by Jess Dee
“Damn it, haven’t you ever heard of cold feet?”
“Are you kidding me? You went to Vegas, picked up a stranger, had sex, and now you want me to pretend that I did it so you don’t get caught?”
Dette glared at her. “Sort of.”
“Four weeks ago!” Lara took a breath and softened. “What are you going to say to Adam? You have to tell him.”
“Like hell I do.”
“I can’t lie for you when it comes to a marriage. I can’t cover this up for you.”
“Can’t, can’t, can’t,” Dette shot back, her eyes brimming with tears. “Can’t you stop judging me for once in your flawless life? Not everyone is as perfect as you.”
Lara wanted to laugh, only it wasn’t funny.
Dette’s eyes darted around the room, finally settling back on Lara. “I didn’t want anyone to know this, but Adam broke off the engagement, dumped me. He was the one with cold feet. I was brokenhearted. I ran off to Vegas, wanting to get away from everything. I drank way too much. Woke the next morning with a blinding headache, a man in my bed, and no memory of how he got there.”
Lara stared at her with more than a little skepticism. There was one way to get a straight answer. “Oh my God. Maybe he drugged you.” Lara gripped her sister’s wrists, daring her with her eyes. “I’m calling the police.”
“No, no…fine,” Dette shook off Lara’s hold. “I remember taking him back to my room, but I was drunk and stupid. I should have known Adam would get over his wedding jitters and be calling to apologize the next day, but I was so self-destructive, self-defeating, maybe I just didn’t believe I deserved to be happy.” Gripping her sister’s shoulders, she stared into her eyes. “I would give anything to take it back, do anything to change it, but I can’t.”
Lara held her breath for a count, memories of Dette’s tear-streaked pleas for help all running together in her mind. The rash choices, the uncontrolled outbursts…the sorrowful eyes filled with regret. Dette had such a hot head. She acted before she thought, and it always seemed to come back to haunt her. Almost like she was still trying to get caught.
“Adam broke up with you?”
“For two days. Neither of us told anyone.”
“Maybe if you explained what happened, he’d understand.”
“Are you crazy?” Dette squeaked. “He would never forgive me, never get over it. What if this guy walks in and announces to everyone what happened? The wedding would be off. I didn’t tell Adam before and I’m not going to now. This is my life,” she pleaded. “I just want to be happy like everyone else is. I need your help, but if, now, when I need it more than ever, you are going to leave me to twist in the wind, then fine. I guess my most desperate hour is even more hopeless than I thought. I’ve been abandoned by my own sister.” She sniffed, a single shiny tear drifted down her cheek. “My best friend.”
Shaking her head slowly, Lara studied her. For all Dette’s accomplishments, grace and glamour, she believed she never got a fair shake, that everyone else had it easier. She needed to grow up, but at twenty-eight years old and days before her wedding, Lara didn’t want to be responsible for teaching her that lesson. And if Adam really broke it off, then what happened over those two days was none of his business.
Lara closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. “We might look alike, but how are you going to get past the names?”
“Give me some credit, I crossed the country to make sure no one recognized me, of course I didn’t use my real name. Contrary to the way you treat me, I’m not stupid.”
Of course.
“Okay, what do I need to do?”
Dette yanked her down the hall into her peaches and cream bedroom, stuffing Lara into the seat in front of the mirrored vanity they’d been playing dress-up at since they were girls. It charmed Lara that her sister, who always needed to have the newest and hottest of everything, left her bedroom exactly the way it was from her childhood fantasies. Glass-front cabinets held row upon row of pristine china faced dolls in silk dresses, miniature porcelain horses, and a collection of ballerina jewelry boxes. Her attachment to her girlhood treasures was one of the sweeter things about Dette.
A silver-backed brush began to rip through Lara’s hair with determined pulls. “I slept with him one time in Vegas. He was blasted, coming off some break-up of his own. He might not even remember but, if he does, he’s going to remember that it was you. I’m going to fix you up because, when your hair and face are done right, you look more like me than I do.”
Lara’s jaw set and her eyes closed. She just needed to take this one hit for Dette.
If this Vegas guy thought he recognized her, she’d avoid him. She’d be with Cal most of the time anyway, she just needed to make sure Dette’s mishap didn’t get in the way of what they’d started.
Why did Dette always have to go for the sleaze—Adam excluded, she assumed without really wanting to know—why couldn’t she be attracted to the decent guys like Cal? What kind of a creepy pig would pick someone up like that? The one-night stand was gross enough as it was, but to lie about his name on top of it? Who did that kind of thing?
Breathing through her nose, she stopped. Dette did.
Can a god of fire melt the heart of an ice queen?
Melting the Ice Queen
© 2008 Savannah Jordan
When a mysterious package shows up on the doorstep of self-proclaimed frigid bitch Cassandra Moore, she’s more curious about who could have sent it to her than about the statue of the Egyptian god inside.
That night, the human spirit of her statue appears in her dream, giving her hottest sex she’s ever had in her life. Emin is every girl's dream lover. He's mysterious, sexy as hell, and eager to satisfy every erotic whim Cassie entertains.
Yet Emin has secrets as deep as the myths of Egypt—he has sacrificed his magick and his life in the spirit world to be with Cassie.
The fires of passion blaze hotter with each encounter. But if Emin cannot melt Cassie’s heart and convince her to love a fantasy, he is doomed to the hell between the realms.
Warning, this title contains the following: explicit melt-your-panties sex, graphic language, ménage a trios, and a demigod that will make you gasp and swoon.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Melting the Ice Queen:
He was Egyptian, in the traditional pose and garb of a pharaoh or god. One hand held a staff, while the other was extended as though beckoning the faithful to his feet.
Who in the gods’ name is this?
My heart, which refused to pick up a steady rhythm since the first contact with the statue, pounded in my chest. My mind whirred.
Egyptology was my favorite subject years ago in school. I had studied the myths and legends, gods and goddesses and I watched television specials, read every magazine article. But I’ve never seen this man. I picked up the ivory statuette, turning it in my hands, stroking the man’s form and looking for a cartouche or indicating mark to tell me whose representation I held.
No name, no dynasty. Not one single indicating mark on the statue.
“Who are you?”
He did not answer, and I didn’t expect him to—mystical happenings were just that, mystical, and the supernatural was something I had yet to experience in this lifetime. I shrugged and then dumped the remaining packaging material into the garbage. I wrapped the idol in my fingers, and the ivory warmed to my touch. Cradling my newly arrived treasure to my chest, I climbed the stairs to my bedroom.
A pile of discarded shoes cluttered the floor beside the door jamb. I skirted it and instead picked up a T-shirt dangling from the lid of my hamper in the bathroom, and stuffed it back in. Shoes were a necessity, crumpled laundry was not.
A breeze billowed my sheer linen curtains. Moonlight lay on the patchwork quilt, and left the rest of the room to shadows. The air was fragrant with lavender and cool as the breeze caressed my skin, just the way I like it. My radio, however, heralded doom. The little Sony sat on the nightstand and blas
phemed about a coming heat wave, and the sweltering grip it would take on the city.
I hate hot weather.
I silenced the electronic harbinger, switched the setting to Alarm and shoved the clock radio back to make room for my Egyptian statue.
The statue was a mystery, but he made an excellent addition to my already Egyptianesque décor. His ivory blended well with my eggshell walls, the aged look made him appear all the warmer and more appealing. He stood, plinth slightly at an angle so that he was facing my bed. The staff he held now pointed directly into the moon outside my window, and his hand pointed at the center of my bed. Satisfied with his placement, I stripped off clothes as I walked through the room and into the adjacent bath. Then showered and in my nightgown, I climbed into bed beneath the gaze of the newcomer to my life.
A sigh escaped me and my eyes slipped closed.
“See you in my dreams.”
Somehow, I knew I was dreaming.
My eyes opened, and I was not in my bed, not in my own time.
I sat up, and was immediately in awe of my dreamscape. Golden statues of the creator god Ptah flanked the entrance, and in each corner stood life-sized versions of the statue on my nightstand. Pillars of white limestone stood in a line of silent sentinels along each wall, and draped between them hung translucent sheets of fabric. Incense drifted through the air, seducing me with patchouli, musk and spice. Torches blazed every few feet, and a balefire burned in the center of the westernmost side.
It was a temple dedicated, by looks, to the mystery man standing on my nightstand and the god Ptah, a creator deity from the ancient city of Memphis. But this temple was plusher and more inviting than any secret sanctuary. It was more like a sacred bedchamber.
A sense of wonder pulled at me, and I slipped from the raised bed upon which I sat. I stood in silent awe before the visage of the god Ptah who stepped from Chaos, and by thought and speech created all else according to early Egyptian mythology. His intent held great power. Then, I drifted the length of one wall, my fingertips trailing across the pillars, the curtains. Every tactile sensation was heightened. The pillars were smooth as glass, the fabric as light as air and the balefire, when I reached it, was intense, its heat pierced me to the core.
The curtains parted in the farthest right corner, and a man stepped through. His presence thrilled every nerve, danced in the blood of every vein. He was devastatingly handsome, with warm olive skin and dark hair dusting his shoulders. Brown eyes smoldered above a prominent nose underpinned by a well-trimmed moustache and beard. His lips were soft and full, and my heart beat with a wicked tattoo.
He was bare-chested, a linen wrap girded his hips, riding low. Armbands of gold cinched his biceps and a wide, beaded collar circled his neck. My soul resonated with his presence, my eyes widened as the heat of desire built within.
Something about him was familiar…
The statue!
The realization was a shock, but I knew without a doubt, coming towards me was the incredibly sexy, human version of my mystery statue. I opened my mouth to speak but shock held those words captive.
Who are you? Why are we in this temple?
He walked to me, placed a hand on my shoulder but did not speak. I pursed my lips around a question burning my tongue, a question he silenced when he wrapped his arms around me and pressed his lips to mine.
Oh my god!
A fleeting thought of pulling away and arguing with him passed through my mind, followed swiftly by the thought that this was just a really hot dream. Besides, he was too damned gorgeous to turn down.
No amount of hesitation or concern could squelch the lust his touch ignited in me. My body betrayed my need to maintain a cool distance. With my resistance sacrificed, everything felt right in his arms—the heat, the passion and the way my heart pounded. I wrapped my arms around him, and his desert heat caressed my skin. Clutched against his chest, and victim to the sacred oils scenting his skin, I swooned. He scooped my knees up with his arm and, with his other arm he supported my back as he lifted me.
I pressed my cheek to his chest and listened to the thunder of his pounding heart. He laid me on a raised altar padded and plush with pillows which we knocked off in our fervor. Our lips united again in a burning, tongue-tangled kiss, but he loosened his grip on my body. Then as he shifted his leg over mine, his lips trailed scorching kisses along the neckline of my nightgown. His passionate stare singed my cheeks with a high blush and warmed my pussy. He rose up between my knees, and produced a ceremonial dagger from somewhere in his wrap. My heart jumped into my throat.
How could I have missed that? I had felt something long and hard below his waist—but a knife? My knees quaked in a heady mix of fear and desire.
His eyes blazed with wicked intent. But the hilt of the knife was cool as he slid the blade down between my breasts and along my abdomen, cutting my nightclothes from me.
Finally, words formed on my lips.
“Who are you?”
The question trailed off into a low moan as he moved down, his face between my thighs as he blew a warm, wet breath across my cunt.
Yes, yes, yes!
Then, I lost eye contact as he dropped lower. A jolt of excitement raced through me, boiling the fluid in my veins when his tongue ran along my slit, and then plunged inside. His hands burned a trail up the inside of my thighs, and his fingers joined his mouth in the desecration of my pussy. I writhed in ecstasy.
His tongue and fingers drove me close to coming, and I knew no name to cry out. One more time, between pants and moans, I asked, “Who…are…you?”
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