After witnessing a cold-blooded killing, I run to the only person I can think of who can protect me from becoming the next victim. Ace is my high school fantasy turned big bad biker. Did I mention a sizzling, sexy, hot biker? He’s everything I know I should stay away from, but his touch makes me melt and when his lips devour mine, I forget why I shouldn’t let him near me.
He thinks he’s too old for me, too experienced. I tell him there’s no such thing as too much experience. But he’s more than just a sexy one-night stand. He makes me feel safe. Loved. Wanted. All the things I’ve never had, and that’s addictive as hell.
When the murderer makes it clear he wants me dead, Ace and the Riptide bikers take steps to make sure I’m safe. Permanently safe. There’s a whole lot more to these bikers than shiny chrome and loud pipes. They’re a family and they protect their own. Ace makes it clear he wants to claim me, make me part of that family, and keep me by his side.
Forever
ACE:
I’ve always had a thing for Emma, but she was dating my little brother. That makes me kind of creep, doesn’t it? So, I moved on. Joined the Navy SEALs. I re-upped a few times, but when that last mission went south, I knew it was time to bail. I came back home, feeling lost until someone invited me to check out Riptide MC. When I patched into the Riptide Motorcycle Club, I finally felt like I had a home and a family. It felt good. Real good. I didn’t think life could get any better.
Then a knock on my door in the middle of the night changed everything. Emma fell into my arms, terrified and wounded. As in a gunshot wound. Some fucking asshole shot my Emma. He may not know it yet, but he just signed his own death warrant. Once I’ve taken care of that, I’m going to convince Emma to stay with me.
Forever.
WARNING: This book contains violence, coarse language, and hot consensual sex. There is no cheating, no cliffhangers and a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Enjoy!
Riptide didn’t start out as an actual motorcycle club. Hell no. Decades ago, the FBI needed a way to set up sensitive missions without being identified. Clandestine missions. Missions they could deny any connection to, if things went south.
They came up with what the desk-jockeys thought was a brilliant idea. Set up a bunch of operatives in a quasi-motorcycle club. The MC aspect meant the guys would have access to weapons, explosives and other tools of the trade to carry out their missions. And it meant nobody would bat an eye if they went riding around the country decked out like an invading army. Gang warfare? People looked the other way, didn’t want to get involved.
The initial phase went well, but the desk-jockeys didn’t understand what they’d created. These guys they were recruiting, these ex-Navy SEALS, they weren’t the kind of guys who were content to blindly follow orders. They had their own values. They asked questions. They refused to do anything they believed would compromise their honor.
Bottom line? They couldn’t be controlled.
The FBI attempted to manipulate them with money. Didn’t work so well. A few of these guys were more than just muscle, they had a knack for the stock markets. They could take money and turn it into more money. So, it came down to honor.
The guys held a vote, and Riptide Motorcycle Club became a bona fide motorcycle club. A found family, they became brothers by choice.
Oh, they still ran missions for the FBI and even the CIA, but on their own terms. They had to believe in the mission. Riptide may look like your average motorcycle club to outsiders. Riding big-assed Harleys, tattoos everywhere you looked, muscles all to hell, and attitude. But at heart, they all believed in one thing: Death before dishonor.
Find out more next time, when we talk to the current Prez of Riptide MC, Ace.
I’m starting a new series and it’s much too early to tell you about it, but you know how I love to tease, so here’s a tiny tidbit to whet your appetite:
There’s sexy, hot, alpha males. Lots of them.
There’s strong-willed, independent women who love those guys, but they’re not easy. They know their own worth.
There’s violence (maybe a little too much for some readers) .
There’s hot naked yummy sex.
There are noisy machines that vibrate with power.
There’s leather and lace and everything in between.
As in all of my stories, there is no cheating and there’s an absolutely positively guaranteed happy ending!
Want a random snippet? Promise not to tell my publisher or editor I let you see it?
I was definitely not okay with some bozo taking potshots at my Emma.
Yeah, my Emma. From the moment I’d opened the door and stared into her panic-stricken eyes, all those feelings I’d squashed down when she was dating my little brother had come roaring back.
I didn’t know who this guy was, but he’d just signed his own death warrant.
For a limited time only, Changeling Press is having a Christmas in July sale with 25% off all Christmas-themed romance books! That’s right, you can get your hands on all the festive love stories you could ever want at a discounted price. Whether you’re a fan of shifters, aliens, elves, or contemporary romances set during the most wonderful time of the year, we’ve got you covered.
Brady Sampson and Myer Joyner met in college, quickly bonding in their business classes and both landing gigs at nearby Global Initiatives in scenic Lost Lake, Tennessee. Combining their signing bonuses to invest in a rental house beside the lake together, the two take to being roommates the way they have every other challenge they’ve faced over the past two years — secretly pining for one another while never speaking a word about it.
That is, until their sexy new coworker, Carly Carmichael, produces an uncommonly sensual stirring in both men. When Brady invites their new neighbor over for a meet and greet, she takes him up on the offer on the one day he’s out. While she and Myer sip wine and get to know each other better, both let it slip that they have a crush on Brady, unleashing a series of events that threaten to topple everything they thought they knew about each other.
Brady Sampson glanced over at his new roomie, Myer, holding up two wine bottles and wearing an almost face-splitting grin. He struggled to ignore the equally cataclysmic ripples of desire that rang through his body as he kept a placid look on his face.
“Which do you prefer?” Brady answered.
Myer glanced from bottle to bottle as if he’d never seen them before, giving Brady time to openly adore his big, veiny hands as he held each aloft. “I always drank beer before now.”
Brady chuckled, never less than amused by Myer’s vaguely off-kilter outlook on life. “So why don’t we grab some beer then?”
Myer wrinkled his nose, nostrils flaring under a spray of cheery soft freckles to go with his mop of strawberry blond stubble. “I dunno, this seems so grown up right now, you know?”
Brady steered his own shopping cart closer, inching into the liquor aisle to join his new roomie. “Beer is grown up,” he suggested, studying the labels next to the shelf where Myer lingered. “And cheaper, too.”
Myer gave him a “spoilsport” frown but set the bottles back just the same. “Dude, you’re not going to be one of those cheap-ass roomies who puts his food on one shelf and mine on the other and pro-rates the rent if I happen to steal a grape or two, are you?”
Brady chuckled. “No, of course not. I just don’t really feel like paying for stuff I’m not going to drink, you know?”
Myer considered this as if he’d never thought of it before. “Valid point, I suppose.” His big fingers did unspeakable things to Brady’s already lurid imagination as he moved down the aisle, touching several brands of champagne. “Bubbly then?”
Brady nodded, as if equally inspired. “That’ll work,” he agreed, taking one of the two bottles from Myer’s hand.
“Hey!” Myer’s youthful face — oh yeah, he was definitely getting carded, for sure — broke into a surprised grin. “I thought I was in charge of alcoholic beverages this time.”
“You are, but that doesn’t mean you’re paying for it all.”
Myer’s gaze quickly assessed the running total of Brady’s half-full shopping cart. “You’re paying for the steaks already, though.”
“Cuz they come in a two-pack. You want me to tear them in half and get the butcher to rewrap them?”
Myer frowned, looking effortlessly casual in a mustard-colored V-neck and striped blue Madras shorts, the clothing seeming to hang off his lean, rangy frame the same way his shirt and ties did at work every day. “Fair is fair, though.”
“Now who’s the cheap one? Huh, Myer?”
Myer glanced at his own cart, only slightly less full than Brady’s. They were facing each other in the liquor aisle, carts side by side, just two bros out shopping like any other two bros out shopping. And yet, to Brady at least, the seemingly humdrum errand had such an intimate feel to it he had to struggle to keep from sweating.
“I mean,” Myer teased, nudging Brady’s elbow with no idea of what that little tremor from his touch felt like racing through Brady’s body. “Have you seen the price of yogurt lately?”
Brady snorted, romantic reverie suddenly broken. “No, Myer, because I’m not a retired housewife on a diet.”
They chuckled together, drifting onto the next aisle and quibbling over potato chips and pretzels like an old married couple. Brady struggled to keep things light when all he wanted was to reach out and grab Myer’s hand and cling to it like they were an actual couple.
He swallowed the desire, as he had all his life, and played it cool instead. Said the right things. Glanced Myer’s way just long enough, but never too long. Walked just close enough to him as they argued over wheat bread versus rye, and never too close. Laughed just hard enough, smiled just wide enough, sending all the right signals like he always had.
He’d leapt at the chance to room with Myer when they both got transferred to the Tennessee branch of Global Initiatives after their internship at the corporate offices in Latham, Georgia. They’d hit it off as interns, sharing lunch breaks and chatting it up in the campus gym after weekend workouts. Brady thought it would be the perfect way to solidify their friendship, even if he knew they could never be more than that. He thought he could be strong, thought he could fight the temptation, thought it would be easy, like it had been back when they’d just shared a cubicle.
But now? Sharing a sprawling house out on secluded Lost Lake, shopping together, padding barefoot down the same halls in various stages of undress? Suddenly Brady wondered if he was strong enough to weather the ups and downs of living with someone who only wanted to be friends.
When obviously, achingly, frustratingly, Brady wanted to be so much more.
Author Info:
Alex Winters is the pseudonym of a busy restaurant manager whose curious young staff would love nothing more than to follow him around the dining room reading his steamiest, most romantic passages aloud! When not writing romantic holiday stories of various heat levels, he enjoys long walks with his wife, scary movies and smooth jazz. Visit him online to see what stories are brewing up next!
Fleeing the shame of being rejected in favor of an Omega, Jackson Southerly, alpha wolf, has run away to one of his family’s ski resorts.
Fleeing the shame of being left at the altar, Sioux Brown has traded in her tickets to the Bahamas and run away to the snowy slopes of Colorado, where she plans to lick her wounds in solitude.
The snow in their hearts melts as they share the deserted lobby in the dark of night, but will their growing attraction survive the light of day?
“Mmmm…” Sioux Brown awoke cocooned in a nest of warm blankets. She arched her back, bare skin sliding smoothly on silken sheets, stretching pleasantly flaccid muscles in a languid morning ritual.
“Good morning, doll.”
“Aarrghhhhhh!” The slow, gravel and silk voice acted like a bucket of ice water on her drowsing mind. With a scream shrill enough to shatter glass, she ripped her way out of sheets, blankets and quilts. Heart pounding, pulse skittering out of sync, she leaped free of the bed and promptly tripped on a trailing corner of the top comforter. She landed on her butt, still yelling.
“Holy ambulance sirens, Sioux. You’re going to bring security down on us! Please! Stop while I still have eardrums.” A sleepy white man sat up in the disarray of blankets, hands clapped over his ears.
Sioux gulped, stopping only long enough to gather more breath. She screamed again, but couldn’t decide if it was from fear or excitement. Because really, if the man was going to hurt her, it seemed he’d had all night to do it. Even frightened half out of her chocolate skin, Sioux couldn’t help noticing juicy details.
There was a hunky, hairy, naked white man in her bed. His dense swirls of chest hair almost hid flat brown nipples and he sported a six-pack she could quench her thirst with all day long. His thick mop of tangled black hair fell over a broad brow that narrowed into a striking craggy face. Not handsome per se, yet not butt-ugly, either… interesting. Nice mouth too.
He sat up, knees apart, the edge of the sheet covering his assets from the hips down. It was thin enough she could see the shadow of his muscular legs, as well as the outline — the huge outline of what promised to be a monster cock jutting between his thighs.
Sioux stopped screaming long enough to demand, “Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?”
The man sighed. “See, I was afraid of this. Something told me you didn’t drink often, and couldn’t be held responsible for your decisions.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know nothing about my drinking habits.”
“I know you got plastered on two baby drinks.” He smiled at her, displaying a cute dimple in his left cheek. “‘Course, I might be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the drink that had you acting the way you did last night. Maybe it was me. One can live in hope…”
Author Info:
A funny thing happened on the way to the grave… In 2006, Cammy was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis and given two weeks to live. She promptly discharged herself AMA — Against Medical Advice — since, as she stubbornly informed her doctors, she could die at home far more comfortably than at the hospital. But then… she got an idea for a new story. Then another, and another… Fifteen years and dozens of fantastic tales later, Cammy passed quietly in her sleep, at home, as was her wish. We miss her. Her work lives on, and we hold her in our hearts. Cammy decided many years ago that upon her passing, she wished to donate her royalties to The Quiet Kitty fund, which helps authors with emergency medical expenses. We do, to keep her in our hearts and minds
Dorothy: Spring Break turned into my worst nightmare. Drugged and held against my will, the brutality I witness seems too horrible to be real. Unable to escape, unable to do anything other than await my fate, I nearly gave up hope. Then he burst through the door like an avenging angel. My very own angel of death.
Morgue: I’m a straight-up killer. It’s what I’ve trained for my entire adult life. I got my road name because I’ve put more men in the morgue than all my brothers combined. So when we rescue a group of women being held by human traffickers, I did what I do best. I killed. But not for all the women we rescued. For her. Dorothy. My very own angel of mercy. Now that I have her, I’ll do anything to keep her. I just hope she can accept what I am and not condemn my soul to hell.
WARNING: Morgue includes scenes of graphic violence and adult situations including those that may be triggers for some readers. There’s also a protective hero, a determined heroine, and an eventual happy ending. No cheating, as always.
Moans of the other women in the shitty little shack filled the air. I knew the feeling. My head throbbed and every muscle in my body ached. The rooms were paper thin so we all could hear the screams of the others around us. The cruel laughter of men. The frightened whimpers of the women. And girls. I had absolutely no idea where I was or how long I’d been there, but I knew it wasn’t Kansas.
“Levántate, perra. Afuera.”
“I don’t understand.” It wasn’t a new thing. And I’d paid for not knowing Spanish more than once since I’d been taken.
“¡Ahora!” The guy knew I didn’t understand. It felt like he took pleasure in the fact I didn’t understand so he could single me out. I shrank back, trying to make myself smaller in the face of the brutality I knew was about to happen. He lunged forward and backhanded me before grabbing my arm and shoving me out of the tiny room I shared with five other girls.
I hit the floor, my knees slamming onto the hard dirt. Pain shot from my knees up my thighs, and I cried out. When I tried to get up, the guy kicked me in the side. My head spun with all the sudden movements. I thought it was also some kind of lingering effect of the drugs they kept shooting me full of. They did it to everyone who fought. Unless they wanted us to fight. I got dosed often.
“Perra estúpida,” he muttered. I got the “stupid” part, and I could only assume the other was “bitch,” but it could have been anything. The kick knocked the breath out of me and sent pain exploding through my ribs. I groaned but knew better than to make too much of a fuss. Noise drew attention I didn’t want. Attention meant someone was about to hurt me worse than I already was.
“¡Escuchen!” The big brute swept his hand through the air, obviously wanting everyone’s attention. He spoke in a string of rapid-fire Spanish I didn’t understand. I was pretty sure something horrible was about to happen and I sincerely hoped it didn’t have anything to do with me. I’d been here maybe a week. Seemed like longer. I was surprised this guy or the men and women with him hadn’t done more than terrorize me or the other women. Though I was sure the qualifier “yet” needed to be added. There was no way they’d brought us here for tantalizing conversation. Though I’d been smacked around a lot and was covered in bruises, they hadn’t seriously harmed me. Again, there was that fucking qualifier hanging over my head.
I crawled very slowly to the wall where the other women were, trying not to make sudden moves so he didn’t bring his focus back to me. The one thing I knew for sure — in spite of the language barrier — was that I absolutely did not want any of these men to focus on me for too long.
All the women around me were whimpering and trembling, looking as terrified as I felt. A few looked like they might have checked out and I didn’t blame them. If I knew how, I probably would too. Fighting back didn’t seem like the smart thing to do if I wanted to live. While I knew there were fates worse than death, I wasn’t ready to contemplate them just yet. I was sure, at some point, I’d have to face that decision, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
More rapid-fire Spanish followed as one of the other men dragged a young woman down the hall and tossed her to the ground so she skidded several feet before rolling to her knees with a whimper. She’d been beaten, one side of her face swollen. I hadn’t seen her before, but, given the track marks on her arms and how badly she’d been beaten, I was certain she’d attempted to escape. They’d likely dosed her as much as they’d dosed the rest of us when we got out of line. Only, this time, I got the impression this guy was done taking shit.
“Esto es lo que les pasa a las perras que no me obedecen. Si no me obedeces, esto te pasará.”
I didn’t understand. But I didn’t have to. The next thing I knew, he’d drawn out a machete. The girl screamed and tried to scramble back only to be held in place by two more men. A third helped them wrestle her to the ground onto her back. Once they had her down, the third guy held her legs at the ankles. There was a whoosh as the blade cut through the air and came down on her right thigh.
Blood arced when he raised the machete and brought it down again on the same leg. It took three more tries before he hacked her leg off and started on the other one. Everyone screamed, myself included. When anyone turned away, there were men to force them to turn back. And watch.
Before he got her second leg hacked off, the woman was unconscious. There was blood splatter everywhere, but once a limb was completely severed, the bleeding slowed dramatically. Still, the men tied tourniquets above the stumps.
I’m sure I was one of the women screaming. If I was, though, I had no memory of it. All I could process was a young woman getting her legs chopped off.
“Esto es lo que sucede cuando intentas escapar.” He spat on her. “Una puta sin piernas es más fácil de follar. ¿Sí?”
I stared at the unconscious woman. Though he hadn’t killed her outright, I was sure she wouldn’t last long. One of the men grabbed her wrist and dragged her out of the room, leaving a trail of blood as he went.
As I watched, one of the men approached me with an evil smirk on his face. “In case you’re wondering,” he said in thickly accented Spanish, “He said this is what happens when you try to escape, Americana.” He grinned. “And a whore without legs is easier to fuck.” He snorted a laugh. “I happen to agree. So, I’m really hoping you try to escape too.”
I barely held back a sob of despair. I knew he was trying to elicit a response from me, likely to give him a reason to hit me. There were some of us who tried to fight back when they came for us, but we were always overpowered. So far, all they’d done was beat me, but most of the others had been brutally raped and I knew that’s what they were building up to. This was a whorehouse of sorts. Only, the women didn’t get paid. The men who “owned” us did. A place where we were all used and trafficked.
The guy backhanded me when I didn’t respond to him. I fell back with a cry, covering my head with my arms and whimpering.
“Don’t worry, bitch. You won’t suffer long. I doubt you make it a month once we start breaking you in.” He gave a bark of laughter before kicking me.
My head swam from both the blow to my face and the remaining drugs in my system. More men crowded us in the tiny corridor only to shove us into various rooms. There were five more women in the room I landed in. Three filthy mattresses lay on the floor and a bucket sat in one corner for us to relieve ourselves. That’s the way it had been since I’d been here.
The next thing was the men coming to shoot us full of whatever drug they were using. I suspected it was heroin. A couple of the girls screamed while the other three complied easily. Probably because they were addicted or figured it was better to endure whatever happened next while blissfully numb than stone-cold sober. I understood. While I couldn’t put up much of a fight this time, I wanted to. Desperately. I hadn’t given up hope of getting out of here alive. Not really. Not yet. But I wasn’t too ashamed to admit I was fucking close.
A man held my arm while another jabbed a needle into my arm at the bend of my elbow and pressed the plunger. The pain of the dull needle sinking into my arm was soon replaced by a sickening euphoria. My eyes glazed over and my body went limp. I was still conscious, but… detached.
That was when one of the men shoved me onto a mattress and pulled at my clothes. He was breathing heavily and talking in Spanish, but I got the gist of what he was saying. He was going to fuck me. I caught the word “Americana” and figured he was taking bragging rights by fucking the American woman. They all looked at my blonde hair and blue eyes, going so far as to pry my eyes open and touch my eyeball, like a child testing if something was real. Maybe they thought I had contacts or something. Many of them felt my hair, fisting it and mimicked wrapping it around their cocks. I imagined far worse was going to happen shortly.
I whimpered but couldn’t even form words to tell the guy to stop. Not that it would have done any good. I batted at him weakly, but he didn’t seem to notice much less even acknowledge I was trying to fight him off.
Once he had me naked from the waist down, the guy crawled on top of me, pressing me into the filthy mattress. He reached between us and freed his cock. I could feel the head of it touching me. I shuddered, gagging as I pushed at him weakly.
“No!” I tried to shout the word at him, but it was a whisper at best. Just as he was about to penetrate me, there was a huge bang and the door splintered, throwing pieces of wood all around the room. I was sure some were embedded in my skin, but I still couldn’t do more than try to roll away from the man on top of me.
He shouted, pushing himself to his feet. Once his weight was off me, I crawled as best I could to the corner of the room and tucked myself into a ball. It was all I was capable of. I couldn’t even cry. Oh, tears poured freely from my eyes, but I didn’t have the strength to sob out my fear and frustration.
I thought there were screams all around me, not only in this room but in others nearby, but it was hard to tell. The more I tried to move, the more the room spun. Somewhere in the background of all that, and the ringing in my ears, I knew a fight raged. Was it more men coming to chop off the legs of someone else? Oh, God!
Then someone grabbed at my arms. I was helpless to stop them. I thought I was even more groggy than I had been when I was about to be raped. Whatever drug they’d given me had started to take hold. It was only the adrenaline coursing through my veins that kept me conscious.
“Hold on, honey. We’re gettin’ you outta here.”
Author Info:
Marteeka Karland is an international bestselling author who leads a double life as an erotic romance author by evening and a semi-domesticated housewife by day. Known for her down and dirty MC romances, Marteeka takes pleasure in spinning tales of tenacious, protective heroes and spirited, vulnerable heroines. She staunchly advocates that every character deserves a blissful ending, even, sometimes, the villains in her narratives. Her writings are speckled with intense, raw elements resulting in page-turning delight entwined with seductive escapades leading up to gratifying conclusions that elicit a sigh from her readers.
Away from the pen, Marteeka finds joy in baking and supporting her husband with their gardening activities. The late summer season is set aside for preserving the delightful harvest that springs from their combined efforts (which is mostly his efforts, but you can count it). To stay updated with Marteeka’s latest adventures and forthcoming books, make sure to visit her website. Don’t forget to register for her newsletter which will pepper you with a potpourri of Teeka’s beloved recipes, book suggestions, autograph events, and a plethora of interesting tidbits.
Replete with all the trappings of an alternate world — airships, steam powered aircraft, automatons, moon bases, and witches with psychic powers — Cressida’s Agents is a steamy thrill-a-minute ride in a universe of what could have been.
Cressida Troy, after being mesmerised into betraying humanity, is now the wife of Mon Ilson, the alien leader, and is crowned Empress of Space. While pretending to be the love of his long-life, Cressida is desperately seeking a way to redeem herself, and somehow save human civilization from destruction at his hands. Then her former fiancé, Jacob, is captured and brought to the moon. Can she earn back his love, or has her seeming betrayal hurt him too much?
Meanwhile on Earth, Marjorie, in the guise of brothel madam and casino owner is acting as an agent of Mon Ilson. Her goal is to learn from him the secret of immortality, and for now she must do his bidding. A violent assassination attempt on her airship Fortuna brings her into the strong arms of handsome Squadron Leader, Sir Christopher “Kit” Colby. Her attempt to uncover the mastermind behind the plot leads them both into deadly danger.
EXCERPT
Bauble-like, the Earth shone down on ash-hued desolation, embarrassing the barren scene with exuberant fecundity. Patches of white lace speckled the deep blue of the oceans and brushed the rich ochre of North Africa. Above was Europe and, if I squinted my eyes, I fancied I could see my island home, the lush green of England.
My breast ached with a fervent yearning.
My husband, Mon Ilson, the self-anointed Emperor of Space, drew me closer and kissed my neck. “It will all be ours, my love.”
“When?”
“In due time, my darling.” He pulled me to him, and I snuggled against his muscular chest. “Do you miss it so?”
I thought a moment and shook my head. “Not when I am with you.”
His lips brushed my earlobe. “We will return soon. I promise. Our plans advance by the day. Once again you will walk upon the green grass and feel fresh air upon your cheeks.”
I turned my head and returned his kiss, deepening it, allowing the stirring in my quim to mask the confusion of my thoughts. As homesick as I was, did I really want to go back? Could I conquer my guilt? I feared that with the first step the grass beneath my feet would turn to cinders as dead as the lunar dust.
Much had happened to me in the year since I’d left the world of my birth. I was no longer the same woman, the naive and selfish Cressida Troy who’d been fooled into betraying humanity. That silly girl had become Nil Ilson, Empress of Space, wife to Mon Ilson, and co-leader of the Lunarians. I was no longer responsible only for myself. Thousands now depended upon me, be they hideous goblins, or those who’d “adopted” human bodies.
In the deepest recesses of my mind, where I was safe from mental probing, I knew that I’d been possessed, mesmerised into being a traitor to humanity, deceiving my fiancé, Jacob McLeary, and then killing the two greatest threats to Mon Ilson’s plans, Fleur and Horatio Cumberland.
The problem was only the agent of my apparent treachery knew that. The spirit of a murdered girl, Marjorie Gilbert. She had taken over my mind and had deluded me into believing I loved Mon Ilson, and deceived him into believing it too. She’d also tricked him into giving her advanced knowledge of witchcraft. My anger at her was tempered by the realisation she had not done this to me out of maliciousness, but so she could regain her body which had been stolen by Mon Ilson’s goblins. Because she loved me, Marjorie had confessed this, and passed on all the magical powers and knowledge Mon Ilson had given her, including the ability to hide my deepest thoughts.
That was the past. I had committed myself to saving humanity from enslavement at my husband’s hands. How I would accomplish this I did not know. I was impatient. Biding my time waiting for an opportunity to present itself was both frustrating and dangerous. Not only could I be discovered, but I ran the greater risk of letting my growing love for Mon Ilson blind me to the chance if it arose, and then could I bring myself to exploit it? That I had come to love him no longer surprised me. Over the last year I’d learned his dreams, ruled alongside him, and shared his bed. I’d seen firsthand what an extraordinary and charismatic man he was, and in other circumstances I would have unreservedly given him my heart and soul. However, those benign conditions did not exist. The reality was Mon Ilson was a murderer.
A moan escaped my lips as Mon Ilson caressed a hardening nipple. We were lying on a couch in the top deck of the royal barge, he behind me, with one leg draped over my hip. In the crease of my posterior his cock stirred.
I wiggled against him. “Make love to me,” I murmured.
“That was my intention.”
My husband deftly lifted the hem of my robe and pressed the swollen head of his cock against my quim. He gently nudged apart the moist lips and effortlessly slid inside. With a slight adjustment of his hips the tip of his cock touched that especially sensitive flesh on the roof of my cunny. Pure pleasure flooded my system.
Mon Ilson was over a thousand years old, and with countless sexual liaisons behind him he had developed techniques that ensured a woman’s complete satisfaction, and men too. He used sexual magic to bond his people to him after he transferred their spirits from their goblin bodies into the vacant husks of murdered humans, a process they termed Adoption.
When Marjorie had occupied my mind she would stimulate my senses from the inside, maximising my pleasure, and bonding me even more tightly to Mon Ilson’s influence, and made him even more convinced of his devotion to me. He had been trapped in Marjorie’s web of deceit just as tightly as I had. His hold over his people was not just through sexual magic, but the promise of eternal life. Only he could give them that. Only he could transfer their goblin souls into human bodies. That was why Marjorie stayed his servant, hoping to learn the trick. Though she had possessed me, she didn’t know how. That was the one secret Mon Ilson did not share with her. Marjorie wanted so much to live, over and over again, that she would do anything for him.
Now that she was gone from my mind, my physical reactions to his lovemaking were under my control. To overcome my natural aversion to him — a murdering megalomaniac goblin in a human body — I used magic to bury my repugnance, project lustful thoughts, and intensify my physical reactions.
“Fuck me harder,” I encouraged him.
His technique, with my magic, quickly filled my body with the pulsating energy that took me to the precipice of climax, a cliff edge from which I gladly launched myself, and was lifted like a skyrocket to an explosive culmination.
My response caused him to reach his own conclusion, and he filled me with his copious essence. He wanted children, and my tardiness to provide the gift was, from his perspective, the only negative aspect in our relationship. Not that he put any pressure on me — he loved me too much, but I’d felt his need. The reality was that any unnecessary delay would need to be explained and defended. I knew of no reason to defer the inevitable any longer. Though I had control of my fertility, when and by whom I became pregnant, it was not something I expected to enjoy despite my intention to use magic to remove the more onerous aspects that plague many women. At most it would be awkward. Being with child might give me the leverage I needed to control Mon Ilson’s ambitions and hopefully mitigate the worst excesses of the invasion, if not avoid it completely.
My husband’s kisses became more fervent, and he resumed his lusty thrusts. He used his own magic to remain hard, and he fucked me to another shattering climax. Another glut of his seed filled me to overflowing, and those fireworks exploded in my head once more. We lay in each other’s arms, his cock still rigid, while our ragged breathing slowly returned to normal.
“My Lord,” Gloria said diffidently. While we recovered, she had waited by the bed, head bowed, her hands clasped before her shaven quim. Gloria had befriended me after I’d been first kidnapped. She was blonde, with caramel eyes, and a deliciously curved mouth. Like all Lunarian women who’d adopted a human body, Gloria was not only beautiful with a spectacular bosom and narrow waist, but she was also obsessed with sex. I gave her a smile, and she nodded acknowledgement. “Nil Ilson, I am so sorry to interrupt. The humans have sent a vessel beyond the atmosphere.”
Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training & development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala can be found on Facebook and on Twitter.
A Singer draws energy from within to work what others would consider miracles: soothing the sufferer, tending the grief-stricken, and defeating enemies.
When Blagden, a Night Wanderer-Singer, meets Caleb, he is drawn to the Grand Fae’s struggle to accept his new life as a member of SearchLight. Caleb’s son is blind and the grand Fae have cast out all disabled children… and those who support them.
But Blagden has a terrible secret. He inadvertently steals energy from those he loves. When SearchLight is attacked, Blagden must choose between the Fae he loves and his resolve never to steal energy again.
Caleb was one horny bastard. Not to mention exhausted. And that was not the right way to start this interview. Sure, the potential teacher sitting across from him was easy on the eyes. Tall, muscular, and big like a football player, his face showed intelligence instead of… Well, what exactly had Caleb been expecting? Something dopey?
No, but he hadn’t expected to feel like he was being studied in return. Not by a totally blind Night Wanderer.
His compatriot cleared her throat. “Welcome to Mojave Valley, Mr. Graywolf.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pennyworth.” Blagden Graywolf smiled, and even though his eyes remained closed, the honest pleasure shone in every plane of his face. If he was nervous, he hid it well.
“To my right is Caleb Cartwright, the head of our program for the visually impaired.”
Blagden extended his hand after touching the side of the desk discreetly. He held his hand higher than was usual, but Caleb assumed that was because he wasn’t sure what obstacles he might bump.
He grasped Blagden’s hand and found the other magical creature’s grip strong and dry. “Pleased to meet you,” he murmured, embarrassed by how gruff he sounded.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” Mrs. Pennyworth invited.
The Night Wanderer settled back in the chair, clasping his hands in his lap. He turned his head toward her voice, but occasionally… He wasn’t actually glancing at Caleb to keep him in the conversation, but the tilt of his head gave that impression.
That’s something I need to teach Nat. His son had a tendency to address a random corner of whatever room he sat in or sometimes his shoes or his hands. Blagden Graywolf looked thoroughly invested in this interview.
He told them about growing up on a reservation in Utah, about being born totally blind, and how he’d decided to pursue being a teacher of the visually impaired because he loved all the tricks he’d been taught over the years.
“I thought the reservations didn’t have as ready access to teachers of the visually impaired as most schools,” Caleb put in. It was his understanding that Native American children weren’t given the same advantages. They were often overlooked or underserved. Of course, Night Wanderers weren’t exactly Native Americans, although their appearance had fooled many over the centuries. But since he’d been living on a reservation, he would have been subject to the same prejudices.
“My grandmother, uncle, and older brother are all blind,” Blagden said comfortably. “My grandmother went to the Perkins School for the Blind. She made sure we were all braille readers. And I attended a public school in Salt Lake City to make sure I got all the vision services I needed.” His dark eyebrows rose over his closed eyes. They were feathery and narrow, those brows. Elegant. “I had a series of three great TVI instructors during my school years.” Then he returned his attention to Mrs. Pennyworth. His focus was a little off to her left, but not tremendously so. “Ma’am, before I ramble too much, is there anything you’d specifically like to know?”
“What made you leave the human sector and seek a job with SearchLight?”
Blagden tensed. His hands in his lap, formerly folded together, knotted into a tight ball. “I’d prefer not to say.”
“We received glowing reports from your former colleagues and principals,” Mrs. Pennyworth said smoothly, as if he hadn’t just refused to answer a question during an interview. As she progressed into familiar territory, including asking what Blagden’s greatest strengths and weaknesses were, Caleb found himself daydreaming about his head teacher-to-be. Despite his refusal to answer a basic question, he was years more qualified than any of the other magical creatures they’d interviewed. Many of those would find jobs here, but as paraeducators and other instructional aides, not as the lead teacher.
The man began talking with his hands as well as his voice at one point, and Caleb interrupted a nice fantasy about kissing the Night Wanderer to ask, “Are you actually using tactile sign language?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Carrington is a multipublished author of male/male and transgender erotica. Seeking a world made of equality, she created SearchLight to live out her dreams. But even SearchLight has its problems, and Emily is looking forward to working all of these out with a host of characters from dragons and genies to psychic vampires.
Aliens, vampire Knights of the Round Table, and a wolf in her Burning Moon. Love can be complicated.
Master of Passion: When blue-skinned aliens try to kidnap combat news cameraman Adam Parker, the attempt is foiled by a sword-swinging Knight of the Round Table and his witch partner. However once the vampire knight removes his helmet, Adam realizes Sir Baldulf is the father who abandoned him and his mother. Ulf swears he and Opal Cassidy are Adam’s only hope of survival, but Adam wants nothing to do with either of them. Opal doesn’t want anything to do with the handsome, cynical mortal, either. But orders are orders, so seduction it is.
Master of Honor: Cheryl Parker thought she was an ordinary woman — a nurse, a mother, a single parent. Now an alien spirit who has made her immortal. And not only is her ex back, he’s really Sir Baldulf, a vampire Knight of the Round Table. The good news is, he still loves Cheryl. The bad news is, he thinks the creature inhabiting her is a potential threat to humanity. The worst news is, there is a threat — and it could well kill them all.
Master of Desire: Half-Sidhe billionaire Conal Donovan’s rich people problems include his ex, evil Fairy goddess Siobhan, who sends a team of werewolf terrorists kill his family. He’s rescued by Helena Baker, African American, former FBI agent, and wolf-shifter, who’s best friend is a gun inhabited by a retired death god, so she can handle werewolves. She’s less sure about the handsome white guy with the talking phoenix and the relentless commitment to protecting his sisters. Especially considering that she’s in her Burning Moon — the werewolf version of heat. Her pheromones make Conal just as interested in her as she is in him. But is their growing love real? And what will happen when the hormones wear off?
“You just ate. Last week you had two Fomorians and a troll.” Helena Baker turned the page, trying to concentrate on her romance novel. The roses that covered the arched wooden arbor cast cool, sweet-smelling shade over the pages. Maeve’s palace was surrounded by glorious gardens, and the arbor’s cushioned wooden bench was her favorite spot to enjoy them.
She glanced up from her book. The palace looming over the trees was breathtaking in its fluid Sidhe architecture, white marble blazing in the golden afternoon sunlight. I’m living in a Fairy tale. When she remembered she used to be an FBI agent, it was enough to give her psychic whiplash.
“That was last week. I’m hungry now.”
“What you are is bored.” Why wouldn’t he shut up? She was almost at the good part. Sexy, threatening Daegan was about to dominate Gideon. These days reading a BDSM romance was the closest she came to getting any. And she needed some. So, so bad. Her Burning Moon hormones were driving her insane. Swear to God, it gets worse every year.
“But it’s your job to provide for me.” His voice was way too close to a whine.
“My ‘job’ to keep you from killing people.” Turning the page, she glared down at him. “Would you please let me read my book in peace? Or do I need to put you in the Box?”
“All right, all right! You get so bitchy this time of year.” His tone brightened. “Maybe we could release some of that pent-up aggression by hunting a serial killer. Remember that DCN piece about those murders in…”
She held up one finger, frowning. “Hear that?”
“What?” Liam said.
“It’s the Box, calling your name.”
“But…”
“That’s it!” Helena picked up the Desert Eagle and started to stuff him into the enchanted holster on her belt. “You’re getting quality time in the gun safe.” An hour in the Box would shut him up and give her a little privacy for a foursome with Daegan, Gideon and her new vibrator.
Liam promptly turned into a rocket launcher. She almost dropped him before she managed to get a good grip again. “The hell? You trying to shoot me in the head?”
“Of course not.” Lacking vocal cords — or a mouth, for that matter — he had to use magic to generate speech. “You’re my priestess.”
“For the last time, I’m not your damn priestess. I’m your keeper, and my job is to make sure you don’t kill anyone who doesn’t deserve to die. If I weren’t immune to magic, you’d be trying to convince me to shoot myself.”
“I’d never do that. You’re the best priestess I’ve ever had.”
“Yeah, in the sense I’m the only one you haven’t managed to kill. Yet.”
“I am a death deity.”
“A retired death deity. You swore to obey me, Liam. Change. Back.”
“Fine. Keep your flea collar on!” Sparks exploded, leaving behind a very ladylike Smith & Wesson with a pink grip.
Helena glared down at him. “Now you’re just being insulting.”
“Helena?” Maeve’s voice rang out over the garden, sharp and urgent. “Where are you?” Normally the Mother of Fairies could sense anyone on the palace grounds, but her magic rolled off Helena like water off a mallard.
Helena’s head snapped up as she rose from the bench, gun in hand. “Here! What’s wrong?”
“Werewolves have captured Conal Donovan.”
Liam cursed in a language that had been dead since the last ice age. Thrusting him into his belt holster, Helena leaped into a dead run. “Coming!” Conal Donovan might be a Changeling — half human, half Sidhe — but he’d also saved the life of Maeve’s granddaughter at considerable risk to his own. That was the kind of debt the Mother of Fairies took seriously. Since the goddess’s magic had no effect on werewolves, rescuing him would fall to Helena.
Maeve rounded a topiary unicorn and strode between towering mounds of Mageverse blooms toward Helena. Six feet, six inches of sculpted, regal beauty, the goddess radiated power like a storm front. Gleaming green hair fell around her shoulders, pulled back and bound with thin braids to reveal the elegant points of her ears. An emerald-green leather vest hugged her full breasts and bared powerful biceps, while matching leather pants and thigh-high boots made her muscled legs look even longer.
She was every bit the badass she looked, which was why the grim look on her face made Helena’s blood run cold. “What happened?”
“A team of werewolves broke into Conal’s house.” Maeve’s voice was clipped and crisp, but her peridot eyes held worry. “Essus was injured in the fight, but he managed to open a link to me. He says he can hear Conal screaming.” Her mouth tightened. “They’re torturing him.”
“How many wolves?” Helena thrust away the memory of blowtorch pain as fangs ripped into her belly. Looking down to see a coil of something red…
“At least ten. But there’s worse news.” Her jaw flexed. “I tried to open a gate and couldn’t.”
“Siobhan,” Liam spat. The magical geas that bound Maeve and her daughter insured neither could use magic in anything directly involving the other. It was a devil’s bargain from Maeve’s point of view, but she’d have agreed to worse to save her granddaughter. Otherwise Siobhan would have killed the little girl despite Conal’s efforts to save her.
Unfortunately, the geas did nothing to protect Conal, which was apparently why Siobhan had gone after him. She had an uncanny instinct for the best way to hurt her mother. But why now? Helena wondered. It had been thirty years, for God’s sake. Figure it out after you save the hostage. “We’ll take care of it. Where’s Conal now?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Angela Knight’s romance writing career began in 1996, when she realized her dream of romance publication with Red Sage’s Secrets anthology. She is a New York Times best-selling author of more than fifty novels, novellas, and ebooks, including the Mageverse and Time Hunters series. Her career spans twenty plus years. Romantic Times Bookclub Magazine gave her a Career Achievement award in Paranormal Romance, as well as two Reviewers’ Choice awards for best erotic romance and best werewolf romance.
Angela is currently a writer, editor, and cover artist for Changeling Press. She also teaches online writing courses with SavvyAuthors.com. Besides her fiction work, Angela’s writing career includes a decade as an award-winning South Carolina newspaper reporter. She lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a thirty-year police veteran and detective with a local police department.
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