The End
Omnia vincit Amor: et nos cedamus Amori
Virgil (70 BC – 19 BC), Eclogue X, line 69
Love conquers all; let us, too, yield to Love
***
While the author is hard at work on her next work of fiction, you may be interested in
the "Her Billionaire, Her Wolf" series, where Braze, Flair, Daniel the Nephilim, Caim, and Kabiel, the fallen Seraph, continue their story:
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf
His Every Desire
(A Paranormal BDSM Erotic Romance)
Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--His Every Desire
A billionaire story unlike any other--
She watches him every day.
For two months she has spent each lunch hour studying the enigmatic man in a restaurant always filled to overflowing; yet, for two months he is there each day in a booth all to himself.
Sara thinks she is safe as she drinks in every gorgeous detail reflected in the bar's back mirror. She asks herself who he could possibly be, convinced he would never notice her...convinced that no one ever does.
She could not have been more wrong.
Chance brings them together and animal lust is unleashed. But what she never could have imagined is far from being the strangest part of this tale. For there are shadowy figures holding the strings offstage and the manipulation of Sara Renardine has only just begun.
An excerpt:
She strained her ears, listening for anything that might signal an end to her waiting, until, finally, Sara went as quietly as a mouse to the closed door of the meeting room and gently turned the knob.
What she saw was the receptionist's desk swallowed in shadow and no sign of any smug, self satisfied blonds.
She was alone.
The steady simmer of her anger leapt to a roiling boil as she realized what a fool she had been.
Forgotten. Unneeded. Cast aside as more important things took my place in his gorgeous eyes.
The feeling of being special, of filling his regard with such intensity as he looked at her, only her, slipped like a hand into an all too familiar glove of bitterness.
Of course. I should have known better.
There was a sound and then the elevator doors slid open revealing the silhouette of a man, his gaze downturned as he flipped stapled pages in his hands.
Without looking up, he stepped into the dimmed room and Sara marched directly into his path.
What was I thinking?
All thoughts of gratitude were gone. That he had come to her rescue in the restaurant, that he would make arrangements for her job...a new, exquisite silk shirt....
None of it mattered any more as she stood in his way, burning with red rage.
"Who in the hell do you think you are?" she said, wishing she could have shouted the words loudly enough to shatter the windows.
Then, instead of raising her voice, her hand arced up in the shadows. It was slow, yet not, passing through the air as quick as an adder's strike, yet time had stilled in the near darkness and it was as though the air was as thick as syrup.
Rather than slapping him hard across the face, Sara felt her wrist entrapped in an iron fist.
And absurdly, she wondered what was written on the pages that drifted down to alight upon her feet while the shock of his viselike grip still vibrated down her arm.
The beautiful lanterns of his eyes locked on to her own as he said, "Do you not know? Do you really not know?"
His voice was calm, but his tone was glacial.
Careful...you're on thin ice.
"I have no idea who you are," she said, then bit back the rest of what she wanted to say as his eyes softened.
"Then look at me," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "Right now, look at me and tell me who you think I am. The truth. All of it."
Sara took a breath, then said, "You tell people what to do. You are so used to doing it, that you don't notice anymore."
He stepped closer to her and the hand holding her wrist did not let go.
"You're arrogant. You think you're entitled."
Another half step closer as he pulled her hand to his chest, forcing her palm against him. Forcing her to feel him.
There are cracks under your feet.
"You think you own people."
His other hand went to her shoulder and Sara could feel the strong beat of his heart under her palm.
"And, you are brave. You step in when you see someone in trouble."
Then he touched the side of her neck and Sara's breath came more deeply.
"You are a knight. You saved me...."
Pinned in the amber lights of his eyes, Sara knew that it was already too late, the uncertain footing she walked upon had turned to water as she felt herself drowning in his beautiful gaze.
He bent down to her, his lips soft against her own, searching for truths other than her words.
She pulled back from him, just enough to speak, her own lips brushing his as she said, "But, that doesn't give you the right."
His mouth captured hers once more. Warm and velvety. She felt the light rough of a day old beard rasp gently against her skin as she kissed him back.
"You don't own me," she said, breaking away only to sigh as his hands slid down her sides, then back up again as he cupped both breasts. Strong thumbs drifted across the nipples studding her blouse, swelling even more under his touch.
"I told you I would give you cause for regret. Now, I shall give you reason for pleasure.”
His voice was delicious in her ears, like warm honey as he continued, “And I can promise you that it will not be the last time, not for one nor the other.”
Hands that could have crushed the bones of her wrist to powder only seconds before roamed freely upon her body. Strong fingers undid delicate pearl buttons.
"Turn around...now."
Sara pivoted to turn her back to him and then felt him once more as he pressed himself against her.
Oh, he is so hot.
Hard muscles made themselves felt as he reached around her, his arms encircling her while his member felt huge against her bottom.
“Through meetings and conference calls without end, I thought of you,” he murmured in her ear, then bent down to the side of her neck, nipping lightly at her skin as he did it.
“Your scent...your taste.”
His mouth was upon her shoulder and Sara hissed as he bit down upon her skin. Enough to hurt, yet not enough to draw blood.
Then, he drew back from her and with his hands upon her shoulders, he guided her to Giselle’s desk.
“Place your hands upon the desktop.”
Sara bent down and put her palms flat upon the smooth surface. She knew her bottom was filling his gaze in that moment and the thought of it made her even hotter.
What is he doing to me? I’m not like this.
Except that maybe she was….
Available Now at Amazon
Also by Aimélie Aames
The Marechal Chronicles: Volumes I, II and III (An Erotic Fantasy Tale)
An erotic, fantasy adventure, this is a romantic tale of magic, emotion, and human motivation that does not turn a blind eye to the frank sexuality of its characters. Within these pages live witches, shapechangers, demons, and immortal beings. Turn the page and let them unveil their dark story in the ambiance of medieval France.
A collection of the first three volumes—
Volume 1, The Path
Melisse dreams of another life, one in which she is no longer the servant to a noble family, one where she can find her own destiny and make her life her own.
On the eve of the arrival of the Marechal de Barristide, an eldritch light in the forest calls out to her, giving her the hope of change to come.
The Marechal, a man marked with a vicious scar, is a man of the law of the realm, charged with investigating a series of horrible crimes to the south. However, he has his own reasons for visiting House Perene. Reasons that drive him to search mer
cilessly for the truth, no matter the cost.
His search and the fate of Melisse intertwine to form a tapestry of lust, violence, and supernatural implications. All of which resound within a potent and robust story that draws the reader in and does not let go.
Volume 2, The Hunter
The sun rises upon the blood soaked House Perene.
Evil has struck within and without and only the Marechal de Barristide can untangle the threads of fate that wind about him in a web of intrigue and passion.
His way is branded into the very ground before him, but the Marechal must turn his course in order to seek aid from a dreaded soul. Beings from a realm other than earth shall seek his alliance while his quarry, the servant woman, Melisse, has disappeared, leaving only ash and dust behind her. But before taking up her trail once more, the Marechal must submit to another's infernal desires and pay far more than he bargained for.
Volume 3, The Prey
The paths of the Marechal de Barristide and Melisse, runaway servant accused of a grisly murder, narrow to convergence in a seamy quarter of Licharre, a city bordering the Ardoise mountains to the south.
Lust and desire burn all that lies between them as demons rear their ugly heads, twisting their destinies together while powers beyond those of mankind exact their vile desires.
Blood will run before it is over and doom shall fall where it will in this continuing story of supernatural passion and erotic romance.
The Goblin Between Her Thighs (A Marechal Chronicles Prequel)
An army captain with a mysterious scar is torn from the battle front and from his lover in this story of espionage, body thieves and devious eroticism.
The legendary Goblin War rages while Alexandre's own identity slips away from him in his struggle between his forgotten past and the woman who loves him. Action, intrigue, and intense sexuality...all this and more awaits between these pages.
This is an erotic stand-alone story of 11,000 words, but also a prequel to the events recounted in the ongoing series, The Marechal Chronicles by Aimélie Aames.
For your reading pleasure, an excerpt from The Marechal Chronicles:
The Marechal had no words with which to respond. His tongue was frozen in place as were his limbs. He found that he could not move even his smallest finger as the old woman hobbled from the room.
The light grew dimmer until he could no longer see the shelves across from him. He saw only that he was alone in the faint glow of a circle and that it now appeared as if the walls had receded with dark nothingness taking their place. Even the faint sounds of the swamp outside the witch's house were gone. The constant drip of water, or the raucous cry of some distant bird, all of it had dwindled to a muffled silence.
The Marechal had begun to wonder if the drink had somehow stoppered his ears when he heard a female voice, low and silky, speak from the surrounding shadows.
"Oh, you lovely man," he heard her say, then saw her emerge from the darkness and into the pool of light surrounding him. First came one long bare leg, the flesh of a marble purity that would have taken his breath away if he had not already been spelled still.
The rest of her followed.
She was dressed in gauzy, transparent black, a sort of robe such as noblewomen wear, except that the hemline was ragged, running in deep zigs and zags that showed the Marechal tantalizing glimpses of firm white skin before being hidden away again as she moved with a delicious languor around him.
Her hair was long, black, and shone like the finest silk, as if she had magicked the glint of fine silver into her color. Her lips were luscious and full, of a red deep and profound. The color reminded the Marechal of heart's blood running down the length of his sword, the final beats of his opponent's life felt down to the pommel.
She was carnal, she was feline, dark and light, she was contrast in motion.
Despite his compromised circumstances, the Marechal felt himself respond, his member growing heavy and warm, lengthening as he felt his pulse descend into his crotch.
"What an interesting scar, Marechal," she said. Her finger lingered at his jaw, tracing down to come round to his shirt front where she lightly flicked the buttons.
She leaned in close, letting her lips brush against his ear, and asked breathily, "Do you want me...Marechal?"
He felt his throat unlock with a hitch. He swallowed, then said, "What I do or do not want seems to be irrelevant at the moment. I believe that is the game we are playing, no?"
"Oh, this is no game, Marechal," she replied. "I am deadly serious. My intentions for you have nothing of goodness in them."
"My love for visitors is in their suffering which can be so poignant, so exquisite...so charming."
She stepped away from him and he saw that she carried a cavalier's quirt in her hand. In a long, drawn out motion, she drew her hand back and then swung at him, lashing his chest with what he believed was her fullest strength.
There was a crack and he felt the venomous sting of the lash leap through him. He clenched his jaws around the sound threatening to escape, sweat springing to his brow.
He fought against it, but he could feel that his erection had become enormous, straining against his trousers.
"Do you want me?" she asked again, her voice low as she reached out to toy with the tear in his shirt that the quirt had left behind. Her finger came away red and she licked his blood from it, smiling.
"That taste. It is amazing, Marechal. You really are of a special vintage, aren't you?
"You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance. They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt. You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.
"Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal. Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine."
The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart. He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen. And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.
She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air. His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it.
He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.
With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move. In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman's neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.
He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him. He smiled inside, though. A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell's hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.
"And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear," she said, amused. Something in her tone troubled him.
"But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal."
With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back. His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over. She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.
"Oh, so much better. If only you could see the look on your face," she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.
Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus. He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.
There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation. He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.
"Don't you like that, dear?" she asked as she walked around to his front. He could st
ill feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.
She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.
The Marechal groaned. The melange of pain and pleasure. It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.
"Calm yourself, Marechal. I can see my toy twitching back there," she chuckled. Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips. The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.
He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him. Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him. He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes.
The most profound muscles of his abdomen began to tighten and he could feel himself lifting up, his cock stiffening in its extremity and then in great shuddering breaths, he came into her mouth, his muscles spasming, the sensations arising as much from the flesh holding the quirt in place as from the base of his member, pulsing with the force of his orgasm.
The Marechal strained, heaving and heaving, his muscles rippling in the throes of the moment even as his vision dimmed to near darkness.
Then, she was upon him and he, suddenly flat on his back, could only watch as she sunk down over his cock, her pendulous breasts now bared and her nipples standing out in reddened fury.
Divine Fornication (The Complete Collection) Page 10
