Saturday, 16 February 2019

Sinister Ducks

This has been doing the rounds online 😉

Which of course made me think of the GREATEST DUCK SONG OF ALL TIME

(written by Alan Moore, probably after some funny mushrooms I'm guessing)

"Everyone thinks they're such sweet little things
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Soft downy feathers and nice little wings
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
But there's a poison I'd like to administer,
You think they're cuddly but I think they're sinister.
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!

What are they doing at night in the park?
Think of them waddling about in the dark.
Sneering and whispering and stealing your cars,
Reading pornography, smoking cigars.

Nasty and small, undeserving of life.
They smirk at your hairstyle and sleep with your wife.
Dressed in black jackets and horrible shoes,
Getting divorces and turning to booze.

Forcing old ladies to throw them some bread.
Who could deny they'd be better off dead?
Look closer and you may recoil in surprise,
At web-footed fascists with mad little eyes.
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!
Ducks, Ducks! Quack, Quack! Quack, Quack!"

Wednesday, 13 February 2019

Love and His Counterfeits

For your romantic enjoyment on Valentine's day, here are some rather wonderful paintings by the "last of the pre-Raphaelites," and one of the most popular artists of the Edwardian era, Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale (1872-1945) on the subject of LOVE. [click to enlarge]:

Love and His Counterfeits (1904)

This picture needs quite a bit of explanation!
"When a girl's soul awakens and she opens the door of her Heart's Castle to receive Love, at first she will not recognise him.
First, she will see Fear and think him to be Love. Fear, in craven armour of black, with no coat of arms or badge to mark his family. But by Fear, Love may come.
Then she will see Romance, being now in love with 'being in love' - Romance, the Boy on a Bubble with a Castle of Dreams in his hand, and Birds and Roses about him. He leads Ambition, who shall stir the girl to think he is Love himself - Ambition, very hot and eager, riding upon Pegasus, the winged Horse.
After them is Position, whom she may take for Love; but truly she is in love with Appearance, Prestige, Importance, Riches, Place, all his Train, and this is borne by a Cupid.
Now she is stirred by Pity, thinking whom she pities she loves - Pity with the Cup of tears with three handles, that many may drink.
Then she perceives Arts, a brave fellow who is but words and emptiness and a mask for love. Arts paints a wound upon him and sings that it is real. To Love he is not henchman, nor cousin, but enemy.
Behind him goes Flattery with a mirror, so she is wooed by vain words. Then Gratitude comes with the smoke of memory, and she will think she is faithless if she does not love one who has been kind.
Now, at last, after her emotion, her assault by gifts, mirrors, riches, tears, dreams, phrases, memories, comes True Love, empty-handed, to take and win her Heart's Castle."

Perhaps Brickdale's most famous painting is The Uninvited Guest (1906) which depicts Cupid hanging out disconsolately at the fringes of a wedding that is all about wealth, appearance and position. Love is not invited here.

Can't get enough of that ol' Symbolism? Here's Chivalry Dying of Love for the Goddess:

(Note the knights all swooning about somewhat over-dramatically, which has entertained Venus enough to give her pause in the procession of olympians.)

Here's much simpler picture, but still full of drama:

The Secret

And my absolute fave, Love and Adversity (1900) in which the protagonist is kept company by Love while (one assumes) his Beloved goes off to marry some rich dude.

Add caption
I means, it's got a hairy dude in bondage at the castle gate - What's not to adore? There's definitely a story waiting to be written for that one!

Monday, 11 February 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Valentine's day is coming up so it's time to remind myself of my festively themed story Shot to the Heart, which is all about a lingerie-buying session...

He took me to Curzon’s, which is a big old-fashioned department store of the sort you don’t see much about anymore: a family-owned business rather than part of a chain, and just a bit run-down. It’s the Land that Fashion Forgot. I don’t shop there myself; its clientele is mostly the dowdy middle-aged who remember it from their own childhood. Because this was a weekday morning there weren’t many customers in and we had the big open-plan floors almost to ourselves. We wandered through the jewellery sections and crockery and perfume. Oliver held my hand and said very little, just smiled slyly. I let him enjoy being mysterious.

Then he led me up the stairs to the fourth floor and into the lingerie department and I was amazed to find that those dull middle-aged women had a real good thing going with their underwear. The department was big – and the stock wasn’t all designed to fit anorexic waifs either. All the labels had French or Italian names on. There were basques and corsets and girdles and stockings and bras of every shape and size – bras to make you look big and bras to make you look small, naughty nighties and control garments and suspender belts. I’ve never seen so much lace all in one place.

‘See anything you like?’ Oliver asked. ‘My treat.’

‘You sure?’

‘Oh it will be,’ he promised, brushing his lips to my ear and biting gently at the lobe. I shivered. I started to look through the racks of bras, falling instantly in love with the different colours of contrasting lace. A female shop assistant with a face like a wet weekend drifted over in our direction.

‘Can I help you at all?’

‘We’re fine,’ said Oliver cheerily. He had the right accent for that kind of place. She looked us over and then retreated to her counter again as a tweedy-looking lady went up to ask for help. I smiled to myself, stroking a longline slip of red satin slashed to the waist, and failing to imagine the tweedy woman wearing anything like this in a hundred years. I had a push-up bra in dark purple with lavender trim in one hand, and another in wild hues of blue and turquoise and pretty appliquéd flowers in the other, when Oliver came over with his own choice of garment.

‘I’d like to see you in this as well,’ he said softly.

It was a single-piece body made to look like a ruched Victorian corset, with definite hints of burlesque. The chestnut satin of the side panels was overlaid in peach lace and there were plentiful trimmings of black ribbons and suspender straps. I could imagine how I’d look in it and my mouth watered.

‘Are you sure, Ol? This stuff is pretty expensive.’

‘Valentine’s present. You had a look at the knickers yet?’ He drew me gently toward those racks and away from the assistant.

‘I bet you want me in itty bitty thongs, don’t you?’ I giggled.

‘Nope. I don’t have a thing for string.’ He turned slightly so that his back was to the counter and anyone watching, and lowered his voice to a warm murmur. ‘What I like is those ones with the full panel of lace at the front, all sweet and pretty, and then you turn around and at the back they’re cut high so that your beautiful round bum cheeks peek out from beneath the lace band, almost bared.’ He was starting to sound a little throaty. ‘It’s like the curtain going up on the stage at the theatre. Oh god, Nikki, that just drives me crazy.’

‘Everything drives you crazy,’ I countered as he brushed up against me, gentle but very deliberate.

‘Everything about you, anyway.’ He took my hand – the one not laden with hangers full of frillies – and pressed it reverently to the front of his jeans. He had a semi on already – a hard curve of flesh that surged up against the fabric and against my fingers. He wanted me but bad, I had to admit, and that eagerness was arousing in the most primal way. I licked my lips. I wanted to rub him harder, but a department store wasn’t exactly the right place.

‘Here,’ he said, handing me four pairs of panties. ‘Now head that way. To the changing room. Quickly! While she’s busy!’

Trying to look nonchalant, we wound our way between the racks to the back corner of the building where the changing rooms were. In a more modern store there would have been some sort of security, but this place was old fashioned and understaffed. There was just an outer door and, inside, three cubicles. Oliver hurried me into the far cell and shut the door on us before catching me up in teasing kiss, all tongue and promise. I wriggled my hips, grinding against him. Two can play at teasing. I was pleased to feel him gasp in response and grow harder.

‘You’re such a horny git,’ I complained happily.

‘Only because you’re so deliciously fuckable,’ he countered.

It was a fair cop: I was already well into the tickly, squirmy stage, and just the pressure of his hands and his crotch against me was making me burn. I giggled softly.

‘Coat off,’ he whispered, laying his own on the bench and sitting on it. I looked down at him, pouting, then wriggled out of my coat in a mock-stripper style to reveal the less-than-sexy layers underneath: a fine grey jersey-cotton top and a red plaid skirt over thick black tights.

‘You going to watch me try on my presents?’ I asked, though I thought it obvious. But he shook his head. His eyes were intent on some secret, serious purpose.

‘Take your skirt off.’

I unzipped and obeyed, half-smiling but starting to catch his mood. I was embarrassed about my woolly tights, which were rather more practical than sensual, but Oliver didn’t seem to be put off. He rolled them carefully down my legs, and helped me step out of my boots before tossing the tights aside. I stood before him bare-thighed, the mirrored iterations of my legs arrayed around him.

One lucky point in my favour: out of all the panties I own - from lacy wisps to striped shorts to polka-dotted cotton (and even the stretched grey overwashed ones that every girl has at the back of her drawer for emergency use) – I’d donned this morning a pair in the style he liked best: full cover at the front and even down over the crease of the thigh, but cut high over the cheeks behind. These were plain black and very soft and flimsy, and my cheeks seemed to glow in contrast to their sober hue. My ass is far from skinny, but it was only under Oliver’s admiring attentions that I’d come to really appreciate those full, peachy globes. I gave him a twirl to demonstrate my good taste in panties, and in the mirrors my reflections twirled too.

Quickly he caught me and pulled my bottom to his face, kissing first one cheek then the other, just below the delicately scalloped edge of the cloth. I gasped a little as his hand slipped up between my thighs, encouraging me to widen my stance and part them, for which he rewarded me by cupping the mound of my sex. His hot breath and reverent lips and his moist tongue-tip roamed over the curves of my bottom, his other hand stroking up under the line of my panties until I was flustered and breathing hard. His thumb stroked my pussy lips through the silky fabric, working magical changes on and inside me.

‘Oliver,’ I whispered frantically. If he kept this up I was going to forget all my dignity.

You can find Shot to the Heart in the e-collecion of the same name:
Amazon US
Amazon UK

Sunday, 10 February 2019

Friday, 8 February 2019

Writing news

I managed to sell TWO short stories in January!

My erotic-horror story The Witch's Need is going to Lustcraftian Horrors at Infernal Ink Books.

My fairy story My Son, My Daughter has been contracted to a non-erotica collection.

Today we've been working out a new cover for Lust in the Dust - there'll be a BIG announcement about that collection at some point soon, but I'll say no more at the moment.

Oh, and I'm currently writing a fantasy story that scares the hell out of me ;-)

Wednesday, 6 February 2019

The sacrificial panties

Oh my poor thong:

You see, this arrived in the post:

It contained this:

And I needed something stretchy to tie the stake with ... 😂😂😂

So my knickers did not die in vain!

Monday, 4 February 2019

Blue Monday: Lucy Felthouse guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Today's guest is Lucy Felthouse, with an excerpt from The Lady Gardener, a short story in her newly released collection, Sapphic Seduction:

If you enjoy short tales of ladies loving each other, then get your hands on this collection from the pen of award-winning author Lucy Felthouse.

From Zumba classes to army basic training, surfer chicks to mechanics, and even a lost dog, this book has variety galore. There’s something for everyone, and will have you eager to turn just one more page.

Enjoy twelve titillating tales, over 45,000 words of Sapphic delight.

All thoughts of messy hair and wet clothes disappeared from Verity’s head as Bea continued to stroke her hair, then shifted her hands down to cup her cheeks.

“It’s not just your hair that’s beautiful, you know,” Bea murmured.

“Umm...” was all Verity could manage. Her brain had short-circuited, leaving her speechless and wondering if she’d fallen asleep and was dreaming.

When Bea next spoke, she’d moved so close that Verity felt the other woman’s breath caressing her skin. “Just tell me, Verity, am I barking up the wrong tree, here? If you’ll pardon the pun.”

Still frozen into silence and inactivity, Verity finally managed to shake her head.

Bea sighed in relief. “Oh, good.” With that, she closed the remaining gap between them and pressed her lips to Verity’s.

After a beat, Verity’s clit dialled up from throbbing to screaming, kicking Verity into action. She reached out and pulled Bea onto her lap, and began to return the kiss in earnest.

Bea’s mouth was soft and warm, and tasted of the tea she’d consumed. Delving her tongue between those sweet lips, Verity allowed her body to take over. All her mind seemed to do was hold her back, so why not let go for a change, and see what happened? They were both adults, after all.

Verity reached up and cupped Bea’s breasts, which, like her backside, were high and firm. Barely a handful, they were nevertheless very enticing, and after several long moments of kissing, Verity suddenly wanted nothing more than to see those breasts naked.

She pulled back, only to grip the hem of Bea’s T-shirt and tug it up.

Bea giggled. “I’ve only just put that on.”

“I’ve only just put these trousers on. Want me to keep them on?” Verity countered.

“Of course not!” Bea all but tumbled from Verity’s lap and undressed, dropping her dry clothes into a pile away from the wet things still strewn beside the radiator.

Verity stood and followed suit. Then, unsure what to do next, she sat back down.

Bea quickly moved back onto her lap. As their naked bodies pressed together, Verity felt far from chilly. In fact, she was suddenly scorching, as though she’d been sunbathing for too long.

She cupped the back of Bea’s neck and pulled her in to resume the kiss. She snaked her other hand between their bodies, seeking Bea’s pussy. As her fingers grew closer, she sensed the heat even before she’d experienced it.

When she did, she let out a groan, as did Bea, but they didn’t stop kissing. Instead, they did so with more passion, their movements becoming faster, more frantic, even as Verity dipped her fingers between Bea’s slick, swollen lower lips and claimed her prize.

As she pushed her digits inside Bea’s molten channel, she manoeuvred her hand so she could press her thumb against Bea’s clit at the same time. Then she began working to bring her off, pumping in and out of her clenching core, while rubbing and pressing at her rapidly swelling bud. All the while their tongues continued to dance and duel, with Bea’s hands clasped behind Verity’s neck, steadying herself, so as not to tumble from Verity’s lap.

Verity’s own pussy was leaking copiously onto the chair beneath her, and she couldn’t help but hope it wouldn’t be long before she could seek her own climax, either by her own hand, or Bea’s.

Suddenly, Bea pulled away from their kiss with a groan, and threw her head back. “Oh, Verity, keep going! I’m so close...” Her words tailed off, and were followed by another groan, longer this time, and louder.

Verity did as she was told, ignoring the ache in her hand as she stroked and thrust, driving beautiful Bea ever closer to climax.

Soon, she achieved her goal. Bea shuddered on her lap, a movement that seemed to overtake her entire body, before centring in on her pussy. Her walls clenched around Verity’s hand, and hot wetness seeped out. Bea held on tight behind Verity’s neck, gasping and cursing as she rode out her orgasm. Her face and chest had flushed beautifully, and Verity smiled, enjoying the sight of the lovely post-orgasmic woman in front of her.

Eventually, Bea came back down to earth, rolling her head forward and capturing Verity in her gaze. “Wow,” she said, her lips curving into a seductive grin. “That was... unexpected. But superb. Let me return the favour.”

With that, Bea slipped from her lap and knelt on the floor in front of the chair. After pushing Verity’s thighs wide, Bea immediately dove between them.

Verity snapped her hands to the sides of the chair and held on tight. It took Bea only seconds to get into her stride, lapping up Verity’s juices with enthusiasm, before homing in on her desperate clit.

Verity let her head loll back and her eyes flutter shut as she enjoyed the sensations zinging from between her splayed legs. Bea, it seemed, was the mistress of cunnilingus, and her talented tongue rapidly turned Verity into a babbling, blaspheming fool, before she closed her lips around Verity’s stiff bud and sucked her into orgasmic oblivion.

“Oh... oh my God!” Verity yelled, gripping the chair so tightly her fingers hurt. “Ahh... coming!”

She gave in to the waves of bliss, which lifted her, tossed her around, and threw her back to earth, leaving behind a wrung-out, grinning idiot, wondering what the hell had just happened. Prising her eyelids open, she lifted her head and peered dopily down at Bea, who at that moment was straightening up from her position between Verity’s trembling thighs.

“Want that second cup of tea now?” Bea asked with a wink, then licked her lips in a highly exaggerated fashion.

“Yeah,” Verity replied, still grinning. “I think I’d better had. I could do with the energy.”

Buy Sapphic Seduction at:

Barnes & Noble 

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller), The Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight and The Heiress’s Harem series. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 170 publications to her name. 

Find out more about her writing at her
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Sunday, 3 February 2019

Grace Petrie

We caught Frank Turner's Be More Kind tour last week, to my great delight. He's being supported by Grace Petrie, so here's a track of hers.

Thursday, 31 January 2019

The Parrish in winter

White Birches

Since the weather's so cold, let's enjoy some of Maxfield Parrish's luminous winter landscapes...

Moonlit Night: Winter

Parrish (1870-1966) spent most of his life as a commercial illustrator - magazines, advertisments, calendars, children's books etc. - before ending his career as a landscape artist. He was immensely prolific and made an absolute fortune from his work, which was incredibly popular with the general public: the most popular art print of the 20th Century is his Daybreak of 1922.

He achieved his rich effects through careful layering of paints and varnishes. His snowscapes are just psychedelic!


Christmas Eve

Christmas Morning

Deep Snow

Lull Brook: Winter
At Close of Day
White Birches: Winter

Winter Sunrise

Monday, 28 January 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

This dark and chilly week, let's help the winter along with some more shivers... My ghost story Cold Hands: Warm Heart appears in my collection Dark Enchantment:

Pre WWI, two young gentlemen, Morgan and Thorpe, are sitting vigil for a ghost in Morgan's ancestral home. If the master of Levingshall ever spends the night there, local lore says that the ghost of a young woman wronged and drowned by his forebear will turn up and kill him. And sure enough a young woman arrives: cold, wet, pulseless and mute - but also oddly passive. Morgan sees the opportunity to take advantage ...

I unfurled a corner of the quilt in order to expose her arm to the fire. The skin was still wet. Droplets stood up in the delicate crease of her elbow. Water was still running out of her hair. I bit my lip. The counterpane should at the very least have blotted up this moisture. This was not natural.

‘Want my jacket?’ Morgan asked with ill humour.

‘She’s still soaked. I think the water’s coming from her.’

Cautiously, he circled back for a better look. ‘We could get her out of that wet dress.’

My mouth was dry, to make up for the cold water wicking into my clothes from the girl. Her linen shift was translucent where it adhered to her skin, and tented over the pebble of her nipple. That detail had not escaped Morgan either; he hunkered in front of her and ran his fingertips down the inside edge of her shift’s deep neckline. ‘What do you say, Alyse? Like to get out of your nasty petticoat?’

She didn’t respond to the name. But she took his hand and laid it on her full, teardrop shaped breast, and a hungry breathy noise issued from those pale lips.

‘Well, ghost or no, there’s no doubt what sort of a girl she is,’ Morgan murmured, his voice thickening to hoarseness.

‘I don’t like this,’ I stammered.

‘Really? You should get a handful of what I’ve got.’ He squeezed, and she moaned and surged into his grip, her shoulders writhing against my chest.


‘Stop being such a bloody prude, man.’ He sniggered, and I could see the doubt and the nervousness evaporate from him. ‘She’s frantic for this; can’t you see? Maybe this is what she wanted all along, all those years. Think about it – she came to the house desperate to make the beast with two backs with Lord Price, and died unfulfilled. Maybe all she’s needed is for someone to give her what she wants. Maybe she just needs the Master of Levingshall to give her a good, hard seeing-to.’

‘Think about your fiancee!’ I protested, as the girl rolled her head back on my shoulder, her lips parted, little breathy pants shaking her breasts as Morgan played with them. Her aroused nipples poked through the wet linen like accusing fingertips.

‘I’ve thought about Cicely until my balls are blue,’ he growled. ‘Don’t you dare reproach me Thorpe; I’ve had enough of waiting for what’s mine. Now the Lord of Levingshall is going to do his duty.’ He took hold of the wet cloth. ‘Let’s get you out of those wet things, shall we my girl?’ With a good hard pull and a twist, he tore her shift open down the front.

Unnecessary, I thought. But I said nothing. I have always been weak compared with Morgan. And despite my protests and my misgivings, it would be dishonest to pretend that the darker part of me was not moved by that girl moaning and writhing in my lap.

‘Take a look at those beauties!’

Her pale skin was marbled with blue veins and her nipples were only tinted with colour, but they stood stiff and responsive to his touch, beaded with running droplets of water. She reached out for him, her slim hands stroking his face, but he slapped them away, grimacing.

‘Your hands are like ice! What about the rest of you, girl?’ Morgan threw back the counterpane and completed the sundering of the dress with swift movements, laying her bare all the way to her pubic mound. She was as slender and as pallid as I’d anticipated, her private fleece cured to ringlets by water. He slipped his hand between her thighs and she writhed her hips as she parted them willingly for him. Then she uttered a moan – a real moan; a soft, thrilling sound – and arched against me. Despite my soaked and freezing clothes my cock stiffened at the unmistakable noise of a woman’s desire.

Morgan had gone still. His eyes met mine.

‘What?’ I demanded, my voice unsteady.

‘Cold all the way through,’ he whispered, and his lips curved cruelly. I could see the muscles working in his wrist. ‘But wet there too. Gloriously wet. And she’s no virgin.’

Alyse’s hands reached for him again, pleadingly. He pulled back in annoyance.

‘Hold her arms out the way, Thorpe.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What do you think? Hold her tight.’

To enjoy Morgan getting his just deserts, you can buy Dark Enchantment at:

Amazon US
Amazon UK
Google Play

Saturday, 26 January 2019


A Wooded Winter Landscape with Deer by Peder Mørk Mønsted (1859 - 1941)
Isn't this a beautiful  painting? It fills me with joy.

Thursday, 24 January 2019

Burne-Jones at the Tate

In the Depths of the Sea
(the only picture where anyone is smiling!)

Since I spent a day in London last week, here are some photos I took in the Tate Britain exhibition of the work of Pre-Raphaelite Edward Burne-Jones (1833-98) - which is on for another month: if you want to go, get there EARLY and allow yourself lots of browsing time.

The Annunciation

I'm just sorry that my photos don't give you a proper idea of the SCALE of many of the pieces - which were huge in most cases - nor of the richness imparted by the colour and gilding.

The Wine of Circe

The Pilgrim Outside the Garden of Idleness

The Wheel of Fortune

Love and the Pilgrim

Portrait of Amy Gaskell

They had the whole Perseus Cycle there, in various forms

 -  though some pieces were unfinished

And the whole Briar Rose Cycle too:


Burne-Jones and his ilk are wildly unfashionable with critics, but OMG the beauty...

Spirits, or The Uninterrupted Dream

Greatly recommended, for anyone who has a chance to go.

Monday, 21 January 2019

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

And Samantha MacLeod is back again for the second time this month - she's a busy writer! Today she shares an excerpt from The Monster's Lover, which is officially released today:

Promised to cruel King Nøkkyn’s harem, Sol Eriksen is out of options, and nearly out of time.

When she meets a distractingly handsome stranger in the Ironwood Forest who claims to be a legendary monster, Sol thinks he must be a madman, or a demon. She knows she shouldn’t listen to him. Or trust him. And she should not, under any circumstances, kiss him again.

As King Nøkkyn's grip around her tightens, Sol finds her last chance at freedom may lie with her mysterious new lover, the man who calls himself Fenris

“Are you a demon?” I asked.

His frown deepened until he looked slightly lost. “Why would I be a demon?”

I shook my head, pressing my lips together to keep from answering his question. Because you’re so beautiful, I wanted to say. Because you’re naked, in the middle of the Ironwood, by yourself.

“I-I’m sorry. Have I scared you?” he asked.

“No,” I said, crushing my dress to my chest as if it could muffle the wild pounding of my heart.

“Don’t run. Please.”

“I won’t,” I promised.

I didn’t want to run. I didn’t want to put any more space between the two of us, between his bare chest and arms and my trembling body.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. His lips twitched as he opened his eyes, almost as though he were trying to remember how to smile. “I’m Fenris,” he said.

I couldn’t stop my laugh. It rang across the Lucky like a peal of thunder before I could clamp my hand over my lips. He frowned again, his forehead wrinkling.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But Fenris is a wolf. A monster. You’re just a boy.”

“A boy?”

He took another step toward me, so close I could have touched him, then glanced down at himself. A flash of heat burned through my body. No, not a boy. His shoulders were wide, and his chest was ridged with muscles. And between his legs...This close, I couldn’t avoid it. I didn’t want to avoid it. Another ripple of heat surged deep inside me as I drank in the sight of him.

I’d seen my brothers and father naked, on occasion, the drooping, pale stem between their legs curled around the wrinkled sack holding their seed. Those markers of their manhood had seemed oddly soft and vulnerable, almost comic.

But this demon was different. There was nothing vulnerable about what stood between his legs, hard, straight, and alarmingly large, jutting from a tangle of thick curls to point directly at the evening sky. I was suddenly very aware of my wet dress pressed against my breasts and between my legs, its thin fabric and the thick air the only things separating our two bodies.

I dragged my eyes back to his face. His soft lips curved over white teeth as I met his eyes. He had a strangely pleasant smile. I wondered if his lips would feel as soft as they looked, and blood rushed to my cheeks as the space between my legs grew even warmer.

“But, you’re not a monster,” I insisted. “You have a stick in your hair.”

He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, just missing the little twig as it twisted above his ear.

“No, your other side,” I said.

I pinned my dress under an arm, reached for him, and pulled the tiny branch from his long, auburn curls. He caught my wrist. My heart surged, hammering against my ribcage. He turned, his lips almost brushing my skin. His nostrils flared and his eyes closed. I forgot to breathe.

“Your scent,” he growled. “I know you. You like to pick the bloodberries along the river.”

“Y-yes,” I stammered.

My skin burned under his cool touch. I did like bloodberries, the little red spheres that grew only along shady riverbanks. And yes, I’d picked baskets full in the early summer. I picked the last harvest just a month ago, not far from here.

His lips pressed against the inside of my wrist. They felt as soft as I’d imagined. I shivered, although I was far from cold. A strange heat filled me, a burning born of some new fire I’d never before touched. I opened my mouth to say something, to ask who he was and what he was doing with his lips to make my body smolder like this but, instead of speaking, I moaned like an animal.

His gaze met mine, and he smiled.

I wasn’t sure who moved first, if he came toward me or if I was drawn to him like a moth to a candle, but when he released my wrist I was in his arms with my wet dress pressed between my breasts and the hard muscles of his bare chest. I was half surprised the heat of our bodies didn’t release a cloud of steam from the fabric.

I tilted my head. I wanted him to kiss me. I needed that kiss, needed it the way the trees need sunlight and rainwater.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I felt the hard jut of his manhood against my stomach. I’d never been told the exact mechanics of what it was men and women did together in the darkness of their sleeping furs, but on some level my body understood what it wanted. My thighs slicked with heat and moisture; my hips tilted to-ward him, seeking him, needing him.

He buried his face in my hair, his breath hot against my neck as he ran his hands over my waist and up my back.

“Smells good,” he muttered. “Oh, you smell good.”

He pulled back, then dropped to his knees. I gasped, missing the heat of his chest against mine. The sudden absence felt like pain.

I looked down at his pale eyes. He raised a trembling hand to my chest, and his fingers curled around my wet, crushed dress.

“Yes,” I whispered.

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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.

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Sunday, 20 January 2019