Monday, 30 July 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today, because we've finally been able to switch from grumbling about the heat to grumbling about the rain here in the UK, I've picked an excerpt from my soggiest story to date: At Usher's Well.

My Mistress is wrestling with God, and will not give an inch.

I watch her from the floor of her chamber, as I squat over the fireplace trying to get the logs to blaze properly. We’re using birch because it’s the only thing that’ll catch when wet, but it burns through so fast, and with so little heat, that I’m forever traipsing up and down the stairs with the log-basket on my back. She’s wrapped in a fur-lined pelisse to make up for my lack of success. Her face, thinner now after all these weeks of half-starving herself, catches the grey light along her cheek bone.

Oh Lord, but she looks like Finlay from that angle. My heart clenches inside me, a spasm of loss.

Finlay. Sweet Finlay with the curly brown hair and the fluff of beard on his lean cheeks. Finlay who would follow me into the dairy and press me against the shelves and call me his sweet Meg, his pretty Margaret, his windflower and his kitten and his little white dove. Who’d kiss my hands and my lips and hold me close, nuzzling my hair. Who swore he loved me, even when I laughed him off and pushed him away.

Gently. I was gentle with him. I didnae want to hurt his feelings. He said he loved me and would marry me and we would have beautiful bairns together, three of each, and the lassies would look like me and the lads would look like him.

It was all lies of course—no, not lies, but thistledown dreams. He was the smart one, the son who had learned his letters. He was destined for Oxford University far away down south, and so to take Holy Orders. He would never marry anyone. Besides, my Mistress would never countenance any one of her sons marrying a mere serving maid. Marriage is for equals, and I’d never be theirs’.

That hadnae stopped Finlay’s older brother Rory tumbling me of course—and taking my maidenhead, in fact. Rory was a big, straightforward fellow with a boisterous, ever-eager cock. He rummaged his way through every wench of beddable age in the household, but I doubt that anyone resented him for it, for he was always generous with his coins, and an easygoing master who often intervened with his mother to make sure there were extra portions at dinner for the servants, or to turn away her wrath at some domestic transgressor. Unlike my Mistress, Rory never complained that I was late lighting his fire in the morning, or slow serving at the table. He would only wink and smile at me and pat my rump, and when he came upon me in private he’d pull up my skirts and bend me over a press and slip me his length, strong and easy. On feast days he’d dance me on his broad lap until his prick was as hard as a pole and I was red and flustered, and then he’d touch me secretly under my skirts until I was running as wet and slick as a crock of butter left too close to the oven, and ready to do anything he wanted. That was how he had me, the first time.

Henry Matthew Brock, 1934

‘Are you a woman, yet, Meg?’ he’d murmured in my ear as he dandled me. He could have shouted it and no one would have heard over the ruckus.

‘No, Master Rory,’ I’d said, blushing, feeling my blood soar and my skin flame and my bones loosen.

‘Are you ready for me to make you one?’ His fingertips had stroked my purse until it gaped, begging for him to steal what lay within.

I’d moaned then, and shuddered on his lap.

‘Och, this medlar is ripe, I think,’ he’d said. His other arm was around me, his other hand stroking and squeezing my maiden breasts through my bodice. I was losing all sense; nothing in all the world mattered as much as that devastating tease between my thighs.

‘Aye,’ I’d whimpered. And as that wicked fingertip had circled the plump little pip of my medlar, I’d said ‘Aye!’ again and shut my eyes and pressed my face to his neck as I’d slithered helplessly over into paradise—right there in front of the whole household, his brothers and his mother and all the guests. I didnae cry out, but I heard the catch of Rory’s breath and then his long exhalation. I dinnae ken if anyone paid any attention. Well—I know that my Mistress saw, because she shot me a narrow-eyed glare as Rory eased me from his lap, patted my rear, and pushed me out of the hall in front of him.

It was the Midsummer feast. Rory led me out into the unmown hayfield and laid me down in the long grass, lifting my skirts. His length looked smooth as wood in the moonlight. He wet his thumb in my juices and placed it over my pip, and he kept that there, pressing and stirring, as he laid his cock to my gates and broke them down.

He was heavy, and the smell of wine and crushed grass made my head spin. I wondered why anyone did anything else but this all their lives.

My poor Mistress at the window there disnae look like Rory, and never has. I suppose he takes after his father, who was dead before I came to this place. Certainly he’s her favoured son.

Was her favoured son. It’s hard sometimes to remember that he’s dead, she denies it so adamantly. They’re all dead, drowned in the deep.

Buy 'Fierce Enchantments' at Amazon US
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Sunday, 29 July 2018

Bunk up

We spent the weekend in a family-friendly bunkhouse in the Lake District. This was written on the wall over our beds.

Er ... is it just me or is that a bit rude?

Friday, 27 July 2018

Sneaky cover preview!

Here's a VERY sneaky peek at an upcoming anthology I'm included in. This advert was on the back of one of the pamphlets at EdgeLit, so it's public domain, I guess. If you squint hard you can see an anthology called The Scent of Tears, which is a Tales of the Apt collection set in Adrian Tchaikovsky's fantasy universe. Included in that is my eponymous story The Scent of Tears.

I can't show you the cover in detail until it has had its official reveal, but rest assured that I am pretty damn excited!

Launching at Fantasycon in October!

Wednesday, 25 July 2018

On target

Ludvig Abelin Schou: Chione Slain by Diana (1866)

Apologies; I took an unannounced break off my blog for a week. I went to EdgeLit for the launch of Dark Voices ...

... but since then I've mostly been writing horror scenarios (one for a publisher, one LARP) and making endless cups of sugary tea for builders. Oh yes - and I did THIS INTERVIEW for Fiona McVie:

"Fiona: You only have 24 hours to live how would you spend that time?

Having sex!"
EdgeLit was fab, by the way. My next convention is going to be FantasyCon in Chester ... this is after me saying I wouldn't do any conventions this year!

Monday, 16 July 2018

Blue Monday: Ellie Barker guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

A few weeks ago I featured Ellie Barker's LGBT novel Secrets and Spies. Well it was the first of an innovative cross-genre trilogy, Undercover Lovers, from my favourite Sinful Press, and the second is out now too - In Bed with the Enemy:

Nikolas Jinsen, police mole and mafia odd-job man, is given an ultimatum; stop seeing his girlfriend, or lose his job. When a hasty attempt to keep both goes wrong, he does the only thing he can think of: he lies. But with his new roommate a member of the elite gang that Nikolas has been tasked to look into, and his assignations with his girlfriend constantly interrupted by calls on his services as a lover, Nikolas finds that work isn't all fun and games.

In Bed with the Enemy continues the story of Nikolas, a bisexual police mole, and Sky, a transgender thief, as they work to infiltrate the local crime syndicate. Ellie Barker has created a fast paced and highly entertaining trilogy, with a diverse range of characters, various sexual encounters, and unconventional romance.

I finished the last of my half-pint, and gestured at his crotch. “So what’s next?”

He put his own glass down. “I want to see you.” He sounded almost shy, nervous. “I want to fuck you.”


“The sofa’s had worse.”

I don’t usually bottom, but that’s because Sky loves it—and I like making her happy. But I’m definitely not averse to it. I pulled my t-shirt over my head while Bear undid my jeans, and then we squirmed and wriggled and I was naked on his sofa, the leather cushions under me and Bear’s weight on top, horny as hell. All he had to do was lower his head and I was kissing him, our legs tangled together and his beard rubbing against my face, his tongue pushing between my lips in a way that was making my hips thrust. I pulled away, panting, and found him almost as breathless as I was.

“You,” I told him and began to undo the rest of his shirt buttons. He helped, revealing a chest covered in the same reddish-brown hair as his face, and then pulled his still-undone trousers down. I just watched, leaning up on my elbows, my body bare and smooth in the golden lighting and my cock showing just how badly I wanted the man now naked in front of me.

He caught me watching, and smiled. “So?”

His chest-hair continued down across his stomach and joined with the mass of curls around his cock. I looked him down, and then back up, and caught his eye.

“I want you to fuck me,” I told him. “I want you to come inside me.”

His cock jerked, and I could see the desire overtaking his nerves. He pulled a condom out of the box and rolled it on, his fingers shaking slightly, and then grabbed the lube and knelt down between my legs.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Then go slow.” I turned myself over, pushing my ass up towards him, and felt the cool drizzle of lube go down my crack. After the warmth of the sofa it was a shock, but a good one; and my cock was now against the warm material, smooth and silky.

Bear’s finger slid in, and I gasped.

“I’ll go slow,” the man murmured, and I spread my legs as he pulled me further onto his lap, lifting my hips and gently pushing his finger back in, opening me. I buried my face in the oiled pillows and let him tease me, pushing in and out, filling me and then withdrawing, pushing in again with another finger, spreading me wider and wider as he pushed in another and another—

And then I heard him groan by my shoulder, and his body was against mine, warm and rough, and his hips met my ass. “There…Nikolas. There.”

“Fuck me,” I told him.

“You…I don’t…I’m not hurting you?”

“No.” He filled me tighter than anyone ever had, but the slow build-up meant I didn’t hurt. I felt pinned, held in place by the tightness and pleasure mixing. “Just go slow.”

He was gentle, and he was slow—painfully, agonisingly slow, a tease and a torment that had me moaning into the cushions. And then he was tugging my elbow, and pushing my hand down to my own cock. “Finish yourself. I want you to come.”

“Your sofa…” I managed.

“It’ll clean.” He sounded hoarser, and I wondered how much self-control it was taking for him to go slowly. Had he ever been able to fuck any of his lovers without hurting them?

I began to stroke, and heard a deep groan from behind me. My ass had tightened around his cock and I was holding him, feeling every thrust and twitch of him inside me. He began to fuck me again, unable to hold back the lust. His hips slammed into mine again and again, pinning me against the leather, my cock clenched in my fist and my ass filled with him, pushing me so close with every stroke—

I came, gasping into the cushions, my whole body jerking. He was still thrusting into me and I could feel him getting closer, tense and urgent.

His fingers dug into my hips and he gave a queer little moan, almost hurt—and then pulsed once, twice, a long third stroke that started his legs shaking. And then he subsided against me, his head on my shoulder, pressing me down into the leather with a long, panting sigh.

We lay there for a long minute, me just cataloguing the aches and the pleasure, feeling his cock still twitching in my ass and his beard smooth against my shoulder. Then Bear stirred, and said, “Sorry, Nikolas, I’m squashing you.”

“Not to worry.” We got ourselves disentangled with a few smiles, and then Bear directed me to the bathroom to clean up. When I came out, the cat had woken up and come to investigate—and when Bear came out in turn, he found me butt-naked on the second sofa with a cat sitting on my clothes, purring madly.

“She obviously doesn’t want you to get dressed,” Bear joked, looking entirely at ease in a pair of boxers and nothing else.

“Obviously,” I said, and picked her up. “C’mon, sweetheart, I have to go and tell Sky what I’ve been up to.”

The Undercover Lovers trilogy is Amazon exclusive for a limited time before being released across all main platforms. It is available to read through Kindle Unlimited.

Buy In Bed with the Enemy : Amazon smartlink
Buy the Undercover Lovers trilogy (paperback) : Amazon smartlink

Ellie Barker mostly writes short'n'dirty flash fiction and short erotic fiction in any genre going. She prefers vampires over werewolves, and is always hot for a rainy night.

You can find out more about Ellie over at her website, or follow her on Twitter as @EllieBa3

Sunday, 15 July 2018


That's me marching in Leeds, in my 1989 "Desert of Desolation" T-shirt ;-)

I got a lot of love for my placard! Amazing how many gamers there are out there!

... and other nerds...

But my fave sign - and I'm sorry I didn't get a pic of it - said simply:

I bet he doesn't even like tea

Friday, 13 July 2018

Today I'm marching

Because I feel like the world is sliding into a nightmare from which we may never wake up.

Because I like to believe that if I'd been alive in the 1930s, I would have protested against the Fascists.

Because I read Eichmann in Jerusalem. According to Arendt, under Nazi occupation the numbers of Jews deported to the camps varied enormously from country to country in Europe. Three-quarters of Dutch Jews died under Nazi occupation. Yet not a single Bulgarian Jew was deported - and the difference was down to public compliance.

Because silence is not neutrality, it is siding with evil. Doing nothing is not a moral option.

Wednesday, 11 July 2018

Perk of the job

One of the best bits about writing ... is the books you have an excuse to buy in the name of research ;-)

Monday, 9 July 2018

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

We've had the most amazing, record-breaking heatwave here in the UK over the last month - over 30 degrees Celsius for day after day after day. I literally can't remember weather like this since 1976. So here's an excerpt from my sweatiest story ever, Bolt Hole, which appears in Fierce Enchantments.

(It's the zombie apocalypse. Zita is trapped by the ravenous undead in an over-heated shipping container with a strange man)

“Water?” he asks, then holds the bottle out toward her and scoots it right down the length of the chamber, almost to her toes.

She would do anything for water—not to drink, but to pour over herself. Clean, cool, running water. She’s cooking inside her leathers, like one of those old fish-in-a-bag dinners. But she doesn’t answer him. Words seem too heavy to raise to her lips. Panic is rising in her breast, like steam, as she tries to breathe deeper but finds she can only pant. There doesn’t seem to be any oxygen in the metallic air. The room in front of her swells and billows and shrinks again. She catches her glove in her teeth and rips it off, then fumbles at the zip of her headgear. I’m going to faint, she thinks. If I don’t get this off I’ll suffocate.

The mask comes off with a foul wet dragging. She shaved her own head, weeks ago, but the hair has grown back somewhat. She can feel the air licking at that wet fur—an overwhelming relief. But still not enough. She tugs the zip that bares her throat then, bending, she snatches up the canteen from the floor. That motion almost undoes her. She can feel the blood running the wrong way in her veins, and she almost loses her balance. It’s only her desire for the water that keeps her from pitching forward dizzily.

Yanking the stopper out with her teeth, she tips the liquid over her forehead and catches it with open lips as it sluices over her face. It’s tepid and metallic and it feels wonderful. Running down her chin and throat, some finds its way under her clothes into the secret valley between her breasts. Blinking stinging, sweat-tainted drops from her eyes, she glares at the man, daring him to have moved while she wasn’t looking.

Maybe he has, just a little. She sucks defiantly from the neck of the bottle.

“What’re you doing out here on your own?” he asks.

“I wasn’t alone,” she rasps.

“Huh.” He grimaces. “Nor was I.”

The water down her cleavage just feels like more sweat now. She can’t bear it. She’s got to lean back against the metal just to stay upright. Discarding the spade against the wall beside her, she wrenches off her other glove, then pulls down the zipper of her suit from collar to navel. The vest-top beneath is absolutely sodden with sweat, and plastered to her torso. She sees the pale flash of the man’s widening eyes, and she knows her chest is heaving as she pants for breath, but it doesn’t seem important. All she wants is to get out of these leathers.

She wriggles out of her bags and belts, frantic to shed the weight. The front zipper of her biker all-in-one goes all the way down to her crotch, making it easier to peel off the arms and shoulders and drop the top half of the suit to hang from her hips. That helps. She sets her shoulders back against the corrugated metal, praying for cool, but it’s warmer than she is. She can see the man staring. His torso is completely bare, and she envies that. She can feel the moisture flooding between her burning thighs. Her mind is a churning whirl.

She wants to be naked. She wants to be cold. She wants water and a breeze.

He’s gone very still. Outside, the living dead moan with frustration.

The trousers of her suit have zips up the outside of the shins, allowing them to be put on and taken off over boots. One leg at a time, she lifts her feet and looses the vents. Then she pushes the leathers down over her thighs and kicks them away.

She’s not wearing anything but panties beneath. Panties and boots, and above that the tight, clinging vest. Even those last pieces of clothing disgust her. She wants to weep with frustration. Her singlet is like a second skin, and stained with wear. She pulls it away from her stomach, desperate for the tiniest breeze on her flesh, stretching her throat as she tilts her head back.

When she glances down again, he’s definitely moved. He’s still on hands and knees, but he’s that tiny bit closer to her. She tries to focus her eyes, and registers the lift of one hand: a placating gesture, an apology for his entirely involuntary shift in her direction. His eyes are wide and his lips a little parted.

“S’okay,” he mutters, not blinking. “Don’t be scared. Nothing to be scared of.”

She wants to laugh, but she’s forgotten how. For the last two years there has never once been nothing to be scared of. Periods of calm or stultifying boredom, yes—many of those. But never freedom from fear. Not a single waking hour when the dread and the loss weren’t there like a choking lump under her breastbone. Fear is the omnipresent guest at the feast, the mother of every decision she makes. It’s the air she breathes. In a world where corpses move and speak and eat, fear is the one thing left that distinguishes the living from the dead.

She looks into the deep darkness of his eyes, searching for the fear. And it’s there, that sharp and bitter edge. But it’s only a glint. It’s been almost driven out by something else, just as primal. He can’t stop looking at her. At her tight and filthy clothing. At what’s hidden beneath. Each heave of her chest seems to draw him in.

She blinks hard, like a drunk trying to sober up, wanting to make sense of his questions and his haggard soldier’s face and his muscled body. He looks strong. Bleakly handsome, perhaps—it’s so hard to tell these days. She wants to know how she feels about him, but she’s no longer capable of judgement.

He’s shifting toward her, on toes and fingertips. Keeping slow and down on the floor, so as not to spook her. “It’s a bit warm, isn’t it? This box.” The inanity of his words is not as important as the low, husky tone. He’s got a voice that reminds her of some movie star’s, though she can’t think whose—she can’t remember anything that far back right now—but it’s oddly familiar because of that, and not unpleasant.

He licks his parched lips.

She wants more water. She wants the aching to stop—the ache that that seems to lie not in her muscles but under every inch of her skin, in her belly, right down between her legs. All she wants … is to stop feeling awful.

“Yes.” Looking into his eyes, she takes the sodden vest and lifts it to bare her breasts.

Oh God, that feels good.

“Ah,” he says. Just that one syllable, a low vibration his chest. But it’s a noise that sounds like profound relief. And for a long moment he just looks. She can feel the tickle of sweat-droplets running down her breastbone. They’re beading around her dark nipples and slipping in arcs down the overhang of her breasts. Her whole body weeps salt tears. Like him, she’s bruised and scarred and underweight.

Like him, she’s alive.

Still on his knees, he closes the gap between them. She flinches at the last moment, afraid that his skin will be hot to the touch and only add to her torment—but in fact his hands on her hips feel cool. That’s all he touches her with. Fingertips, and mouth. He brushes his lips to her belly and his tongue sweeps the skin, tasting her salt.

She utters a keening sob. It is the noise of the end of the world. It’s been two weeks since she last saw a living being. Two weeks without human contact, without the press of Ben’s body against hers, without comfort or pleasure or release.

“Ohhh,” he groans into her stomach. She can smell the scent of his sweat, mingling with her own.

Then he hooks his thumbs in her panties and pulls them down over her thighs. She squirms—she doesn’t want him to go there, she isn’t clean, she can smell her own musk—but he doesn’t care if she’s been weeks in her leathers. He stoops to plunge his face to the juncture of her thighs, inhaling her greedily, lifting one of her legs to grant him access to her split and pushing her up on tiptoes in his eagerness. Then, almost perversely procrastinating, he laps the inside of her upper thighs with long teasing strokes, first one then the other. It makes her whimper more. Finally his mouth, hot and wet, closes over her clit and she bangs her head back against the metal, seeing stars.

He eats her.

He’s like a zombie, she thinks, half-terrified by the analogy and grabbing for purchase on the corrugated wall, on his head, anywhere that will help. There’s the same inexorable appetite, the same obsession. Hunger is everything, and he eats without fear. She can hear her own gasping cries and the rising moans of the dead massed outside, on the other side of the wall. He lifts her up on his hands and wraps her legs over his shoulders, burrowing into her sex. His tongue lashes her clit and slithers into her deep wet furrow. Each motion of his tongue burns across her nerves. He’s eating me. He’s eating me, she cries in her head.

She always knew she was going to die like this: being devoured.

Buy Fierce Enchantments at:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Barnes and Noble
Google Play

Thursday, 5 July 2018

Mr Straw's House

This ordinary-looking townhouse in Worksop hides a secret - it's a time capsule from the 1920s! The Straw family moved in in 1923, and when the father died in 1932 his widow and two surviving sons made a decision to change NOTHING. When the last son died in 1990, the National Trust acquired the house and all its contents, down to the coats hanging in the hall and the medicated toilet paper. And it's all still there to see:

The 1920s an era that I'm fascinated by for horror-gaming reasons. But the other reason I love this place is that one of the brothers was a total book-hoarder :-D

He'd buy them, read them, wrap them in newspaper and then store them underneath the furniture. It all looks embarrassingly familiar:

This is exactly what my house would have looked like if I'd been born a bit further back and more eccentric.

You have to phone ahead to book a tour of Mr Straw's House - see details here

Monday, 2 July 2018

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today I am delighted to welcome Samantha MacLeod back to this blog with an excerpt from her new book Winning Freyja's Cloak. She describes the story as "hands down, the filthiest thing I've ever written," and SHE DEDICATED IT TO ME! Woohoo!

Freyja is the most beautiful woman in Asgard, and she has no shortage of lovers.

But when Loki shows up on her doorstep, he’s after more than just her legendary beauty.

Loki asks to borrow Freyja’s feather cloak, the magical garment which transforms the wearer into a falcon. At first, Freyja is reticent to let go of her treasure. However, when Loki promises to show her something she’s never seen before, his offer proves too tempting to resist.

After all, what can Loki the Trickster possibly do to surprise the most experienced lover in Asgard?

“Turn over,” Loki said.

His voice was low and gentle, with just enough authority to make my insides curl with anticipation.

“Keep the blindfold on.”

I shifted, rubbing my naked skin against the cool silk sheets covering my mattress, and the scent of orange blossoms danced across my nostrils. A little purr of pleasure slipped from my lips.

“You always like the orange oil,” I said.

Loki didn’t respond. The sheets rustled and, a moment later, his hand closed around my ankle. Very gently, he pulled my leg to the side. The mattress shifted beneath me; I guessed Loki must be kneeling between my legs. I wiggled my hips a little, hoping he was enjoying the view.

Again, he took longer to touch me than I expected. I listened to the hiss of his breath, the soft splash as he poured oil into his hands and then rubbed them together. The scent of orange blossoms grew stronger as the oil warmed between his palms. I bit my lip, trying not to let the anticipation kill me.

When he finally did touch me, he began with my ankles. I moaned in frustration, eliciting another soft chuckle.

His hands moved up my legs at a glacial pace, and the hot wash of relief I’d felt after my first orgasm faded before another wave of lust. I arched my back, rubbing the hard points of my nipples into the sheets.

“My lovely Freyja,” Loki said.

His hands were on my thighs now, and I was seriously beginning to consider bringing a hand to my own clit, just to relieve some of the pressure.

“Do you still want something you’ve never had before?”

It was my turn to laugh.

Loki and I had spent hundreds of nights together, sometimes laughing, sometimes fighting, but always fucking. He’d had me in every way I could imagine; with his hands, his tongue, his cock. In my mouth, my sex, my ass. We’d shared lovers, and sometimes we’d even been part of an enormous group orgy with dozens of naked men and women, sweating and panting and coming together.

After all this time, there was nothing we hadn’t done.

“Oh, just fuck me,” I growled.

“Of course.” I swore I could hear the smile in his voice.

His oil-slicked fingers finally brushed my sex. I moaned and bent my knees, offering myself to him. A moment later the wet heat of his tongue pressed against my ass, dancing across the split of my cheeks.

I flinched, grabbing the silk of my sheets in my fists. Oh, damn, I should stop him. This was dirty. This was filthy, this was wrong—

Dark heat flowed between our bodies, making me pulse with need. His tongue dipped lower, forcing me open as his hand crept between my legs, brushing the bud of my clit. I was trapped between his hand and his mouth, wracked with pleasure so intense it was almost shame.

Loki shifted, pulling his lips away from my ass. A moment later his long fingers slid between my cheeks, massaging the dark whorl of my anus. The ecstasy surging through my body deepened and intensified, as though all the sensual energy between us was drawing together, focusing on his fingers and the tight entrance between my cheeks.

I no longer needed the blindfold. My eyes squeezed closed as my face sank into the silken sheets. I tried to breathe long and slow, relaxing every muscle in my body, letting myself unfold into the pleasure.

Although I’ve never had a shortage of lovers, I don’t let many of them explore my backside. It’s one thing to spread my legs and ride a cock, or let a beautiful woman slip her fingers into the hot slit of my cunt. But my ass, where the potential for pleasure lies so close to pain? No, only the most patient and talented of my lovers are granted access to that terrain.

“Very nice,” Loki purred as his finger slipped inside me.

My body seized with pleasure. I was panting now, my heartbeat racing in my ears, unable to focus on anything but his touch, the feeling of being filled, so perfectly filled. He pulled out to rub more orange-scented oil into my skin, then entered me again, with more fingers this time. At the same time, he reached around me to press softly against my swollen clit. Heat rose in waves, emanating from the places he touched, filling every fiber of my body.

Oh, fuck, I was close. I was already so close.

“May I?” His voice sounded strained, as if he were working hard to hold himself back.

“Yes,” I moaned into the sheets.

The hot, hard head of his cock pressed against my stretched and oil-slicked entrance. I took a deep breath, then forced myself to exhale. It felt good to have his cock nestled between the cheeks of my ass. It felt—

His hands tightened around my thighs, tilting them upward. A heartbeat later something hot and hard slipped between the wet folds of my cunt just as the head of his cock began to press into my ass.

“What the—?” I yelped, pulling back.

My hands flew to the blindfold, yanking it off my eyes. I spun around to see Loki kneeling behind me. Beads of sweat stood out above his brilliant blue eyes. My gaze dropped to the hard muscles of his chest, the flat plane of his stomach.

And his cock.

No, his cocks.

Between his legs, the smooth, hard curves of two identical cocks rose to meet me from their nest of fire-red hair, one just above the other, their ruddy heads already slick with oil.

I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again.

“What the ever-loving fuck?” I finally managed to stammer.

Loki’s grin widened. “Oh, my dear Freyja. You didn’t possibly believe you’d seen all my tricks, did you?”

Buy Winning Freyja's Cloak at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

Born and raised in Colorado, Samantha MacLeod has lived in every time zone in the US, and London. She has a bachelor’s degree from Colby College and an M.A. from the University of Chicago; yes, the U. of C. really is where fun comes to die.

Samantha lives with her husband and two small children in the woods of southern Maine. When she’s not shoveling snow or writing steamy sex scenes, Samantha can be found teaching college composition and philosophy to undergraduates who have no idea she leads a double life as an erotica author.

Samantha’s Blog
Amazon Author Page