ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories)

by Hawke, Jessa

  “You’re seriously not considering staying, are you Nessy?” Hannah asked, with a genuinely sad look on her face. “Nessy, we’re a team, you can’t break us up for some... some Italian gigolo,” she finishes, realizing she’s insulted my two Italian friends.

  I don’t respond to the insult, I know she didn’t mean it.

  “Yeah, Nessy, you’ve only just met these guys. How could they say such things out of the blue, like that?” Lin also pleads with me.

  “I don’t believe you two,” I say, holding up my palms to silence them both. “I’ve had a fantastic romantic holiday, but that’s all it was. You know what Italians are like, they’re passionate and alway over exaggerating everything,” I assure them.

  Inside of myself, in my dream world, I would love to stay. However, it is just that, a dream. I love my home, my job, my parents and family and most of all I love my friends.

  I sip at my drink and I’m about to take a bite from my comforting chocolate doughnut, when I notice both my friends faces take on a serious look.

  “Hey, I meant it,” I say, putting down the doughnut, “I’m not staying.”

  “You break our hearts, Nessy,” a voice behind me says.

  My two lovers have arrived, they pull up chairs to our table and sit with us, Antonio looks sad, but resigned.

  “We were hoping you would stay with use, Nessy,” Dante says. “We could truly make you happy here, with us, and we would be happy with you,” he takes one of my hands in his.

  “But, it is clear to us that you have others who love you also, and would miss you if your stayed,” he nods his head in the direction of my friends. “We would not want to take you from that, it would make you miserable and we would never want you to be unhappy.”

  “The invitation is now closed,” Dante finishes.

  “We would like to treat you girls to a last day together, if we may?” Antonio asks us.

  We look at each other, puzzled.

  “It’s entirely up to you?” Hannah says to me.

  “Then I say, yes,” I decide.

  We have a wonderful time, the boys know their town inside out, and backward ways around, and they show us everything. The girls love it too, and when some of Antonio’s friends join us, we finish off at the beach house, continuing the party well into the night.

  That was the last I ever saw of my lovers. The remaining holiday was spent without them and just with my friends, and whilst I had a great time, my mind was always wandering to them. Everyday I looked out for Antonio in the dining room, but I never saw him again. That was probably for the best, because although I had decided not to stay, I wasn’t certain that my resolve was that firm, being around those two hunky guys might well have changed my mind.

  THE END

  O

  Obey and Desire

  Rich black lace slid down plump white arms as Arabella put on her outfit for the night. She stretched her smooth white fingers to put on the matching black gloves and then leaned back to view the full effect in her triple mirror.

  The image looking back hit the mark—lusciously waved red hair, curvaceous body neatly encased in a black corset, and huge green eyes outlined in kohl. She straightened one garter and then looked over to the edge of the leather riding crop on her bureau, polished and ready for the evening. Soon, her client would arrive, and her guest bedroom would fill with the muffled groans of male pleasure.

  The system was simple. Arabella operated out of a two-floor apartment in downtown Manhattan, in one of the trendiest areas. This worked to her advantage because the crowd was so hip and freakish that nobody would look twice at a woman purchasing red latex or whips. Nobody would look askance at a woman in black leather peering out of a second floor red-tinted window, or question who exactly she was looking for. Arabella would blindfold her clients at the door, because the first floor was her space; she wouldn’t mention that, though, wary of the client who would try to peek underneath the blindfold. Most didn’t, however; it sharpened the thrill of the mystery.

  Upstairs was the playhouse, or, as Arabella called it, the Guest Room. It gave the whole deal a cozier feel, as if clients were actually stepping into a guest bedroom, rather than a… pleasure dungeon. Much easier to suggest by word of mouth, as well, which was how she operated. The room had an old-fashioned, four-poster canopy bed—perfect for handcuffs and silk scarves, with a vintage dresser and bureau for all of the necessary toys and costumes.

  The induction to this lifestyle began with Arabella’s first boyfriend in college. She was a plump, shy girl taking introduction to Victorian literature, when she first noticed her professor. Dr. Carlyle was a virile man in his early forties, self-possessed, salt-and-peppered, and well, sexy. Arabella, swept up in their classroom readings of young Englishwomen being swept away in torrents of restrained English passion for older, wiser men who were forbidden by the simple fact that they were married of a different class, substituted Carlyle’s face for each one of theirs. She never admitted this to anyone, being certain that she was one of those sad, lonely young women who nobody would ever find attractive, and would end up alone in an apartment in her forties, surrounded by fifty cats with a well-worn copy of Jane Eyre on her face. That is how her mother would discover her when she came to visit, Arabella thought—half asleep by a slab of chocolate cake, muttering “Oh, Heathcliff” to one of the felines purring nearby.

  But fate had other plans for the flaxen-haired bookworm. Under the guise of discussing some of the finer points of one of her papers, Carlyle seduced Arabella in his office. She, intoxicated by his maturity, knowledge, and the fact that he was, simply put, her first—and what a man to be her first!—did anything he asked. Soon, their trysts on the desk of his office, littered with books and smelling of moleskin, began to border on something far more dangerous. He introduced her to a new kind of role-play, the kind that went beyond their almost-cliché teacher-student, May-December story and into a world where pleasure was edged with pain. It was a world of handcuffs, nine-tails, and blindfolds. It was a world that would have terrified most normal virgins.

  But Arabella fell into it with a fervor she would have hardly suspected of herself. It was a heady mixture of power and playing, and in her mind’s eye, all the heroines of all the novels she had ever read took on another dimension, one of What if? What if instead of firing the boy who worked in the stables, the forgotten mistress of the house made him service her, instead? And on the flip side, what if the lord of the manor, for his transgressions with women of a lower class, had to be bound by his wife’s bedside to do all that she wished for days at a time? It was an intoxicating range of possibilities, and Arabella explored them all.

  Although the relationship did not last—it turned out that Carlyle had rather a history of taking a shine to many female students that he taught—Arabella soon found that all the scenarios she had explored with him did not even begin to scrape the surface of her sexual imagination. In fact, there turned out to be no shortage of men who were not only receptive to her ideas, but would come back, begging for more. She was not going to lie; she liked it when they begged. To celebrate her newfound niche, she even dyed her hair a flaming red.

  Soon, she amassed a collection of floggers, gags, paddles, and collars that would have not too long before that, made her blush quite heartily. The business began to form itself, without Arabella even thinking too much about it. People would come back again and again, whether to do it to her or to be done to. Money never exchanged hands; the clients were asked to mail their fees for services rendered several days after the meeting; to do otherwise would have been just tasteless in Arabella’s opinion, and she found that many customers enjoyed the illusion that they were with an open-minded significant other. She got to know many of them well, either way, because her role as a dominant-submissive was actually not usually physically sexual in nature. Certainly, there were partners over the years that she went all the way with, but these were mostly as a treat to herself. And when she did decide t
o go through with it, it was quite a treat, indeed.

  To play her role, Arabella knew that she had to get down to the nitty-gritty of her client’s psyche. To do so, and to participate in this kind of intimate play, many clients ended up telling her things they would never admit to anyone, not even their therapists. Why they wanted to be tied up with the metal handcuffs instead of the fuzzy ones, how they wanted their partners to blindfold them and tease them with the possibility of the cane. Why they liked how the latex made them sweat and adrenaline shoot through their veins, and why they wanted her to cry out, “Daddy!” when they reached a point of climax. She liked that she could release people from their shells with little more than her nature, form, and just a few well-picked toys.

  Arabella indulged her continued love of the Victorian era by carefully designing the Guest Room as something straight out of a prim-and-proper novel. There was even a screen behind which she got dressed—or undressed, as the case would often be, and there was little about the room to suggest anything illicit; it was far more like you had just stepped into the 19th century and your flame-headed hostess was preparing an extremely naughty surprise for you.

  As the years had gone by and the number of clients had increased exponentially, Arabella had, of course, raised her rates. She could afford to pick and choose her customers now. She had a few hard and fast rules: one, everything had to be consensual. That was the nature of the game. There were things done in the Guest Room that may have seemed inappropriate with the levels of screaming and moaning and “No!” involved, but she never entered into a session with a client without a safe word, and only when it was used did they actually stop. Not that it was used often; most people very much enjoyed everything they asked for in that bedroom. Second, senseless violence was simply not allowed. Unless there was pain that ended with a satisfaction of something else entirely, she simply did not allow it. And three, no sex - Unless Arabella wanted to. And Arabella knew how to get her way. Either way, her clients were usually very wealthy people, particularly the next two she would be seeing that week.

  There did not have to be toys for her to do her work, which was always a plus. She liked to use her mind to come up with new and interesting ways to give the client—and herself—what they wanted. Such as the client who was coming tonight.

  Arabella slid her red velvet dressing gown over the black lace outfit she had on. James liked her to dress the part, and it would not do to arrive at the door displaying all of her ample goods. That wasn’t, after all, what he was paying for. He wanted the full fantasy, and damned if he wasn’t paying for it. The man was an honest-to-goodness millionaire, and they usually had the best kind of stories that they wanted played out.

  As she gathered her loose burgundy locks into an upsweep that let tendrils of soft hair curl temptingly around her neck, she thought about James with a little shiver. By looking at him, you would never know he came from one of the wealthiest families on the upper West Side. His parents had come across on the Mayflower, or something, and he was raised in a world of crystal chandeliers, limos to and from school, and women who popped pills as frequently as they donned pearl necklaces.

  So his request to her made perfect sense. Besides, he was such a fine specimen of man that she was more than happy to play along. And play, she thought as she scooped her breasts to peek a little bit more from the low neckline of the lush robe, she would. Just in time for the bell to ring. A final glance in her ornately decorated mirror, and, satisfied with her appearance, Arabella made her way down.

  She gathered her breath before opening the door, and there he was, blue eyes twinkling against the cool, crisp air of the evening. He was wearing a long black pea coat, which she knew he donned to hide his own outfit from the public eye. It was draped around a form that was as ruddy as it was muscular; he was a burly figure of a man, with chestnut-colored hair that curled so temptingly on his chest. She imagined running her fingers through it and a little bolt of lust shot straight down her stomach. She cleared her throat; now was not the time to lose control.

  “Put this on and follow me, boy,” she told him, handing him a blue silk blindfold spinning imperiously on her heel to head towards the stairs.

  James obeyed with a cheeky grin that dimpled his face. He followed her with a meek demeanor, not stumbling once. At the door to the Guest Room, Arabella removed the blindfold. James’ gaze skimmed the floor, not daring to meet her eyes, a part of his role. But when she turned around, she could feel his eyes trace the broad outline of her hips, so she made sure they swayed with extra swing as she pushed open the door and walked inside.

  “In, boy,” she sneered.

  Ducking his head, James followed her in.

  Arabella strode masterfully ahead of him, and, at the gold-wrought chair in front of her silk changing screen, she rested a white-fingered hand on its back. Now would come the hardest part of the evening, the one with the backstory she and James had been playing off of for weeks. Making sure her chest rose up and down with each breath, she looked back at him imperiously.

  “The maid tells me you’ve tracked mud in the house again. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  James tucked his head even closer to his chest and shook his ruddy curls gently. Nothing, he had nothing to say for himself. And that meant, of course, that Arabella had to take action.

  “Well then, this is the third time you’ve transgressed this week. You know what happens to simple stable boys when they bring dirt in the house, don’t you?”

  Arabella knew the effect her words were having on him. For James, it was all about the anticipation, about staying in character. She was the mistress of the house, and she got to make the rules. And the rules stated…

  “You must be punished.”

  She could almost sense the excitement on his breath at her words. He was wondering, she knew, what fresh punishment she had thought up for him. She turned the chair on one leg and carefully sat down the breadth of her hips and bottom on it, turning over one edge of the velvet robe to reveal one long, shapely white leg ending in ten appealingly plump toes. She pushed the neckline of the dressing gown a little bit further down her shoulders, feeling his eyes take in the broad expanse of rounded flesh.

  “Massage me.”

  James looked uncomfortable; damn, he’s good. “Mistress,” he began, but she cut him off straight away.

  “Massage me, or I’ll whip you ‘til you cry.”

  He arched an eyebrow inquisitively. Next time, she told him with her eyes, and he understood. You can’t have all the gifts opened on one day. The air in the room shifted as he went to stand behind her. Seconds later, she felt his hands on her.

  The presence of the male body behind her was warm and comforting somehow, in a way that answered to some visceral, primitive need all humans have and hide. The fingers making small, firm circles on her neck relaxed her, and then James’s thumbs brushed the fine baby hairs at the base of her scalp. She hissed; this was dangerous territory. She would never tell him, or any of her clients for that matter, that this was her kryptonite—a good scalp massage. Especially from a man like James, so powerfully built, like an actual stable hand—the idea of him being so gentle with her played a tricky little dance on her hormones because she was combining this image with the other one in her head, the one of James taking her from behind against one of the marble-glassed doors. The image of what should really, truly not happen.

  His fingers kneaded her head, helped along by the warm folds of her hair above them, and she could feel her body meld against the chair, her head nestled dangerously close to a very delicious part of his anatomy. Oh my…

  She could feel the faint drumbeats of his heart as her head leaned against his lower abdomen. His fingers moved from her head, traced the long tendrils of hair down her neck, softly wrapping one around his finger, to just below her collarbone. She felt her own heartbeat spike in response, and his fingers massaged the delicate skin there, stroking lower and lower until he reached that g
ray area between just a massage and the one where Arabella stopped being certain that there was a world around her and his fingertips. She felt her breasts swell in response and closed her eyes, feeling her nipples harden against the sheer black fabric of her corset. She knew that from James’s vantage point, she was exposed, breasts pushing out of her dressing gown, shoulders gloriously bared, and there was a certain fullness against her neck that indicated that he was enjoying the view. But she also knew that if allowed to enjoy himself for too long, they would cross over into a very vanilla area that would bore them both. Right now, she was the mistress of the house who was making her servant perform a duty for her. But at the rate they were going, she might be the one servicing him. It was time to reset the balance of power.

  “That’s enough, boy,” she snapped at him, and angled her body away from him to look up at him from the chair. “You’ve done a mediocre job there,” she said, the pointed crests of her breasts belying her words, “but now it’s time for you to return where you really belong. At my feet, boy.”

  James’s blue eyes glimmered with suppressed excitement. She knew he loved seeing her like this—aroused and in command. Because the allure was bringing a powerful woman to her knees, and if that involved him getting to that part of his own anatomy, it was a price he would gladly pay.

  He knelt down in front of her and lifted one rounded ankle onto his knee. He massaged her toes, the nails painted a lascivious red. He skimmed the delicate curves of her ankle to the meaty muscle of her calf; Arabella felt him work his magic there, and opened her eyes to take in the scene. James had moved down to sit on the found before her; she could see the long expanse of her leg where the dressing gown lay open to her mid-thigh. While he worked his fingers over her, she felt tiny prickling sensations crawl up her leg, and felt her breasts throb in response. She knew that he was looking up past her knees to that area still covered by the robe. The evidence of it lay at the barely noticeable bulge between his legs, evident through his coarse workman’s pants that he had donned especially for the occasion. She edged the robe, little by little, ever so slightly away from her thigh and moved her other thigh so that he could catch sight of the still-shaded road to her most desired place. She was teasing him, and the knowledge of it, the taboo nature of it—she was his mistress, after all—spurred James on, until he was running his hand up along the back of her knee.