Cimmerian Shade: A Limited Edition Paranormal Romance & Urban Fantasy Collection

by Kiki Howell

  She proceeds to suck and lick me, holding the base of my cock, bobbing her head up and down, hollowing her cheeks, blowing hot and cold breaths, vibrating air around my dick until I feel my balls contract.

  I’m about to explode, so I reach between our sweaty bodies to find Clara’s wet sex. As I insert two fingers in her heat, I find her walls are trembling. When I thrust my hips up and she relaxes her throat to let my length slide down its tight channel, I explode. She swallows the hot jets of semen as I unload.

  Although the mind-blowing orgasm threatens to steal my ability to think, I pinch her clit between my fingers and Clara roars, her mouth still full of me. I pull her up until she straddles me and I’m still hard enough so she can ride me. She clutches at my shoulders and I angle my body to ensure I hit the right spots to pleasure her. As Clara moves up and down my shaft, it hardens and she widens her eyes. “So soon?”

  “It’s you, baby.”

  My reply renders me an eye roll and a chuckle and I respond by snapping the strips of her garter and twitching her clit. She speeds up her movements, gaining momentum as her climax approaches. Her wet folds squeeze me and a delicious burning sensation in the base of my cock tells me it’s ready to unload again. I reach up and cup her breasts, still covered in black silk, and pinch the nipples that poke against the thin material.

  “Oh, God, I need to come,” she informs me as if I were her Master.

  “Come for me, gorgeous,” I command, because this is not the time to clarify the situation between us has changed.

  I don’t need Clara to submit for me, but I’m willing to be a Master for her, if that’s what she needs. I’m aware of her kinks and I support her choice of lifestyle because it’s are part of who she is. They’re part of the woman I love and I don’t intend to change her.

  Chapter Twelve

  CLARA - 2017

  The Grandfather clock in the room chimes twelve times announcing midnight and for the first time since I met Marcel, his body doesn’t shift into ethereal light in front of me. I squeeze a solid ab, then a muscular upper arm, before staring into his eyes and smiling like a fool. “This is really happening. You’re still here.”

  “You didn’t doubt the word of the gods, did you?” Marcel chuckles at my expression that surely tells him how amazed I am.

  “No,” I feign uncertainty and we both laugh. “In my defense, that was my first time interacting with any form of deity, so cut me some slack, will you?”

  “I will,” and he proceeds to love me again.

  Pinning my hands above my head on the mattress with one of his huge hands, Marcel uses the other to palm my face. Holding my chin, he runs a thumb over my lower lip, prying my mouth open so he can kiss me deeply as only he knows how.

  When we come up for air, I whisper against his soft lips, “You know, yesterday, I feared that without our supernatural bond since now you’re mortal again, sex would lose some of its spunk.” I smile when his fingers pinch my nipple. “You’ve proved me wrong multiple times.”

  “As it turns out, I guess we needn’t worry about that after all. There’s a much stronger connection between us now, one the poets have called love.” He grazes my chin before moving down my neck and closing his mouth on my nipple. He sucks at it and I arch my back to give him better access. He continues talking, his mouth still full of my flesh, “Who am I to contradict such knowledgeable experts, right?”

  My heart swells in my chest and I free my hands to cup his face. “This is the sweetest way of saying ‘I love you’ without saying the actual words. I don’t know, but it seems to me you’ve got the soul of a poet, sir.”

  “Only as long as you’re my muse.”

  “I love you too, Marcel. Now and forever. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy.”

  “Hmm, I can think of a thing or two that would make me ecstatic right now.” The naughty glint in his golden eyes hints at the fact that I will enjoy his suggestion. “We’ve got Club Desire to ourselves until morning. I say we should make the most of it. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with this suite, but we’ve never used any of the other rooms when I had a physical body. Only as a ghost, so I’d like to try something different tonight.”

  Without hesitation, I jump out of bed and stretch my hand to him. “Come. I know the perfect place.”

  Pulling Marcel behind me, I lead us to one of the dungeons. Three walls are covered by mirrors and the fourth one displays a varied collection of whips, flogs and canes. Marcel’s eyes widen when he inspects the collection and he gets pale. “I respect your sexual choices and will do my best to fulfill them, but I draw a line at inflicting physical pain. I cannot hurt you, Clara.”

  I smile back at him and smooth the crease that his knitted eyebrows have created over the bridge of his nose. “No need for that. I didn’t come here so you would cane me. I was looking for that,” I point at a waist-high wooden device much like the pommel horse used by gymnasts. “It’s called wooden horse.”

  “I know quite well what this contraption is used for and it would hurt you like hell. I won’t do it.”

  “I’m not straddling it. There are other ways to use it and I know the perfect one for us. It’s gonna be kinky, yet not over the top.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced I’m not interested in pain, so I’ll have to show him what I mean. Back turned to Marcel, I lean over the side of the bar, spreading my legs as far apart as I can, resting my midriff on the structure for support and balance, then stretching my arms and holding my knees.

  I turn my head around to find Marcel’s eyes glued to my butt. I grin at him and lick my lips as I taunt him, “Got it now?”

  His sexy chuckle rumbles inside his chest before rolling over my skin like a feathery touch. “Oh, yes, my naughty temptress. I understand precisely what you mean.” He smacks my butt cheeks and my flesh jiggles under his warm hands.

  “I thought you wouldn’t spank me,” I wink at him.

  “I said I would never hurt you. This,” he slaps my ass again and I sigh, “is far from painful. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir,” I can’t resist calling Marcel that, just as I don’t mind begging. “You don’t want to be a Master, I get that; but just for this one time, can we role play?”

  Our eyes meet in the mirror in front of us. Marcel’s expression is serious as he eyeballs me. One hand grabs my hair in a ponytail, keeping my head up and straining my neck enough so it doesn’t hurt as long as I don’t move it. His other hand travels the length of my back until it finds my butt. He teases my butt crack with a naughty finger and I close my eyes at the pleasurable sensation. He yanks my hair and barks, “Eyes on me.”

  For a reluctant Master, he slips into the role quite easily. I sigh and keep my eyes trained on the reflection of his face in the mirror. I’m in my element here, so I feel safe. Besides, I trust Marcel with my life. He reaches between my legs to palm my sex. The evidence of my excitement drips down his hand as he inserts two fingers inside me. He stretches me before adding a third one that he uses to tease my clit. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes open and on him.

  I gasp and more liquid pours out of me, which he uses to coat his erection as he pumps himself before sliding his cock through my folds and aligning his head with my entrance. I dig my nails into my thighs to keep my hands from reaching around and grabbing his rock-hard thighs as he buries himself in me to the hilt.

  Our gazes still locked in the mirror, Marcel pulls almost all the way out before thrusting forward again and igniting each and every soft spot that I have, at the same time showing me a few I didn’t know I had. As he sets a lazy rhythm to his movements, I wonder if he’s trying to drive me insane.

  “Harder,” I beg without shame.

  “Not yet,” he grunts as he leaves me empty then fills me up to the brim. He continues his lazy strokes, slowly stoking my pleasure yet never taking me over the edge.

  When I’m about to lose my cool, Marcel speeds up his thrusts at the same time his fingers dig in
to the flesh of my hips. His eyes never leave mine through the mirror, so I’m forced to feel every one of his movements because I can’t see what he’s doing. This intensifies the sensations as his nails bite into my skin and his cock stabs my womb.

  “I’m coming,” I wail as the first quivers squeeze his cock.

  “Not yet,” he commands.

  I know I’m in trouble. I’ve always had problems delaying my pleasure. “Please, sir, I don’t think I can,” I moan.

  “I’m almost there, gorgeous. Wait for me, that’s all I’m asking.”

  The luminous glint of love in his eyes does the trick and I wait for Marcel so we can climax together. It’s not a matter of a dominant imposing restrictions to his sub. It’s a loving man asking his woman to share a special moment with him. I can’t deny him that.

  As he huffs and grunts, I sense he’s about to explode, Marcel hooks an arm across my chest and straightens up, lifting me with him, until my back is plastered against his chest. He thrusts deep inside me and the new angle makes him fill me completely. I gasp and, throwing my arms up, clasp my hands behind his neck for support, sagging against his hard body.

  He pinches my nipples as he whispers in my ear, “Come for me, gorgeous.”

  I obey Marcel and come undone in his arms. Eyes heavy, but glued to his reflection, I see the most amazing, most rewarding image. I watch as he climaxes and the knowledge that I brought him so much pleasure fuels my own release. I feel my sex flood with my juices mixed with Marcel’s seed and it’s just too much. Closing my eyes, I drop my head back on his chest and roar, “I love you,” repeating it until my throat gets sore.

  Marcel covers my cheeks and neck with sweet kisses meant to cool my flesh and bring me down to earth, but the way he repeats, “I love you too”, makes my heart soar. Gently shushing and stroking me, he tries to help me return to some level of normalcy, but I melt in his arms.

  “I feel like my bones have turned to jelly,” I groan as I turn around to face him. “And I don’t think I can walk either.”

  With a smug expression, Marcel scoops me up in his arms and winks. “Oh, the sacrifices I have to make in the name of love.”

  As he walks out of the dungeon and into another room with a humungous round bed in its center, I don’t resist taunting him, “Regretting already?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant and you know it, missy.”

  I giggle when he hurls me on the bed, then kneels between my legs.

  “Are you mad at me because I’ve been naughty? Will you punish me?”

  For a split second, Marcel seems to think I’m serious because his expression turns dark before he realizes what I was doing. “I swear sometimes you’re such a tough nut to crack, woman. What am I going to do with you?”

  “What Oshun commanded you to do, love me with all your heart for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s the easy part. Understanding you might turn out to be quite a challenge, I’m afraid.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  MARCEL - 2017

  I must confess I have a lot of catching up to do and that’s not only regarding understanding Clara. Although I have followed most of the innovations and new trends of the last century and a half, being trapped in that house limited my actual experience with a lot of the new things that people take for granted, because these things have become part of their everyday lives.

  At Club Desire, I watched television or surfed the internet through the staff members when they were on breaks and would do such things. So, I know what an airplane looks like and what it is used for, but actually flying on one for the first time proved to be quite daunting.

  Not only the experience of flying itself, but all that’s connected with it. For starters, my lack of proper documents forced Clara to hire a private jet to take us to Los Angeles, contrary to her habit of using commercial flights. I feel like a burden, even though she doesn’t say anything to make me feel like that.

  I also have noticed that my speech sounds quite foreign to some, so I’ve been telling people I’m French since my name is, because there’s no way I can explain my real story. As for getting me the necessary documents, Clara asked Jeff Sommers to help her out with it, which essentially means he’s contacted some disreputable acquaintances from his childhood years to ask them to provide fake documents for me. It’s one of those ‘better not ask’ situations that makes me uncomfortable for being the one to put Clara through it.

  “Stop beating yourself up. I don’t care what it takes to have you with me, as long as I have you around,” she reassures me for the hundredth time today, as we lie in her spacious bed and I let go of the argument.

  It’s been over a week since I moved to Clara’s house in Los Angeles. Her assistant, Henry, gave me the evil eye in the beginning and I had to keep my self-control in check to avoid punching him in the nose. For Clara’s sake, I didn’t act on my desire to rearrange his pretty face. Not even when I unintentionally eavesdrop on him complaining to her that she had lied to him when he asked her if she had found another man. I was about to barge into her office where the two were engaged in conversation and introduce Henry to my fists, but Clara dismissed his complaints saying they had already gone over that and she didn’t want to go back or explain her choices to him. I’m pretty sure those words hurt him much more than my fists might have done.

  I would say our recently started life together was perfect, except for one huge dark cloud that’s been hanging on the horizon, darkening our days. It’s the fact that Clara’s manager, Peter, and his husband seem to have vanished. Clara hasn’t talked much about it and I don’t insist because it’s a sore topic, but I’m aware she sees Peter as a father figure. The fact that something bad might have happened to him has been eating away at her.

  As if reading my mind, Clara rests her chin on my chest and stares into my eyes. “The worst part is not knowing what happened to Peter, you know.”

  It’s more of a rhetorical question, so I limit my reply to a curt nod, which satisfies Clara. For now. She’ll return to the subject when she feels comfortable talking about it and I won’t rush her.

  When Clara walks to the bathroom for her morning rituals, I grab the remote control from the nightstand and turn on the television. Watching the morning news has become not only an interesting pastime, but a highly informative one. There’s just so much I need to learn, that I try doing so with every chance I’ve got.

  As Clara returns to the room, the news anchor is commenting on an investigation that the FBI have just wrapped up, resulting in a series of arrests. She freezes in front of the TV set.

  “What is it?” I utter to deaf ears as she ignores me and sits down on the edge of the bed, eyes glued to the screen.

  “Police dismantled one of the biggest, oldest gambling schemes in California early yesterday. The suspects arrested in an illegal gambling house will be charged with multiple counts of extortion, illegal gambling and assault. It seems their preferred form of collecting debts was to threaten the gamblers and their immediate family. If you have any information that might help the investigation move forward, the Los Angeles Police Department is asking you call the hotline number on the screen,” the announcer wraps up and an ad for a new car starts.

  “That’s it!” Clara sounds euphoric.

  “What’s gotten into you? What about this news is so enthusiastic?”

  “I think I’ve found out what happened to Peter. I’ve told you he was acting strange before he vanished.” When I nod she goes on, “His husband had a serious gambling problem that resulted in Matt and Peter owing money to people like those in the news report.”

  “You think Peter and Matt were arrested?”

  “No. I wonder if Peter is the whistleblower.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “Sorry, hon. I keep forgetting the hundred and some years you’ve missed. It’s just that sometimes, depending on what kind of information and how much it can help the police and the district attorney’s o
ffice, people will trade their knowledge for a reduced sentence.”

  “You think Peter was arrested and then cooperated with the police?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. In that case, Peter would have made his statement, then returned home. The way things are, I’m afraid Peter had to enter the witness protection program, in which case we’ll never hear from him again.”

  “I think I know what you mean. It’s one of those programs that the government erases peoples’ prior identities, issues new ones and helps them set out a new life for themselves.”

  Clara seems surprised by my knowledge of the subject. “What have you been watching?”

  “I’ve found this interesting old-ish show about a team of law enforcement agents who are responsible for providing this kind of support to new members of the program. Let me tell you, that isn’t pretty. I mean, severing ties to one’s past, including family and close friends, must be devastating.”

  “Exactly. In Peter’s case, though, it would make sense, because otherwise he had no reason to vanish like he did, without a word to anyone, including me. I thought he considered me the daughter he never had.”

  “Although that’s plausible, we’ll never know for sure. As I understand it, if he’s indeed in the program, he won’t be allowed to contact you.”

  Her green eyes sparkle with a telltale moisture as she looks at me and whispers, “You’re right, but not knowing what happened to them is gut-wrenching.”

  I sling an arm around her shoulder and pull her into a reassuring embrace. “I know, but you’ll get through it day by day and I will be here with you every step of the way.”

  My words don’t have the effect I expected and Clara sniffs against my neck fighting to hold back the tears. She’s not one to cry easily, so I decide to do something I was planning on doing over a romantic dinner with champagne. Reaching inside the top drawer of the nightstand, I retrieve a small turquoise box.