Stolen Passions: Forbidden Passions, Book 1

by Crystal Jordan

  As a hurricane bears down on the coast, he races to secure and evacuate the park before conditions worsen. Just as that point of no return passes he discovers an injured and unconscious visitor. Celeste Lykaios, his mate…who died over a year ago.

  Truth has turned Celeste’s world upside down. Not only did her family lie to Jason about her survival, they lied to her about his abandonment. And the new boyfriend she’d trusted is trying to kill her. Her only hope was to race into the teeth of the storm to find Jason. She almost made it.

  As she and Jason unravel the betrayal that split them apart, the ragged strands reconnect, forming a fragile hope that their love can be salvaged. Out in the storm, the killer waits for a chance to make Celeste the stunning finale in a plan to over throw the Lycan alpha…

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Passions Recalled:

  There were jackhammers in her head. Even moaning hurt. Funny, she didn’t remember partying last night. She frowned, and it made the pain worse. Actually she didn’t remember last night at all. Rolling over, she pressed her forehead into the pillow and was immediately swamped by Jason’s smell. Oh, God. Where was she?

  She couldn’t think past the pounding behind her eyes, but when the room shook with a crack of thunder she jerked her head up, wincing for her trouble. She hated storms. There was one window, and outside it a palm tree whipped back and forth.

  Definitely not in Kansas anymore. Or Atlanta. Whatever.

  Rolling back over, she took stock. Her head hurt like hell, but everything else seemed fine. Only one way to know for sure. Gingerly, she pushed up on her elbows, cursing the pounding headache that spread over her face with the strain. She sat up, gasping, and looked around the room. To call it bare was generous. It contained the bed and a dresser. The walls were empty. There was nothing to identify its owner but the scent of the sheets on which she lay.

  But that didn’t make sense. She looked out the window again as another gust of wind buffeted the house. Rain tapped the roof, and she cocked her head, pressing her hand to the side that throbbed the most. The sound echoed loudly in the room, and her headache seemed to pick up the rhythm, pulsing in time to the rain. It was familiar. Tin would be her guess, and that at least helped her narrow down her location to probably somewhere in the South where in recent years tin roofs had become all the rage. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Not the Southwest, so not Jason’s home. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and set her feet firmly on the floor.

  And why the hell was she wearing a bikini?

  Only one way to find out, Celeste.

  She had to venture out of the room, find out where she was and who else was here, if anyone. Her mind refused to accept it might be Jason, even if her body thrummed at the thought. She didn’t dare wish it was so. She squeezed her eyes shut. Jason was over. Jason was the past.

  She stood and took a step toward the door, but froze when a black leopard appeared and blocked the space. Her eyes filled with tears.

  The first time she’d seen Jason in leopard form, she’d been very confused. His brothers looked like typical leopards in their were forms, tawny and gold with black spots. Jason was dark, his coat black, his spots brown to cream colored. He’d explained that sometimes nature threw a genetic anomaly out there, in the leopard and wereleopard worlds. Melanistic leopards were often born in litters with regularly colored siblings, probably an evolutionary advantage for jungle ranging leopards. All of the big cat species had melanistic or black versions. The same held true for werecats. Black was not a common color to see, but not rare either.

  Looking at him now, she remembered the pain of that conversation. His pain. She’d felt his loneliness and had wanted to soothe it. He’d identified himself as the outsider in his family, but she’d seen how much they loved him, how much they needed and respected him. Although, none of that had really mattered to her. She’d thought he was beautiful. She’d loved him beyond reason. She should have known better, she thought bitterly with the benefit of hindsight, but the observation didn’t make one damn bit of difference in her reaction.

  He padded closer, stalking, and she clenched her fists. She would not reach out and bury her hands in that fur, would not give in to the tears threatening to fall. The big body pushed against her, his head butting and rubbing against her thigh in a show of affection, and she couldn’t help the sigh that escaped. He pushed her until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sat, giving in to the temptation and sinking her hands in his pelt.

  Soft. Silky. So, so dark and lit with light at the same time, like the mysteries of the midnight sky. And definitely Jason.

  She was afraid to speak, afraid to shatter the spell. It was the best damned dream she’d had in over a year.

  He moved closer, sat on his haunches and rested his front legs along her thighs. Then he licked her, a long swipe of his tongue up the side of her face, over her old scars. The raspy stroke woke memories. This tongue, this man. Months alone and lonely and heartbroken in a hospital bed. Yet she shuddered as her body responded to him, recalled the out of control feeling of being in his arms.

  Memory shattered the dream.

  Except it wasn’t a dream, was it? She pushed against the cat and scrambled back on the bed. Shifting, the man followed, crawling up her body and pinning her under his weight. A growl rumbled deep in his chest.

  “No,” he ordered, refusing to allow her to retreat.

  She tried to push him away, but he grabbed her wrists and held them next to her head, while forcing her thighs apart with his knees and settling between them. His erection pushed hard and throbbing against the juncture between her thighs. She grew slick, felt the swelling in her clit and saw by the way his nostrils flared he knew it too.

  “So long,” he muttered, before his lips descended on hers.

  God help her, she couldn’t resist. She opened her mouth to him, accepted the stroke of his tongue. His pelvis ground against hers in a matching rhythm, and she was positive the only thing keeping him from plunging into her was the thin fabric of the bikini. It wasn’t much of a barrier, and she wished he’d throw it away. She’d toss it herself if he ever let her wrists go.

  The kiss was all too short as he broke the contact and trailed his lips along her jaw, down her neck, and finally closed over the old mark on her shoulder. He nipped it lightly and her back arched, her pussy flooding with cream as an intense orgasm froze her. God, she couldn’t respond to him like this, so quickly, after so many months absence. It was mortifying, and she strained against him. She needed a minute to collect herself, to attempt to build some kind of barrier around her heart. She feared she was too late. Maybe she’d never managed to do it in the first place.

  He released her wrists, rolled onto his back and moved up the bed, pulling her across his chest with one arm around her waist. Somehow during the move he removed the bikini bottom. His cock insistently pressed against her center and with his eyes he begged for admittance, but he was leaving the choice to her. How could she resist? Her body had been dead for a year and now it screamed for the fulfillment only he could give her.

  Refusing to acknowledge the niggling worry over where he’d been or where she was or even if it was real, she sat up on her knees and moved over his hips. She held her breath, closed her eyes and allowed the fantasy to take over as she took him inside her. Slow. So slowly. If this was a dream she didn’t want to ever wake up.

  She felt his hands behind her neck, over her back. Shivered at the sensation of fabric sliding free of her skin. He was finally seated all the way inside her, when his hands closed over her breasts. Her entire system threatened to melt down.

  “Look at me,” he demanded.

  She agreed to everything but sex. She hadn’t counted on his monstrous creativity…

  My Fair Monster

  © 2008 Lila Dubois

  Monsters in Hollywood, Book Two

  Since the day three incredibly hot men in disguise walk into her office and prove
d Monsters are real, intrepid screenwriter Jane Darby is obsessed with one task: to give the creatures a mythical makeover by writing a revolutionary, blockbuster screenplay. Now if only she can get over her own fear—and get the closed-mouth Michael to talk about his people.

  Michael is fascinated by the demur and docile Jane, whose efforts to hold him at arm’s length hide an untapped sexual passion—a beast within her waiting to be set free. There’s only one way to get under her lovely skin: strike a bargain.

  For one week, she agrees to let him do anything, anything, he wants. But Jane’s got conditions. First, no actual sex. Second, she has to enjoy it.

  Jane’s not really worried. What can happen if he sticks to the bargain? After all, she’s not really turned on by the idea of Michael tying her down. Or bending her over his knee. Or…

  Gulp.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for My Fair Monster:

  “Oh my God you set me up on a blind date. Was there a roofie in that shot?”

  “No, but that’s a good idea for next time.”

  “Lena!”

  “Oh calm down! I’m joking, besides, who needs GHB when there’s a good DJ?”

  “Quit distracting me. What’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Fine, then I’m going to go dance with that guy.”

  Lena hesitated long enough for Jane’s friends-with-stupid-plan detector to shoot into red, before Lena said, “Dance with him if you want. I just think you could do better.”

  Jane pulled her friend’s face close until they were nose-to-nose. “I know where you sleep.”

  With that ominously vague threat, Jane left the bar, heading for the dance floor. She stopped on the edge, intending to search for coat guy, but a new song started up. It was rich, with a pulsing back beat. The dancers stopped their wild solo gyrations and came together, the music demanding skin-to-skin contact.

  The tingling was back in her fingers, the music pressing into her skin, demanding her recognition, her service. Jane stepped onto the dance floor, and started to move.

  Lifting her arms above her head, Jane slide one hand along the fabric casing her limb, wishing it were bare so she could feel the contact. She whirled, planting her feet on the downbeat and throwing her head back.

  Something brushed against her back, breaking the rhythm of her dance, but when Jane opened her eyes there was no one close enough to touch her. Like her, the others on the dance floor were lost in the song, touched by music as well crafted as a symphony.

  Jane halfheartedly glanced around for coat guy, but gave up when the next hard beat sounded. She bumped her hip to the side and slid her hands over her own breasts, down her belly, to the bare skin of her thighs. She bent, waiting, poised, for the beat to give her a signal. When the music spoke to her Jane snapped up.

  Her back slapped into something. Someone.

  Hands covered hers, urging her to retrace the path over her breasts to her belly, then hips. He pulled, forcing her ass back against him.

  Then they moved as one. Rather than a crude thrusting back and forth—a pale imitation of missionary sex—their duel dancing was rhythmic and subtle, hips moving to the beat. Jane freed her hands from beneath his, needing more. Her fingertips brushed a face, and then his hands captured hers, fingers tight around her wrists, pulling her arms up and back, until they were trapped behind his neck. He held both her wrists in one large hand.

  Jane gasped as the position stretched her up, until she danced on her toes. Her breasts lifted, and her partner took full advantage, cupping one breast through her dress. He touched her, fondled her, controlled her.

  Jane shuddered and moaned. She turned to look at him, but her arms acted like blinders. She tired to speak but her mouth was dry.

  “Just dance.”

  She barely heard the words over the music and the rush of blood in her ears. Had she even heard it? Or was the baritone command a figment of her imagination?

  His hand left her breast, which both relieved and disappointed her, until it dropped to her bare thigh and headed north, slipping beneath her short skirt to curl around her hip, fingertips brushing the fabric of her thong.

  His touch made her aware of her own wetness, and in that moment she wanted nothing more than for him, whoever he was, to touch her, right now. She wanted his finger inside her, long and hard and thick, in one powerful thrust.

  The music stopped.

  Sound had not stopped pumping from the speakers, no DJ was that stupid, but the song had changed. This new offering was frenzied, with a screaming singer, and too much techno overlay.

  Jane snapped from her dance-induced lust-haze. She jerked her arms free of his hold and the man’s hot, rough hand slid away from her thong.

  “I knew you loved to…dance.” The voice was low, rich and…familiar.