All Souls’ Night: A Midnight Doms Boxset

by Renee Rose

  Oh, and shifters are real, too. Among other brain-breaking revelations.

  It doesn’t matter, though. I have Ty, and he’s spent this past week talking with me and showing me how he feels. Yes, that’s included a lot of sex, but even more talking.

  As much as I wanted.

  This is real.

  Life isn’t just worth living now—it’s better than I ever dreamed possible.

  He wants me as much as I want him.

  Ty nibbles the side of my neck. “Ready for your coming out, baby?”

  I shiver in a good way. “Yes, Sir.” He gave me the option not to do this, but I want to.

  There were other collarings tonight, but he wanted to wait until later in the evening to do ours. When he leads me out into the middle of the floor and raises his hand, the room falls silent.

  “Most of you have already met him, but I want to formally introduce my boy to you all.”

  “About time,” Theophilus calls out, making everyone laugh.

  But Ty smiles and turns to me, holding up a black leather collar. “You need to ask me for it, baby. Of your own free will.”

  Swallowing hard, I nod. “I want to be yours, Sir. I want to wear your collar and belong to you.”

  He buckles it around my neck before pulling me in for a long, deep kiss as everyone cheers. Our ceremony is short and simple—exactly what I asked him for.

  Yes, he let me plan it.

  As everyone else gets back to their festivities, he leads me over to that same bench we first played on, where his bag sits off to the side. “Ready to play, baby?”

  I’m nervous, but I agreed to this, too. “Yes, Sir.”

  He strips me of everything except my collar—and the wedding band on my left ring finger—and bends me over the bench. It’s nothing supernatural that has me falling into a deep, sweet haze as his hands work my flesh, as he uses implements on me, as he goes harder on me than before, and I crave every stroke.

  Time blurs and fades until I’m aware of him straddling the bench behind me.

  Naked.

  This is part of it, too.

  He wants there to be absolutely no doubt in anyone’s mind who I belong to.

  And who he belongs to.

  Because he’s wearing a wedding band, too.

  I am legally his.

  And he’s legally mine.

  It’s a little unusual for a honeymoon, sure, but why not?

  I feel his fingers work inside me, lubing me, soon replaced by his cock. Then he pulls me up and back, draping my legs over his and holding me spread wide open as he strokes my cock with one hand and wraps his other arm around my waist.

  His breath brushes against my ear. “Ready, baby?”

  I squirm against him, where I’m impaled on his cock. He agreed to not have sex until tonight, but I broke down three days ago and jumped him in bed.

  We’ve had practically nonstop sex since then.

  Damn, it’s great, too.

  “Yes, please, Sir!”

  His hand strokes my cock while he easily lifts me up and down on his shaft with his other arm.

  It’s bliss.

  His fangs lightly rake along my neck and I totally give myself over to him. It doesn’t take long for my orgasm to build and swell.

  “Come for me, baby,” he whispers in my ear, and I explode. His teeth sink into my flesh at the same time, and I feel him press a wrist against my mouth.

  I drink automatically, craving it—and him. It leaves me feeling euphoric, the cheers and applause of those watching us fading to nothing as I bask in being one with my Sir.

  My man.

  As we both come down from our high and he licks my wound closed, I turn and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips. I don’t want to be turned. Not yet. Not ruling it out, either. But he wants to feed me his blood to keep me healthy and slow my aging, so if I make the decision, it’ll be easier to accomplish.

  Regardless, it means I’ll likely live longer, even if I decide not to be turned.

  But the thought of leaving him behind rips me apart. So I likely will ask for it in a few years.

  I’d like to look a little older first.

  He effortlessly scoops me into his arms and carries me back to the same suite and into the shower there while one of the club employees brings our things for us. Standing in the shower, I stare up into my man’s eyes.

  He’s promised never to force me to do anything with his powers, unless it’s an issue about safety. He’s also promised to never screw with my memories.

  I believe him. I have no reason not to.

  “Love you, baby,” he whispers, smiling.

  I pull him in for another kiss. I can’t get enough of kissing him. “Love you, too, Sir.”

  He chuckles. “My tasty boy. My sweet little baker.”

  “All yours.” I arch an eyebrow at him. “And you know our deal.”

  He sighs. “No feeding from people but you, unless it’s a bad guy, or something like that.”

  “Thank you.” I don’t mind him drinking bottled blood, but the thought of him sinking his fangs into anyone else’s body but mine makes me feel very territorial.

  “Anything for you, baby.” He pulls me close. “Whatever you want. As long as you’re safe and you’re mine, I’ll do whatever you want.”

  For the first time in my life, I’m truly happy.

  I couldn’t ask for anything more.

  The End

  Want more Midnight Doms romance by Lesli Richardson? Click here to read Dexter & Blue’s story, Her Vampire Obsession.

  About the Author

  Author Lesli Richardson, who is better-known by her more prolific and USA Today Bestselling Tymber Dalton pen name, lives in the Tampa Bay region with her husband and too many pets. She writes a wide variety of heat levels and genres, from mainstream sci-fi all the way to scorching ménage. Lesli is a part-time Viking shield-maiden in training who loves to shoot skeet and play D&D. She’s also the author of over one hundred and sixty books, and counting. She lives in her own little world, but it’s okay—they all know her there.

  Also by Lesli Richardson

  Bite Me Baby One More Time

  Alexis Alvarez

  Chapter 1

  His dark head dips down and his lips hover an inch from mine. Those unusual dark eyes, nearly purple, burn into mine as he smiles.

  “Take off your dress,” he murmurs. He runs a hand down my bare shoulder, then leans in and nips my neck, making me catch my breath. “Now. You know what I’ll do if you delay.”

  My pulse pounds. “What exactly will you do? I’d like a description first before I make up my mind.”

  He laughs, a dangerous sound. “Perhaps I’ll just show you.”

  “Please do.” I reach out and flick the collar of his shirt. One button is open, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his chest. He’s slim but muscular, and gives the impression of ultimate fitness.

  He leans in to whisper into my ear. “Keep in mind I know every dark and dirty fantasy you have, Miss Garcia.”

  He nips my neck again, a bit harder, and sends sparks all the way through my body. He sucks the spot where he bit, and I’m nearly ready to orgasm. God knows why my neck is so sensitive—and hickies are a hell of a thing to hide—but what can I say? I just love it.

  He grabs me closer. “I’m going to make you beg me for what you want, Miss Garcia.”

  His wicked grin tells me he knows I want all the dirty, humiliating things that a good girl doesn’t do. That he’s just the right man to teach me how to submit… and what an eager pupil I can be.

  “Miss Garcia. Miss Garcia.”

  Why does he keep saying my name?

  His voice echoes. “Miss Artemis Garcia?”

  What?

  I start and blink my way back to reality, which is a classroom that holds the evening class of Photoshop 101, one of the first courses for my Associate’s degree at Pima Community College.

  The hot professor, Dr. Antonio Locke,
has made his way directly to my table, and stands right in front of me and my laptop. He memorized our names the very first day, unlike the other professors, who refer to a printout of our ID pictures.

  “If you’d be so kind as to join us, I’d be quite curious to know if you can answer the question.” He crosses his arms and raises a brow. His dark hair really sets off those amazing eyes.

  My cheeks burn as much from my inattention as my daydreams, and I’m frustrated at myself: instead of impressing him with my wit and wisdom, I fell asleep in his class for the second time in a week, while fantasizing about him. “Ah. I’m so sorry. Can you repeat it?”

  “I’m sorry I can’t quite keep your attention,” he says. “Almost makes me wonder if I need to rethink my teaching procedures.”

  Oh, fuck me. The way he said ‘procedures’ just set off a cascade of new fantasies in my head.

  He stares at me, and for a split second I wonder if he can read my mind, because his lips quiver into a smile that seems at once sexy and a little dangerous.

  But his words are anything but erotic. “I asked if you could tell me which keyboard shortcut one might use to quickly increase the size of a brush.” He points to the front of the room, where his laptop screen is duplicated, billboard size, to display a test document.

  I can’t help it, but my mind goes immediately to ‘increase’ and ‘command,’ and my cheeks get even hotter. I’m still caught up in that fantasy, and the chronic lack of sleep is getting to me. “Ummm…”

  I think I see a flicker of disappointment on his face before he turns away. “Mr. Ruiz?”

  Next to me, the eighteen-year-old guy who knows every fucking thing in the world says in a smug voice, “Absolutely, Professor Locke. It’s the right bracket. And, if I might add,” he clears his throat and looks over at me quickly before continuing, “I find this class incredibly fascinating.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ruiz.” Professor Locke’s voice is dry. I wonder if he’s thinking suck-up, like I am. He turns back to me. “Perhaps Mr. Ruiz can give you a few pointers. Or here’s a thought, and this is for the whole class—maybe you all can actually practice the material before you come to class?”

  A few giggles ring out, muted. Now the burn in my face is embarrassment. He didn’t have to be such a jerk about it—and I do know the material.

  “I…”

  But he’s talking again. “Your next assignment is to create a self-portrait entirely in Photoshop. You can use photographs, text, shapes, textures—let your creativity be your guide.” His voice is urgent and compelling. “Full details will be on my page in the portal.”

  I know I’m not the only person in this class who has a crush on him—I see the way the others look at him.

  But beyond his face, there’s something mesmerizing about the way he gets into the material, making it come alive. I’m already inspired to start work on my assignment, because—like Mr. Ruiz—I find this class fascinating.

  When I’m not napping, that is. I sigh.

  The bell rings and the class snaps into instant disarray, people chattering like a light switch turned them on, closing laptops, stowing gear. There’s one man in his sixties, but most students in this class skew to the late teens and very early twenties. I doubt most of them are even old enough to legally drink.

  The professor looks Hispanic, like I am. And it seems like he’s about five years older than my twenty-five, probably close to thirty—how weird is that? He’s accomplished so much in the same time I’ve done, well, nothing.

  At least I’m doing this now.

  I don’t have a laptop case, so I wrap my precious computer in a strip of bubble wrap I saved from the warehouse and slide it into my canvas grocery store tote. Then I look up to see if Professor Locke is still there.

  He is. And he’s staring right at me. “One minute, Miss Garcia?” He raises a brow.

  “Certainly.” I brush down my jeans and straighten my shoulders, hoping my attraction to him isn’t broadcasting like a lighthouse.

  The reverberations of heels down the shiny hallway fade as the group, jolly with freedom, scatters into the world, and the intensity of the new silence makes me catch my breath.

  I assume he’s going to chastise me for being lazy. Instead, he turns to his laptop and taps a key. “Your application caught my eye.”

  “What? I mean, it did?” I adjust the canvas bag on my shoulder. “How so?”

  He twists the laptop. “This. You painted this—by yourself?”

  I step closer to him to see. It’s the scan I sent of my favorite recent artwork: a mural on my back wall, a dark yet colorful homage to Day of the Dead. Full of color and intricate shapes and skulls, whirling dancers, it came into my head one day fully formed and I worked for days to complete it. It’s one of my best creations, and I’m proud of it. Someday, maybe I’ll get the city planning committee to actually look at my ideas and let me paint murals around town.

  “Yes, I did. I hope you’re not implying I plagiarized it or paid someone else to do it.” I narrow my eyes, heart racing.

  It wouldn’t be the first time someone underappreciated me, and I’m sick of it. At the same time, just being this close to him is sending all kinds of tingles through my body.

  “I’m implying it’s excellent.” He gives me a stern look back, as if scolding me with his expression for assuming. “Your use of shape and color…” He breaks off and shakes his head. “It’s like a combination of the best of Lalo Cota and El Mac. Yet the sophistication on the detail is even more stunning. The color is perfectly balanced.”

  “Well, thanks.” I duck my head, pride and relief mixing. Yeah, I thought it was good, too. But it’s nice to have someone real agree. Not that my Abuela isn’t real, but she loves me unconditionally. She’d like anything I created.

  Professor Locke regards me evenly. “And I have to ask myself why someone so talented is barely paying attention in class.”

  I shift. “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s not an explanation.” He crosses his arms. I swear to God, he looks all stern as hell, just like the dom in my fantasies.

  Fuck, it’s just the way he did it in my daydream—

  I remember that little smile he gave me, the one that made me think he could see all of my dirty, depraved fantasies. That feeling is even stronger now. It’s like he wants me to sass him. I feel it in my gut.

  He raises a brow at me. “Ms. Garcia?” The gesture thrills me to the core, setting off sparks of arousal between my thighs. And because of it, and because I’m high on his compliment and his compelling purple eyes, I toss away my usual inhibitions and instead of saying, I work two jobs, I say, “Well, you asked yourself, not me.” I raise a brow. “So I don’t see why I’m obligated to answer.”

  He chuckles, a low rumble that sounds dangerous, and steps just a few inches closer, so I can feel the heat from his body. “There’s a difference between obligation and respect.”

  Just those few inches matter as much as miles. God, having him this close is driving me crazy. My hormones go into overdrive. Am I leaning towards him? Fuck, but I want him to give me a lesson in respect right now.

  “Oh, words and definitions. I’m sorry. Is this English 101? I thought I registered for Photoshop Basics.” I give him a smug look and rummage in my shoulder bag for my syllabus. “Look, I did register for Photoshop.” I tug out the folder, and my iPod accidentally comes along for the ride, the cord all tangled up in the binder, pulling an art show brochure with it.

  “Shit!” I fumble as it falls to the ground.

  I expect to hear a crack, but Professor Locke is remarkably fast—he catches everything before I can even respond. How could he possibly—

  “Hit me Baby One More Time?” His voice is amused as he reads off the highlighted song on the iPod. “I wouldn’t have figured this was your style.” He sounds interested.

  My cheeks flush. “I like pop.”

  But I’m not just hot because of the song. The implic
ations of the title and what I’d like him to do to me—what I like in bed—are racing through my mind.

  I reach for the iPod. “Thanks for saving it.” I wouldn’t have been able to pay for a new one if it broke. “You have a quick hand.”

  He smirks. “That I do.”

  My face gets hotter and our fingers touch as I take the device. And I swear, a spark flashes as our skin touches. An actual spark, like static, but brighter—hotter.

  “Ow!” I say, although it’s not pain I feel. Just the simple touch of his finger to mine has sent spirals of desire all through my body, pulsing to my core.

  “Maybe you meant to sign up for Electricity and Magnetism 101?” He chuckles. He hands over the brochure as well.

  I slide everything back into my bag and look up at him. His expression is heated—I swear he wants me, the way I want him.

  For a split second, I think he’s going to grab me and kiss me and it will be the stuff of dreams, and not some kind of gross cliché and very fireable offense that could get us into embarrassing, dreary trouble.

  But he doesn’t. “Stay awake next time.” He steps away from me and closes his laptop. His voice is once again purely professional, just like in class. “It’s worth both of our time.”

  “Look.” I bite my lip. “I work a lot of hours, but I love this class. I’m looking forward to the next assignment. The portrait one. I’m going to spend a lot of time on it, I promise.”

  “Well, as long as you promise.” He looks back at me, those eyes dark and demanding. I suddenly want to promise him all kinds of things, dirty, perverse things…

  This isn’t at all normal. Is it? Surely professors don’t talk to all of their students like this. Do they?

  I can’t think straight. His eyes are bewitching me.

  He clears his throat. “Have a good weekend, Miss Garcia.”

  “Oh, you too.” I readjust my bag, wishing I had a nice leather laptop case like everyone else.