Monday, 20 May 2019

Blue Monday

Mondays are when I post sexy excerpts for your entertainment!

If you buy my gothic novella  Bound in Skin you'll find The Grief of the Bond-Maid included as a bonus story. It's more about the magical quest and less about the relationship than most of my romances, but it's still NAUGHTY, I promise ... 😈


"You came to my house of your own will, alone. Don't you think you've left it a little late to decide that I am not to be trusted?"

Two stories of magic, shape-shifting and passionate romance with historical settings.

Bound in Skin: When her father dies, Cassandra Otley travels alone to the mountainous heart of Europe, to take up his position cataloguing the library of a reclusive nobleman with a dire reputation. Cassandra has learned rather more from books than a proper young Victiorian lady ought - yet some things have to be encountered in the flesh to be believed.

The Grief of the Bond-Maid: When the Viking wizard Vegtamr begins a necromantic ritual to sieze the power of the Runes, his slave-girl Sjofn takes the terrifying decision to thwart him. She recruits two handsome Norse strangers to help her in this desperate shamanic quest across the Nine Worlds. But Thorkell and Bjarni have their own secrets...


Sjofn stamped her feet, chilled by the journey and by what she’d seen. Casting about, she looked for the spirits of her two companions, but they were nowhere near the fire. The circle of her footfalls widened to a spiral.

‘Where are you going, Sjofn?’

‘I’ll just check they’re safe,’ she muttered, walking away uphill, toward the trees, and letting Kot follow at a distance. She found them not far into the dense shadow of the firs, standing face-to-face — and in a moment the curiosity to which she’d not dared admit met with all the answers it had been looking for. Bjarni had his back to one of the trunks. Both men had loosened their clothes, and each was holding the other’s erect cock in his hand and caressing it from root to crown.

Sjofn felt the blood flare up to burn in her cheeks.

They were almost the same height, she noticed; Thorkell perhaps a couple of inches taller. It meant they met easily mouth-to-mouth, sharing breath that was coming shorter and shallower to both of them; sometimes kissing but then drawing apart, only to kiss and bite softly once more. Red and dark stubbles rasped together. Scarred lips touched with both hunger and tenderness. Their eyes were hooded, unfocused; as if there was no world beyond their embrace, as if there was nothing but the other man in all the night, and that man known by touch and taste as much as by sight. Sjofn stared. Their hands moved with familiar sureness, and with a firmness that — to her — looked punishing. Two cock-heads nudged together, two thick shafts were enfolded together by weapon-hardened fingers. There was no speech; just a mutual urging of the flesh that became increasingly fervent, knuckles blurring as they stoked the flames.

Recalling Vegtamr’s cold and perfunctory impositions upon her, something in Sjofn rose up in rebellion. Was this how it should really be — this melting confusion of skin and breath and intent?
Then Bjarni’s head thunked back against the tree’s bark, his hips shifting as his legs grew taut with strain, his eyes watching Thorkell’s face from under half-lowered lids. His throat worked but he grunted only once as his sea-spume burst between the other man fingers. His own tugging grew ragged, then suddenly imperious. Thorkell’s brow knotted into a frown and his eyes screwed shut. He jerked his head as if in immense effort, as his own seed gushed out in response and overflowed Bjarni’s grasp.

‘Yes,’ he whispered.

For a while they clung together, gasping a little. Their hands mingled the semen, lazy now, rubbing that spend into their hot and swollen flesh.

Sjofn walked away, her legs shaking and her heart pounding hard. She walked back to the fire and sat down, brooding into the darkness. When Kot came up and nuzzled under her hand she pushed him away.

‘Why are you angry?’ he asked.

‘I’m not.’

‘Oh no: of course you aren’t,’ he huffed. ‘You’re just…?’

‘Unsettled,’ she complained. ‘I know that a witch must be all things: tree and stone, bird and beast, male and female. We’re shapeshifters. But those two are warriors. It’s unmanly.’

‘From what I saw, they were both very much male,’ Kot said, with the nearest approximation a spirit might make to a smirk. ‘Didn’t you think so?’

‘I don’t want to think about it.’

‘Sjofn … You’re jealous.’


All buy-links for Bound in Skin are HERE

Tuesday, 14 May 2019

Dirty 30 Vol.3


Heads-up/cover reveal here for the next anthology I'm involved with - it's The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Vol.3, which is due for release on May 24th, and is edited of course by the wonderful Rose Caraway.

In SLD30 Vol.2 I had a story from Norse mythology - Sweet Hel Below. This time round I've switched it up and tried my hand at a Western: Sourdough. I may have been watching a lot of Westworld at the time!)

You can read a brief extract from my new story HERE

Thursday, 9 May 2019

My Willy

Meet my new dog!


He has HUGE FEET!


Willy comes from Dahab in Egypt, via a one-woman rescue called Janet's Wadi.


He was found as a young dog, tied up with his tail severed, in the middle of the road. This is pretty normal for the way street dogs get treated out there 😢😢😢
He's seven years old now, so has spent most of his life in the safe desert space of the Wadi, but he's still very timid and submissive. He tries to make friends with every human he meets and offering his paw is his signature move.


 His bat-ears are because he's part Baladi Dog and that also means he's extremely vocal - he speaks by groaning, growling and making Chewbacca noises! He's a fast learner - notably smarter than a greyhound for sure! 😂



He has the sweetest nature and despite being new to indoor living hasn't make a mess even once. He walks politely off the lead now. What a gentleman!


As for the name ... well, it wasn't my idea! But how appropriate for smutwriter, LOL!

Follow Janet's Wadi on Facebook

Monday, 6 May 2019

Blue Monday

Mondays on my blog are when I post sexy excerpts for your entertainment!

As of this last week I've finally got this reprint project up on sale: Bound in Skin: two dark romances contains two longish stories that reverted to me after their original anthologies went out of print. The eponymous Bound in Skin originally appeared in a Catscratch Press anthology, but it's been reworked (and expanded slightly) for this version which is now available from a range of online outlets.


"You came to my house of your own will, alone. Don't you think you've left it a little late to decide that I am not to be trusted?"

Two stories of magic, shape-shifting and passionate romance with historical settings.

Bound in Skin: When her father dies, Cassandra Otley travels alone to the mountainous heart of Europe, to take up his position cataloguing the library of a reclusive nobleman with a dire reputation. Cassandra has learned rather more from books than a proper young Victiorian lady ought - yet some things have to be encountered in the flesh to be believed.

The Grief of the Bond-Maid: When the Viking wizard Vegtamr begins a necromantic ritual to sieze the power of the Runes, his slave-girl Sjofn takes the terrifying decision to thwart him. She recruits two handsome Norse strangers to help her in this desperate shamanic quest across the Nine Worlds. But Thorkell and Bjarni have their own secrets...


So very late one evening I stole back down from my room to the library. The servants had retired to bed as early as ever and I had not seen Margraf Goran for two days. I had stripped down to my undergarments while preparing for my unwelcoming bed, but now had thrown over those a dressing gown in broderie anglaise, and my stockinged feet were silent on the castle’s ancient floorboards.

Lighting a single oil-lamp, I brought to my desk a volume I had uncovered that morning and wanted to peruse again. It was handwritten on fine paper in a script that I judged was Hindustani, but the interest of the book was not in the text but in the illustrations on almost every page; delicately detailed paintings in jewel-bright colours of couples — and not just couples but entire parties — engaged in copulation in the most perfectly maintained gardens and pavilions. The men depicted were unprepossessing to my eye; plump, unshaven and rather grumpy-looking, their virile members as curved as scimitars. The women were equally sullen in appearance but made up for it with extravagantly feminine figures and a litheness that bordered on contortionism. I tilted my head this way and that as I scanned the pages, trying to decipher the knotted positions of the participants and wondering if they were possible for a woman of English frame; wondering if I would ever be inducted into such practices. My heart beat swiftly. My hand crept down between my hot thighs. I was completely absorbed.

I don’t know what it was that made me look up, but the Margraf was in the library doorway, leaning against the frame and watching me, his arms folded. I could have leapt out of my skin. I jumped to my feet instead, without thinking how guilty this made me look, and slammed a folio of innocent architectural sketches over the pornographic book.

Margraf Goran took that as a cue to approach from the shadows. He was dressed with the minimum of decency in shirt and trousers, but he was barefoot, which explained why I hadn’t heard him enter the room. His paces were long and measured, without hurry. I think he was savouring the moment. A dark smile played about his lips. As for myself, I stared and panted with all the wit of a deer cornered against a fence. I had no skill at dissembling, even if my state of semi-dress hadn’t rendered this encounter entirely beyond the pale of decorum.

‘What are you reading, Miss Otley?’ he asked, with an interest that was far from polite. ‘Something quite gripping, I have to assume? It’s very late.’

I didn’t answer. I knew without doubt that I had just lost my position of employment here and I was so panicked I could not move. If I hadn’t been so frightened I might have combusted with shame, but in fact I felt wan and dizzy.

‘Hm?’ He looked down at the sketchbook, eyebrows raised in enquiry. ‘Go on. What is it?’

I pressed my hands flat onto the cover, determined that he’d have to use force to take a look at what lay beneath. I didn’t move even when he walked round the desk and round me, stopping to look down over my shoulder. Quietly he reached forward and laid his left hand over mine. He had long, strong fingers. The movement brought his body into contact with my own, all along my arm and shoulder and back.

‘Please,’ I whispered.

The Margraf slid his fingers between mine, splaying them wider. His hand felt warm and dry. He waited a moment for me to yield, but my arms stayed locked. I heard him smile, though I could see nothing of his expression. With his other hand he very gently lifted the locks of my undressed hair from my neck and bent his head to breathe the scent of my skin. ‘It must be something quite exciting,’ he murmured. ‘You are quite warm, Miss Otley … and damp.’

I shut my eyes. My heart was pounding so hard my tense arms were jumping with each beat. ‘Sir,’ I entreated.

I think he’d lost interest in the actual book some moments previously. Releasing my hand, he scooped my chin up and drew my head back and away, exposing my throat. His lips brushed the sensitive skin in a slow sweep, his breath warm. With the other hand he traced the edge of my dressing gown around the scoop of my neck, his fingertips igniting my skin, and slipped the cotton back from my shoulder. What really horrified me was how gentle he was. There was no force involved at all, and with that he made me complicit in my own ruin. Even when I felt his teeth graze my ear I did not fight him. My eyes flew open again but I could not even focus them. The room seemed to spin.
‘Your skin is so soft,’ he whispered, and I heard an edge of unmistakable hunger in his voice. I shuddered in his hands.

Slowly he tugged free the fastenings of my gown and smoothed it off my shoulders, down to my elbows. Underneath I was wearing only long drawers and a sleeveless camisole top, its wide-scooped neckline decorated with a surf of lace and little blue bows, so that looking down over my shoulder he found a great deal of skin to admire. His chest was pressed lightly to my back. He traced the line of my collarbone. His touch — all fingertips and lips — was almost tender, but I knew without seeing it the pale wolf-light that would be burning in his eyes. He found the loose lace directly over my right breast and played with the folds, making me gasp as my nipple tightened to an eager point.

‘Shall I?’ he whispered hot in my ear, moving to finger the row of tiny buttons directly down my breastbone. ‘Or what about … this?’ Without warning his other hand slid round the waistband of my drawers, found the bow there and pulled it out in one long exquisite movement. Biting my lip, I pressed my mons against the desk edge, trying to keep those knickers in place. It didn’t stop him. Reaching under my dressing gown, he found the first sliver of bare skin between upper and lower garments and smoothed his palm down my hip and flank. My drawers, held up at the front by the hard line of wood, had no defence elsewhere and slipped to bare the curve of my bottom.

I was melting for him.

‘Wonderful,’ he growled in my ear, one hand on the satin swell of my buttock cheek, the other finally swooping to cup my right breast through the thin cotton. I felt like he was holding my whole being in his hands. Then he was pressed against me properly, lifting me up on my toes with the length of his body hard against my softness, my round bottom tucked up into his thighs and crotch, his hand squeezing my breast, his mouth on my throat, teeth bared over my pulse. Through a few thin layers of cloth I could feel exactly how much he wanted me. My legs and arms were so rigid that they could take the strain no more. My mind whirled with the pictures from the book. Suddenly I was shaking and tears were spilling down my cheeks.

‘Sir, please,’ I sobbed.


All buy-links for Bound in Skin are HERE


Friday, 3 May 2019

Merry Men!



It turns out I only live 25 minutes away from Sherwood Forest! 

Here's the Major Oak,  reputed to be the one which Robin Hood and his band met beneath:

I went there with longtime-internet-buddy and fellow erotica writer Craig Sorensen, who is visiting from the USA. We've also been to Bolsover Castle and spent a day in York, so he now has a wholly warped idea of how nice England is ;-)


Now we are going to watch Bill, so that he has an accurate historical grounding in Shakespeare's life before going to Stratford Upon Avon 😁😁😁


Sunday, 28 April 2019

Did you miss me?


Okay, I've been a bit quiet on the blogging front for the last month, I admit. Nothing bad happened, I just wanted some time off the online schedule. I actually went a few days not even looking at Facebook!

It was lovely! Social media is a blessing for a writer, but it can be a horrible, compulsive burden too.  Sometimes it's good to step back and get grounded in real life for a change.

Anyway, while I was away I...


  • Kicked off a new Victorian Gothic LARP game - we've done the site visit, written the outline plot, assembled a crew team, booked out for players (inside an hour of launch) and had our first crew meeting. I've got the best part of a year to make props and build up a good head of stress now, LOL.
 
  •  Adopted a new dog
  • Had my sister and her family up to visit
 
  • Had a bathroom refitted
  • Went to a family wedding

 
  • Self-published a new book (well, a reprint ... two reprints under one cover, to be precise)
  • And binge-watched a lot of TV, heehee, because NOW WE HAVE NETFLIX 🙌🙌🙌

There will be posts to come on most of the above, no doubt, but I'm probably going to blog on a slightly more irregular schedule just so I don't feel like I'm on the treadmill again.

Hope you stick around! 💕

Tuesday, 2 April 2019

Not retired quite yet


Yesterday, when I was updating the "coming next" page on my website, I noted that not only is the Lust in the Dust anthology out in July, I've also already got 4 short erotica stories due to be published this year (from Cleis, Stupid Fish and Infernal Ink).

Plus 2 non-erotica shorts from fantasy publishers! I happen to be signing a contract for one of them today.

You can read all the smutty details here

So despite my fair share of rejections, it's looking like a surprisingly lively this year after a VERY slow 2018. (I blame the house move.)

Next I need to get on with this reprint double:

Technically a COVER REVEAL!

And a reboot of this series:


... which I am determined to finish!

Friday, 29 March 2019

And another one...

My second cover reveal in a week, lol


For anyone following my non-erotic work, my story The Price of Passage - which is about Aeneas'  escape from the sack of Troy - is due to appear in Legends Vol.3 out 25th May this year. Wheeeeee!

David Gemmell passed away in 2006, leaving behind a legacy of memorable characters, epic settings, and thrilling tales. The Legends series of anthologies, of which this the third and almost certainly final volume, is intended to pay homage to one of fantasy fiction's greatest writers. With stories written especially for the books by some of the finest fantasy authors from Britain and beyond, the series also acts as a fund raiser for the David Gemmell Awards.

It's a massive honour for me to be featured in this anthology alongside so many great fantasy authors!

Preorder link for paperback and limited-edition hardback

Wednesday, 27 March 2019

Lust in the Dust - cover reveal, lineup, publication date!


BEHOLD!!!




I've got lots of news about the Lust in the Dust anthology -

First, since Sexy Little Pages closed its doors earlier in the year, Lust in the Dust will now be published by Sinful Press!

It has a new cover (above) and will be released on Friday 5th July. 😍😍😍   It will be available in e-format and paperback.

The TOC is as follows:

1: In Pursuit of the Millennium: S. Nano

2: Addicted to Disaster: Elizabeth Coldwell

3: First Contact: Raven Sky

4: Ring of Fire: Sommer Marsden

5: Virtual Insanity: Cara Thereon

6: Hollywood: Jones

7: Mourning Doves in Limbo: Gregory L. Norris

8: Better Than Therapy: Nicole Wolf

9: The Basque of the Red Death: Janine Ashbless

10: Checkout Girl: Quiet Ranger

The change of publisher was a tad stressful but honestly went far more swiftly and smoothly than I could ever have expected. All my wonderful authors stayed onboard for the jump 💖

I am eternally grateful to Anna Sky at Sexy Little Pages for getting the ball rolling with this project, being with us for the whole of the commissioning process, and making such efforts to see that it found a new home - and of course I owe my firstborn to Lisa Jenkins at Sinful Press for picking the manuscript up so enthusiastically and getting us a prompt publication slot.

Sinful Press is a perfect home for this eclectic, seething hot and - in places - challenging anthology and I couldn't be happier right now!

Monday, 25 March 2019

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Spring has arrived here, thoughts turn to booking sunny holidays ... and so though I've never really  been on a cruise, here's an excerpt from my story Wherever I Wander:


While on holiday abroad, Adele and Hal have checked their remote home security cam - and caught the house-sitter frolicking with an unknown man on the sofa:


“I don't even know who he is!” I tried, my protests still screechy but diminishing in force. I could tell I wasn't winning here. Hal has always been fatalistic about these things, even when our own kids were growing up. And he likes Stacia. She's polite and sunny and reliable. Well, she had been until now. Right at this moment she was wriggling all over her friend and he was tugging at the belt of her jeans.

“I guess he's that cute boyfriend from university she was talking about. The geologist.”

I focused on the young man's face, trying to recall if she'd told us his name. He was certainly cute, with rather pouty lips and floppy blond hair that—I told myself cynically—wouldn't survive past his first real job interview. “It's my house!” I complained. “They shouldn't be doing that in someone else's house!”

“What . . . like we shouldn't have done it in the Alhambra Palace?” he asked. “Or in that hotel roof-garden? Or in the jacuzzi last night?”

I was already pink with indignation, but his reminders made me flush deeper. We'd certainly reignited the old spark between us, on this sea-cruise. We'd discovered we were still capable not just of full-on passion, but of breaking the social rules. We'd had furtive quickie sex in darkened corners, groped each other under the cover of tablecloths, and even made love in public—though up to our shoulders in the waters of the Mediterranean. Set free from familiar surroundings and faces, it had turned out that boring old Adele and Hal were just a little bit naughty.

People will lose all inhibitions if they think they're not being watched.

“That's different . . .” I said, with no conviction at all. The reminder of our own transgressions had thrown me off-kilter.

“You know, darling,” Hal started, but broke off abruptly as something happened on-screen. Stacia slid off her guy's lap and the open fly of his pants was revealed to the camera. Jutting from it like the Leaning Tower of Pisa was his flushed, fully-erect cock.

That changed everything.

“Oh my God,” squeaked I. Not in shock—more in awe. It was one of the most impressive erections I'd ever seen, on or off a screen. On that slim body it actually looked out-of-proportion.

“That's . . .” said Hal.

But before either of us could react coherently, Stacia dropped face-down in the boy's lap and took his swollen cock-head between her lips. We both stared, our eyes wide, as she sucked that monster into her mouth. For a long moment that was absolute silence in our cabin, and I don't think either of us dared to breathe. We'd crossed a line here.

Suddenly the room seemed too hot, my few clothes too tight. My skin felt as if it were melting.

“We shouldn't be watching this!” I said at last, but ruined it by bursting into nervous giggles. I looked to Hal for support, and his gray eyes met mine. “Oh God, what do we do?”

“Have you got the mouse there?” he asked softly.

I handed the wireless device over, relieved to surrender responsibility. But Hal surprised me. He clicked. On-screen, the camera zoomed in—right on that stranger's crotch, and the pillar of his cock, and the hollow of Stacia's cheeks and the bounce of her dark curls as she bobbed up and down on that beautiful, beautiful length. We'd invested in a fairly expensive security system, with a decent zoom and good definition. I could see his skin glisten with the wetness of her mouth.

“Hal . . .”

“Just checking,” he said, in his softest, darkest, I'm-going-to-fuck-you voice. Even as I tried to catch up with his meaning, his next words made the world spin around me: “I was right—she's not as good as you.” I jumped slightly, and he added with audible relish, “You'd be able to take something that size all the way. Right down your throat.”

Now that's flattery.

He backed it up by laying his hand on my thigh. I'd been in the middle of getting dressed for dinner and was only wearing panties and a silk slip. His hand felt warm on my bare skin. There was something so deliberate about that hand, that touch. It took our inadvertent transgression, and it made it intentional. And oh, the response of my body was undeniable. I felt a hot plume of excitement surge through me and I licked my lips, unable to avoid picturing exactly what he'd described: that huge cock nudging to the back of my mouth, and my throat opening to take it.

“It's just practice,” I said. “She'll get better at it.”

“Yeah, I guess so. She's quite enthusiastic, don't you think?”

“Uh-huh.” She certainly was—licking and slurping away there like it was the first ice-cream cone of summer. Then she hefted his scrotum out from his open pants and soon she was playing with his balls too, tickling and rolling them. I couldn't see her boyfriend's face, but if he wasn't in heaven by now he must be dead from the waist down. I have to say that, judging from the girth and solidity of his cock, he seemed to be appreciating everything.

Hal's hand slid up my inner thigh and pressed against my mons, making me catch my breath.



Never Say Never: Tips, Tricks and Erotic Inspiration for Lovers is on sale at:
Amazon US
Amazon UK


Saturday, 16 March 2019

Thursday, 14 March 2019

Oh Frabjous Day!



I have turned in to the publisher the edited manuscript of the Lust in the Dust! 😇😇😇

Now we wait ... there is a lot of waiting in this business! 😉

Monday, 11 March 2019

Blue Monday: Samantha MacLeod guests

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

Fenris is back! Yes, today Samantha MacLeod - who clearly never sleeps - brings us a preview peek from the third in the Fenris series: The Monster and the Prisoner (and you can read excerpts from Book 1 and Book 2 to whet your appetite). It's officially out on the 26th of this month:


Captured by the cruel king!

Her family murdered, Sol has been taken in chains to the foreboding fortress of King Nøkkyn, where the King intends to make an example out of her disobedience with a public execution. What’s more, Nøkkyn plans to unleash a false prophecy strong enough to bring down the fiercest monster in the Ironwood forest: Fenris-wolf.

Is there any way for the daughter of slaves to escape the King’s castle? Or will Sol’s captivity also bring about the downfall of her husband Fenris?


I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I was jolted awake. The bedchamber was dark now, and rhythmic, low snores emanated from the heavy red velvet curtains around Nøkkyn’s bed. My legs throbbed when I shifted and stretched. I’d fallen asleep leaning against the wall. I bit down on the gag to keep from making noise as I tried to rub some feeling back into my burning, prickling legs.

Something moved in the room. I froze. Patches of watery, silver moonlight lay silent across the thick rugs and silk couches of Nøkkyn’s bedchamber. My eyes adjusted slowly to the low light, making out the black shadows of furniture. I turned toward the door closest to me.

The short guard was gone. A flicker of apprehension danced up my neck. What was going on? Was I about to witness an attack on King Nøkkyn?

A low, soft moan came from the far side of the room, deep in the shadows. I turned. My breath caught in my throat.

At first I thought the guards were struggling. It would explain the moan, the way their bodies twisted and pressed together. But, no. They were far too silent and delicate to be fighting.

Another flush of heat tightened in my gut. They were not fighting, these two guards who’d had to stand stock-still and silent as their cocks throbbed with desire. Not fighting at all.

With a low rustle, their intertwined bodies shifted into the moonlight. The tall guard faced me, his hands sunk into the hair of the shorter guard. Their lips pressed together in a deep, hungry kiss, and their hips moved as though they were dancing beneath the moon. As I watched, the taller guard’s hand left his partner’s dark tangle of hair and dropped down his silvery tunic, cupping the shorter’s guards ass. Someone groaned in appreciation, although it was impossible to tell where the sound had originated.

Heat pulsed through my core, winding the coil of arousal tighter. It as though I’d gone back in time to watch Fenris and Týr kissing in the firelight, but this time the scene before me was tinged with risk and danger. If Nøkkyn awoke to find his guards like this, I had no doubt they’d both end up on poles along the castle wall. Stars, I wondered, was it worth the risk?

The men parted for a minute, and my chest tightened with disappointment, although I understood why they had stopped. They were both panting, their chests rising and falling rapidly. The tall guard’s distant, unfocused expression was gone, and he was staring into his partner’s eyes with an intensity that rivaled the sun. I could only see the shorter guard’s back, and his hands coming forward, reaching around the tall guard’s waist.

Oh. As I watched, he unfastened the tall guard’s belt and pushed his tight, pale pants down to his knees. The guard’s stiff cock bobbed in the moonlight. Heat surged between my legs. The short guard brushed the head delicately with his fingers, and the tall man’s entire body shuddered. He said something so soft and low I couldn’t make it out. The men came together again, the tall guard’s arms wrapped around the shorter man’s shoulders.

I could hear them breathe. They were both panting now; the tall guard had turned his face to his partner’s neck to stifle his moans. My leg tingled as I pressed myself further into the shadows. I bit down on my gag, waiting for the last remnants of pain to evaporate, driven out by the fire of my arousal.

My fingers were on my sex almost before I realized what I was doing. The shorter guard’s arm moved down between their bodies, and my fingers pressed against my clit, up and down, following his rhythm. Their tight pants revealed the curve and sway of their leg muscles, the way the short guard’s ass clenched as he thrust his hips against his partner. I thrust my fingers deeper into the wet heat of my sex, imagining the cock I’d just seen in the moonlight, how its hard length would feel against my fingers, then my lips, then buried deep inside me, shooting out its seed into my hungry body.

The tall guard grunted, his words muffled against his partner’s neck. They moved apart, just for a moment, and I saw the silvery stream of the guard’s seed shoot across the room. His face rocked backward, his eyes closed and, for just a heartbeat, he looked like a man who had seen Val-hall itself.


Pre-order The Monster and the Prisoner from:
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.

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