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Look for these titles by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Now Available:
Duals and Donovans: The Different
Lions’ Pride
Foxes’ Den
Fox’s Folly
Knowing the Ropes
What happens in Vegas lasts forever…if you’re lucky.
Fox’s Folly
© 2012 Teresa Noelle Roberts
A Duals and Donavans Story
Las Vegas is the wrong place for an inexperienced witch like Paul Donavan. But he has no choice; his family owes a debt of honor to a half-fae casino owner, whose guests have been dying under mysterious circumstances. The normy police haven’t connected the dots between the deaths, and the owner has called in his marker.
When Paul literally runs into fox dual Taggart Ross, the instant, powerful attraction between them bristles with red flags. Not only should there be no sparks between him and this “hillbilly with a tail,” the fact is a dual couldn’t have committed murder-by-magic. But until he’s got proof, caution rules.
Tag’s own suspicions are on high alert. Magic killed his favorite uncle, and Paul, who senses Tag’s dual nature way too easily, should be a prime suspect. Except Tag’s libido responds to the witch in a way that shouldn’t happen.
Whatever this thing is between them, the raw sexual energy feeds a power that becomes their best hope of drawing out the killer before he, she, or it strikes again. Until love gets involved, and things get real complicated, real fast…
Warning: Sly foxes, smoky Southern drawls, sex magic, dangerous demons, tacky Las Vegas glitz, and did we mention the hot guy-on-guy sex?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Fox’s Folly:
“Is this moving a little fast, or is just me?” Tag said, laughing. He had to laugh to make sure he did it, to make sure he didn’t continue kissing and nibbling the man’s fingers long after the last bit of sushi was gone. “I’ve been known to be a man-ho, but I usually wait to learn someone’s name before I ask him out. Or her, or, in at least one case, zir. And I usually ask the last name before we start messing around this much. At least I have since I graduated from college, and that was a few years ago.”
“Something in the water.”
“Except I’d already dragged you off to dinner before I had any water here. Must be in the air.” He paused and sniffed, scenting in a way he hoped his human companion wouldn’t notice. Definitely something in the air. He hadn’t imagined that woods-and-ocean-and-amber scent, and his foxside assured him it wasn’t cologne. Paul just smelled like nature, and like, oh gods, hot sex. “Why else would they need a slogan like ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’?”
Paul grabbed his hand. His face turned serious, startlingly intent. “I’m single. I’d been dating someone casually until recently, but she and I both realized we weren’t a good fit before it got to the point that ending it was messy. So, I’m a free man. I hope you can say the same.”
“I have a couple of…I’d guess you’d say friends with benefits. They’re married to each other. I’m their good friend, and we all fuck sometimes. They’d probably be disappointed if I didn’t come home with a wild story from Vegas.” Now why had he told Paul about Charmaine and Joe? It sounded sordid to most normies, who didn’t understand fox culture, where extended families and long-term ménages were the norm.
Paul nodded, though, as if he understood or at least accepted. “Nice work if you can get it. Threesomes can get messy, but it sounds like you guys have it worked out.” He added in a softer voice, “I suppose it’s easier for you than it would be for most humans. Three’s sacred in dual culture—but are you Lord or Trickster? I know you’re not the Lady.”
There was no point in denying it. Paul was obviously not a speciesist. But Tag still dropped his voice. Paul might be fine, but other people weren’t, and in an increasingly conservative political climate, normies’ fears about duals were being codified into law. The last thing he wanted to do was spend part of his time in Las Vegas being harassed by the Agency, which monitored duals and other Differents.
Actually, that might be the second-to-last thing. Dragging Paul into that kind of mess would probably be the last thing. He seemed so nice, as well as hotter than hell.
Tag tried to make light of it. “I didn’t get so rattled I let my ears show, did I? Haven’t done that since I was six and my folks took me into Knoxville for the first time.”
“No. Not that anyone else would see, that is. I can see the fox in your aura, of course, and…oh shit,” Paul whispered, the ordinary profanity sounding foul in his cultured voice. “I did it again. I am so sorry.” He managed to eke out a smile. “I guess I just blew your cover and my chances at a Las Vegas fling.”
His aura? Paul knew what he was from his aura? Paul could see his aura? Who was this guy, other than insanely hot and now more than a little freaky? “What the hell kind of consulting gig are you here on, Paul who hasn’t told me his last name?”
“Security consultant for the casino.”
Tag sniffed at the air, not bothering to conceal it now that his secret was out. He smelled no lies, but still, his ears perked inside the human seeming. Something was not quite right here. “I’ve met the kind of security they hire for high-stakes games. They look like thugs, and you never see the guns, but you know they’re carrying. You look like a college professor. A young, attractive professor, but still a professor. And you’re not the kind of security who’s supposed to blend in, because you don’t blend. You’re too good-looking, and you’re too uncomfortable. I’d say being in a city makes your paws itch, except you don’t have paws. Maybe you mean computer security, but a geek would be talking about work by now and fiddling with his iWhatever. Who are you really, Paul? What are you? I’m pretty sure you’re human, but you smell like no one I’ve ever met before.”
“My name,” Paul said, as if answering that one question would answer all of them, “is Paul Donovan.”
It did—not the name, which was common enough, but the way he said it.
“As in Desmond Donovan, the former presidential advisor on magic and the Different?”
The one who’d resigned in solitary protest as, despite his best efforts, laws were passed denying duals their civil rights. A hero in his own right among the Different, though he was a human witch, not a dual.
Paul nodded.
“So you’re one of those Donovans.” Tag exaggerated his drawl. It tended to make people think he was dumber than he was, although it was probably too late for that with Paul. “One of the most powerful witches in this country.” If it was true, it would explain Paul’s amazing scent, the combination of raw sex and curious purity. Witches were human, but a witch on the Donovan power level was as unlike a normy as a shape-shifting dual was. Donovans supposedly had the kind of magic that inspired the freakier western European fairytales—only they were the good witches, the ones who saved the heroine’s butt when everything was going against her. They didn’t use their powers for material gain.
Which didn’t exactly jibe with being a security consultant at one of the ritziest casinos in Las Vegas.
As far as Tag could smell, Paul was telling the truth about his family, but it could be a partial truth. He could be a low-powered witch who was taking odd jobs to improve his skills—even the Donovans must occasionally have a kid who wasn’t as powerful, just like his own clan had produced Aunt Mary Frances, who opted to pass for human so she could marry a right-wing Bubba. He could have fallen out with his family for some reason. Just because they were capital-G Good Guys didn’t mean they might not be annoying as horseflies to live with. He could just be checking out the mundane world, like Amish teenagers did before settling down.
Or maybe he was one of the bad witches. There had to be bad witches. Ever
y sentient species produced a few rotters, and since witches were basically just humans with some twists to their DNA, they’d be no exception.
Maybe he was a witch bad enough to commit murder with magic and get away with it.
It didn’t seem likely, not with that fresh, yummy smell. A murderer wouldn’t necessarily stink, but it didn’t seem like a killer could smell like pure joy. But what did Tag really know about witches?
Some of them had healing magic. Maybe they could change their natural odor. But would they think of it? Humans didn’t understand that scent was a rich, complex language.
Killer or potential lover? Tag had to know, had to know with all the urgency of a fox’s natural curiosity heightened by loyalty to Uncle Randolph. And face it, he really wanted Paul Donovan to be what he said he was, or at least nothing worse than a minor witch hoping to impress a guy by bragging on or outright inventing a connection to the witch family a non-witch was most likely to recognize. Tag could respect that possibility. It was a foxy thing to do—okay, an adolescent foxy thing to do. A guy in his late twenties should know better tricks by now, but humans weren’t as good at the game as foxes were. And Paul, gorgeous as he was, seemed like a guy who didn’t get out much, the type so wrapped up in his work he remembered to date only if someone landed naked in his lap and wiggled.
Which Tag had done, or as close to it as you could do in a public place in broad daylight, even in Vegas.
They’ve got the sex factor in spades. But can love survive the “ex” factor?
Knowing the Ropes
© 2013 Teresa Noelle Roberts
Selene has harbored kinky, submissive fantasies most of her life, but her experience as a domestic abuse counselor leaves her leery of giving up that much control. Case in point: the ex-fiancé she didn’t love quite enough to test the limits of trust.
At a BDSM meet-and-greet, she sets out to learn how far is too far. Nick seems like the ideal dom to show her the ins and outs of ropes, floggers, and paddles—with no commitment clause.
After losing a sub he loved too much, Selene’s country girl common sense and smoking sensuality is like a dream that Nick never dared to have—a perfect blend of kink and long-term domestic bliss.
Yet it’s tough to figure out just how far they can push their limits when they’ve both agreed to a no-strings affair. Especially when an ex needs Nick’s muscle and Selene’s counseling skills to get out of a dangerous situation. By then it may be too late for love to survive all the things they’re afraid to say.
Warning: Sexy, kinky, geeky dominant guy. Smart submissive woman. Crazy ex. A little experimentation between girlfriends. And lots and lots of kinky sex.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Knowing the Ropes:
Selene found herself with Nick, drifting toward an early dinner somewhere. He had a place in mind but hadn’t actually told her where, and she found she liked the feeling that she’d put herself into his hands in this small way.
The more she talked with Nick, the more his cool blue gaze and warm smile distracted her, and the more she felt his body language sync up with hers. No, not exactly in sync but one step ahead, anticipating her next movement and influencing it, as if starting to mold her already. She watched his big hands, imagining them alternately caressing and slapping her breasts, her thighs, her ass.
She looked down at his feet when she imagined her fevered thoughts were too obvious in her eyes, then imagined herself kneeling there, naked, trembling, wet.
Actually, she didn’t need to imagine the wet and trembling part. Her panties already felt suspiciously damp and her knees were shaky.
They walked more or less in silence. Between traffic noise, noise from the perennial construction along Atlantic Avenue and the melting heat, talking seemed far too much like work. Even the breeze off Boston Harbor was sticky.
By the time they crossed a bridge over Fort Point Channel, she was wishing she’d worn flats, even if they wouldn’t have looked right with the outfit. She prayed that the restaurant would be an informal place where she could slip her shoes off under the table.
Once she saw the restaurant, her feet breathed a sigh of relief.
The Barking Crab was a tribute to the beachside clam shack. Rough picnic tables covered with butcher paper—they even provided crayons for doodling. A mix of fried and steamed seafood, with a few more sophisticated but still basic selections. And outdoor seating on the harbor, so she could kick off the damn heels and relax. “It’s a tourist trap,” Nick said, “but it’s fun.”
Soon they were drinking cold beers—he’d recommended the fascinatingly named Smuttynose, from a brewery in New Hampshire—and awaiting plates of fried scallops, fried calamari and steamed mussels. Selene hadn’t eaten a great deal that day and the frosty, hoppy beer was making her feel pleasantly euphoric.
Or maybe that was Nick.
She stretched out her bare foot, brushed it against his calf. Hard muscle under soft denim. Nice.
Yeah, Nick might just have something to do with the euphoria.
He took the hand that wasn’t holding her beer.
No, he didn’t exactly take her hand. He covered her hand with his and closed his fingers around her wrist. Then he looked into her eyes.
A slow, sensual smile opened on his face as he said, “That’s better. Isn’t it?”
It wasn’t really a question, but he was giving her an out if she wanted it.
She didn’t. That firm grip on her wrist hinted at so many things she’d dreamed of. “Oh yes,” she breathed. “Better.” She dropped her voice a notch. “And wetter.”
It may have been purely coincidence that the woman sitting behind her giggled at that second, but Selene was sure she’d overhead.
Heat flared in Selene’s cheeks and, to her surprise, between her legs. She squirmed in her seat, less from actual embarrassment than to enjoy the pressure the movement put on her swollen lips.
Under the cover of the first round of food arriving, Nick leaned forward. “So, you enjoy a little bit of public embarrassment? I’ll file that away for later.”
“You’re so confident that there’ll be a later?”
“What do you think?” He ran one fingernail down the tender inside of her forearm.
His nails weren’t sharp, but she still shivered.
“What about the common-sense test?” she asked. Her voice sounded a little desperate to her own ears, grasping at verbal straws. “Don’t I fail it retroactively if I go home with you tonight?”
“If you come home with me and let me lock you in a cage, then yes. But to do that, I’d need a cage, and where will I find one in downtown Boston on a Saturday night?” He laughed. “I’m regretting that test. It’s making us both think we have to be sensible, and right now I’d rather be impulsive.”
“Would it help if I said I wasn’t thinking of much of anything except you?” Had that really come out of her mouth? “Okay, you and food. I’m starving.” She grabbed a ring of fried calamari and popped it into her mouth, hoping the squid would keep her from saying anything too stupid. Calamari had the texture of bubble gum, in her experience, and it was rude to talk with your mouth full.
Damn it if this place didn’t manage to make calamari tender. Delicious too, with a nice, crunchy coating and a bit of spice.
Much tastier than what she’d been expecting but not nearly as effective for keeping her safely quiet.
“Try it with a bit of the banana pepper,” Nick suggested, picking up a calamari ring and a piece of yellow-green pepper. She thought for a second he was demonstrating the proper technique.
He wasn’t.
He reached across the table and held the food before her lips. “Try it,” he urged.
Her mouth opened of its own accord.
He brushed his finger across the pout of her lower lip, making her shiver.
She opened her mouth slowly, took a tentative nibble to test the pepper’s heat, then parted her lips wider and engulfed the food and Nick’s finger
s.
Unfortunately, there was only so much room around the morsel for tongue and fingers to work their wiles upon each other. She did her best, though, sucking and nibbling on his fingers while he moved them against her tongue, tantalizing something besides her taste buds, which were already busily dealing with piquant pepper and warm, spiced calamari. She found she was leaning forward to take him, wanting to feel more, liking the sensation that he was filling her mouth.
She wanted him filling her mouth with his cock, wanted him to move in her mouth as he was now—no, harder, more forcefully, claiming that piece of her as his.
She arched her throat, tried to convey the fantasy through what she did to his fingers, and discovered that the calamari and pepper were interfering.
She coughed.
It didn’t stop the lovely, depraved images running through her head. Frankly, it fit with them, because the blowjob she was imagining was the kind where you might find yourself almost choking on cock but not wanting to stop. The kind where you’d actually revel in the bit of discomfort because your lover was getting off so much on thrusting hard into your throat.
On the other hand, cock couldn’t actually end up in your windpipe, but a stray piece of food could, and nothing spoiled a flirtation like a Heimlich maneuver and a visit to the ER.
Regretfully, she pulled away and actually applied herself to chewing and swallowing.
The pepper-and-squid combination was delicious, all right, but not as delicious as his fingers.
She thought of his cock deep in her throat, imagined how he might taste as he poured into her, felt herself flushing.
She forced herself to giggle. “Something more delicate might have worked better,” she said, making her voice stay even. “Maybe a taste of one of the dipping sauces next time.”
Something about the way Nick smiled in response let her know that he knew exactly what she’d been thinking, because he’d been thinking it too. Not just oral sex, because that was what you always thought about when you teased someone like that, but a very specific kind of oral sex, the kind that was claiming, almost brutal. “I don’t know. Are delicate morsels what you prefer?”
Cougar's Courage (Duals and Donovans: The Different) Page 28
