Anna. The day she got pierced at Black Dragon Ink, she caught me there, checking them out. I told her I was thinking about a tat. She thought I meant getting one, when I need mine covered or removed.
“Rae, it’s okay,” Anna tells me, offering absolution for misleading her. “It’ll be fine.”
“Yes, it will,” Grace promises. “Anna. Car keys. Change of plan.”
Hiding the keys in a napkin, Grace pushes them over and drops her voice to a whisper. “You know Anna’s car? It’s parked around the corner on Elm.” Grace gives me a look that speaks volumes. “I can’t tell you what to do. I can’t tell you where to go. It’s your decision, sweetheart: make a stand or sneak out the back way and keep running in a car they won’t be looking for, but you’re going to have to choose. Fast. Like right fucking now. Because,” she tells me, “they are here….”
The bell over the diner door announces a new arrival, and Grace’s face turns pink. Dear Lord, she’s actually blushing.
“Holy shit,” Grace breathes. “That’s Jamie Cameron.” Grace held onto her V-card for twenty-two years, but she’s been making up for lost time with not one but two men, doing kink and watching porn, evidently.
You’d be amazed at the table talk in Wink’s Diner.
“Stage name,” I say, resisting the urge to look, trusting that she knows what she’s talking about. “Back home, he’s Cameron James Colson.”
Anna whips her head around, hard enough to send her purple and red streaked black hair flying. Subtle, she is not.
“Shit, Rae.” Anna snatches back her keys. “You can’t leave. This is so going in my biography. I mean, it’s him. The titanic. Jamie. Fucking. Cameron. The man every woman wants to go down on. Please, tell me it’s not all camera angles. And—well, fuck me. Who’s that with him?”
“It’s not the camera,” I tell her, still not looking. I’m amazed she took her eyes off Cam’s crotch long enough to notice anything else. “Just guessing, but I’d say he’s with his brother.” Who is almost as well-endowed. Who just got out of prison. “A rougher, edgier version of Cam?”
“Leather jacket. Worn boots. Yeah, he’s got that ‘born to be wild’ look going for him.”
Shit. I hate being right. “His brother Cord. Goes by Cruz. That’s his road name.”
Anna smiles like a cat in cream. “No shit, Rae? A porn star and a biker?”
What can I say? One’s a lover. One’s a fighter. Both of them are beasts in bed.
Grace smiles like she read my thoughts (which she probably did). “Stay. You’ll figure it out.”
I’m skeptical. “I’m not so sure,” I tell her. Cruz has been inside for four years, convicted on weapons charges. Who comes out of prison unchanged?
Grace probes me with a look deep enough, I should feel mindfucked. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
“About Hannah? No.”
“The guns. His club. You understand he was set up, right?”
Shit. Now I am mindfucked.
“If you say so, Grace, but that’s not why I left. Look, I can’t do this right now, but I’d like to call you later, if that’s okay. I could really use the voice of wisdom.”
Grace smiles softly, looking as serene as a Madonna. Her inner peace instills a sense of calm in me. “Anytime, sweetheart. Even if it’s just needing someone to listen. No judgment here, Rachel.”
She called me Rachel. My real name.
No one’s called me that since the night I died.
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THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY April 2, 2016
The Three Graces Trilogy Blurb and Reviews:
The three books in The Three Graces Trilogy are “New Age New Adult” BDSM ménages with spiritual and metaphysical elements (reincarnation, soulmates, psychic gifts, shamanism). Think kink with a paranormal twist, then add real-life themes of PTSD, post-rape PTSD, and autism. The premise of the Three Graces is simple. Three women, all age twenty-two, whose names mean “Grace” – Grace, Anna, and Rae (whose real name is Rachel). All three have psychic abilities (Grace more so than the others), and each book has a theme. Forgiveness. Acceptance. Redemption. Three women and the six men who love them. Maybe you’ve never read ménages. Maybe you’ve always shied away from BDSM books. These novellas may just change your mind.
“As a reader who enjoys the complexities of ménage-fueled romances I’m thrilled to have discovered the Three Graces series and the erotic and intense storylines found within the pages….. add all of them to your bookshelf for hours of steamy fun!” “Each book in the series just gets better & touches on a different social issue. All are fantastic!” “Ab-so-freaking LOVE this series!! It is hot with depth of character!!” “[SOMETHNG ELSE is] Jam-packed with just about everything a reader can imagine (and fantasize about)!” “This novella [SOMETHING MORE] has more emotion, intrigue, romance, internal conflict & scorching hot sex packed into a short read than I’ve read in a long time!! A solid 5 star read!!”
SOMETHING DIFFERENT has the edgiest BDSM. This is a review from someone who doesn’t read erotica, doesn’t read ménages, doesn’t read BDSM, but she won my book, read it, and wrote this: “I received this e-book as a prize in a contest to *build* my perfect man. Since my reading world usually revolves around mysteries and thrillers, branching out into this genre was an interesting deviation ~ and *deviation* is definitely a key word here. As an old spinster school teacher, I have to say I was not comfortable with the graphic details, and I will further admit that I had no idea what some of the jargon meant. Nonetheless, as a writer, I applaud Nia’s specificity of detail in this erotic version of a girl whose professional and sexual dreams actually do come true. My preference in men is less inky and holey, but the twins present an interesting concept ~ twin images though quite different in their psyches ~ perhaps a reflection of the two sides existing and struggling for dominance in all of us. Moreover, women have a long history of trying to decide between the good boy and the bad boy for their life partners. Lucky Anna gets both.”
Reviewers on SOMETHING ELSE (MMF soulmates ménage) : “It’s part paranormal, part BDSM, part love story, but all good….” “Imaginative and sexy” “A likeable, strong heroine and two very hot heroes” “I am a strong believer in psychic abilities so for me this book was a HOME RUN! I loved the storyline and the sex – WOW – talk about HOT!!!” “Jam-packed with just about everything a reader can imagine (and fantasize about)!…Nico is…hotter than hot! …J.T. is a total alpha and literally makes the pages (and your panties) sizzle. Rated FIVE STARS at Barnes & Noble, 4.9 at Amazon.
Reviewers on SOMETHING DIFFERENT (MFM rock stars ménage): “Sexy and sultry” “Fun and hot…This ménage à trois, featuring two sexy rock star brothers and a talented musician, will leave you breathless and wanting for more.” “Nia Farrell did not disappoint. Although Something Different is a heavier BDSM read than its predecessor, it was well written and flowed well. I cannot wait for more in this series.” Rated FIVE STARS at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads.
Reviewers on SOMETHING MORE (MFM waitress/biker/porn star ménage + secret baby): “The WARNING for this book should be STEAMY HOT & Panty Melting….” “Anyone can write a story that has great sex scenes but give me a story along with the sex and you’ve got yourself a HUGE fan! Rachel Givens and her daughter Hannah stole my heart immediately….Cam and Cord swooped in and not only filled Rachel’s heart with love and forgiveness but they also reached Hannah’s – which is a difficult task in itself. Just an amazing story!” Rated FIVE STARS at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads. Nominated for Best BDSM Book of the Year, Ménage Category, 2016 Golden Flogger Awards.
Reviewer on SOMETHING SPECIAL (sequel to SOMETHING ELSE): I had read all three of The Three Graces books and absolutely loved them all. I’ve tried to decide which story was my favorite, but it’s impossible to do. This newest addition just makes a difficult decision more impossible.
Something Special follows Grace, J.T. and Nico, from Something Else (book one), after they have been together for awhile & are expecting their first child. It is told from J.T.’s POV. The author has given the readers an in-depth look at the dynamics between a triad of people in love – an alpha Dominant, a female submissive and a second male who is both dominant & submissive. It is amazing to this reader how this female author can so thoroughly get into the male dominant’s psyche.
As in the first three books, this story line demonstrates the level of commitment and love between three souls who live and deal with not totally common additional issues (PTSD, psychic abilities and living a “different” lifestyle) on top of the “normal” everyday obstacles of life and love. And, it also shows how even the strongest of personalities can bend and give to prove their love!
I adored this novella as much as the previous three and am looking forward to reading more as soon as possible.
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SOMETHING SPECIAL May 5, 2016, nominated Best Erotica and Best Romance, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards
“Ma’am,” I rumble, glancing at my hat that I’ve placed on a shelf and pointed towards the bed. I take off my leathers, hanging my sword belt and pistol on a hook by the front door. “I don’t want an argument on this. I’d rather you show your appreciation for being rescued. I searched for you. Found you. Fought for you.” Reaching, I take hold of her braid and wrap it around my hand, pulling her closer to me with each turn. “And now,” I say, “I want to fuck you. We both do.”
Grace inhales sharply, her nostrils flaring. Her small fingers curl against the fabric of her skirt.
I smirk at her. “What would your husband say if he could see you now, hmm? From the look on your face, I’d say you want the both of us, too.”
“My baby,” she whispers, still in role-playing mode.
“Makes it where he’ll never know. It will be your secret. Our secret. We’ll take what you have to give and give you everything you can take.”
Suddenly, Grace giggles and looks at Nico. “Jesus, that’s almost exactly what you said the day we met at the Irish festival, when we were still waiting for J.T. to come. You said, ‘Once he gets here, we’ll give what you can take, and take what you can give.’ Fuck, I’d almost forgot.”
I growl and pull her by the braid until she’s pressed up against me, balanced on her toes, her hands clutching at the blue wool shell jacket I’m still wearing. Her green glass eyes widen, then grow smoky with arousal. “Take off your clothes and kneel,” I order. “No more talking. I have a better use for that mouth, woman.”
She’s so turned on, I can smell the scent of her sex. Nico stands behind her, stroking himself through his fringed buckskin pants. I’d rather see him in a breechclout and leggings, framing his erection, but he looks damn good in anything, especially leather.
Grace unties her apron, lets it fall to the floor. Reaching for her neckline, she unfastens her buttons, slipping them free, one by one, from top to bottom. Her skirt and petticoats go next, followed by her corset cover. Her breasts swell above the boned casing, and I can’t help seeing Savage Joe’s hands on them.
“Did you like it?” I grind the words, feeding grist to my sexual mill. “Did you like being held against your will? Touched without permission? The one who had you, when he played with your breasts, did he grind his cock against your ass and wonder what it would be like to take you there?”
I grab her hand, pull it to my crotch, and let her feel the erection I’ve been fighting for hours. “Does your husband take your back door?” I smile darkly, because Nico and I both know the fucking answer to that question. “When his cock is slick with your cream and he taps on it, do you moan and let him in?”
“Fuck.” This, from Nico, who’s as hard for our wife as I am.
“Yes. No. Yes,” she whimpers, trembling, like her knees are on the verge of giving out. A heartbeat later, she buckles to the floor at my feet, scrambling to get my pants unfastened. When she undoes the fly and tugs, she looks at me in confusion. I realize that the suspenders that keep my pants in place are preventing her from pulling them down.
There’s something about being a Dominant dressed while your sub is naked and exposed, but seeing Grace in a state of en déshabillé, her maternity corset framing her burgeoning breasts, her hips covered in crotchless pantaloons, is sexy as fuck. “Hands behind your back,” I growl. “Open that mouth and hold still while I fuck it. I’d better not feel any teeth, or you’ll wish you were still with your Indian friends.”
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REPLAY BOOK 1: VIKING RAID July 1, 2016, nominate Best Erotica, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards
Breanna had researched the rest of the Viking Doms, and Gunnar remained the best choice for her first time. The child of parents serving in the Norwegian diplomatic corps, he’d been raised at embassies around the world, was multilingual with a masters degree in history. His special area of interest was Dark Ages Europe, and he was trained in marine archaeology. His discovery of an ancient shipwreck with its treasure intact had made him rich enough to pursue his pleasures, and those had led him here, where he was actually paid to indulge them. Maybe not every man’s dream job, but it seemed to suit him well, and he certainly fit the part.
Gunnar was drop dead gorgeous, with a body like a Bernini statue and a face like mortal sin. He was also one of the most sought-after for scenes, thanks to a television series that had renewed interest in Viking history and culture. Today he was dressed for role playing, with a red woolen kyrtill worn over his fitted white trousers. Ornate trim edged the neckline and sleeves. His lower legs were wrapped with woven strips of wool that could be used, if needed, to bind someone’s wrists. Back in the day, his ornate belt and bulging purse would have identified him as a man of considerable substance. The sheathed dagger hanging from it suggested that he would protect his property at all cost.
The Viking Dom and Replay’s owner both rose. They gave the appearance of Old World gentlemen exhibiting cool civility, but the look in Gunnar’s pale blue eyes was like heat lightning, striking hard and fast. The rush of blood that colored her cheeks flowed down to swell her breasts and pool between her legs, making her engorged private parts throb and her body tighten around one of the plugs that her sister insisted she start wearing, to make things easier if Gunnar decided to explore the option she’d given him in the contract. He held a pen in his hand, and the thought that he might have already signed it made her breath hitch in her chest.
Sir Piers smiled at her reaction and officially introduced them. “Breanna, Sir Gunnar. Sir Gunnar, Breanna.”
The sheer energy that Gunnar embodied made Breanna drop her gaze to the floor. “Sire,” she said, her nervousness making her contralto voice even lower than normal. When she sang duets with her sister, Rowena usually soared an octave above her.
Gunnar bent over the desk, signed the contract with bold, broad strokes, and handed the gold-tipped fountain pen to Sir Piers. Turning back to Breanna, he drew himself up to his full, intimidating height and eyed her with an intensity that she felt to her core.
“On your knees, wench.”
She obeyed immediately, presenting the proper form as she understood it, head bowed, eyes down, knees slightly apart, hands resting on her thighs with palms up, awaiting the Dom’s command.
“Góðr. Good.” Gunnar acknowledged her effort, sounding genuinely pleased. He walked over to where she knelt, slowly circling to stand behind her.
Without moving her head, she risked a glance upward and saw Sir Piers looking at his computer screen. He clicked on his keyboard and stroked his chin. “Sir Gunnar, the castle kitchen set is free. I suggest you take Breanna down. Discuss the scene in detail, decide what you need, see if any questions remain to be addressed. Have Samael page me if you need me.”
Gunnar turned toward the door. “Come, wench,” he said. “Hie thee to the kitchen.”
She followed him as best she could, his long-legged stride eating the length of the maze of back halls that made working at Replay an adventure in itself. The first time she’d wandered, she’d gotten lost and ended up in the public viewing areas, where a number of scenes were being acted. While trying to find the mead hall where she’d left her sister and her harp, she had found Rowena watching the first of a new scene, a Viking raid. Leading the horde of Northmen, all speaking Old Norse, had been Gunnar.
He had held himself aloof, dispensing punishment, issuing orders, directing the action. He was a master choreographer, and everyone had danced to his tune. Breanna was so caught up in the memory that she nearly ran into Gunnar’s back when he stopped to open a heavy oaken door.
“Hér.” Gunnar stepped into the museum quality set where they would meet again in a week, if she didn’t change her mind in the time between.
It was an impressive space, with a number of benches flanking four long wooden tables. A large fireplace took up most of one stone wall. Torches were mounted on the others. Wax candles studded the heavy iron chandeliers, which were hung securely enough to perform suspension.
“I am pleased, thus far, with both your prompt obedience and your form.” His voice was as thick and rich as warm chocolate. His scent was an erotic mix of wood smoke and leather and musk. “You’ve obviously researched and have given this more than a little thought. I want to make certain that your first time is as memorable as we can make it.”
She exhaled softly and offered him a smile. “Thank you, Sire.”
“It’s Master now,” Gunnar corrected her gently. “Sire is the proper address for the other Doms. You have bound yourself to me, even if it’s only for your scene next week. From now until then, while we are in this room, you will address me as Master, or Milord.”
She lowered her eyes and meekly bowed her head. “Yes, Milord.”
Gunnar lifted her chin until her gaze met his. So full of questions, so naturally curious. And brave, to think of doing this. For the first time since coming here, he wondered if she was the one—the permanent sub he’d denied himself, choosing an existence of perfect control rather than risk the pain of another loss.
“For now,” he said, “you may look at me without permission and respectfully ask any questions you might have. Considering the circumstances, you won’t be surprised if I have a few of my own.”
She blinked those incredible whiskey eyes, and he wondered if she could truly be as guileless as she seemed.
He nearly smiled. “A twenty-two-year-old virgin? You are a rare treasure, Breanna. Your beauty, your artistry, your willingness to do this for your sister—and yes, Sir Piers knows that she’s the only reason you agreed to do a scene. Although he’s been hopeful, from the first.”
Breanna caught her lower lip and her face grew flush. “He’s mentioned it, more than once,” she admitted, her husky voice even lower than normal.
Piers had hoped the twin sisters would really “play” together, but Breanna had made it clear. She wasn’t there to fulfill nearly every man’s fantasy in a ménage with her sister. She was a musician. She was at Replay to perform period music. When she had finally agreed to do a scene, she’d told Piers that she would rather not know what her sister was doing on the other side of the room. Breanna had confessed that it was all she could do to perform a very private act in a semi-public setting.
Fortunately, what Rowena had planned should keep everyone’s attention focused on her, leaving Gunnar to concentrate on Breanna.
He smiled softly, looking forward to the challenge she presented. “You can’t blame him for trying. You have an air of innocence about you, and your sister has a spirit of adventure. Here, that’s a heady combination.”
Breanna watched the Dom’s smile disappear. His incredible blue eyes studied her with an intensity that was unnerving.
Exhaling softly, he brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers and put his hand on her shoulder. She inhaled sharply, feeling its weight and warmth and trying not to think of where she wished he would touch her.
He angled his head, considering. “I need you to tell me something. What is it,” he said, “that you truly want? What do you hope to see? To experience? You understand that your soft list is pretty limited?”
“Yes.” Breanna refused to sound apologetic. She’d been too busy getting an education to have time for more than an occasional, casual date. Now that she’d decided to lose her virginity, she was willing to allow this man to be her first, to give her one night to experience more than some women did in a lifetime.
She thought of the contract they’d signed, the compact they had made, listing the liberties she would allow him to take with her body. Thinking of the Viking raid she’d seen, how he had stroked himself while the scene went on around him, she remembered the sheer size of him and wondered how it would feel, invading her, claiming her.
“Breanna,” he said when she trembled beneath his touch. Breanna. Not wench or girl or pet. He’d said her name, as if he knew she wanted to be more than just one more nameless woman among the many that she was certain he’d had. She wanted to be his, if only for the night.
“You’re about to portray a nun, a religieuse. Before you bare your body, I would have you bare your soul. Come, little one,” he murmured. “Let me hear your confession. Tell me something. Tell me everything.”
Embarrassment pinked her face. Rather than speak, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth and stepped back, breaking the contact between them and feeling a sense of loss when he chose to let her go.
She placed a hand on one of the narrow tables and skimmed her fingers along the distressed surface, imagining herself there, at his mercy. How much he would show…well, that depended on how the scene played out. She slanted a glance up at him and just as quickly looked away from his curious half smile and penetrating gaze.
He wanted to know everything. How could she begin to tell him that she dreamed of him? He was the stuff of fantasies. Telling him would require baring her soul—something she wasn’t quite prepared to do. Not yet.
Gunnar might have the patience of Job, but Breanna knew better than to test it. Unable to confess what she really wanted, she settled for the next best thing. “I want,” she said, clearing her throat. “I want to keep it true to the times, as far as it goes.”
“True to the times?” he scoffed, as if she had no idea what could happen. But she did. She did. And so did the Dom.
He stepped close enough that she smelled musk and heat and man as he towered over her, displeasure radiating from him in waves. If he was training her as his sub, she’d be bent over his knee right now, or down on all fours or on her stomach or her back, taking her punishment for hiding the truth from him.
She steeled herself and turned towards him. Lifting her face, she searched his hard blue eyes. His jaw clenched, revealing his growing impatience.
She swallowed hard and whispered her confession. “The truth is, I can’t stop dreaming about it. I want you to make it real.”
A second later, Gunnar ripped the coif from her head, freeing her thick waist-length tresses to tumble down her back. He shoved his fingers in her hair, gripped her scalp, and made her look at him. For the first time, she felt a frisson of fear down her spine, and she shivered, unable to help herself.
His narrowed eyes had the look of a falcon studying its prey. “Real?” he grated. “You can’t imagine, if I stormed your nunnery, that I wouldn’t take you by the hair and spread you out on this table like a banquet, hmm? Your limits, wench, won’t let me.”
She swallowed hard and forced the words, stammering. “We can’t, not with the wigs. They’re short, like a boy’s. We’re playing nuns,” she reminded him, her breath catching in her throat when she saw the heat flare in his blue eyes.
“Hair pins,” he gritted. “Done right, I could drag you across the floor.”
She thought for a moment that he might just do it. Instead, Gunnar fisted her hair, holding it but not quite pulling. She had thought wearing a wig would be a good idea. Now it was a source of his displeasure. Why, oh why hadn’t she thought of pins?
He put his other hand on her breast, testing the ripe, firm swell of flesh. When her nipple pebbled beneath his palm, one side of his mouth curved in a half smile. He looked like a predator, toying with his next meal, as if he knew that he could have her right here, right now, if he wanted.
Her body threatened to go boneless beneath his touch. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.
Was she really ready for this?
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REPLAY BOOK 2: TRIPLE PLAY September 1, 2016
“Sabrina’s my twin.”
He was still staring at her Liz Taylor purple eyes.
“Contacts,” she explained. “And a wig. One of many. This way, I can leave Regina Wright behind at the end of the night. She’s a little too hot to take home.”
He angled his head, his eyes narrowed slightly. “At the bookstore. Ye knew.”
“Yes,” she admitted, grateful he wasn’t overly upset. “I recognized you from the internet and wanted to meet you outside all of this.”
He was quiet for a moment, considering. “Why the horse book?”
“It’s what I would have wanted when I was her age. What is she, five?”
“In December. Alexis was a New Year’s Eve baby.”
Rowena smiled. “Almost the exception to the rule, when an addition is a deduction.” She bit her lip and waved at Marcus, who maintained his watchful stance.
“Bodyguard?” he guessed.
“And the others?”
“My entourage? Let’s see. The noble Roman with the chestnut head, neatly trimmed beard, and excessive body hair sucking toes is my literary agent. The shaved head Roman general interrogating his Briton captive? My talent agent and his personal assistant.”
“And those two?”
He nodded to the Nubians guarding the musician’s corner.
“Disgruntled because I’m here instead of there. Normally, Sabrina and I play music at these things.”
“Disgruntled?” He mmfph’d and crossed his arms. “I dinnae think so. Try again.”
“I don’t know what else to call it. Jealous, maybe? Possessive goes a little too far. They don’t have a claim on me.”
“But they think they do. Why is that?” he demanded.
Here it was. The truth. Obliged by contract to confess. She blew out softly and told him her best guess. “Because they had me. Once. My rule is one time. No strings. No repeats. They knew it before we spent the night together. They’ve been a bit surly ever since.”
She felt her cheeks warm. If she thought she was beyond blushing, she was wrong. “All night.”
“How long ago?” he growled, displeased that he’d had to repeat the question.
She swallowed hard. “Six plus months ago. Just before the Viking raid.”
“Ah,” he said, rubbing his chin. He’d obviously heard of the Viking raid, but from the evenness of his tone, she had no clue what he thought of it.
“The stuff of legends.” She laughed, but there was no humor in her voice.
“And since then,” he wondered, “what hae ye done? Sexually,” he clarified, just to make certain she understood.
The truth. He’d asked for it. Demanded it. And she’d signed a contract, agreeing to it.
Damn it. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, was he?
“Mostly without,” she answered honestly. “I woke up in bed with three of the six men I’d done the scene with. It was the worst walk of shame ever, and I realized I had a problem. I found help. It’s not been easy, but I’m working on it.”
The look that he gave her was as nonjudgmental as Elly’s during a counseling session, as if he wanted to listen, and preferred to not cast stones. “Nymphomania—”
“Sexual addiction,” she stated flatly. “Although one might be mistaken for the other, there is a difference.”
He had the good grace to acknowledge his mistake. “I stand corrected.” The billionaire studied her for a long, discomfiting moment, like a chess master considering his next move. “So,” he said slowly, “when was the last time ye were with multiple partners?”
“Six months ago.” The night of the Viking raid.
“When was the last time ye had sex? With someone else?”
“Three months ago.”
“And how was it?”
She looked away, remembering. “Desperate. Hurried. Unfulfilling. I had to go home and get myself off.”
“When did ye last hae an orgasm?”
The truth? “Prior to coming here. For me, attending an orgy without taking the edge off would not be wise.”
“Because ye might want something ye cannae hae,” he asked, “or because ye’ll do something ye shouldnae?”
Refusing to be cowed, she met and held his enigmatic gaze. “Another time, I’d say either, or both. This weekend, I’ll stick with the first. Our contract. No kink. No sex,” she reminded him. “Knowing I’d sit on the side and do a slow burn, I bought extra batteries today. The hardware store clerk couldn’t decide if I was a hoarder or a prepper.”
Micheil MacDonald chuckled. It was a nice sound. A nice laugh. With her, not at her. She relaxed just a bit.
“May I ask you something, Sir?”
The Dom in him responded to that, and she wondered when he’d gotten into BDSM—before, during, or after his tragically short marriage. She swore his electric blue eyes just got a shade darker.
One corner of his mouth curved upwards. “Yer book,” he said. “I wanted tae meet ye and was willing tae pay for the privilege.”
“Um. Thank you. I think.” She wondered if he had a sub who’d benefitted from the experiences and research that she shared online. She had let her followers know that a book was coming, had kept them updated on her progress. The manuscript was done, but only her literary agent and publisher had seen it.
Micheil dipped his head at the Replay owner, who was ordering punishment for a slave girl. “St. Leger told me that ye command a hefty appearance fee. My offer was purely a guess. Since ye agreed tae the terms, I take it that the contract met yer expectations.”
“Yes,” she said simply, following his gaze when it failed to return. The slave was stripped and bound to a column. Tiberius Piers snapped his fingers and a tray of floggers appeared. He picked one of softest leather and introduced her to it, stroking her sides, rubbing her back, tracing her cheek, then stepping back and laying on the first set of stripes.
Rowena clamped her thighs together, cursing her traitorous body, feeling the telltale moisture between her legs.
He must have heard her breath catch. “Ye like it.”
“Do ye wish it for yerself?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And no.”
His blue eyes considered her, a lambency in their depths that she could not fail to recognize. “Explain.”
“I wish it were me,” she admitted, “but not with Sir Piers.”
Don’t make me say it. Don’t.
He stepped closer, not touching except for the breath that fanned her hair and bathed her in his heat. “If nae St. Leger, lass, with whom?”
“You, Sir.” Her voice was the barest whisper. “But we can’t. I can’t.”
The Dom came out, full force, and he was not happy. “And why is that?” he demanded, his voice rolling like thunder while his eyes sparked St. Elmo’s fire.
“The contract?” She lowered her gaze, fighting the urge to drop to her knees in a submissive’s pose.
He blew out harshly. “And if I said, damn the contract. Tear it up and I’ll give ye half a million anyway?”
Her chin came up as she threw her head back far enough to meet his gaze. Humorless. Not even a hint of irony.
“You’d do that?” she asked. “Seriously? For one night of play without sex? Remember, my rule is one time. You punish me tonight, and you won’t touch me for the rest of the weekend.” Why was that so hard to say? Damn him. Damn her body, begging her to reconsider.
He smiled darkly. “Make an exception,” he said. “Ye tried tae top me in the bookstore. Ye knew exactly what ye’d done and pretended ye didnae understand. For that alone, ye need a spanking. Two spankings. I should be the one tae give them. It’s only fair.”
If she wore panties, they’d be sopping wet. The Vestal Virgin was yearning for the path to ruination.
“It would be fair,” she agreed, “but it can also wait. I gave my word. Three nights. No kink. No sex. I’m not a liar. Don’t try to make me one.”
“Exceptions tae the rule,” he reminded her. “Ye said ye would observe the scenes. Nothing was said aboot wha’ happens outside them. When the play winds down and they shuffle us out in the wee hours of the morning, what happens next is up tae us, aye?”
Tempting. My God, he was so tempting.
And he was right. Outside Replay, anything goes. Except…
“Then we’re back to one time. Once. No repeats. Is that what you want?”
She thought she sounded unshakeable. He smiled as if she’d just agreed to his terms. “I want tae feel that fine arse of yers under my hand. Forget yer rules. Do what’s right.”
His voice had dropped to a rumble that pushed every button she had. She whimpered, as if she could already feel herself bent over his lap, panties around her knees, his large hand exploring the landscape of her posterior as he familiarized himself with the terrain, deciding how he wanted to change it for his pleasure.
“I could tie ye up. Ye’d be beautiful, bound tae my bed. I might just hae tae keep ye there.”
“Once,” she said weakly.
“Lass,” he murmured, his Scottish burr thickening. “Ye ken ye owe me times three. Once for trying tae top me. Once for playing innocent aboot it. Once for nae letting me ken who ye were. We hae three nights of scenes tae get through. I’ll give ye time tae consider yer sins against me. At the end of each night, ye will present yerself tae me. Ye will submit. Ye will suffer, but I’ll give ye what ye need. Three punishments and aftercare. I promise ye, I am verra good at both.”
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REPLAY BOOK 3: HONOUR BOUND November 1, 2016
The third floor hall was lined with doors that anything could be happening behind. The air was thick with the smell of sex.
Sir Piers stopped in front of Room 9, inserted an electronic key, and opened wide the door. “Entrez.” The sexy rumble of his voice registered on the Richter scale and sent shockwaves through her system. Fighting to extricate herself from a tangled web of trepidation and anticipation, she broke its hold and stepped inside.
She’d seen the Red Room of Pain and recognized things she’d found online while researching BDSM and the lifestyle. There was a four poster bed, a sofa, a chair, and a spanking bench. A sex swing was hung near a St. Andrew’s cross. A padded table, large enough to lay someone on, had strategic holes cut out and was studded with O-rings on its legs and sides. The walls were lined with racks of toys for impact play, and she was certain that the chests of drawers were full of erotic surprises.
“Come. Sit.” With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the sofa, where they sat near each other, but not touching. “Before we begin, we need to discuss the scene and what you are comfortable with doing.”
It was too soon for sex, and she told him so.
“I understand,” he demurred. “But if you become aroused to the point of asking for relief, perhaps even begging for it, I need your permission now, while you are thinking clearly, to do so. It would be your choice: external stimulation, internal manual stimulation, or cunninlingus—with or without a dental dam. I will go no further than what we have discussed and agreed upon, even if it means not touching you except incidentally, while wrapping lines and tying knots. Not nearly as much fun, mind you, but the decision is yours.”
Oh. My. God. He won’t kiss his bondage models, but he’ll go down on me? Either that, or get me off with his hand? Given the choice of a rub off, a finger fuck, or oral pleasure, she’d prefer option three, but it was too soon for that, too. “External, Sir,” she said, blushing profusely.
“Clothes on or off?”
“I’ll keep mine on, thank you, Sir.”
“I’d like permission to photograph you, so that you may see how beautiful you are. I’ll give you the SD card to take with you so there is no question of the pictures being seen by anyone else, but again, it is up to you.”
How beautiful you are. A bevy of butterflies launched at his words. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she searched his steadfast gaze and saw nothing but raw and open honesty and the gift he was offering.
His photography would allow her to see herself through his eyes.
“Okay, Sir,” she said. “Take them.”
He smiled, pleased with her choice. “And so I shall. Next. I’ll be constantly monitoring your status, checking for any issues with circulation or pressure points. You must tell me immediately if you feel anything unusual—tingling, numbness, discomfort, pain, any unnatural color, or chill in your extremities. I need to know your safe words: one word to slow down, another to stop immediately and assess. Some submissives use green to go, yellow to slow down, and red to stop, but whatever you choose should be words not normally used during foreplay or intercourse. Now, tell me your safe words, princess.”
“Tofu,” she blurted, then giggled, surprising them both. “I hate it, Sir,” she explained. “I don’t know anything nastier.”
He crooked a grin. “So…tofu to stop. What, then, to slow?”
“Um…kale, because it’s a close second?”
He chuckled, a rich, warm sound that wrapped itself around her like a blanket. “Tell me your safe words again, princess.”
“Kale to slow down. Tofu to stop.”
“And when do you use them?” He arched a brow when she didn’t immediately answer.
She knew better than to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t believe that he asked her the obvious. “I’ll use ‘kale’ when I need you to go slower, to give my mind or my body time to adjust to whatever’s going on. I’ll use tofu if play needs to stop, if there’s something I can’t handle, either physically or psychologically.” She bit her lower lip, considering. “Does too much of a good thing count?”
“If it goes beyond what you absolutely cannot bear, then, yes. As Dominant, I’ll be monitoring your condition, listening to your breath, checking your coloration, your pulse, your body’s responses to what I am doing. I am no sadist. I do not take pleasure in causing undue pain. But, when done properly, pain during play sensitizes the skin, increases arousal to the point of euphoria, and releases endorphins that help one achieve subspace, where the mind transcends the body. In that state, you will not respond normally. It becomes my sole responsibility to assess, and reassess, to judge whether to continue play or to stop and begin aftercare.
“I want you to trust me, to believe that I shall give you what you need. If fear takes hold, or doubts set in, I want you to tell me. Do not wait for permission to speak. Communication is the key to any relationship, even if it is only for an evening of play. But understand, when you use your safe word, play is done. The scene is over. I shall help bring you down, see to your aftercare, but as soon as you are able, I expect you to tell me what happened. If we cannot figure things out, if it goes beyond the physical, then you will see Sir Josef, or we will see Sir Josef. Are we agreed?”
She exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Damn, he was good. He’d addressed her concerns as if he could read her mind. “Yes. Yes. Agreed.”
“Good girl,” he rumbled. The baritone vibrato of his voice sent gooseflesh cascading down her body.
Sir Piers opened a trunk, took out a pair of serious looking scissors, and began pulling out hanks of rope. “Synthetics can be too slippery,” he told her, adding to his pile. “They tend to stretch and are more apt to cause rope burn. Jute is the rope of choice in Japan. It’s lighter than hemp—about half the weight, grips well, and handles beautifully. The three-ply twist leaves behind exquisite marks on the skin that are considered as beautiful as the bondage that created them. Clothing, of course, will lessen the effect on your legs and torso, but your hands and wrists will be exposed. I shall have to pay particular attention to them. Make them pretty, hmm?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.” She bit her lip, already rethinking her choice to leave her clothes on. If only she’d worn underwear, she’d have shed her pants in a heartbeat, and possibly the top she’d worn. With friends who’d breastfed, she’d become more European in her views about feminine exposure, and Sir Piers was British. Surely he’d visited the beaches in France.
“The bathroom is there,” he said, pointing at a door on the far side of the room. “You will wish to use it. Take off your shoes and socks. When you come back, I need you to lie on the table, princess. Just like Sleeping Beauty, to be wrapped in vines and then set free.”
The bathroom was a spa—black marble and glass, complete with a steam shower, a jetted soaker tub, a commode, and a bidet. Elly emerged sans shoes and socks, as instructed, ready for however long their session lasted.
Sir Piers positioned her on her back, placed a small pillow under her head, and made certain she was comfortable before he began. He fashioned cuffs of rope, making a series of knots that laced her arms from wrist to elbow. He bound her ankles and adorned her feet, using a rope thin enough to weave between her toes. He had her lift her hips and he girdled them with rope, almost as if he were creating a chastity belt.
True to his word, he didn’t touch her beyond what was necessary for the bondage. It was fascinating to watch him work…until she thought of the videos she’d seen and wished he would dare to do more with her than recreate a children’s fairy tale.
When he’d trussed her up, Sir Piers took several photos of her with her eyes closed, face up, head left, head right. Producing a length of black lace, he blindfolded her and took more shots. And more shots. When he was satisfied, he left on the blindfold but released her bonds and photographed the marks on her exposed skin.
“How are you?” he asked. “Any discomfort? Numbness? Tingling?”
She tingled all right, between her legs. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “May I see?”
“When we are done.”
Elly fought the urge to smile. He didn’t need to know how much she wanted to continue.
“I’d like to do the next set in the swing,” he said, “with you in the “sleeping yogi” pose, ankles behind your head and arms behind your hips. I’ll need you to sustain the pose for at least half an hour. Sixty minutes would be ideal. Can you do it, princess?”
“When we’re done here.” Elly knew that what she was doing might be considered topping from the bottom, but he’d given her the perfect opening and she’d be a fool to not use it. “In the book, Sleeping Beauty doesn’t awaken until she’s kissed, and I’m still waiting for mine.”
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REPLAY BOOK 4: HOOKED January 1, 2017; winner, favorite Leading Lady, 2017 Our Book Stars Awards
Reviewers: “Mesmerizing” “Fun and oh so sexy” “I felt like I was part of Replay watching a scene happen right in front of me and it made me wish I could actually be there experiencing all of it myself!!”
The Captain came in.
Gini stood, blinded and mute, unwilling to break D/s protocol by speaking without permission. Even if she didn’t know this Dom, she trusted Sir Josef, and he trusted the Captain. She wanted to trust him, too.
“Kneel,” he rumbled, commanding, demanding, the low notes in his voice resonating within her.
She dropped to her knees.
For a long, telling moment, all she could hear was the sound of her heartbeat, the anxious measure of her breath, and the lap of water against the side of the ship as it gently rocked to and fro.
The Captain circled her, boot heels marking his passage. He smelled like the sun, earth, sea, and leather. Naturally clean. Decidedly masculine.
He stopped behind her and leaned down to murmur in her ear. “You,” he growled, “will call me ‘Master.’ Now, wench. What am I to do with you?”
Captain Hook straightened and came to stand in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the musk of his sex. “I know what you wanted. I know what you’ve said. No penetration. I can respect that. There are many other avenues to explore, if you will let me lead you. This is your chance, to stay or go. But if you stay,” he said firmly, “the clothes come off.”
Gini bit her lip and nodded. Part of her resisted, but she knew that they would be in his way, making some things hard and other things impossible to experience.
“Words,” he growled. “I need to hear you say it.”
She inhaled sharply. Swallowed hard. “Yes, Master.”
His rumbling voice was like a velvet glove, stroking her—a sharp contrast to the metal hook that skimmed the side of her neck and followed the top edge of her chemise from right to left and back again.
“Corset,” he said.
She felt for the center opening and began to unhook it from the waist up, freeing herself from its constraints as she went. Beneath her chemise, her breasts sighed in sweet relief. As much as she admired the mounds they’d made bulging from the top of her stays, she was used to wearing a bra only when needed. At home, she generally went without.
What she lacked in size, she more than made up for in sensitivity. She could nearly bring herself to orgasm just by playing with her nipples.
Captain Hook hummed his approval. “Now the chemise.”
She found the cord that gathered her neckline and pulled one end free of the bow. Loosening the lace, she felt for the hem, crossed her arms, and pulled it up and over, careful not to dislodge her blindfold.
A single word, bursting with masculine appreciation, despite her small breasts. Her body was toned from running and denuded thanks to her first wax job. The pink had almost faded from her now-hairless genitals.
He circled her again. She held her breath and remained motionless. Still on her knees, she could only imagine how he saw her. She wasn’t just built like a gymnast, she’d competed when she was younger until a shoulder injury had ended her dreams of glory. Forced to sit on the sidelines while she recovered, she’d started reading. Falling in love with the written word had forever changed her world.
He traced the scar from her surgery with his finger. “I want to tie you up,” he said. “Will this be a problem?”
“No, Master,” she managed. “As long as I’m lying down, or standing, not hanging with my weight pulling on it.”
He stood silent for a moment. “You’re to tell me immediately if you have any problems, understood? Good girl. Keep the stockings.”
She waited, breathless, a small gasp escaping when she felt the metal hook slip beneath one breast, lifting it for his consideration. Her nipples tightened, almost painfully, into hard-as-diamond points.
“Do you need to void before we get started?” he asked.
Gini’s face flooded with color. She’d been so nervous, she hadn’t eaten or drunk much of anything today. “I’m good, Master.”
“From what the ship’s surgeon tells me, you’ve been bad. Very bad. Hiding this from your friend.” He leaned over and smacked her ass. “What were you thinking, hmm?”
“That’s for starters. I’m going to sit, and you are going to crawl to me, following the sound of my voice. When you reach me, you’re going to stand between my legs, with your right side facing out. I’m going to turn you over my left knee, and I’m not going to stop until that bottom of yours is cherry red.”
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REPLAY BOOK 5: NIGHT MUSIC March 1, 2017
Luc poured a glass of wine for Aubrey and opened two beers for the men. The three drinks turned to six, then eight. Feeling the effects, Josef knew he’d either need to spend the night in his office or have Geoffrey drive him home.
When Luc started to gather the empties, one bottle dropped on the floor and spun wildly at Aubrey’s feet before slowing to a stop. She reached to pick it up and felt its neck, pointing at Luc. “If this was a game, you’d have to do something,” she teased. She’d had enough wine to be mellow but she was not drunk. “You’d have to…you’d have to kiss Sir Josef!”
Of course she would say that. She believed that Luc was gay.
“Well?” she said. “What are you waiting for? Kiss him!”
Luc looked up from where he knelt but stayed where he was, with his gaze focused on Josef’s mouth and a new, lambent light in his eyes.
“No.” The Dominant spoke, his voice demanding attention. “Luc, you will kiss Aubrey. Make her moan, and I shall reward you, using anything here that is your pleasure.”
Robbed of air, Luc forced himself to inhale deeply, exhale slowly. Heat sparked in his hazel eyes, the flames of awareness fanned by each breath. Shifting his full attention to Aubrey, he crawled to her with deliberation and sat on the floor by her feet.
Luc ran two fingers along the inside of her calf, beneath the hem of her skirt, and curled his hand around her knee. “So fucking sexy,” he murmured. “I want to kiss you here, behind your knee. Or here.” His hand moved higher. “And mark the inside of your thigh with my teeth.” His other hand traced the neckline of her dress, then slid up her chest to curl around the slender column of her neck. “I am going to kiss you, ma belle, but I will let you choose where.”
Her blue topaz gaze drifted to his lips, soft and full for a man’s. She moaned, even before their mouths met.
Pulling her down to him, he brushed his lips across her wide, expressive mouth, teasing her, coaxing a response. She put her hands on his chest and clutched at the fabric of his shirt, seeking purchase. After years of self-denial, restraints were shattered with one tremulous breath. Lips parted. Tongues parried, locked in a desperate struggle. He thrust ten fingers into her hair and gripped her head between his hands to control the kiss, commanding her, demanding her submission.
She moaned again, into Luc’s mouth, the sweetest music to a Dominant’s ear.
“Good boy,” Josef crooned. “That’s enough. You have earned a reward. Tell me, what shall it be?”
Luc pulled back, ending their kiss but keeping his forehead pressed to hers when he revealed his darker passions. “It’s been a while since my last play session. The cross,” he said softly. “And the flogger.”
Josef nodded approvingly. “The cross and the flogger it shall be, but not tonight. Replay has stringent rules for the protection of all who come here. You must be vetted, have medical clearance, and pass a psychological evaluation before we go any further. Eleanor St. Leger must be the one to give it, if you wish my hand to wield the whip. Sir Piers can arrange anything else you may need.”
Slipping his cell phone from his jacket, he asked Luc for his number and called it. When Luc’s phone vibrated, Josef ended the call. “You have my number. I’m only a text or call away. For now, though, I shall bid you good night. As much as I would enjoy spending it together, with the three of us sharing a bed, it is best if the two of you…talk.”
Aubrey looked at him, so innocent, her blue topaz eyes widening when she understood where this was headed. He wanted them. Both of them. Beautiful Luc, with his milk chocolate skin and luscious French Canadian accent. Sweet, brilliant Aubrey, who glowed with her own inner light.
Leaving them was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.
* * *
Luc watched Sir Josef leave, the click of the door punctuating his unexpected departure. Sighing, he turned back to Aubrey and pressed a brief, fierce kiss against her swollen lips.
He couldn’t wait to feel them on his body.
Patience, he reminded himself. Things were shifting at warp speed, and Aubrey needed time to catch up.
Still kneeling, he rocked back on his heels. Aubrey sat in stunned silence, processing what she’d learned.
That he wasn’t gay, he was bisexual.
That he was in the lifestyle.
That he wanted her, and the Dominant Sir Josef wanted them both.
“Talk to me, chérie. I can see your mind at work. Tell me what you are thinking.”
“Luc…” She looked at him—at his shape, he knew, but he felt as if she was looking into his very soul. “How long?”
“How long have I been in the lifestyle? Since college. How long have I wanted you? Forever,” he admitted. “But you were too young. You weren’t ready. You needed me as a teacher, a mentor, not a lover. You don’t know how hard it was, watching you grow, bloom, spread your wings and try to fly, then hold your hand when something would send you crashing to the ground.”
He regretted that he wouldn’t be her first. He didn’t know much about her experiences, other than the boyfriends never lasted long once they’d had her. He could only guess if the breakups were their choice, or hers.
She blinked and shook her head. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I thought….”
“It doesn’t matter, ma belle. Here, now. This is what matters. We are what matters. What you want. What I want.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried it for a moment. “What do you want?” she asked at last, her cheeks flushed from the scenarios playing out in her head.
“Tonight, just you. No kink. No domination and submission. Just surrender,” he told her. “Ma chère, believe me when I say that I will always put your needs before mine. Trust that I will continue to take care of you, in every possible way. Give yourself to me, and I will make certain that you never regret it.”
Unfolding his body, he rose to a stand, took her hands, and pulled her up to meet him. She was such a tiny thing, just two inches shy of five feet. He’d have to be careful, or he was going to bruise the hell out of that porcelain skin of hers.
He wrapped one arm around her waist, tightening his hold until she was pressed against him. There was no hiding his arousal. Letting her feel just how much he wanted her, he lifted her chin, kissed her tenderly, and murmured against her lips. “I’ve waited years for you to be ready for this. All you have to do is say yes. Just. Say. Yes….”
“But Sir Josef—”
“Not now. Not yet. Maybe…maybe never. You heard him. We have to be vetted. Approved to play before he’ll join us. And only then with our permission.”
“He wants you,” she whispered, blushing again. “I could hear it. Smell it. And you want him, too.”
“He’s an attractive man,” Luc admitted. “I know you haven’t seen the actor I’m thinking of, but he’s almost as tall as me. Thick, wavy hair, and no beard to hide that cleft in his chin. His eyes are brown and very striking, where he’s a blond. His clothes are tailored to fit his frame. He’s trim but muscled, like he plays tennis or racquetball. Maybe he works out, or runs, like me. He has a way of looking at you that’s mesmerizing, especially knowing what he is. What he does. He’s a unique combination of a doctor and a Dominant, someone who understands the human psyche, who recognizes limits and knows what it takes to push you past them. If you are going to learn about the lifestyle, you’ll have no better teacher.”
“Except you.” She kissed him back, softly, hesitantly. “You’re my teacher. You should be the one to show me—later. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s just the two of us, okay? I think that’s all I can handle right now.”
“So…that’s a yes?”
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REPLAY BOOK 6: HIGHLAND FLING May 1, 2017
Jannet hadn’t seen Aubrey Wolfe since their years at Juilliard, where Aubrey studied piano and Jannet danced. Although Replay was known for the historical accuracy of their period garments, music weekend was proving the exception to the rule. Aubrey’s outfit consisted of fishnet stockings, short pantaloons, an 18th century style coat, and a white powdered wig. She was wearing makeup—something that Jannet had never seen on her. Aubrey was visually impaired. Someone would have had to apply the cosmetics for her. Just guessing, she thought it might be one of her partners, Luc Vashon, who’d guided her in and readied her for her performance tonight.
The concert was brilliant. Everyone attending was spellbound. At least one was moved to tears. Local librarian Gini Shelton’s face was wet by the time the last notes of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik”—“A Little Night Music”—adapted for piano faded and the next selection began. Seeing Gini’s Dom, Marcus Vos, pull her onto his lap and comfort her made Jenny acutely aware of her own lack of a man in her life.
She’d brought extra batteries, just in case.
Sir Josef left Mr. Vashon by the piano where Aubrey was playing and made his way to where Jannet was. The Austrian-born psychiatrist was glowing with pride for his submissive’s performance.
“I understand that you and Aubrey know each other,” he said when she finished her song. “And Mr. Vashon, from Juilliard.”
“Not well,” Jannet admitted. “Different departments. But Aubrey and I knew each other’s work. She’s brilliant.”
“As were you, Luc tells me. When time allows, we would welcome a visit as soon as you can arrange it. You have my number. I have Aubrey’s schedule with her travel dates. We shall want to make certain that she and Luc are home when you come.”
Jannet was excited, thinking about the prospect of reconnecting with her former schoolmate and Aubrey’s teacher. Since moving here, her main conversations away from home were with the librarians when she took Alexis to bring back and check out books, and with the medical professionals that Alexis saw, including Eleanor Benoit St. Leger for her flashbacks and nightmares. Other than her sister-in-law, she hadn’t really developed any friendships.
“Thank you, Sir Josef,” she told him sincerely. “I look forward to it. I’ve heard that your home is lovely.”
“It is,” he admitted. “We recently added onto the back. Enclosed the pool with a stunning solarium. It was designed by the same architect who built your brother’s home. I was very happy that he agreed to do my much-smaller project.”
Jannet felt her face grow flush, remembering him from her brother’s wedding. She’d never met him until they were a paired bridesmaid and groomsman. Seated next to each other at the reception, she’d had all night to study him, even when her anxiety had kicked in and made it difficult to talk.
He was handsome. Charming. Blessed with a squared jaw and dimpled cheeks, he had long brown hair and warm hazel eyes that missed nothing. He was observant enough to not press her to dance, and considerate enough to stay with her when he could have partnered any number of women there.
She hadn’t missed the looks thrown his way. Unless she was very much mistaken, when he spent a night alone, it was by choice.
“And there he is.” Sir Josef pointed to a group of men—all Dominants, from the looks of them.
One of them was Ian McGregor.
He was looking at her.
Why? What was he thinking?
“Come,” Sir Josef coaxed, breaking her from her reverie. “Dance with me.”
Jannet bit her lip. At the wedding reception, she’d led Ian to think that she couldn’t dance rather than let him know that she was too nervous to trust herself on the floor with him. He was a Dominant, like her brothers. With her submissive nature and the aura that Ian emanated, her knees had been jelly.
Ever the astute observer, Sir Josef noticed her discomfiture and pressed her gently. “Tell me,” he murmured. “Why the hesitation?”
Rather than confess what she’d done, she shook herself, turned to face him, pasted on a smile, and lifted her arms for the waltz.
Thankfully, Sir Josef didn’t demand more than her willingness to partner him. He turned out to be a decent dancer—at least for the waltz. She followed his lead, gliding across the floor, welcoming the familiar response that came with their movements. It wasn’t ballet, but it was dance. It was enough for now.
The song ended. Mr. Vashon leaned over to whisper in Aubrey’s ear, and she started another waltz.
Intending to rejoin the rest of those listening, Jannet turned and found her way blocked by a wall of velvet-clad muscle, dressed in period finery. Ian McGregor caught her right hand in his left and stretched their arms out to the side. Sliding his other hand around her waist, he pulled her closer to him than was necessary. Or maybe it was. There was no way that she could slip free, not without making a scene.
Then again, why would she, when she’d dreamt of being in his arms and she was finally here?
Sir Josef was an adequate partner. Ian commanded the dance floor. Commanded her. He led her through increasingly difficult waltz steps, demanding her submission, bending her to his will. Dipping her low, he pulled her upright and guided her through a sequence that had her craving more.
More dance. More dominance. More Ian McGregor.
She was so screwed.
“Thank you,” she managed when the music and their movements had stopped.
Lowering their arms, he released her hand and placed both of his on her waist. Just the feel of him sent delicious shivers rippling through her. And his smell…tantalizingly, utterly masculine and oh, so tempting.
“You,” he rumbled, “have been a bad girl. Do you know what happens to bad girls?”
She did. God, she did. Her mind was alive with decadent possibilities.
“What, Sir?” she whispered, careful to keep her gaze on his clean-shaven chin.
In one swift move, he fisted her unpowdered hair and pulled back her ginger head, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Spanking, to start.” His hazel eyes narrowed slightly. “Paddled. Stripped. Bound. Flogged,” he said, “and fucked. You’ve got the first five coming. The last, you’ll have to earn. What say you, eilidh?”
Eilidh. Red doe. Hearing the pet name in her native Scots Gaelic made her even wetter than she was.
“Yes, Sir,” she managed. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Good girl.” Bending down, he bit her ear, then whispered into it. “When the music ends, your backside is mine.”
Her body threatened to pool at his feet when he let her go. Nodding, Ian headed over to talk to Sir Piers and his wife Eleanor, nearly five months along and clearly showing. Somehow Jannet managed to make it to a chair and sink down onto it. As much as she enjoyed hearing Aubrey Wolfe play, she couldn’t wait for the performance to end.
This close. She was this close to learning what submission would entail. What a Dominant would demand.
Just how much she could take.
She’d been nervous about submitting to a virtual stranger. Sir Piers had a reputation for pairing partners, but still. This was her first time here—or anywhere. It was her first experience, and Ian appeared well-versed in the lifestyle. He could have easily chosen another play partner, versed in protocol and trained to please. She did not want to disappoint.
Forty-five minutes later, Aubrey finished and rose to a round of enthusiastic applause. Sir Josef kissed her, then took Mr. Vashon by the neck and pulled him close for an equally passionate kiss.
“Ready?” A familiar baritone voice sounded behind her.
“Yes, Sir.” She was, and so was everyone else. The BDSM scene had begun before the last note ended.
“Your choice,” he said. “Here in public, in a private playroom, or in your suite.”
“Playroom,” she answered. She wasn’t ready for an audience, and it was a little too soon to invite Ian to her room. If things didn’t work out, she would need neutral space, free of his scent and any physical reminders of what happened between them.
Rounding her chair, Ian held out his hand and helped her from it. Maintaining his hold, he led her away from the scene that continued to unfold around them. As much as she was tempted to ask, Jannet knew better than to beg him to stay. There was always tomorrow, she reminded herself. An outdoor venue with pipes, drums, and kilts seemed a perfect setting for a newcomer to observe the action and satisfy at least some of her curiosity.
It seemed like they walked forever, down the labyrinth of halls and up two flights of stairs. Taking a key from his pocket, Ian unlocked the door to Room 7, twisted the handle, and swung the door open wide. Jannet stood, rooted, feeling her stomach knot and her anxiety kick in. It wasn’t too late. She didn’t have to do this.
Ian pulled her into the room, shut the door, and pinned her against it with the hard length of his six feet three inch body. Thrusting five fingers into her hair, he put his other hand over her throat and squeezed, ever so slightly.
Jannet raised her gaze, past those perfect lips, to meet his thick-lashed hooded eyes. She watched, fascinated by the shift in them. Any concern for her was vaporized by the flare of lust that threatened to consume them both.
“Fuck it,” he growled, and slammed his mouth down on hers.
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Replay Book 7
Replay Book 7: Wing Men by Nia Farrell
Length: 20,312 words. Release date August 1, 2017.
Blurb: It’s World War I weekend at Replay resort, and vocalist Lara Eastman is one of the entertainers hired to help bring the past to life. The offer comes at a time when she’s worried about how to pay her bills. She accepts the job but declines getting vetted to play—something that she quickly regrets when she meets not one but two very attractive—and very Dominant—pilots.
Alexander Boulton is the resort owner’s cousin. This weekend, the handsome Brit is flying a Sopwith Camel against his rival Dmitry Chezhekov, a Russian-born pilot who portrays a German flying ace. On the ground, the red-haired singer comes under both men’s sights.
Lara meets Alex first, but she’s equally attracted to Dmitry. She rarely hooks up at events, but Alex and Dmitry will prove the exception to her rules. The truth is, she wants them both. Unwilling to settle for one when she can have it all, Lara proposes a threesome.
The men are fierce competitors. Each is determined to bring her the ultimate in pleasure. Only one thing is certain. If they want her, they’ll have to learn to share.
Written for ages 18+.
An air raid signal sounded. German soldiers grabbed their guns and took their places behind the sandbag barriers. The planes came in low, strafing the field. Bursts of blank rounds sounded from the German rifles. Puffs of dirt flew into the air from charges that had been laid earlier. The way that they detonated, it looked like bullets from the planes were hitting the ground.
Meanwhile, the German pilots were scrambling, climbing in their fighters, strapping on goggles, and preparing to start their engines. Five ground crew members each took hold of a propeller and gave it a spin. The radial engines roared to life. Freed of their wheel chocks, the planes headed for the runway.
Dmitry was the last to take off, but his Fokker’s superb climbing ability allowed him to quickly join the others. They flew only far enough to turn and meet the British head on.
From her vantage point, Dmitry and Alex’s planes seemed to be on a collision course. She held her breath and fisted her gloved hands, watching, hoping, trusting that nothing went wrong. At the last minute, the Sopwith Camel pulled up, barely missing the Fokker.
More passes were made. Planes were “disabled.” Billowing trails of blue smoke, the downed German planes landed here. The “crippled” British planes returned to their imaginary base.
Finally, only three were left. Dmitry, Alex, and another British pilot engaged in a stunning display of aerial combat, with all the climbs, rolls, and maneuvers that you’d expect in a big-budget motion picture. Eventually, Dmitry simulated being shot, leaving a trail of smoke as he landed. The two British planes flew off, victorious after their successful raid.
Cheers broke out from the crowd. When the applause had quieted, Sir Piers addressed the spectators who’d come out for the morning battle.
“Thank you,” he said. “What an amazing display! The pilots shall all return shortly and will be joining us. Lunch will be served at eleven thirty, to our reenactors, patrons, staff members, and guests. The next reenactment, scheduled this afternoon at one, will be a German attack on a French airfield. The final battle today at five pm will be a different version of this scenario. Meanwhile, the bar will soon be open in the casino tent, where games of chance, music, and conversation may be found for those who wish to stay the day.”
While they had been watching the combat demonstration, a crew of workers had erected yet another tent, yellow striped with two massive center posts and a roof that would cover a one-ring circus. She guessed that tables, chairs, and equipment were being carried in through a back opening. The casino’s front door flaps were closed.
“I’m afraid that it is off limits to you, my dear,” Sir Piers said, “where you are not vetted. Pity, but rules are rules where scenes are concerned.”
“I understand,” she assured him. “But the day is lovely. You’ve provided food, and shelter from the sun. A place to sit and things to see. I’m hoping to get a closer look at the planes, if they’ll let me.”
“I’m certain that can be arranged.” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “I know people.”
Lara laughed. “I’m sure that you do. Hopefully, he’ll be back soon.”
Sir Piers strained his ear, listening. “I do believe that I hear a familiar stutter headed this way. Alex should be here shortly. I must leave soon to check on the situation at home. With luck, I will not return alone. We shall see.”
The German soldiers were already headed for the food tent. The ground crews and pilots followed. Lara sat in one of four folding chairs at a small round table in a shady corner of the space. With tea to drink and a scone to nibble on, she settled in to people watch. It always fascinated her when costumed civilians and military reenactors intermingled. And she loved listening to the reenactors who regaled each other with stories. It truly was like stepping back in time.
Being a single female, sitting alone and therefore perceived as available, she halfway expected to be approached by the men, and possibly some of the women. Introducing herself as a non-vetted performer worked like a charm. Most of these people were here to play.
The only one who seemed to not mind that she couldn’t was Dmitry. But then, she suspected that he looked upon her as a special challenge. He took his time coming over, accepting accolades from the other reenactors and chatting with a few other guests. Helping himself to a plate of late breakfast and a cup of coffee, he headed straight for her.
“I sit here, da?”
Lara managed to not smile. “If that’s a question—May you sit here?—the answer is yes. Yes, you may sit with me.”
Dmitry took the chair to her right. His plate was heavy on protein and lower on carbs. He spiked his coffee with a dash of whatever he was carrying in an antique silver flask. Slipping it back inside his brown leather aviator’s jacket, he flashed an unrepentant grin. “A touch,” he said. “Safe to fly later. Safe to sit now. Tonight, I listen to you. When done, maybe you listen to me. We see.”
Alex’s voice dashed the flame that Dmitry’s smoldering delivery had ignited inside her, but only for a moment. Alex and Dmitry were rivals in the air, but were they willing to share? She didn’t want to choose between them. She wanted them both, if only for the weekend.
Which brought her to all of the obstacles that must be overcome. She wasn’t vetted. If the men could be talked into a threesome, it would be vanilla sex in Dmitry’s room at the resort, quiet kink at her bed and breakfast, or permission to use the St. Leger’s Dungeon for a full-blown session of kinky fuckery.
She knew what she wanted.
Lara wanted it all.
“Alex,” Lara chirped, hoping that she managed to sound relatively innocent. So many naughty thoughts were in her head right now, her mind was doing a spin that would have earned her a nine point five at the Winter Olympics. “Won’t you join us?”
Dmitry bristled, but she ignored it. Better to find out now if there was hope for both men tonight. They would have to agree on a number of things—first and foremost, could they play with her together, or would she need to keep them apart?
Alex looked at his plate, at Dmitry, at her. “I believe that I shall. Thank you.” He took the chair to her left, sandwiching her between them.
Alex’s plate was a balance of protein and carbs. He and Dmitry had both taken sausage links and scrambled eggs, but Alex had added hash browns, a biscuit with butter and jelly, and several pieces of fresh fruit. Dmitry had opted for half a biscuit smothered in sausage gravy and no potatoes.
Dmitry seemed to be enjoying the Russian equivalent of Irish coffee. Alex drank milk and nodded approvingly at her tea.
“So, tell me,” she said, looking at Alex. “This morning’s combat. From down here, it looked like you two were going to take each other out. When you’re sharing airspace, how close do you get before you pull away?”
He sliced an apologetic glance at Dmitry. “Today, closer than I like. The controls were slow to respond. I’ll check it out before I take her up again.”
Lara took a breath and looked at Dmitry, too. “You didn’t try to avoid him. No evasive action that I saw, anyway.””
Dmitry shrugged as if it were no big deal. “He was close. I wait. He move.”
“Well,” she said, glancing at each man, connecting them with her gaze, “I’ve seen you share airspace. I was wondering if—hoping that?—I might tempt you to share more. Just so you know, I’m not a trained submissive. I’ve never done anything much beyond having my wrists tied, wearing a blindfold, and getting spanked. Pretty vanilla, I know. But I’m willing, if you are. Except that not being vetted limits us to what we can do on Replay property. I’m going to leave you two to figure it out. Come tonight and hear me sing. After the concert, you can tell me what you want to do.”
She left them sitting, speechless. It was a temporary state, she was certain. While she went to look at the airplanes, they were probably stabbing at their breakfasts and dueling with each other for supremacy.
There can be only one…
Could two Doms be in control? She thought so. She hoped so. One thing was certain. If they wanted her, they’d have to learn to share.
Why not one click here and start reading now?
Buy Link for e-book: Replay Book 7 Wing Men
Teasers and Excerpt http://bit.ly/RB7WP Or https://wordpress.com/post/niafarrell.wordpress.com/1323
Replay Book 8: The Dark Side by Nia Farrell
Length: 26,421 words. Release Date November 1, 2017.
Teasers and excerpts http://bit.ly/RB8WP or https://niafarrell.wordpress.com/2017/09/30/replay-book-8-the-dark-side/
Blurb: Actress Ashley Slade once filmed in Replay’s Versailles Room, and she’s been invited back for Cinema Classics weekend at the BDSM theme resort. Nursing old wounds and fresh hurts, she can justify the expense as research for an upcoming audition. Based on a true story, it’s a role that she desperately needs to salvage her career and save her home.
Ashley invested nearly all of her savings into her first movie as a producer. The film failed, as did her relationship with costar Cade Madden. The only thing that’s constant in her life is the chronic pain from a severe back injury. She refuses to use the prescription drugs that landed her in rehab.
Master Sorin (Sebastian Moldovan) is the Romanian Dominant who portrays a vampire Dom on the RACK side of the resort. A doctor who now teaches, Sebastian is assigned to guide Ashley throughout the weekend and keep her safe during play.
In the outside world, they can never be a couple. Keeping his job means maintaining his anonymity. But there’s no denying their elemental attraction to each other. When her 1930s Hollywood vamp meets his vampire, the chemistry is off the charts. What will happen in the harsh light of day? Can this star-crossed couple write their own happy ending, or will the circumstances force them to go their separate ways?
This story includes more extreme elements of BDSM and may contain triggers. Written for Ages 18+.
“Sir Josef and I have discussed the research that you hope to do on the RACK side of the resort. We are assigning a Dominant to you who will answer any questions you might have on anything that you observe. He shall also be your guide, should you wish to experience anything first hand. I have asked him here to meet you.”
Sir Piers pressed the intercom button on his phone. “Kitten? Send in Master Sorin.”
Unsure as to protocol, Ashley rose from her chair, turned toward the door, and watched it open to reveal the man who would be her Dom for the weekend. Master Sorin was tall, at least six three or six four, with thick black hair, black eyes, an angled jaw, and Slavic cheekbones that gave him the look of a gypsy prince. He was built like a tennis player, with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and muscled thighs that challenged the fit of his black dress pants. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt were casually rolled up to reveal sculpted, hair-dusted forearms.
The man’s aura was pure animal magnetism. His dark gaze was penetrating. Hypnotic. He moved with the lethal grace of a jungle cat when he crossed the floor to where she stood, transfixed.
“Miss Slade, may I present Master Sorin? Master Sorin, this is Miss Ashley Slade, the actress we discussed.”
He swept her with an assessing gaze and crooked his lips into the barest hint of a smile. “Miss Slade.”
His rich baritone voice resonated in her core. The man could make a fortune doing voiceovers. His accent alone was perfect to inspire fantasies. It sure as hell made her mouth dry and her panties wet.
“Sir,” she managed.
He arched a brow and leveled the full force of his gaze upon her.
“Master,” she croaked, in desperate need of a drink.
Those dark eyes flashed. Reaching for her throat, he wrapped his hand around it and squeezed slightly. This close, he smelled of exotic spices and manly musk. There was no hiding her very physical reaction when her breath hitched and her pulse raced beneath his fingers.
He hummed his pleasure and leaned to whisper in her ear. “I hope that you are ready for this, dragă. I will be very disappointed if you are not.”
He led her to the St. Andrew’s cross in the corner. A small table nearby held four leather cuffs, a flogger, lubricant, two sizes of anal plugs, and condoms.
Just thinking about the possibility of his possession made her soaking wet. He fastened the cuffs on her wrists and ankles and had her stand, facing the cross. When he ordered her to spread her legs so that he could secure them, there was no hiding the scent of her arousal.
He drew his fingers up her leg as he rose, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. He palmed her ass and slid his hand up her spine, past the scar on her low back to the base of her neck. Tracing the line of her shoulders and arms, he grasped her wrists, put them where he wanted them, and fastened them to the cross, too. Gathering her hair, he twisted it into a rope, brought it to her front, and tucked it between her breasts to help keep it there.
“Before we begin, I need your safewords. One to slow the play, another to stop it. What are your safewords, dragă?”
“I don’t know,” she said, feeling slightly panicked. She should have chosen them before coming. Now it was too late to be creative or clever. “I can’t think of any.”
“Then let’s make it simple. Yellow to slow, red to stop. Just like driving.”
“Okay,” she breathed, glad that he wasn’t going to make her come up with something more exotic. Her mind was too full of other things, like lube, anal plugs, condoms, and the hot, hard, and very sizeable erection that she felt pressed against her.
“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Master Sorin went into her bedroom’s en-suite and returned with wet washcloths and towels. “Now, we can begin. Have you ever worn a plug?” he asked.
“Have you had anal sex?”
“Did you like it?”
She’d only done it with Cade, and he had to be persuaded to go there. “It was okay.”
He grunted. “We’ll start with the plug for now. I’m going to check you. I need to see how tight you are and what size plug you can handle.”
Lubricating his finger, he circled the ruched ring of her ass and pressed against it, gentle but insistent, until half of his finger was inside her.
“Give me a word,” he rumbled, testing her opening, judging how much he could give her, seeing how much more she could take.
“Green. I’m good, Master Sorin.”
He pushed in deeper, penetrating her with one lubed finger, then two. Stopping there, he oiled the larger anal plug and inserted it into her rectum. “Color?” he asked, tapping on the plug.
“Lime,” she wheezed. “Just…give me a minute, please, Master? I need to relax my muscles, and the plug isn’t helping.”
Wiping his fingers clean on one of the washcloths, he started massaging the tension from her with those gifted hands of his. Hands that helped. Hands that healed. Hands that had held countless lives in the balance and done their best to bring them through to the other side.
She wondered, when he’d lost a battle, had he cried?
“That’s it, dragă. Relax. Let go. Trust me to take care of you. Trust me to give you what you need.”
Ashley exhaled a deep, cleansing breath and put herself fully into Master Sorin’s hands.
“And now, the flogger, for your pleasure and mine. Keep your muscles relaxed and welcome it. Here we go.”
He stepped back. Immediately, her body missed his warmth, and she shivered.
“Breathe, dragă,” he reminded her.
Ashley drew in a deep breath, held it, and exhaled, feeling some of her tension leave with it. She remembered to inhale when the first blow fell, the soft leather falls striking her upper back. He swung it again, aiming for the other side this time, checking his strength and easing her into it. Gradually, his blows got harder, and closer together, until he was raining them down on her back, her hips, her thighs. One carefully placed swing caught the anal plug.
Ashley moaned her pleasure.
Master Sorin dropped the flogger. Behind her, she heard the crinkle of a foil packet, the jangle of a belt buckle, the snick of a zipper, then his breath, hot and harsh against her neck. “One word stops it,” he reminded her, as if she could. Weeks of masturbation had her primed and ready for him.
“Please. Oh, please,” she begged him. “Fuck me….”
He hadn’t meant for things to go this far, this fast.
Sebastian shoved aside the thought. Ashley wanted this. Wanted him. Sooner or later, what did it matter?
Wetting himself on her juices, he notched his glans in her opening and pushed inside, not stopping until he had worked most of his length into her tight,vwet hole.
He smiled to feel it. Not every woman could handle nine inches.
He hadn’t been worried. If he couldn’t bury himself in her sex, there was always her ass. She’d taken his fingers and the plug beautifully. But he planned to save anal for later. They had all weekend. There were so many things he wanted to show her. So many kinks that he’d like her to try.
Grasping her hips in a bruising grip, he began to pound into her, setting off a series of tiny orgasms that made her pussy gush, until her juices were running down her legs. Keeping one hand on her hip, he wrapped his fingers around her shoulder and snapped his pelvis, driving into her and hitting her G-spot. She came, hard, drenching them both with her juices.
“Yessss,” he grated. Continuing to fuck her, he brought her up to her next orgasm and kept her there, hovering on the precipice, until she was begging for release and he was ready to join her. He bit the base of her neck, twisted her nipple, and heaved inside, ripping a climax from her. He came, filling the end of his condom while her deliciously snug walls spasmed around him, milking his length.
She was perfect.
Before they’d met, he’d had his doubts. When he had expressed them to Sir Piers, Replay’s Master Dom had assured him that he would find Ashley Slade a pleasant surprise.
Sir Piers was right, as always. She was intelligent, curious, and very, very guarded. She had old scars and fresher wounds that were far from healed. She was fractured—but not broken. A recovering addict with a back injury that would never go away, limiting her on what they could do.
He’d never had a fragile submissive. The women he usually paired with on the RACK side of the resort could handle anything that he gave them and more. Given her medical history, it was possible that Ashley could not support the weight of his body when he finally took her to bed.
He kissed the place where his teeth had marked her and licked the petal softness of her skin. Still impaled on his cock, she moaned and pressed back, grinding against him.
“Give me a color, dragă.”
“Green, Master Sorin. Better than green. That was amazing.”
Indeed, it was.
A glance at the clock told him what he already knew. There was no time for a bath. A quick shower, dress, then they’d head back to wardrobe.
Pulling free, he took care of his condom in the en-suite. He returned with a fresh, warm washcloth for Ashley, wiping the sweat from her back and cleaning her juices from her thighs. He removed the anal plug before washing between her legs. Tossing the used cloth aside, he unfastened her ankles and wrists, checking the color and circulation of each one.
Taking hold of her shoulders, he turned her towards him and kissed her temple. “Shower,” he said. “Then dress. If we don’t do anything else, we should make it to wardrobe with a few minutes to spare.”
Ashley rolled her shoulders and sighed. “Too bad,” she said, her voice still husky with arousal. “I love shower sex. And bathtub sex. Hot tub, swimming pool, ocean—just mention water, and I get wet. Better Pavlov’s dog than Schrödinger’s cat, I suppose.”
Sebastian smiled. If he wasn’t aware of her intelligence before, her casual use of scientific references would have clued him in.
Ashley Slade just became even more interesting.
He wasn’t looking for a permanent sub, and there was no way in hell that he could maintain anonymity with someone like her. He had agreed to be her Dominant, knowing that this weekend was all that they could ever have.
“Shower only,” he growled. “Tease me or try for more, and you’ll earn yourself a caning.”
“Yes, Master.” She said the right words, but he glimpsed the brat in her eyes, clearly itching to disobey.
Replay Reunion 1: Naughty New Year by Nia Farrell
Length 6,154 words. Release date January 1, 2018.
Teasers and excerpt: http://bit.ly/RR1WP or https://niafarrell.wordpress.com/2017/11/20/replay-reunion-1-naughty-new-year/
Blurb: The cast of Replay BDSM theme resort reunites for a very special New Year celebration, held in the latest expansion where future Steampunk weekends will be held. Sir Piers built the Steamroom complex for his wife Eleanor. Its design was inspired by the books that she enjoys as an adult and a board game that she loved in her youth.
It’s a rare evening out for Replay’s owner and his wife. Time away from their daughter Adrienne creates problems for Eleanor, who’s still breastfeeding. But Sir Piers is more than her husband. He’s her Dominant. When the pain becomes acute, he whisks her into the conservatory and gives her the relief that she needs.
It’s a brand New Year, and a very different Replay. Written for ages 18+.
The moon was nearly full tonight, and the sky was clear. The ambient lighting in the conservatory made it harder to see the stars, but it enhanced the inner beauty of the space. The stained concrete floor mimicked flagstones but the illusion of texture was far easier to clean. Potted trees and plants formed a maze of pathways. A mix of wicker, wood, and metal furniture was scattered throughout.
Piers had built the entire Steamroom complex just for her, inspired by the books she enjoyed as an adult and the game that she had loved when she was younger.
It was the first time that she had been included on a project from the initial concept to the completed design. She’d thought that cutting back her hours of counseling at the community resource center would allow more time with Adrienne. Instead, she’d found herself working with Piers and loving every minute of it.
The man was a visionary. A genius, really. And so very humble, considering his gifts. He’d taken a dream and turned it into reality. Every weekend, he made fantasies come true.
If she could be certain that she wouldn’t add to any guilt or embarrassment that Ashley might be feeling, she’d slide from her chair, crawl over to her husband, and show her appreciation. Later, she promised herself. Their first obligation was to others. And denying herself now would only heighten her pleasure later.
She finished her snails and sipped at her wine, watching Piers eat. For so large a man, he was incredibly graceful. He had nearly finished when the orchestra began playing the song that they’d first danced to, dressed as the White Queen and King in Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland.
“I am sorry.” He sighed. “I expected us to be finished inside and ready to dance, if we were not already.”
“Oh, no! Don’t be sorry. It’s fine, Piers. Really. This whole night. This place. The food. The wine. The music. Everything is perfect—or will be, if we can get Ashley’s stomach settled. Maybe some clear soda, or crackers. I went through boxes of saltines and graham crackers with Adrienne.”
“Indeed.” At least he was able to smile about it now. At the time, he’d been extremely concerned, and rightly so. “Hopefully, next time will be better.”
“Hopefully,” she agreed. “With Adrienne, the only thing easy was the delivery. Two hours, and there she was.”
Piers dropped his gaze. “The doctor said that your hips were made for birthing babies.”
He put his napkin on the table. Rose. Stalked over to her like a large jungle cat, took hold of her chair, and turned it to face him. Kneeling, he slid his hands down her thighs and spread her legs, opening her, letting him smell the musk of her arousal.
“So responsive,” he crooned, cupping her sex and feeling how wet he’d made her. “But these are in the way of enjoying my dessert. Knickers off, princess.”
FOREVER OURS SERIES:
AS WICKED AS YOU WANT (FOREVER OURS BOOK 1) August 1, 2016, named on THE 50 BEST INDIE BOOKS of 2016, voted #1 Erotica and #10 overall; nominated Best Erotica, Best Historical, and Best Romance, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards; nominated Best Erotica, Golden Book Awards Contest 2017.
Three soulmates are destined to find each other. Chance brings them together. Will Fate tear them apart?
Written for ages 18+.
Review by author Pandora Spocks: I was privileged to receive an ARC of Nia Farrell’s new release, As Wicked as You Want. And I couldn’t have been more excited since I’m a huge fan. The story is set in Chicago and London of 1868, a turbulent period in history.
Elena Davenport, alone after the death of her twin brother Lane, assumes his identity and lives as a man, even enlisting and serving in the Union Army. When PTSD forces her to abandon her duty, she forges a living as an artist with the help of her studio assistant, Daniel O’Flaherty, whom she met when they served together. Daniel struggles with the fact that he finds himself drawn to the man he knows as ‘Lane.’
Their lives are changed with the arrival of Elena/Lane’s stepbrother, British history professor Edward Wainwright. The chemistry between Elena and Edward is instant. With the Pinkertons on Lane’s heel for desertion, Lane and Daniel agree to go to London with Edward, who is interested in both Elena and Daniel.
With Daniel making arrangements for the shipping of their belongings, Elena is alone with Edward and quickly reveals her true identity. The question is, what will Daniel think when he finds out she’s a woman? And will he agree to join them as lovers?
This book is full of vivid historic detail and hot menage BDSM sex. It was thrilling from start to finish. And I love the fact that the subtitle is ‘Forever Ours Book 1.’ Because Elena, Edward, and Daniel have known each other before, in previous lives. And they’ll know each other again. Great read, highly recommended, FIVE HUGE STARS! Goodreads http://bit.ly/2aDf1pd and Pandora Spocks’s blog http://bit.ly/2aLAIRV
“What was that?” I rasped, my voice an octave lower than normal. I’d been a vocal partner, urging him on, begging him to finish, yelping when he accidentally hit a sore spot, crying his name into the mattress when his curled fingers hit another, sweeter place.
“The French call it la petite morte,” he said. “‘The little death.’”
I arched a brow. “Then they have misnamed it,” I muttered in the same language, earning a smile from the good professor. “Pardon me if I don’t reserve judgment, but there was nothing little about that.”
Edward smiled, indulging me. “You are correct. There was nothing little about that. You were magnificent, my dear. Responsive beyond my expectations.”
I rolled on my side to face him. “Beyond your expectations? You mean to say, it’s not like that every time?”
He arched a curious brow. “Hardly. I take it your other partners have not pleased you equally well.”
“Edward,” I said solemnly, “I’ve had no other partners. Remember, I asked you to teach me?”
He stared at me in disbelief, as if I were some strange creature, never before catalogued, that had wandered into his camp and made myself at home by his fire.
I attempted to lighten the mood. “If you’re going to make free with my body, then I reserve the right to ask questions. It’s only fair.”
He rolled onto his back and buried his face in his hands. “My God. What have I done?”
“Nothing that I did not want, or refuse to stop,” I told him. “I wanted to know what pleased you, and it was my choice to submit. Come, I’m not a child. Disregarding when your fingers fucked me senseless, of course, my eyes have been wide open.”
“That’s no excuse,” he grated. “You…you’re a virgin. You couldn’t know.”
“Edward. Edward. May I remind you that I had a brother with friends until the war divided them? And that I served three years in the company of men who loved to brag of their conquests and adventures? Admittedly, I can still be shocked—I mean, what the New Moneys want still boggles my imagination—but surely by now you’ve realized that I am no fragile Miss. Granted, I shall strive to be proper in company, but when it’s the two of us alone, in private, behind closed doors, well, eventually I hope to be as wicked as you want.”
He remained silent, processing, digesting what I’d said. He reached and brushed a finger against my cheek. “I promise you, I shall only take what you are willing to give.”
“And I shall strive to do the same,” I told him.
He tapped my chin and chuckled. “You shall, shall you?”
I knew, if lines were drawn, I would be compelled to try and cross them, but it was my intention to reciprocate. “Mmm, yes, indeed. Hard though it may be. You see, I’ve much catching up to do.”
“So you say.” Drawing a line down my throat, he kept going until he’d reached the top of my breast. I’d bound them, of course, when I was playing the man. Although there was little to be said for the comfort of corsetry (save for the ease it could bring to one’s aching back), I was pleased by the swell of my bosom, laced-up or not.
So was Edward. He asked no permission beyond the look he flicked my way, from breast, to face, and back again, signaling his intention as clearly as if he’d spoken it. Fingers spread, he cupped, then grasped my breast, pressing his palm against the dark rose of my nipple. The feel of his hand and the sound that came from his throat made my breath catch, escaping as a whimper.
“Ooh. Yes. Oh. Yeeessss.” I hissed, arching into his grasp.
“Do you like that, pet?” he murmured, fingers kneading my mound of flesh. “What about this?”
He ducked his head and opened his mouth to take me in, suckling me. I felt the cord connected to my womb, charged with sexual energy that electrified my core and made me tremble in his embrace. He sucked harder, lathing me with his tongue, catching the tip between his teeth and biting me—an erotic mix of pleasure and pain that made me acutely aware of the emptiness between my legs.
When I reached for his nearly-dry hair, intending to thread my fingers in his curls, he caught my wrist and pinned it to the mattress. “Leave it,” he ordered, “or I shall tie you up.”
The thought of being bound, helpless, at his mercy…well, what else could I do? I thrust ten fingers in his hair.
“Want to play, do you?” Growling, he grabbed my hands and brought my arms over my head, holding my smaller wrists in one large hand.
“I want you,” I said, grinding my hips against him. “Please, Edward.”
“No.” A sibilant whisper, followed by torment. He pinched my nipple and twisted it cruelly. Tears sprung in my eyes but he did not stop, not even when I begged him for mercy.
“No.” He brushed his lips against my cheeks and tasted tears. He bathed my face with his tongue, swallowing my cry when he squeezed my breast hard enough to bruise. He kissed me, then, claiming my mouth, every part of it, with lips and teeth and tangled tongues.
I whimpered in his mouth. It echoed, returning on a moan dredged up from the depths of his being. “Please, I beg you!”
“You beg me, hmm. For what?” he asked, knowing full well what I wanted.
“Your cock,” I gasped. “I want your cock.”
He released one of my hands and brought it down to his front, pressed my palm against his erection, and wrapped my fingers as far as they could reach around his girth.
“There,” he said, thrusting against my hand. “Happy?”
“No, Edward. Please! I want your cock inside me.”
He smiled darkly, his turquoise gaze fastened on my lips.
“Careful what you wish for, pet.”
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DARK MOONS RISING March 10, 2016
Deidra pushed through the tangle of forest undergrowth, the fallen leaves crunching beneath her small, slippered feet. Occasionally she paused to catch her breath and listen for the sounds of pursuit or the rush of the river, now swollen from rains that had delayed the harvest in lands to the north.
She needed water. And food. She’d had nothing beyond a few husknuts, to eat or to drink, since breaking her fast this morn. When the chance to escape came, she’d taken it, although sorely unprepared, preferring the risk of discovery and death to what surely awaited her, had she but stayed.
Her lungs burned from the exertion of her desperate flight, but the waning light gave rise to a new foreboding. Although she’d escaped certain peril, other dangers threatened if she failed to find shelter before darkness fell. She’d heard the stories of these woods – nursery tales spun to frighten children into obedience. Other, more titillating versions, whispered behind delicate fingers and painted silk fans, described a race of giant men capable of changing form, dark shaggy beasts who’d love nothing more than to capture and mate with a daughter of light.
Not that they’d recognize her as such. The fragile fabric of her garments was shredded by the brambles that had scored her legs with dozens of thin, bloodied lines. Her waist-length white-gold hair, scraped back and pinned in a knot, was hidden beneath a makeshift scarf – a torn width of creamy white cloth that had graced her dressing table. Her nails were broken, her hands caked with dirt. She’d clawed her way out of the partially collapsed tunnel that led to freedom – a secret escape route known only to a privileged few.
Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
She kept moving, finding and then following a narrow trail blazed by cloven hooves, trusting that it continued to lead away from the castle and the fate that awaited her, should she be captured and returned. Mordred would want her back. Above all, she was to have been his prize.
Mordred’s attack had been months in planning. A surprise assault, the walls breached, brutal combat followed by wholesale slaughter of all save herself and a handful of servants deemed of use. More than lands, more than the castle that had been held by her family for generations, Mordred had wanted her and what strength he could steal from a daughter of light.
He had thought that her kind was a myth, until a wandering minstrel came to his court with a story that his spies had confirmed. On the first market day of the season, the minstrel had come to the village and had seen her lay hands on a child who’d been trampled. Under her touch, the small broken body had quickened, mended, and was ultimately restored. She had saved a life that day, but at what cost? Her family had been murdered, her people massacred. She had been reduced to the status of slave, forced to train as a comforter, destined for the bed of a man who had no mercy, who thirsted for power and teemed with lust.
Mordred wanted her. He would come for her. It was only a matter of time.
She tread lightly, smelling the earthy, fecund scent of ancient growth and rotting, fallen timbers. Instinct made her pause, rattled by the distinct, disturbing feeling that she was being observed. She listened, freezing when she thought she heard the unnatural shift of crisp autumn leaves. When she could breathe again, she threw one more glance behind her and launched herself into full flight, tearing through the deepening forest, dodging low-hanging limbs of the massive oaks as she raced along the deer trail, any thought of stealth abandoned.
Hunter and hunted, predator and prey, the distance between them closed. “Halt!” a voice ordered, low, gruff, decidedly masculine. Fueled by a sudden burst of energy born of desperation, she sped up, flying along the ground…until a massive arm snaked around her waist, plucked her up, and spun her around. Momentum carried them full circle.
“Fool,” he growled in her ear, pointing at the trap that would have claimed her. Sharpened spikes lined the floor of the pit, dug into the forest floor along the path.
“Poachers,” he spat. “I removed the cover to reveal it, but we’ve not yet had time to fill it in.”
Deidra shook in the confines of his hold, overcome by emotion. She thought she’d lost everything but she’d still had life, and breath. Her dream of regained freedom lived, too, if only she could talk him into letting her go.
She feared there would be no escaping him. The man was huge, with strength enough in his hair-dusted, muscle-roped arms that he held her as easily as he would a pet fenica weighing six stones. And he was fast – much quicker than the runners that her father had sent to summon aid…only to have their heads returned in a wicker basket with the demand to surrender or die.
“Please,” she whispered. Choking back the tears she’d refused to shed when the walls were breached, she softened the death grip she realized that she had on his arm. “And thank you,” she added, bracing to throw herself on the mercy of a man who might well have none.
She turned her head, moving her gaze up her captor’s arm, over muscles that tested the seams of his hunting jerkin, past the whorls of black hair that peaked from the v of his shirt. Above the thick column of neck, his beard-shadowed jaw was strong and square, his chin firm and cleft in the middle. His full, sensuous lips were as perfect as those carved by a master sculptor’s hand. She risked a quick look higher and glimpsed thick black lashes framing eyes as blue as the waters of Saint Illian’s spring. She resisted the urge to see if they were just as deep and mysterious.
The man was huge, at least six and a half feet tall, his long black hair tied with a leather lace that had come loose in their chase. His long bow and a quiver of arrows remained slung firmly across his back. His clothes were clean enough to have been put on fresh this morning. He smelled of the forest – woods and sweat, linen and leather. His skin was either naturally dark or he was well-kissed by the sun goddess, Sola. Laugh lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes bespoke a nature much kinder than Mordred’s.
It could be worse.
“My name is Deidra,” she whispered, forcing herself to keep her gaze lowered, giving the appearance of meekness, at least. “I seek sanctuary. Can you give it?”
He lifted her chin and crooked a smile. “Perhaps. If I can trust you to follow and obey. If not…” The lines of his mouth flattened, underscoring the weight of his words. “We’ll have to spend the night here, at our peril. Which is it to be?”
With dark moons rising, she had no choice. The things that hunted on the night of the full moons were nothing compared to what fed in the blackest hours – especially this time of year, when the veils between the planes were thinnest. “I will do my best to match your stride, if you will lead, my lord.”
“Thorne,” he said, relaxing his hold so that she stood before him, dwarfed by his size.
“Keep your eyes on me. Step where I step. If you start to fall behind, let me know at once. Understood?”
“Aye,” she said, refusing to think of anything else but surviving, one step at a time.
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PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT—AN EROTIC RETELLING OF JANE AUSTEN’S BELOVED CLASSIC by Nia Farrell and Jane Austen June 1, 2016, winner, Best Historical Romance, 2017 Menage Romance Readers Favorites; nominated Best Erotica, Best Historical, and Best Romance, 2016 Summer Indie Book Awards
PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT is an erotic retelling of a Jane Austen classic. Characters that you thought you knew…well, they’re ready to reveal their secret selves. Mr. Darcy is a Dominant. Miss Elizabeth Bennet is submissive. Jane Bennet might be the only “handsome” woman in Meryton, but puppy-like Charles Bingley needs a Mistress. Mr. Darcy doesn’t think Jane has what it takes and separates the couple.
His growing lust leads Mr. Darcy to confess his desire to dominate Miss Elizabeth – a proposition that she mistakes for a proposal. Already accused of less-than-gentlemanlike behavior, Darcy must find a way to win the submissive heart of a woman who abhors him.
Hailed as…Phenomenal. Gripping. Brilliant. Delicious Amazing. Titillating. Delightfully twisted. Fabulously naughty. “This is the Austen novel I always wanted to read.”
I find myself watching Miss Elizabeth, with her chestnut hair caught up in a style that compliments her face and figure. Neither her countenance nor her form are perfect by modern standards of beauty; however, her throaty laugh, her graceful dancing…her enthusiasm…more than make up for her deficiencies. For the second time in as many minutes, I find myself entranced, watching her with her partner, those striking dark eyes aglow with delight as she perfectly executes the most intricate of steps. I may one day regret that I shall never know how she moves in bed with her ankles around my neck. If asking her to dance would not invite speculation as to my particular tastes and give rise to unreasonable expectations, either towards Miss Bennet or any other female with a half-full dance card, I believe that I could be persuaded to lead her in a contredanse or the Boulanger.
As it is, I am expected to dance with the host’s wife and daughter. Seeing that Mrs. Lucas is engaged, I search the crowd and find Miss Charlotte Lucas speaking with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Hmm. A quandary. I cannot ask Miss Lucas to dance without extending a second invitation to her friend. Then again, it provides the perfect opportunity to ask Miss Bennet to dance without appearing to single her out.
Squaring my shoulders and softening my face, I approach the two women. Miss Lucas is nearly my contemporary, far past the age when most young women marry. Miss Elizabeth is of that age and, as such, should greet me with a welcoming smile, if not promises of pleasure, yet I sense a satirical lift to her eyebrow, and those midnight eyes of hers – so dark a blue as to be almost black – sparkle with a hint of mischief. I do not have long to learn what she is about.
“Do you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
When she was baiting the bull and ignored every red flag that I was throwing? “Yes,” I say a bit tightly. “But then most women wax eloquent on subjects dear to their hearts.” Seizing the opportunity when Miss Lucas is momentarily distracted, I lean and whisper, for her ears only, “You were clever, Miss Bennet, but unwise. Some men should not be teased.”
She stiffens imperceptibly and drops her gaze to her folded fan. “Sir, you are severe on us.”
Sir. One word to fall from those full, expressive lips, and suddenly I want more.
Jesus God. I must be mad. Or desperate. Or both.
Her bosom heaves with a small sigh. I swallow, my mouth gone painfully dry. She has deliciously small breasts, barely large enough to fit my hand, no doubt sensitive, as small-breasted women tend to be. With the layers of clothing, I would only be guessing that her nipples were hard, but the riot of gooseflesh that dimples her skin tells me that she is not unaffected.
Miss Lucas follows the line of my gaze and rushes to rescue her friend from my scrutiny. “It is your turn to be teased, Eliza. I am going to open the instrument, and you know what follows.”
What follows is a performance that will inspire fantasies for nights to come. Miss Elizabeth’s soft white hands and dexterous fingers playing the pianoforte. Her honeyed voice is like liquid gold, a rich contralto, turning the most innocent of tunes into a decadent delight. I cannot help noticing that her white throat and swan’s neck are perfect for wrapping fingers around. And those luscious lips of hers, which are so very, very expressive….
I imagine them parted. Imagine her panting, sweet moans escaping, then vibrating against my length as she swallows me to the root.
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KEEPER The Avenging Angels MC Introduction
Luke “Mad Dog” McLanahan and Isabella Castellari have a history. Kind of. He’s a member of the Avenging Angels MC and one of four brothers whom she thinks slept with her sister. Or did they? Nothing is as it seems. Isabella’s world is turned upside down when lies are exposed, truths revealed, and the man she’s been fantasizing about for three long years makes her an offer that she should refuse but can’t.
What happens when MC meets erotic romance? Find out when you enter the newest world created by this award-winning author.
Written for ages 18+.
Mad Dog grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him. She went, helpless to do anything else. In here, she needed his protection…even if it came at a price.
He opened a door and dragged her inside what looked to be his bedroom. A small flat screen TV sat on a scarred maple chest of drawers. The desk beside it held a printer and a laptop computer, its screen as black as Mad Dog’s soul.
Two interior doors led to what was likely a closet and what she hoped was a bathroom. “Is there somewhere I can wash up?”
They both knew she was stalling for time. He humored her anyway. “On the left,” he said, smirking. “Don’t get lost.”
As if she could. It was the tiniest bathroom she’d ever seen. The stool and sink were opposite each other, so close, she could nearly use them both. The shower was better, spanning the other wall, roomy enough for a man Mad Dog’s size and likely big enough to share.
She used two squares of tissue to lower the seat so she could go, then did a surgical scrub on her hands. Pulling up her knit top, she covered her fingers and twisted the door knob.
Mad Dog was looking at her e-reader.
He grinned like the very devil. “Seems little sister has a thing for MC’s. Who’d have guessed?”
“They’re just books,” she snapped, plucking the reader from his hand and sticking it back in her bag. “Fiction. Just because I read it doesn’t mean I want it in real life.”
“Krissy did,” he drawled. “She wanted gang banged. Trouble is, she hooked up with the wrong club. She’s lucky we came along when we did. You might not have seen her again.”
Isabella felt her legs start to buckle. Mad Dog caught her and pulled her to sit beside him on the bed.
She stared up at him, remembering, wondering how she could have gotten it so wrong.
Krissy. Prissy Krissy. Too proud to admit where she’d been, she’d said nothing, just let them think she’d spent the night with Mad Dog and his brothers.
And now her best friend was banging one of them.
Isabella hoped it was only one.
“What about Anna?”
He tsked. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not my brother’s keeper. Richie’s been seeing her for two months or so now. They seem…fond of each other.”
“Fond?” She barked a laugh. “Is that what you call it?”
He angled his head. “You don’t have to be fond of someone to give them a blow job. You don’t even have to like them.” He fastened his gaze on her mouth. “You just have to be willing…and understand the rules. Only one of us gets to bite, and it’s not you, Isabella.”
He reached for her breast, then, and she let him. Three years of forbidden fantasies were suddenly within her grasp. His was hard enough to bruise.
“My rules. My way,” he growled, pinching her nipple and making her moan. “I like it rough, little girl. You have no idea. I doubt that you can handle me, but if you want to try….”
Isabella’s mouth went dry, and she wet her lips. “How rough?”
Mad Dog caught her chin and pushed his thumb into her mouth. “Rough,” he rumbled, his blue eyes darkening when she started sucking and teasing it with her tongue. “Spanking. Bondage. My belt, if you beg me for it. I like oral, and I like anal. Say the word, and I’ll take you home. If you stay, you’re gonna get ridden hard and put away wet.”
He pulled his thumb from her mouth and fisted her hair. “Go or stay?” He pulled downward, forcing her face up to meet his.
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Avenging Angels MC Book 1
Blurb: Rose McLanahan is the princess of the Avenging Angels MC, daughter of its president and sister to four of its members, including Vice President Luke “Mad Dog” McLanahan. But Rose has a secret. She wants out of the clubhouse—and getting her CPA is her chance to have the normal life that she dreams about.
Michael O’Flaherty is a computer whiz, security systems expert, and an associate of the Avenging Angels MC. He’s Mad Dog’s best friend, as well as his brother in arms. Their days in Marine RECON are put to use when Michael is called in to find the niece of the local mob boss. Krissy Castellari has been kidnapped by a rival club, the Blackwater Demons MC. Michael discovers where she’s being held, but she’s not alone. The Demons have Rose McLanahan, too.
Mad Dog and Michael join forces to extract the girls, but Rose is still in danger, having been promised to the son of the Demon’s president Reaper. Mad Dog is tasked with returning Krissy to her family, and Michael agrees to take Rose away until it’s safe for her to return. War has been declared. Blood will be spilled. Alone in the Angels’ safehouse, the Dominant Michael and submissive Rose will finally discover each other.
Welcome to the Avenging Angels MC, full of Alpha males, Dominant bikers, and the submissive women who love them. Written for ages 18+.
She’d noticed before all this that he was an attractive man. She’d have to be blind not to, with that dark Irish coloring of his, thick black hair, a sinful brush of lashes framing his brilliant blue eyes, and the short scruff of beard that he wore that was so irresistible on men. Trouble was, she was totally off his radar, like he had mental blinders that kept him from noticing her. She had remained on the periphery of his vision, always out of focus…
And he didn’t like it. It was unsettling. Disturbing. Something that he couldn’t control, and his Dominant nature found that unacceptable. Well, too bad. He wasn’t her Sir—not yet, anyway. He was just going to have to deal with it.
She didn’t tell him that she’d seen the movie before. It had been a while, so she couldn’t remember everything that happened. Let him think it was her first time. It would serve him right for shutting her out.
“Oh, wow,” she breathed, watching the opening sequence. “She must not be wearing lipstick, or she’d ruin that page she just pulled out of the typewriter. And then she’d get spanked for it. Maybe she wants spanked for it. No, she needs her other hand free for the coffee. Ah, I see. Interesting office wear. After this movie, do you think businesses started addressing spreader bars in their dress code?”
Michael rubbed his face and said nothing.
“She’s leaving home. Just graduated and her dad’s sending her off into the world alone. No, someone’s picking her up. A wedding? And that’s her gay best friend. She doesn’t like the older guy hugging her. What’s that stuff? Wait. She’s a cutter? No shit. But she stops herself. Good girl.”
She kept it up, getting some of it right, telling some of it wrong. Michael didn’t seem to appreciate that she thought the spanking scene was fucking hot, or like listening to the extended argument she had with herself, whether or not there was penetration. “He’s probably just dry humping her,” she decided. “He seems the type, to deny a girl her pleasure.”
“She’s being punished,” Michael growled. “She hasn’t earned his cock or an orgasm.”
Rose was feeling reckless after her second beer. “And what the hell does it take to earn a fucking cock? The woman has done whatever he asked, from dumpster diving to crawling. I’d say she’s more than earned it.”
“When she’s not being punished, yeah. I suppose you’re right. But not now. Anything else waits.”
She drained her bottle and pointed it at him like an accusing finger. “You know, women get tired of waiting, same as men. He’ll be lucky if she stays. A woman with that kind of devotion who gets kicks from his kink? We’re a rare breed, Michael, but then, I guess you know that, right? No steady girlfriend. No permanent sub. Still banging that housesitter of yours? Heidi? Brunhilde?”
“Gretchen,” he snapped, glowering. “Her name is Gretchen, and that’s none of your fucking business. How much have you had to drink?”
She stopped to think. “Dos,” she deliberately slurred and held up two fingers and a thumb. “See? You’re not the only one who knows a foreign language. Yo hablo español.”
Michael tsked and shook his head. “Well, that’s two too many, princess. No more today, if that’s all the better you can handle it.”
Rose sat up straight. “I can handle it,” she argued, pinning Michael with her gaze. “I can handle a lot of things.” Keeping her eyes on him, she wagged a finger at the movie they were watching. “I bet I could handle his kink. I bet I could handle your kink.”
Michael crossed his arms and smirked at her. “Oh, really? You think you can handle me? Little girl, you have no idea.”
Rose cringed. “Don’t call me that! I’m not a little girl. I’m fucking nineteen years old, Crash! When are you gonna stop treating me like a child and see that I’m all grown up?”
“When you stop fucking acting like one.”
Michael leveled that look—the one that commanded respect, demanded obedience, while every fiber of her being was daring her to disobey.
Clutching her empty bottle to her chest, she gave him her own incredulous look and shook her head in disbelief. “You,” she grated, “are so fucking clueless. You have no idea. None!” She rolled her eyes and barked a harsh laugh. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Screw this. Screw you!”
Rose shot out of her seat and started walking.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Michael said, his voice filled with displeasure.
“The kitchen,” she snapped, refusing to look at him. “I’m going to throw away my trash.”
“That will wait until I goddamn say so,” he said tightly, rising from his seat and stalking towards her. “Fucking lot of nerve you’ve got, after everything I’ve done for you. You think you can disrespect me like that and fucking walk away? Think again, little girl. You tease me, you rouse the beast. You say you can handle kink. Let’s start with a spanking. See how hot you think it is when it’s your ass on fire.”
Rose shivered. Michael took the beer bottle from her fingers and tossed it on the sofa. He eyed the rounded end, then her. “Bend over it. Now!”
She draped herself over the end of the sofa, putting her hands on the seat cushion, bracing herself on straightened arms, preparing herself for what was coming. When nothing came, she looked over her shoulder to find Michael staring at her ass. Her T-shirt had ridden up, and her yoga pants had no panty lines.
Before she could chicken out, she reached behind her, hooked her thumbs in her waistband, and slid her pants to the middle of her thighs. Reaching, she put her palms on the sofa cushion and waited for him to begin.
He stepped closer. Covering one ass cheek with his large, capable hand, he tested it, mapping the contours, flexing his fingers, feeling the tone of her muscles, and judging resiliency.
The first spank smarted. She grimaced but otherwise did not react. The second blow fell hard enough to make her breath catch in her chest. More strikes, on both sides, quicker, harder, working up to the flurry of them that they had watched.
By the time they finished, Rose was a sobbing mess and Michael had a raging hard on.
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Blurb: In Restoration England, Catherine Fanshawe is a young widow without the means to run the estate that she has inherited. Driven to desperation and inspired by her namesake (believed to have been a notorious female highwayman), Catherine decides that the Wicked Lady will ride once more.
Her target is Lord Leighton, James Devereaux, a scandalous bounder, handsome as sin, and rich as Croesus. When she stops his carriage, she punishes his attempt to distract her by demanding more than money.
James resists, at first, until he realizes the masked highwayman is a woman. When she leaves him bound to a tree and unsatisfied, he vows revenge. Being a confidant of King Charles adds a world of privilege to his rank, and resources at his command. He will not rest until he finds his Wicked Lady. Whatever it takes, her crimes against him will not go unpunished, even if he must take the law into own hands.
Catherine doesn’t know it, but the tables are about to be turned.
Written for ages 18+.
Lady Donnelly did not protest when James took her arm and bade her accompany him to somewhere more private where they could…talk.
Both of them knew there would be little of that—at least in the near future.
Alone in his private chamber, he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in the way she trembled before him. She should be frightened. Her fate was in his hands.
“Nice mask,” James remarked. “Much nicer than the plain one you wore in Hertfordshire. Purchased with my coin, no doubt. Take it off.”
Her hands shook as she did so, revealing a pert nose and smooth cheeks. Her pale complexion contrasted sharply with her ebony hair and emerald eyes. Framed with a thick brush of absurdly long lashes, they were stunning to behold.
“And the dress.”
She blinked, hard. “What?”
James’s smile held no humor. “You heard me. The dress. I know damned well it was purchased with my coin, too. Be glad I do not choose to strip your brother, or make him privy to your shame. Test me, and you will not be the only one who pays the price for treason.”
“When you accost an officer of the King, you attack your sovereign. Did you think that there would be no repercussion for your crimes against me? Fortunately for you, Charles has agreed to let me handle this myself. Now, I can order a hanging, but I have much more appealing uses for rope. Your choice,” he said simply. “Be taken, naked, to the Tower or submit freely to me. Tell me, which is it to be?”
“I have no choice,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. He’d remedy that soon enough.
“Nor did I,” he reminded her curtly. “Your dress is still on.”
“I am sorry. I need help, Sir. Without a maid, I am afraid that I must beg your assistance.”
James used his considerable experience to dispense with her dress and underpinnings, leaving her clad only in her shoes and stockings, corset and chemise. He circled her, judging her attributes with a critical eye and finding himself well pleased. She was healthy, at least, with a soft curve to her belly, enough hips to hold onto, and creamy breasts that swelled above her stays. With her height a good foot shorter than his, it would make for some interesting dynamics when he took her to bed.
He went to sit upon it. “You shall lie across my lap with your head here and your arse here.” He pointed to each in turn. “I am going to spank you, blister that bottom of yours. You will keep count, and thank me for each blow. Lose track, and we begin again. You are not to speak otherwise. When you are allowed to do so, in private, you will call me Master. Nod if you understand.”
Mortification stained her cheeks. She jerked her head and wrung her hands.
“Good. You are intelligent, if unwise. We shall see how biddable you are. Now come.”
She approached him with as much eagerness as a convict did a hanging tree. Stopping by his knee, she bent over it, settled herself, and waited for him to begin.
James grabbed a handful of soft, fine linen and pulled up the back of her chemise, not stopping until the fabric was bunched above her waist and her bottom was bared. And what a lovely bottom it was. He palmed each cheek in turn, squeezing, molding, warming the tissue, preparing her for what was to come. She stifled a moan and clenched her thighs. He could smell her arousal.
His Wicked Lady was proving a lusty wench.
“One,” she gasped. “Thank you, Master.”
Smack! A matching strike on the other side.
“Two. Thank you, Master.”
He kept going, alternating sides, keeping his strikes on the fleshy globes of her buttocks. The flesh pinkened, then reddened, as she counted the cost. He did not stop until she had dissolved into tears, gulping breaths between her choked responses, and her nether lips were swollen and slick with dew.
James thrust two fingers into her breach, pumped his hand, and pulled it out, licking his fingers and tasting her essence. Delicious. She moaned, no doubt feeling the emptiness and aching to be filled.
He pushed her off his lap and let her crumple on the floor. “Kneel,” he rumbled, reaching to open his breeches. “I am going to fuck your mouth. If you know what’s best, you shall keep your teeth away and your claws sheathed—and you shall swallow anything that I choose to give you. Nod if you understand.”
The dark head bobbed.
“Have you done this before? Taken a man in your mouth?” He had discovered too little on her late husband to know his true measure as a man, let alone a sexual partner. “You may answer me.”
She pushed herself up, keeping her eyes down, never raising her gaze above his chest. “No, Master.”
For some reason, that pleased him, to learn he would be her first. “I shall teach you,” he said, taking out his cock and stroking it fully erect. “Show you how to give the greatest pleasure. There are sensitive spots here, here, and here.” He pointed to the base of his shaft, the whole of the crown, and the place underneath that could bring a man to his knees. “The rim and the first few inches are the most sensitive. You shall learn to take me down your throat—oh, yes, you shall do that, too. Use your tongue to tempt and tease, the suction of your mouth to bring me to a satisfying end. Swallow my seed, and I shall reward you. Fail in any of this, and you shall suffer the consequences. Now, begin.”
James fisted her hair and guided her to him, pushing his way between her lips and relishing the feel of her mouth and tongue. He forged deeper, his glans rubbing against the ridges of her palate, pushing against the back of her throat. She fought not to gag.
He drew back a little. “Suck,” he ordered. She obeyed, cheeks hollowing with her efforts. He grabbed his sac and squeezed his testes, jacked his hips and deepened his strokes. He fucked her face, pleased with her first efforts. Feeling his balls draw up and his cock swell, he growled a warning. “Get ready. Here it comes.”
James exploded, pouring himself into the warmth of her mouth as she fought to swallow the volume. When he had finished using her, he let go of her hair and let her sit back on her heels. Her green eyes were tear-smacked, her nose red, and her lips swollen.
Her eyes widened when he grabbed her biceps, hauled her to her feet, and tossed her onto the bed. He stripped her, bound her, spread her wide and secured her wrists and ankles to the four corners of his world. Here, in this room, he was king. He was her sovereign. Lady Donnelly was here to serve his will and be the receptacle for his lust. His to do with as he pleased. To discard or to keep.
Power was intoxicating. More so, when he could see her fear and smell her arousal. He thrust two fingers into her slit and pumped until she climaxed.
Shedding his clothes, he climbed onto the end of the bed and crawled up her body, dragging his chest on her front, letting his thatch of hair abrade that incredible skin of hers, sensitizing her breasts, and teasing her nipples into tight, hard buds. He took one in his teeth and plucked it, making her body arch and writhe beneath him.
Taking himself in hand, he parted her folds and found her opening, notched his head, and thrust inside, a primal claiming that tore a cry from her throat from the sheer force of it. He pulled back and thrust again, just as hard, just as deep, hips flexing, finding his rhythm and maintaining it. She was as perfect as he remembered. Tight. Wet. Responsive to his touch and willing to do anything he wished.
Nothing was sacrosanct. Everything was within his grasp. The only limits were his imagination and the whim of mercy that would eventually surface, when she reached her breaking point, if not before.
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RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
Rules of Engagement: A Daddy Dom Ageplay Erotic Romance by Nia Farrell
Length 18,816 words / 99 pages. Release Date October 1, 2017.
Paperback coming soon
Blurb: Corporate attorney Dylan Reynolds hopes to become a first time Daddy Dom with a twenty-two-year old genius whose lack of experience intrigues him. Holly Knox can’t deny her attraction to Dylan, but she’s never had a serious relationship, let alone been with a Dominant who’s into the BDSM lifestyle. He’s promised to show her a world of flavors beyond vanilla, but he wants to start with a spanking. Can this innocent embrace ageplay and be Daddy’s good girl?
Written for Ages 18+.
Holly Knox was naturally submissive but so painfully shy, a stranger might never guess that she was a genius who could be the next Bill Gates. However fucking high she ranked in MENSA, the twenty-two-year-old entrepreneurial software designer was a wide-eyed innocent when it came to BDSM. Then again, when he was her age—some sixteen years ago—he was still learning the ropes, as it were.
Blushing furiously, she stared at him from across the table he’d chosen, in a dimly lit corner at the far end of the hotel lounge. He watched, fascinated, as that brilliant mind of hers processed what he’d just proposed—a night of kinky debauchery and the best sex of her life.
“I mean…you…you…you can’t be serious,” she stammered. While a lot of men wouldn’t look beyond the no-nonsense glasses, Dylan saw everything. Her heart-shaped face. Delicious, pouty lips. Satin cheeks. Initially flushed with embarrassment, the pink had quickly edged toward the red he wanted to see on her tush after he disciplined her ass.
Her emerald eyes were as clear as glass and lushly fringed with curling lashes that went on for miles, even without mascara. She’d worn makeup tonight, which told him something. She was usually scrub-faced. With such incredible skin and that air of innocence, she’d be in her thirties before she stopped getting carded.
So young. So innocent. So fucking ripe for the picking.
He cocked a brow and offered half a smile. She’d been resistant and he’d been patient, but this was going to happen, one way or another. It was simply a matter of getting her to agree to his preferences. He felt good about his chances; he’d made a small fortune from his powers of persuasion—although corporate law was proving far simpler than this complex young woman, who hid her femininity under frumpy clothes and her genius IQ behind conservative black-framed eyewear.
Just because she was reclusive to a point bordering on sociopathic didn’t mean she couldn’t be coaxed from her shell. After all, he’d talked her into meeting him for a drink, and she didn’t even do alcohol.
“You can’t,” she repeated.
First mistake. Topping from the bottom. That’s ten.
She folded her arms across her pert little A-cup breasts and put on her game face, narrowing her brilliant green eyes and snapping her red head, tossing flames. She was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall in ballet flats. He’d have to be careful with that exquisite skin. Every mark was going to show.
“We can’t,” she huffed.
Nice try. Twenty.
She stumbled on the words. Her eyes widened when she realized that it sounded like she was wavering.
Twenty-five. Only because he was feeling generous.
He stroked the stubble on his jaw. Three days without shaving, just for her. He slid his gaze south, watched her nipples harden to diamond points beneath her buttoned-to-the-neck blouse, heard the catch in her breath, and caught the unmistakable scent of her arousal. She might not imbibe the fruit of the vine, but there was no way in hell that her abstinence extended to pleasures of the flesh.
“Really?” He parried a verbal thrust and pinned her with his gaze. The combination of Dom eyes and Dom voice was enough to make her shut the fuck up—for the space of about three breaths.
Looking wistfully at his untouched whiskey, he imagined the smooth, smoky burn of thirty-year-old single malt sliding down his throat. Across the table, Holly scanned the area to make certain that no one was in earshot. “It’s…it’s demeaning,” she hissed. “Misogynistic.”
She was trouble. He knew it. But beneath that prim and proper librarian-esque façade was a passionate beauty just waiting to be awakened. Trouble? Hell, yes, but so worth the effort.
Although it had been a few years since he’d trained a novice submissive, the lesson plan remained, beginning with the basics. He set his glass aside, in deference to her, as a sign of his willingness to compromise. “A dominant must prove himself worthy of his submissive’s trust,” he told her. “To be allowed to meet your needs is an honor for you to give and for me to earn. Tell me, Holly. And be honest. Do you trust me?”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and shied her glance away. “Yes. I guess.” Fingering the stem of her glass, she exhaled softly. “You’ve never given me any reason not to, but that was business. This is…” She lifted a hand and gestured helplessly, not ready to acknowledge what he already knew.
“Pleasure,” he finished her sentence. “Pleasure—ideally, far beyond what you’ve ever experienced or known. Holly, you should understand, I don’t do anything halfway. I believe that intimate acts should be…extraordinary, whether it’s a hot, hard fuck, an all-night sexual marathon, or multiple, mind-blowing orgasms—pleasures taken, pleasure given, preferably with sexual intercourse, but only if you’re ready.”
Behind those black-framed lenses, her eyes were wide. Thoughtful. He wondered if she knew just how sexy she was, blushing like a school girl on prom night.
“I want to know what tempts you. Learn what you’ll let me do, to tease you, to please you. I wonder, what can I do that feels so good, it sends you spiraling out of control and I won’t stop until I hold you, shattered, in my arms? Eroticism, kink—they’re just different points on the compass. Whatever path we take, it all comes down to the seduction of the senses. Getting there…well, every nuance, every detail matters. Whatever I choose—believe me—is for the enhancement of your pleasure and mine. If plain and simple is all you’ll consider…I’ll be honest. I won’t like it but I can accept it, and I’ll make certain that you’re satisfied. But there’s a world of flavors beyond vanilla. Nothing would please me more than to give you a taste.”
Excerpt 2 (XXX)
Robbed of breath, she curled her fingers into the carpet, struggling to not push back while her tissue stretched to accommodate a second finger. God in heaven, that felt good, despite her ass burning like it was on fire—or maybe it felt better because of it. She was confused. She didn’t like pain, but she liked how Dylan made her feel. Sexy. Desirable. Feminine. People always wanted to pick her brain, but he wanted her body. Her submission. Wanted her in ways that no one ever had. Tied up. Spanked. Spread for his pleasure.
It sounded so…so…taboo.
His fingers delved deep at the same time his palm struck her buttocks.
“Twenty-two,” she sobbed, tears coursing down her cheek and dripping with a thread of spittle onto the floor. Embarrassed, she struggled with the part of her that questioned what she was doing. What they were doing…it might be rash but it wasn’t reckless. She knew that Dylan was acting responsibly, with careful deliberation and practiced response, while she submitted to him. To his discipline. To his experience. To his will and his desire.
Do you trust me?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
He fucked her with his fingers and rubbed the points of impact, offering pleasure to balance the hurt, keeping her yellow and out of the red. While she couldn’t say that she was enjoying it on every level, he clearly was. His erection strained against the front of his pants, begging to be freed.
At the count of thirty, he did.
While she hovered on his lap, with her blistered bottom and dripping wet pussy, he took a moment to undo his fly. She heard the tiny snicks of the zipper teeth releasing, the rustle of a sturdier fabric, the softer silky hiss as he reached inside and pulled out his engorged length. She wasn’t in a position to look, of course, but it was long enough to thump against her waist—hot, heavy, meaty. He picked up where he’d left off, fucking her with three fingers and spanking her ass for five more counts.
“Thirty-five,” she gasped, feeling his thumb grind against her clit.
“Good girl,” he crooned, rubbing her bottom, admiring his work and her body’s response. “Now kneel between my feet, clasp your hands behind your back, and wrap those lips around my cock. You’ve got me so hard, baby, I’m afraid this first time’s going to be quick.”
She looked a mess. She knew it. She had to have raccoon eyes from running mascara and a nose as red as Rudolph’s, but when she knelt before him and dared to look up, there was nothing but pure, carnal pleasure on his face. Dylan fisted himself and pointed his erection at her lips. She stared at it like a charmer’s snake, only it was a boa or a python bobbing and weaving in front of her mouth. She hadn’t done a lot of research on the subject, but she remembered a survey that ranked penis size by nationality and how many men really needed magnum condoms.
Dylan Reynolds was definitely a six percenter.
A WICKED CHRISTMAS 1869
by Nia Farrell
Release Date December 1, 2017. Length: 6,442 words.
In this sizzling short story, Elena Davenport Wainwright gets ready to celebrate her second Christmas with her husbands Edward Wainwright and Daniel O’Flaherty. Suffering from “soldier’s heart” (PTSD) from her service in the Civil War, Elena looks to the Dominant Edward for shelter from the storms of life. But on the anniversary of her kidnapping, it’s the Master who needs reassurance.
Although written as a standalone, your enjoyment will be enhanced if you have read As Wicked as You Want, named one of The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016, voted #1 erotica and #10 overall.
Historical MMF ménage erotic romance, a short story written for Ages 18+.
Edward had been quiet at supper. Introspective, rather than troubled or morose. Indeed, he was not given to nostalgia, nor to the dark nights of the soul that had plagued me since the war. Daniel understood what it meant to have “soldier’s heart.” He had one, too, although to a much lesser degree. Mine was crippling. The first time Edward witnessed it, he had served as my anchor, offering safe harbor when Fourth of July gunfire had triggered an episode that left me puddled on the floor.
Then, and now, he provided shelter from every storm. Tonight, though, he was in need of reassurance.
Disregarding the ache in my thigh, I knelt between his and Daniel’s feet and rested my cheek against the fine wool covering Edward’s muscled thigh, welcoming the feel of his hand upon my head. My hair had grown out considerably since I’d met him. It pleased him to free it from its net and pins, winnow his fingers through my ebony locks, arrange them over my shoulders, and smooth my hair with his hand.
I sighed, content with my station.
“My boy,” Edward rumbled after a time. Even before he used his pet name for Daniel, I could feel the shift in his energy. Whatever had made him quiet before had given way to burgeoning passion. The proof of it was straining his seams and testing the buttons of his pants. “Lock the door.”
Not that the servants would bother us. His staff had been with him long enough to understand the way of things. A closed door meant that we wished for privacy. Only an emergency that demanded the master’s attention was cause enough for their interruption.
No sooner had Daniel turned the key than Edward had his fly open and his erection in hand. Fisting himself, he watched watching Daniel’s approach with keen interest, his deviant’s mind alive with possibilities.
What he would ask of us was anyone’s guess.
DARK MOONS RISING by Nia Farrell
A PNR shifter D/s MFM ménage otherworldly erotic novelette
Unleashed March 15, 2019. Length 10,907 words
99ȼ or FREE with KU
Amazon Universal Link http://mybook.to/DMS2
Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NTNJBNT/
Teasers and Excerpt http://bit.ly/DMS2WP or https://niafarrell.wordpress.com/2019/02/16/dark-moons-rising-2/
Deidra of Ravenhill is a daughter of light, a healer whose energy can be tapped by the one who marks her. Mordred, bastard son of Owain ap Coel, is determined to be that man. He’s captured the castle, killed her family, and forced her to train as a comforter, preparing her for his ultimate possession.
While Mordred is gone, having the brand made to claim her, Deidra manages to escape the castle. She nearly dies in the forest but is saved from falling into a poacher’s pit by Thorne, a dark lord, one of the race of giant shifters that she’s been taught to fear since childhood.
With dark moons due to rise on the most dangerous night of the year, Thorne must become a centaur for them to escape the monsters that roam with the god of chaos. He carries her to the safety of his brother’s hunting lodge, but is she truly out of danger? From Mordred, perhaps, but there are two dark lords who want her—if she’s willing to share…
This story is out of this world—literally—with twin moons, magical healers, ruthless warlords, and a pair centaur shifters that will have you looking at horses in a whole new light. Granted, intimacies only take place while they’re in human form. If that’s a major disappointment, you might want to pass on this book. The coming prequel is dark and dirty. If you don’t want to miss it or the two planned sequels in the Dark Moons Saga, follow my Amazon author page at http://viewauthor.at/NiaFarrell.
Written for Terran readers Ages 18+.
She could only hide her nature for so long. If they wanted her, they would take her. If they took her, they would know.
It did not make her decision any easier, but revealing herself sooner rather than later might work to her advantage. Oddly, she could thank Mordred for the training that he had ordered her to undertake these past weeks while his custom mark was being made. The lessons were meant to prepare her for his possession. She never dreamed that she would use them to try to tempt a man, yet she now found herself preparing to seduce two. And not just men. They were another race altogether. Dark lords. Manbeasts. Centaurs who would split her asunder if they chose to take her in that form.
The thought made her tremble, but she had to risk it. She’d made her choice when she’d climbed on Thorne’s back and wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing in his heady male scent as he galloped through the forest at breakneck speed, carrying her to safety.
Casting a glance about the room, Deidra spied a ewer of water on a sideboard. Untying the length of linen from her hair, she unpinned her knot and loosened her locks, finger-combing them into some semblance of order. Thirstier than she’d been in her life, she could not resist stealing a few sips of water before wetting the cloth and scrubbing her face, neck, and hands. She moistened it again, as needed, cleaning her fingernails, one by one, as best she could. Helpless to do more without the proper tools, she turned her attention to her poor legs and was tending the worst of her scratches when the brothers came back.
Immediately she dropped to her knees, with head bowed and her hands locked behind her, presenting herself as she had been trained, except that she was still dressed. One of them—Thorne, she thought—whistled softly.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “What have we here? Speak, femina.”
“Sires, this girl was born Deidra of Ravenhill. Her father Fallyn is—was—lord there, until Mordred, bastard of Owain ap Coel, captured it. He plans to take what no man has had and mark this girl as his. Please, my lords, this girl would rather die than suffer his touch. No amount of training will change that.”
Expletives blistered the air as Ragan cursed her father’s murderer. “We have heard of this Mordred. I take it, you were being made ready for him?”
“Aye, milord. For him, and, he threatened, for his friends. Becoming a comforter requires much preparation. Advanced training allows one girl to satisfy multiple partners,” she added meaningfully. She’d only just begun that phase when she managed to escape, thanks to the floral bouquet she’d been allowed to pick for her room. The natural sedative from one plant had rendered her guard unconscious, long enough for her to access the hidden passage.
She had never seen such motion in stillness, yet both men remained exactly where they were.
“He will come,” Thorne grated, clenching his fists, his chest heaving with each hot breath. “He will want her.”
“Perhaps not,” she whispered. “Mordred wants what no man has had. If that changes…”
The words remained unspoken, hovering in the air between them, the silence thickening with each passing second. Now or never, she told herself. Inhaling, she drew her thoughts inward, tapped into her core, and focused on her heart center, drawing the energy there first, then feeling the luminescence spread throughout her body, until her skin glowed softly and her fingertips were limned in light. “Please.” Breaking protocol, rejecting the objectification of this girl and reclaiming the birthright of her true self, she boldly met their gazes and pleaded, “Help me, Thorne, Ragan! I beg you!”
When they did not punish or correct her, she exhaled softly. As the tension drained from her body, she glowed even brighter.
Thorne hooked a bent finger under her chin and lifted her radiant face, his gaze locking with hers, truly seeing her for the first time, from her amethyst eyes to the thick, shining waves of white-gold hair. With her head tilted back, it pooled in her clasped hands and spilled over to brush her hips.
His thumb traced her lower lip. She looked at his mouth. So very serious. And his blue eyes. Deep and mysterious, indeed. With his humor hidden for the moment, the look on his face was riveting.
Thorne blew out softly. “Deidra, do you know what you are asking? You know what we are.”
“Aye,” she said. “But I also know that Mordred would rob me of light. Eventually, he would drain me. He cares nothing for my needs. He lusts for power and covets mine. He was waiting to mark me, hoping that, with training, I would be more open to him. If I shielded myself when he set his seal upon me, he would never draw more, at any other time, than at that moment.”
Deidra looked from Thorne to Ragan. “I do not know what stories you have heard, but the words I speak are the truth, I swear by the goddess. I am a child of Sola, a daughter of light. It is our nature to help and to heal, but what we give must be renewed, by bathing in the rays of Sola or by drinking spring water charged with her light. Marking,” she said, “is best done over the heart center, when a willing woman, radiant with Sola’s lifeforce, is at the peak of power and of passion. My light has waned with the stress of the day, but I swear, I will give it freely, to you and your brother, if you will safe keep me from all others.”
Ragan studied her, considering. “You would share your light? And our bed?”
Deidra nodded. Better their slave than Mordred’s.