by Cara Bristol
She splayed her palms over his chest. Tentative at first, her caress grew bolder, and she curled her fingers in his chest hair and scraped his skin. His breath caught when one small hand followed the arrow of hair.
His manhood ached, but she stopped.
“Touch me,” he groaned.
A small hesitation then she closed her fist around his shaft. Her touch felt so different from his own. A jolt shot through his cock and into his abdomen, and he sucked in a hiss of air through his teeth.
“I’m sorry!” She released him. “I hurt you.”
“No. It felt good.” He brought her hand back to his cock and showed her how to stroke him.
An eager pupil, she learned quickly. Tension curled. Thoughts shifted. What if? Would she consider… He’d read in The Goddess’s Book of Pleasures…
Reena stilled her motion. “Is something wrong?”
“No, you’re…perfect.”
“You stiffened.”
He was plenty stiff. He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“If I’m doing something wrong, you must tell me.”
“You are doing everything right.” He kissed her—a long, wet one with plenty of tongue—and imagined her mouth on his cock.
“You did it again,” she said, when he broke off. “You tensed.”
He hesitated. “Would you...kiss my manhood?”
He did not know what he expected to receive, but it wasn’t such a teasing, seductive smile that his lust almost surged out of control and rendered the request moot. Reena scooted down his body, and he shifted onto his back, hardly daring to breathe. She pressed her lips to the crown of his cock with the briefest of touches, innocent, if such a touch could be.
Another brush. Equal devastation. A flick of her tongue. He twisted the bedclothes in his fists. She drew the entire head into her mouth. Fire. Fire. He gasped.
She sucked on his cock in a long, slow pull, moaning as if the pleasure belonged to her. He fisted her hair, fearful she’d stop. Afraid she’d continue. In its own way, this was worse than being ensnared. The universe contracted to a pinpoint focus: the hot, achy yearning she incited in his manhood.
She traced a trail from crown to base then up again. Took him deep until he nudged her throat. She cupped and caressed his testicles, driving more spikes of need into his body.
A rapture he’d never envisioned.
But he hungered for more.
He needed to hear her gasp in satisfaction. Feel her writhe. Know she achieved the same as he.
What if…
It was written in the Book of Pleasures…
But he’d never…
Garat yanked away. She looked at him with a question in her eyes, her lips parted as if waiting for his cock. He kissed her hard before twisting around and stretching out. He parted her thighs, pulling one over his head, and buried his face between her legs.
She squeaked. He began as she had, with light caresses, grazing the petals of her womanhood.
She moaned.
A growl rumbled from deep inside him, and he parted her folds to seek the source of her wetness. She thrashed her thighs, an encouraging response, so he trailed his tongue from her channel to her clit. Her pleasure center, the book called it. He flicked his tongue over the nub, and she cried out. More thrashing.
But it was his turn to jerk, when she recaptured his cock. The more he teased, the more avidly she sucked. Her chest heaved against his lower abdomen; her hips thrust against his face.
They could achieve release together like this. Perhaps they would—another time. For their first coupling, he had to be inside her. In a flash of rationality he realized he hadn’t finished this encounter and already he planned another.
Garat wrenched away. Spun around and slipped between her thighs. He guided his manhood to her slickened channel. She locked her heels around his waist.
He probed her wetness for a moment then, with a lunge, pushed inside. He broke through a barrier of some sort, and she jerked, emitting a pain-filled cry.
He froze, horrified. He’d hurt her.
“Don’t stop now.” She lifted her hips, wound her arms around his neck, and dug her heels into his buttocks. Her encouragement and the insistent urge in his loins swept away caution. Need conquered control. Want defeated defenses. What power these Sharona had over men, and this one over him.
Her womanhood tightened and contracted, squeezing his cock in convulsive ripples. She cried out in pleasure, and ecstasy bordering on pain crashed over him. Together they found rapture.
A gift from the Goddess?
Or a curse?
* * * *
Sweaty, grunting, rutting brutes the Lahon were.
The description had been dead accurate—yet, wrong. Garat had been all those things—yet none of them. Reena lay panting, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Her womanhood pulsed with residual pleasure tingles. Perspiration, most of it his, coated her skin, and her inner thighs were sticky with her moisture and seepage from his essence. A musky scent rose from them both. Her body felt languid, like she could float away on a cloud. Did he feel the same? She peeked at his face. His eyes were closed.
Without any effort, she could drift off, too. But she fought sleep to store memories of the amazing experience, how the needful tension had climbed to a pinnacle of bliss.
Thank you, Goddess. She murmured a silent prayer for all she’d received. A new lease on life. The rapture of mating. Not to mention satisfaction of her curiosity about the Lahon. Garat’s manroot lay flaccid now. Nothing in her imagination had prepared her for its tumescent grandeur. The incredible rigidity of its long shaft. The smoothness of its massive crown. The way he had felt in her hands, in her mouth, inside her.
Her pleasure center pulsed. I want him again. She studied his face. In slumber, he displayed a vulnerability one would not expect from a man with chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, stubborn chin, and bristly skin. From a man who’d had his face buried between her legs.
Confused embarrassment flooded her with heat.
She squeezed her thighs together. Perhaps it won’t be so bad if I stay awhile. Perhaps there were other pleasures to be discovered. It was said the Goddess had inspired a tome of hedonistic delights. Unimaginable until now.
However, she could not indulge her carnal desires at the expense of her mother’s well-being. Ellynna would be frantic with worry or grief. What would Honna tell the queen? For that matter, what did she believe had happened? Did she assume Reena had died? Nothing else could account for why she’d left her in the clutches of one of the Lahon, whom she hated so fiercely. Garat had turned out not to be a threat, but Honna hadn’t known that.
She watched from the bank while you nearly drowned.
No, she’d panicked in a crisis. All that proved was she didn’t have nerves of stone. That didn’t make her a bad person. A murderess. Garat was wrong.
The truth was that Honna was missing. Reena had only assumed she’d had gone to the palace. Maybe she’d been captured by the person who had shot her and Garat—another reason to necessitate a prompt return. She should check on her cousin. Maybe she didn’t leave me. Maybe I left her.
Perhaps Honna had found a mate she did like. Other male tribes besides Lahon existed on Shalondia. Perhaps, at this very moment, her cousin was curled up next to a warm, slumbering male.
Not likely. Honna hated mating, while Reena, who’d never experienced that hormonal boost had reveled in it. Unless—
She lifted her wrist. Clear as…crystal.
A hand closed around her arm. “How are you doing?” Garat asked. His thumb caressed her skin.
“Fine,” she answered.
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“No.”
He raised her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips over her pulse point. Sharp sensation sizzled. That which was solid melted. Her womanhood spasmed.
She stared, unable to speak.
“You’ve never been fevered?”
She shook her
head.
“So you’ve never been with a Lahon before?” He pressed another kiss to her wrist and settled her hand on his chest.
“No,” she croaked and cleared her throat. “Have you ever been with a Sharona?”
He tensed. “Once. Many years ago.”
“It did not go well?” Her heart fluttered.
“No.” His face hardened as if he’d thrown up a barricade. No admittance. Keep out.
Locked inside him was the key to so many questions. She intended to push to see if she could breach the wall, but he expelled a heavy sigh.
“You have been living under the certainty of death, yet you believe me, a stranger, a Lahon, when I tell you, you will live.”
“You would not lie about such a thing.” She had read the certainty, the honesty in his gaze, as if he’d channeled the Goddess herself when he’d relayed the information. And if she needed verification, her strength had improved, her fatigue had lifted. And inside, that presence of the illness was gone.
“If you believe me about that, why can’t you accept the other things I told you?”
She tried to leave the bed, but he hung onto her.
“Let me go! You’re wrong! I refuse to believe such a heinous accusation. Honna is like a sister to me! She is my best friend. How would you like it if I told you your brother had attempted to kill you?”
“I would be devastated, but if he had tried repeatedly, I would be forced to believe you.”
“There have been no repeated attempts!” She twisted her arm, and he relaxed his grip, allowing her to free herself. Tears stinging her eyes, Reena grabbed the tunic she’d been wearing and put it on. He’d ruined everything! The wonderful memories, the lassitude. Her hope for another mating. Ashes all.
She could smell the smoking vestiges. She sniffed.
Something burned for real. “Do you smell something?”
“No, what—breakfast!” He leaped out of bed, pulled on his pantaloons, and flung open the door. An acrid cloud billowed in.
* * * *
Goddess’s Curse Description
Sharona women and barbarian Lahon men maintain separate lives until libidinal fever strikes, and the women are forced to mate.
Stricken by a mysterious terminal illness, Sharona Princess Reena jumps at the chance to accompany a cousin on her mating journey so she can at least see a male before she dies.
Garat, leader of the male Lahon, has only hatred for the Sharona because of the woman who birthed and killed his son years ago. Now that a massive earthquake has left his people with precious little water, he has the perfect excuse to avenge his son’s death by driving the Sharona from their homeland to acquire what the Lahon need. When he encounters Reena on the mating journey he takes her hostage to force the Sharona to capitulate to his demands, but finds himself drawn to her instead. As his desire rises, lust for revenge wanes.
But after what he’s done, can he convince her of the evil that lives in the palace in time to save her life?
Destiny’s Chance
Genre: Paranormal romance
After a tragic accident, Destiny Grable finds herself reincarnated in the body of her best friend Zoe Richards. Believing she is his ex-girlfriend, Chance Everett brings Destiny to his house until she can recover from the accident. Chance knows there is something different about “Zoe,” but can’t figure out what it is.
Silence met him when Chance entered the kitchen where a single light burned. Talking with Roman had done little to alleviate his confusion, worsened it by highlighting the multitude of differences he’d noticed in Zoe. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the leftovers. She could cook like a dream, so why hadn’t she done it before? Why fake ignorance, incompetence?
He shut the door and downed a glass of water, then switched off the light and strode to the bedroom. Drawn blinds covered the bedroom windows, but moonlight spilled in through the rounder above to spotlight the bed and cast the room in twilight rather than darkness. Her back to him, Zoe formed a slight speed bump on his side. He stripped to his boxers and slid between the sheets.
Tree branches rustled against the house like whispering ghosts. Shape-shifting shadows skittered across the ceiling, assumed form as fire-breathing dragons while the woman beside him wafted an incongruous gentle melody of warmth and scent. Disturbingly pleasant. The hairs on his forearm next to her tingled. She surprised him at every turn, yet there was the oddest familiarity about the change in her—like running into someone you recognized at the last place you would expect to see him.
He inhaled. “Are you awake?” he whispered.
Only the sound of her breathing met his question. He exhaled with relief. Not disappointment. Relief.
“Yes.”
He jumped at the soft sound of her voice. On the ceiling, dragons leaped to full alert.
She rolled to face him but said nothing more.
He turned his head on the pillow to peer at her. In the dimness, bruises smudged her cheeks, but her lips looked soft and kissable. “So tell me again when you learned to cook?”
She shrugged. “It just sort of came to me.”
He appraised her, trying to glean truth. “People don’t decide one day they like to cook, and presto, they know how. It has to be learned.” Either she’d been hiding her ability all along, or something was seriously weird. “Can you play the violin?”
“No.” She creased her forehead. “Why?”
“I wonder what other dormant talents you have,” he said.
She puckered her lips and whistled the theme from a movie about prisoners of war forced to build a bridge for the enemy. “What’s that?”
“The Bridge over the River Kwai.”
“I recognized the tune. I meant why are you whistling?”
“I’m sharing a hidden talent you. Have you ever known me to whistle?”
Despite his conflicted emotions, he smiled. “No, I haven’t.”
Another tune, this one less jaunty, more flowing, haunting, filled the room. Familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
“What’s that one?” He flipped onto his side toward her.
“‘My Heart Will Go On.’ The theme from Titanic.”
“Chick flick.” He dismissed it with a snort.
“The most famous boat-disaster movie ever. Death and destruction. How can that be a chick flick?” Humor glinted in her eyes. Amusement teased the corner of her mouth into a sweet curve.
“All that sappy stuff about love continuing after death? Pure romantic dribble drabble.”
“You don’t think love continues after death?”
“No.” He spoke emphatically to shore up his belief, because he wasn’t 100 percent sure anymore. She rose on an elbow, and the sheet slipped to her waist, revealing a thin top that displayed her breasts and rosy pink nipples. She had the cutest tits. And even cuter ass that blushed so beautifully. The paddle reddened her ass quicker, but he preferred the tawse, loved coloring her ass strip by strip. Desire he’d pronounced dead flared in his belly and lower. This woman had turned him on more in the past week than she had in two months. What had happened to his resolve? She licked her lips, drawing his gaze to her mouth.
She lowered her lashes and drew a figure eight on the satin sheet with her finger. Round and round she traced the invisible shape, then blindsided him with a touch to his jaw, a slide against the ridgeline. Heat burned his skin, made his cock ache. What the hell are you doing? He silently swore at her and himself. He should slap her hand away, retreat to the sofa. What happened to his vow of resistance?
She smiled as she explored his chin and cheek, and despite the war raging within, he became entranced by the pleasure revealed in the curve of her lips.
“Your face is rough. Like sandpaper,” she mused.
“I haven’t shaved since yesterday morning.”
“A little beard suits you. It’s sexy.”
She strayed dangerously close to his lips, and he grabbed her hand to halt her progress, but then pressed i
t against his face. Instantly he regressed to age fifteen, all nerves and hormones, desperately wanting to kiss a girl but fearing rejection.
He found his voice. A thick, hoarse one. “This is a bad idea.” He tugged her toward him, and she slid across the sheets into his arms. Ignoring his bellowing common sense, he lowered his head and slanted his mouth over hers.
She parted her lips and pressed her body against him. He lost himself in the unusual intoxicating sweetness of her mouth. Their tongues danced together, a slow, tentative exploration. Like kissing her for the first time.
He grabbed her face in his hands, she flinched, and he realized he’d hurt her. He’d forgotten the crash. “Christ. Sorry.”
She twined her legs between his and murmured against his mouth, “S’kay. Just be gentle. I’ve still got a few sore spots.”
“Here?” He brushed his lips over her bruised cheek.
She gave a breathy moan, one of pleasure this time, and nodded.
“How about here?” Chance kissed her eyelids, then trailed his mouth to the uninjured temple and down to her jaw.
“All of that. And here.” She smiled shyly, seductively, and pointed to her ear.
He tugged on the lobe with his lips, and Zoe shivered. “Where else?” he whispered.
“My neck.” She turned her head to the side.
He nuzzled her skin, satin against his lips, softer and smoother than the sheet upon which they lay, and she emitted a noise of enjoyment. The half-muffled sound decimated his resistance. Passions better left cold flashed to boiling. He wanted to take her hard and fast, but, cognizant of her injuries, forced gentleness in his touch. Shaking, he traced her collarbone with his tongue, found the indentation at the base of her throat, and licked it.
They shifted their bodies so she lay flat on her back and he loomed over her.
Zoe curled her fingers into his hair and tugged at his head, guiding him to her breasts. He nuzzled a hard tip through the thinness of her top. She arched her back and pressed her palm against his head. He drew a nipple into his mouth and sucked on it, wetting the material, and then paused to examine the perfection of the hard bud jutting through the transparent cotton. Unable to resist temptation, he moved his head back and forth to rub his lower lip over her nipple while studying her face. He wobbled as his body and a compulsion screamed, Jump! while experience and wisdom grappled for a hold to forestall a boneheaded mistake. Sessions like this had contributed to her still living in his condo.
