Regency Rogues Omnibus

by Shirl Anders

  The sound Joelle made was pure delight as she waggled her hips and her breasts pitched closer. He kissed one rounded curve, then the other with his mouth and chin grazing in the middle. His one hand latched onto the curving motions of Joelle’s ass, enabling him to stretch his fingers around the curve and down through the crease, until his fingers kissed the hot and wet backside of Joelle’s pussy.

  “Mm mm.” She wiggled down the shaft of his prick until his fingertips had more contact.

  “You like that,” he murmured against the soft flesh of her breast.

  “Oh . . . yes,” she moaned and he lightly circled his finger around the opening to her torrid vagina.

  His cock thumped at the feel of this haven and it happily oozed seed from the slit, while Joelle drew her pussy up and down his shaft.

  “Higher,” he urged, fingering her sopping entrance to nudge her pussy toward the head of his prick. “Ah sweet, smear your pussy with my seed.”

  “Saxon,” she gasped, and he knew his words inflamed her as they did him. Then, a moment later, when she did it and they moaned together, he knew that inflamed them more. The slit of his penis was ever sensitive, and with Joelle’s butterfly dancing over it caused his hips to lift with prodding intentions. Slick and hot prods over an ardent clit, while his fingers fondled the opening to her vagina from behind and his mouth closed over one of her swaying nipples. The long set of mewls that rolled from Joelle at these actions fed his own arousal.

  Joelle saw black stars in her eyes at the piercing aches that Saxon’s mouth tugged on her nipple tip. Oh. She had never felt anything so wonderful, besides perhaps the exquisite pleasure of smudging her loins over the turgid outline of his hot cock. That was pure lively bliss, and although her clitoris was the heart of her arousals convergence, with each escalating twinge building upon each other, her core was wildly beseeching her. Saxon’s fingers skimmed that torrid opening that magnified the ache intensifying an action in her mind. Filling. Oh spirits, her core ached, upon ached, to be filled the more her clitoris tightened, and then into her mind came the need to satisfy Saxon’s hunger too. His engorged and searing cock throbbed with his desire and his seed clinging to her loins and coating his cock spoke of his desperate need.

  Saxon’s teeth nibbled her nipple tip making her body shudder as her hand reached between her thighs, urgent for his pulsing cock. She grasped the scorching weight of it with her fingers slippery and sticky as she lifted the head to her vagina, while angling her hips forward. The beat inside Saxon’s cock was beating with the rhythms buffeting her inner sheath and the aches slithered down her thighs with greedy abandon. When the cumbrous head touched the entrance to her core, she gasped at the feel of it as her body eagerly began to lower.

  Saxon was nearly sideswiped before he realized Joelle’s intent, so immersed was he with the feel of her and the taste of her nipples on his tongue. But the sudden pitch of his penis feeling the opening that it craved most, crashed through his senses. His hand quickly found Joelle’s hand and he closed his fingers over her fingers, stopping her motions to lead his penis inside her.

  “Saxon,” she gasped with raw earthiness, as he looked up over the jut of her wet and ruddy nipple tip, into her eyes of black longing.

  “Roll over with me,” he ordered suddenly, unable to deny her needs or his own needs as he moved his body taking her with him, until she was beneath him. Her knees lifted up over his hips with her pussy open and eager, a wet and rosy sight, as he braced on his hand. “You are too tender, you cannot take me. Let me lick you...” he began.

  But Joelle stalled him with a passionate mewl. “I want you inside me, Saxon, please, please.” Her hand cupped his neck and she tugged him downward for an impassioned kiss. Then, she begged against his lips. “I want your pleasure too. I want your cock so badly, Saxon.”

  He groaned, straining against her lips, but more straining to keep his hips from pumping forward. “Hold the base with two hands, love. Do not let go” he commanded.

  “Yes!” she cried, and she grasped his heavy cock holding one hand on top of the other, until only the head and an inch down the shaft was free.

  “Do not let go,” he rasped, lowering his hips, pressing the head of his penis toward her searing vagina. And he pressed slowly through the tight opening, while they both gasped. The head of his prick was soaked and Joelle was wet with hot arousal, yet still her haven was so tight at the entrance that the muscles just yielded, but then tightened again around the head, as he entered her to the top of her hands.

  “Saxon, Saxon,” she cried, and he knew it was from pleasure and not pain as her heels dug into his upper buttocks. “More, more,” she panted.

  Oh Lord, he would give her more, Saxon thought, with his lust drawing tight tension through his body. And then, he began to pump, slowly, in and out, dragging the head of his prick through heaven as Joelle’s head arch backward and she panted mewls of pleasure. Her hands stayed tightly around his penis not allowing it to rent deeper inside her, but what they had was all they needed as her hips strutted upward meeting his poignant, but abbreviated strokes. He watched her passion-rife face as his own features strained within the twisting grip of lust, escalating through his balls into his prick, and drawing suction from the head. His chest heaved and his buttocks clenched as he held his ejaculation back by the reins of his willpower.

  “Come with me, firefly.”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” Joelle cried, feeling the startling rush of a climax twining through her clitoris and yawning against the rapid friction, along the head of Saxon’s cock. “Oh hh hh!” She arched upward praying for more of the rapid thrusting as it pumped, writhing her climax higher.

  Joelle’s pussy, clutching with a climax, snapped Saxon’s neck backward, while the wet and searing edges of her quim convulsed over the head of his penis. The sensation sucked his seed, like a flame, up the shaft of his prick and his body bowed forward as his hips strained to a halt, and then his penis threw bliss. Again, his prick drew and threw more rapture as his body shuddered and he groaned deep and hard.

  “Firefly. Love, love,” he hissed, swamped in rapture as Joelle cried within the throes of her release beneath him. They should be devastated, too overwrought and weary to manage going on after what they had been through, yet here was the wellspring of life. It was the food and soul to sustain them, to enliven them, and to heal them.

  Saxon unbent his replete body and he lowered to find Joelle’s lips and he kiss her panting into soft murmurs, until he rolled to his side, bringing her beside him, to hold her in the cradle of his arms. She lay with her head on his shoulder as his handless wrist stroked strands of her hair that had come loose from the band holding them back. She patted his chest softly with her eyelids half closed and her lips turned into a winsome smile.

  “We beat them.” Her eyelids opened.

  “Yes, love, and we will bring them down.”

  Joelle’s irises sparked as she looked at him more intently. “We will? I hope we will.”

  “You will come to England with me, Joelle, and I will show you how.”

  “England?” Joelle rose slightly with her hand resting on his chest.

  “Joelle, you cannot go back to Paris. I would not allow it even if you could. And in England I can promise you that we will find the means to destroy this cult and its abhorrent leaders.”

  “To be with you, Saxon?”

  “More importantly to be with me, Joelle.”

  Joelle raised his handless wrist to her cheek “Then that is where I want to be.”

  The End

  My Lady Gambled: Book One

  By Shirl Anders

  Chapter One

  “I know it is belated, everything about our relationship is turned around. Yet, I want to woo, Joelle.” Saxonhurst sighed, with one hand stuffed deep into his trouser pocket as he paced. “To court her, as it were. Foolish, I know after what we have been through, but I’m determined.”

  Brynmore, Baron and Laird of Duneaga
n, watched his friend Saxonhurst, Marquis of Hartley, pacing the length of the lion-head carved pool table in front of him. Drummond, Duke of Kittridge, had gathered them all in his London mansion’s gaming salon. All six men of the former Archangels spy group sat or leaned in varying postures around the room.

  Brynmore tried to unclench his fists. The labored tightening of his fingers was in reaction to previously hearing Saxon’s horrifying tale, a tale of kidnapping, cults, sexual depravity, and murder. Brynmore attempted to stretch the kink in his neck he’d gotten from the strain of listening to, and then realizing that Saxon and his new lady-love Joelle had barely escaped alive from the Order of the Satyr. And they had not escaped unscathed, either mentally or physically.

  The tensions of the six men in the room were sharp, furious, and lethal. Brynmore fought the urge to leap forward, grab his claymore and barge from the room to find and destroy the foul and ill-serving bastards of the bloody cult.

  But, it would not be that easy.

  “You want Joelle out of it?” Drummond asked succinctly, from where he sat, in a red high-backed chair with the glow of a gas lamp to his left etching his austere features.

  “Hell, yes.” Saxon halted his pacing and the small silver hook that replaced his left-hand rose with a sweeping gesture. “I want her nowhere near those bastards again. However, she will not see it that way at all. She has as much courage as all of us, and she’ll be set to find justice, and to find an end to the cult, Incubus, and surely Hellion. An end to any more foul deeds or murders.”

  Brynmore watched Saxon’s silver hook fall to his side, and he thought with slow burning contempt about the parody of names the bloody villains used. It was like a bad play one should laugh at, however it was not a stage show, but real and very deadly. It was clear from Saxon’s rendering that The Order of the Satyr’s figurehead, Hellion, was a mass murderer.

  “This could present a problem for all of us.” Drummond raised a glass of amber whiskey in his lean fingers. “We have, gentlemen,” Drummond nodded around, “Not chosen docile wallflowers for our wives and lovers.”

  Brynmore nodded in agreement to this as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Aye, he could attest to that. He was the only one, among the six men, without a permanent lass or wife, and he knew each man’s feisty lass quite well. Brynmore smirked for the first time that evening. He bloody well wished them all luck at keeping their women out of this!

  “At the bride-to-be gathering for Nia this evening at our townhouse, where there should be simple tittering over our wedding plans, all of our women are to be present with the exception of Joelle, one wonders that they could be hatching different opinions, other than should the bride be wearing white, or the scarlet red that I hopefully requested,” Radford, Duke of Sutherlin, said ruefully.

  Wyndham, Baron of Hawkenge, with his injured leg propped upon a small cushioned stool from where he sat adjacent to Drummond, snorted, “None of our women titters!”

  Saxon left his statured position in the center of their gathering to lean his hip against the end of the pool table, near Radford in a similar position. Then, Saxon inserted, “Joelle, went to the bride-to-be gathering also, at the last minute. Gabriella was quite persuasive.”

  “One might wonder why, my dear wife Gabriella, would be so coaxing to, Joelle. It appears congenial and inclusive on the surface.”

  “Don’t wager on it,” Harrison, Earl of Ravenscar, said with a low rasp.

  Brynmore watched Harrison’s black eyes scan them all once, before Harrison turned his gaze down to the fire once again and leaned his elbow against the fireplace mantel. Harrison’s gaze was brooding after the last year or more of opened and unshadowed gazes. It had Brynmore wondering. While Saxon had revealed the tale of horrendous events that he and Joelle had recently experienced, Harrison had remained extremely quiet, drinking only a new style seltzer water and staring down into the fire with a stillness that was impossible in normal men.

  “So, what is the consensus, about allowing our women to be involved in this?” Drummond asked, swirling whiskey in the balloon snifter before him. He raised his gaze from the amber liquid coating the glass, not taking a drink as his slate gray eyes drew sharply around the room. “I, for one, will forbid it, no matter what machinations, my delightful wife, will be about.”

  Brynmore listened to the mutters of agreement, though none stated eloquently and therefore all with an aura of trial about them. Harrison never made a sound and Brynmore wagered that the only one coming close to succeeding would be Lord Harrison Ravenscar.

  Yet, Brynmore was ready to leave the other men to their trials in intimacy. He had no one to answer to, and he had a craving inside him to feel the thrill of the chase once again. The demand inside him to eradicate the pestilence that was The Order of the Satyr had not come at a better time to feed the common and insatiable yearning to satisfy that craving for the rush of aliveness that being in a dangerous situation could produce. He was not sure why this need was so overpowering and why he had been fighting it for so long. It was actually against his nature, that of being more mature reacting than his thirty-three years. Always more solid, but with a wry sense of Scottish humor nonetheless. And always with the mantle of responsibility to be the Laird one day on his shoulders.

  However, that day had come more quickly than he’d anticipated with the deaths of so many of his clan’s elders in the war. Bloody hell, he should be more responsible and not lose the battle to unreasonable and erratic demands inside him. Instead, he was satisfied that he had no choice in the matter. They had to take care of this. He had to be involved. More so because he was the only single man left among the Archangels. He was glad, and that should worry him. Instead, he ignored it and waited, which was odd for him, for the instructions he knew would be coming.

  “Then to the goals, gentlemen,” Drummond stated, appearing to agree to the consensus of sidestepping the issue of their women.

  “It might be easier to assassinate Hellion and Incubus once we find them, however that would take the chance of leaving the murders unsolved, and the identity of the victims, unknown. We also need to know the structure of this cult, so we are certain that once we illuminate the key figures that The Order will collapse, never to rise again.”

  “And the authorities?” Harrison asked, not taking his gaze from the fire.

  Drummond’s eyebrow raised, and Brynmore knew that he, as well as the other men, were a bit surprised that this query should come from their lethal assassin, Harrison.

  “Hmm,” Drummond slowly etched, then he said, “We would be doing the authorities a disservice allowing them to remain ignorant about this occurrence of an individual or a partnered mass murderer.”

  “Aye, if there is one out there, then another one will come along in time,” Brynmore muttered, shifting his brown Hessian boots as he cocked his hip the other way and leaned back against the wall.

  “We will have to appraise them, but before or after?” Radford asked, leaving the sentence hanging.

  Drummond picked it up. “We shall keep it in mind and decide later, when we are further into it. For now our first step is to find them, and I predict that is not going to be easy.”

  “Then, I will have to go back to Paris at once . . .” Saxon began saying.

  “No,” Drummond interrupted. “Two good reasons, Saxon. They know you, and you as with most of us here have a great deal of family matters to settle before we begin. Gentlemen, the demise of The Order and its leaders will take time. I will start with a rough estimate of at least six months or more.”

  “Balls,” Wyndham uttered.

  “Yes.” Drummond nodded. Brynmore guessed that their thoughts were about the issues of added trouble with their women, as he heard Drummond continue. “Brynmore, will leave as soon as possible.”

  Brynmore straightened his tall frame away from the wall. “Aye.”

  “I’ve held two of my shipping vessels just on the odd chance we would
need them quickly. They are set to sail upon your needs,” Radford said.

  “Your intuitions are honed as usual, Radford,” Drummond said, then he shifted in his chair and stood. “We will use beacon-lighted messages across the channel. Brynmore, you can see Radford to set up a workable schedule. The rest of you, gentlemen, settle your affairs. We will meet here every evening to further our plans. However, it should take Brynmore a fortnight to lay the ground work and find the scent, as it were.”

  “If any good can come from this,” Saxon said. Then he paused, looking at each one of them before continuing, “I am glad The Order of the Satyr selected me, because gentlemen, with your help we could be the only group with the resources and ability to destroy this evil. Those bastards made a huge mistake!”

  Chapter Two

  Kit stood at the weathered railing of the ship. The day was clean and sunny with the sea as calm as she’d seen it on the crossing from America. They were one day away from laying an anchor on the French coast, and then another day’s carriages ride into Paris. Her destination. Where she would finally begin to find out what had happened to her brother. Where had Clay gone?

  Clayton, he preferred to be called now, she reminded herself. In his last letter six months before, he’d written to her about how the name change suited him better and suited the social climate in Paris. He went by Clayton and had angrily purged their family’s last name of Montoya, as a direct and intended insult to their father.

  “You have to be more sociable. That plump gal with those pretty daughters is a Countess!”

  Kit started from her thoughts to look sideways at her husband Nick standing beside her. His approach had been undetected until he’d spoken. Immediately, her gut cringed inward upon hearing his disparaging voice or feeling him anywhere near her. Lord, she hated him.