In the Time of the Caveman

by Samantha Leal

  His eyes turned icy blue and his whole frame seemed to vibrate with power and lust, as the intense heat raged within him.

  “My Lady,” he panted before he looked up at the moon. His face cracked into something primal and wild, and Muriel finally let herself go. She rode along with him, spurred on by his intensity and the power raging within him.

  As he shifted from human into wolf form, he took her breath away. The power that radiated from him was so incredible and frightening she was sure he was about to rip her limb from limb. The wolf growled and ran a hot, wet tongue up the side of her neck and cheek. His claws pawed at her and ripped at the wedding dress and he looked up and howled at the moon.

  Muriel was so turned on, she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Her body was a mess of want and need and as John shifted back into his human form, the clothes torn from his body and revealing his nakedness, he pressed down hard on her and spread her legs with his thighs.

  As he slid the tip of his manhood into her dripping wet sex and claimed her properly, Muriel squealed with delight and pleasure that reverberated throughout the highlands.

  As John powered himself into her, he got harder with each stroke and built up to his powerful release.

  Muriel had waited for this moment her entire life and it couldn’t have been more perfect. Her husband was like nothing she had ever known or could even have dreamed of, and as he thrust into her one last time and spilled his red hot seed, she unraveled around him. As she experienced her first orgasm, it was so intense she thought that it may tear her in half.

  Afterwards she lay in his arms, nuzzled into his burning hot chest and traced lines with her fingertips up his naked torso.

  “You are amazing John Campbell,” she whispered. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to me…” she giggled.

  “Oh I do,” he kissed her on the forehead as he pulled her closer. “I’ve deflowered you… and hopefully impregnated you with a cub.”

  Muriel felt a twinge in her belly.

  A cub…

  A baby for them both…?

  “This is the beginning,” he whispered, “This is the start of the rest of the world. Together we are going to change Scotland forever…”

  Muriel looked deep into his eyes and smiled. She knew he was right and hoped that she did have a baby growing inside of her.

  “The stars,” she whispered as she looked up again, “Do you really believe this was written there?”

  “Most certainly,” John smiled.

  The ground began to freeze around them, but Muriel barely noticed. The heat coming from her wolf husband was keeping her warm and she could still feel it pulsing throughout her.

  Less than forty-eight hours earlier she had just been a normal highland lassie waiting for her life to begin… and out of nowhere she had been thrown into an almost unbearable situation with the evil Lord Rose… rescued by the handsome John Campbell and married with the possibility of a baby on the way. It had certainly been an unbelievable day, but one she wouldn’t change for a moment. She had found something with John… even if it was just the beginning, she knew it was a journey she wanted to be on.

  She looked over at Cawdor Castle and smiled. She had never wanted to leave before John had burst into the Great Hall, but now she had a husband of her own, one that she wanted to be with, she knew what Elizabeth and her mother had meant. Her destiny was being fulfilled… she had been chosen by a shifter clan and together they were going to begin something legendary. John said that it would depend on her… and she wanted to go. Together they could find their own home and start their own clan… The Campbell-Calder’s would be the most powerful family in the whole of the highlands.

  She nuzzled into John’s shoulder and looked up at the stars. Above them trails of silver shot across the sky and Muriel took it as a sign from the Gods that she was on the right path. She was where she was meant to be and destiny had finally found her.

  “I love you John Campbell,” she whispered as she locked her fingers with his, “And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  John turned to her and kissed her deeply for one last time before they feel asleep together under the stars as wild wolves howled beneath the moon.

  THE END

  Into The Duke’s Arms

  Katie Maddox

  Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Chapter One

  Florida, 2016

  “If I see one more piece of friggin’ lace, I am simply going to hurl. And hurl good.”

  Standing at the center of a lavish Victorian style sitting room, Jasmin Lawrence did have to take a moment and admire her surroundings; her bespectacled gaze perusing the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room did boast a lovely, resplendent décor was meant to promote a certain air of serenity and grace.

  At this moment, however, Jasmin felt about as graceful and serene as….

  Well, something that’s not very graceful or serene at all, she mused in silence with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. I am in no mood to be witty or clever. I just want to clear out of here and grab a Big Mac.

  At this point, however, the only edibles in her future took the form of those Victorian era delicacies that she would not be eating herself, but instead, would be serving to patrons at Chez Victoria, the elegant Florida area tea room where she had sought gainful employment for the past year.

  Each day, she pushed a silver cast food cart that came complete with piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and, of course, tea.

  Lots and lots of tea.

  Didn’t those pesky Victorians ever drink anything else? she queried silently, continuing her tortured but nonetheless cathartic internal monologue before adding, as she winced in acute discomfort, And didn’t they ever lower themselves to the wearing of clothes that were remotely—I don’t know—wearable? Or at least comfortable?

  Again, she did have to admit that her work uniform—a true to life, cream colored reproduction of a classic Victorian gown—absolutely stunned with its fitted, lace-bordered floral print bodice with a matching flowing skirt and puffed, lace-lined sleeves. The soft cotton gown served to flatter and accentuate her rubenesque curves. And when she adorned her long mane of lustrous dark hair with a smooth floral print ribbon, she did indeed feel every inch a prim and proper Victorian lady.

  Cha! Got them fooled! She smirked now, rolling her eyes heavenward. I full well realize that this gown is infinitely preferable to my last work uniform, worn during my college days while toiling away as a head bun dresser at Cal’s Coney Heaven. Sorry, but it seems rather odd to wear a polyester Coney dog costume while one actually serves Coney dogs to perplexed looking customers. It seems almost fatalistic, to a point.

  Yet, no more fatalistic, she presumed, than the everyday wearing of hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets.

  Sheesh, no wonder those ladies were always ‘swooning,’ she reasoned as she felt her rib cage protract. Again. Who can breathe and function worth a darn while wearing a blasted corset?

  As she continued to use her tortured inner thoughts as a surefire distraction from the painful—or, at the very least, irritable—truth of her everyday life, Jasmin struggled to remember the time when she loved and lost herself in Victorian lore; those blissful teen-aged years when she lost herself in the novels of Jane Austen, also in the numerous filmed adaptions of her timeless books.
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  I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Darcy, totally ignoring the three major obstacles standing in our way, she recalled now. Number one: Mr. Darcy is a total and complete fictional character, no joke. Number two: If he was not indeed a total and complete fictional character, he would be long dead by now. Number three: Mr. Darcy is already married. And Elizabeth Bennet is just tough enough to kick my heiny—though, I am certain that, with her velvet tongue, she would come up with a far more proper term for my defeated posterior than ‘heiny’.

  It was, in fact, her great love for Victorian literature that had inspired her to pursue a degree in English literature at Clearview State University, the premiere—okay, so the only—collegiate institution located in her Florida hometown.

  After working her way through school via a food service job, she graduated cum laude and immediately, scored a job—in food service.

  So now I know the true and full meaning of the term ‘literary irony’, she mused, heaving a deep sigh as she wheeled her cart, with sluggish slippered steps, between endless rows of lace afflicted tables. Now instead of asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I ask customers, ‘Would you like clotted cream and chutney with that?’

  Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sudden entrance of her supervisor; a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin, adorned with lace and sleek ruffles.

  Although Jessymyn O’Reilly generally had the tendency to float into a room, she, on this day, seemed to trudge a bit as she dragged a large and rather unwieldy portrait into the main dining room of Chez Victoria.

  “Can I help you with that, Jessymyn?” Jasmin queried, rushing forward to grab up the right edge of the brass bordered frame that enclosed the mysterious portrait; righting the painting as she did to take a closer look at its surface.

  She froze then, and gaped outright, as she beheld the image of the most beautiful man she ever had seen.

  His tall muscular frame was dressed resplendent, in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. The subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky.

  This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.

  “Who’s the beb?” she asked Jessymyn, all the while never tearing her gaze from the captivating man captured in the frames of the ebullient oil painting.

  Jessymyn let loose with an undignified snort, rolling her eyes heavenward as she considered her most unique turn of phrase.

  “The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” she informed her employee. Adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house, much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company for his lonely spirit.”

  I’d be more than pleased to provide him tons of company for his lonely spirit, Jasmin mused in silence, saying aloud, “Well that sounds like a really nice story, Jessymyn; one that we will have to share with our customers. In the meantime, let me help you hang that portrait—maybe right over the fireplace, where everyone can see it? Me, especially?”

  Soon, Jasmin found herself back at work on the floor at Chez Victoria, rushing from table to table as an endless line of customers made demands on her services.

  “Could we have more tea over here?”

  “Could we have more scones over here?”

  “Could we have more raspberry jam over here?”

  Could I have a life over here? Jasmin felt like barking in kind return—especially at the man who apparently considered it his mission in life to get just a little bit more of that blasted raspberry jam.

  “Coming, Sir.” She smiled through gritted teeth at the balding old man who visited the tearoom at least once a week; and always on the days that she was on shift. Lucky her. And to make things worse, today, he seemed unwilling to await her apparently less than timely arrival at the side of his table.

  “I’m a goin’ to that front counter myself and get my own raspberry jam,” he told his rather depressed looking wife, who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, at this point in time.

  Swinging his feet out from under his table, he stuck his leg out in front of Jasmin’s food cart, tripping up the cart’s motion and sending several pieces of priceless floral print china flying forward off the crystalline tray that lined its top.

  The server’s eyes flew wide as she lunged forward in an impulsive attempt to catch the flying flatware; her feet leaving the floor as her body soared like a rocket across the surface of the cart.

  The rocket crashed unceremonious seconds later, as Jasmin’s form flattened atop the cart; her head falling forward to hit the hard brass handle that lined its northern border.

  “Fab-ulous,” she muttered, feeling her eyes cross in her head as her entire world went black.

  Chapter Two

  She was pretty passing sure that she was dead. Dead as a doornail, in point of fact.

  And, for that matter, she was loving every minute of it.

  Her body relaxed in the soft cushion provided on the surface of a plush luxurious carpet; her senses bathed in a veil of silence that soothed and coddled her addled psyche.

  For once, she reasoned, she wasn’t straining her feet and stressing her knees in an endless effort to serve her customers at Chez Victoria. She wasn’t trying to fill an insistent and compelling need for more raspberry jam.

  Now she could simply bask, full and free, in an air of peaceful tranquility; laying blissfully motionless as her tired limbs relaxed and luxuriated.

  Things got even better, she mused, when she finally did open her eyes; witnessing firsthand what just had to be the vision of an angel.

  Aside from being strikingly beautiful, the man before her seemed somehow familiar to her wide, dazed eyes. Immediately, she recognized the tall, muscular frame dressed in the long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and oh so delightfully tight taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. She also recalled the chiseled face framed by the glorious mane of long, thick ebony hair and featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and the biggest blue eyes she ever did see.

  “It’s the dude in the portrait,” she mused aloud, adding as she reached a curious hand forward, “Only I wasn’t aware that the photo existed in a three dimensional version.”

  Her eyes flew wider still, moments later, as her wandering fingers made startling contact with the dark silken locks of a head of hair that seemed all too real in texture.

  “What the…” she squeaked out, her words echoed by a deep sonorous voice that resounded hard from the bronzed throat of the gentleman before her.

  “For your information, milady, I’m a duke—not a dude,” the man informed her, folding his arms strong and firm before him. “And nobody touches the hair.”

  Bolting upright on the floor, Jasmin inspected her surroundings, which seemed eerily familiar; recognizing, immediately, the splendorous interior of the Chez Victoria tea room. She nodded in recognition as she spotted the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, and plush ivory carpeting; also noting the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand-painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky.

  Yet, in
place of the bank of tables that usually came filled with customers waiting to be served, was a long, lace-covered table; topped as it was by a lustrous setting of polished rose print china.

  Finally, her confused gaze returned to the man who met her in turn with a quizzical look; one that seemed to question her presence in this space, if not her very sanity.

  “Not to be unchivalrous, Miss,” he said finally, adding as he inclined his head in her direction, “but may I ask just what in the blazes you’re doing in my home?”

  Standing to her feet, with no small degree of effort, Jasmin hoisted her chin upward as she stared her questioner straight in the eyes.

  “May I ask what in the blazes you’re doing in this century?” she returned, making a broad gesture between them. “You’re supposed to be a Victorian lord, one who walked this earth centuries ago. Aren’t you supposed to be—I don’t know—dead or something?”

  In lieu of making a verbal reply, the man before her shook his head in a show of blatant confusion, clearly unsure as to how to address the question posed by the evident lunatic who stood in his dining room.

  For a full moment, the two just stood there staring at one another as both seemed to struggle to find the right words to address this unbelievable and generally preposterous situation.

  “If Webster’s dictionary ever needs a historically preserved etching to accompany their definition of the word ‘awkward,’” she mused, “then a rendering of this here scene would pretty much suffice.”

  Chapter Three

  Moments later, Jasmin reclined in the lavender cushions of a chair bordering the mysterious long table that now adorned the center of the dining room; sipping hot cinnamon tea from a rose print tea cup.

  For once, she reasoned, it was nice to enact the role of the served as opposed to the server. Especially when her server just happened to be so unforgivably hawt that he really should be illegal.