Again he latched onto her arms, folding them down across her back. His legs spread hers and she throbbed with anticipation. Her thighs shook, knowing what would happen. "What about the third kiss?" Haven sounded breathy, voice heavy with desire.
"I'm saving that, pet, for another time."
Haven started to turn toward him, wanting to discuss it further, wanting to get all she owed him out of the way now, while she could. Tomorrow she might not be so willing, and she didn't want to owe him more than the bargain already called for. She found herself frozen in place, yet again.
Desiderus pushed on her back, arching her in slow motion, his magic keeping her wherever he wanted her. She could feel it this time, the buzzing of demon magic flowing over her body, through her skin, sinking into the deepest part of her. The sensation heightened her arousal. Her nipples grew so hard she thought she might die if he didn't touch them. When her back was fully arched and her breasts completely vulnerable to whatever he wanted, he slid her ass back toward him. As if he knew exactly what she needed, his fingers found her nipples and tugged. A deep throaty moan escaped her lips.
"You like that, pet?" He pinched and she felt herself slick with want, the air cool between her thighs.
"Yes."
Desiderus tugged harder then let go only to slowly slide two fingers inside her. She clenched around them, trying to hold onto the feel of him invading her.
"You're so ready... makes me think you were thinking of me when you got off in the bath." He pulled his finger out and rested one hand on her ass. She could feel his cock against her skin, slipping leisurely toward her opening. Her entire body hummed with want, and the throb turned into an empty ache.
"Please." The word fell from her mouth before she realized she'd said anything.
He moved the tip to her opening and pushed, inch by excruciating inch, filling her, stretching her, further, wider, until he was buried deep inside her. His cock jerked and he moved himself out at a steady decline. Haven whimpered, needing him to continue, to stay...
"You want more?"
"Yes."
"What do you want, Haven?"
She wanted to tell him everything she desired, but her position made it difficult. She was blessed she didn't have to hold herself arched. She exhaled and said the only thing she could think of to relay her thoughts. "You, everywhere." Two simple words, and her world shattered.
Instantly he slammed into her, stretching her so far she thought she would split, and going deeper still while a finger invaded her ass. She clenched her walls, one of the only things aside from her mouth she could use, and he growled. It was a savage aching sound, like he was claiming her.
Desiderus pumped faster. Haven's body only moved where he allowed. She felt her climax rising, bubbling up to the surface, begging to be set free. He drilled in and out with his cock in one hole and added a second finger to the other. His hand rocked back and forth in opposing sync with his shaft. Haven gasped in breath after breath as her breasts bounced with his force. She loved the feel of him pounding into her. When she thought she couldn't take anymore and was about to beg, an invisible force pulled both her nipples at the same time as he slammed against her body. She screamed out his name as she fell over that edge into perfect oblivion. Desiderus followed her seconds later, grunting as his seed spurted inside her. He collapsed them both on the bed and let her loose.
Haven's body slackened and she heaved beneath him...she knew what had happened...she knew things would never be the same. He was everywhere within, a dark possession.
She'd finally sinned against him, letting him have whatever he wanted, just because she wanted it to. Haven could feel the sin as if it were a living thing slithering inside her. She understood without a doubt why they were considered deadly, and she'd just absorbed the first one in her soul.
Lust.
Reader Beware:
Beyond this page is a sneak peak, unedited, never before read, snippet of book 2 in the Impure series by Decadent Kane coming in 2016.
You will also find a sample of a new paranormal romance by a fellow romance author: His Cemetery Doll by Brantwijn Serrah.
~Short unedited snippet from book 2 in the Impure series by Decadent Kane
***
Just like last time, the creature sprang on two bulgy legs. Haven jumped and when they came down, she had the little goblin locked in her magic L-sack. She brushed herself off grinning.
"Proud of yourself, pet?" His voice rumbled over the back of her neck and she shuddered.
The blasted demon had interrupted more than one of her jobs and she wouldn't have it today. "Yes I am." Haven stepped away from Desiderus.
He grabbed her hips effectively pulling her back up against him. "You do realize how magic exists don't you?"
Her body responded to his male essence as she tried to remember he was a demon, not human.
"All these creatures you keep capturing, keep magic alive."
"Desiderus, if I lose this one I will lose my damn job. Back. Off." Her binding tattoo burned against her skin and she hissed. Her body moved to let the goblin go and her mind fought like mad to keep it from happening.
Desiderus laughed and ran a hand down her check. "You keep blaming me, love, but it's not my body letting it go."
"No but it's our...binding," she turned biting out the words, "this fucking brand on my arm and that is your fault."
"Yes it is." His warm mouth closed in on hers. She tried to fight the rush springing from inside. She hated wanting him.
In frustration, she grabbed his horns pulling him back. "Go fuck yourself." She turned and headed after the creature.
***
~His Cemetery Doll~
By Brantwijn Serrah
Paranormal Romance
Sample
Mini-Bio: When she isn't visiting the worlds of immortals, demons, dragons and goblins, Brantwijn fills her time with artistic endeavors: sketching, painting, customizing My Little Ponies and sewing plushies for friends. She can't handle coffee unless there's enough cream and sugar to make it a milkshake, but try and sweeten her tea and she will never forgive you. She moonlights as a futon for four lazy cats, loves tabletop role-play games, and can spend hours watching Futurama, Claymore or Buffy the Vampire Slayer while she writes or draws.
Chapter One
Conall...
Somebody was shaking him.
Gravekeeper...fallen soldier...
There is someone in the graveyard, Conall.
***
Conall Mackay woke with a start. Outside, the wind gave a haunting, low moan. He could hear the rustle and creak of trees in the graveyard outside.
He'd dozed off in his chair by the small cottage hearth, and the fire had long died down to sulky, smoldering coals. His daughter Shyla, bleary-eyed and wild-looking with her short blonde hair sticking up at all angles, shook him by the shoulder, mumbling sleepily.
"There's a strange woman, Dad. Outside."
In the dim light, Shyla's pale cheeks and her white cotton nightgown glowed, turning her into a little candle-flame girl in the dark.
He rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw, then reached out to comb his fingers through her messy tresses, trying to tame them down. "What do you mean, lass?"
"I told you." She paused to yawn, then said, "A woman."
Her big, bright eyes—one blue, one green—were heavy-lidded. Her voice muzzy with sleep. Conall studied her, then patted her shoulder.
"You're dreaming, Shyla. There's no woman."
"Yes, there is," she insisted quite matter-of-factly. "She's in the cemetery, by Maya."
Maya. The angel statue Conall had carved from stone, which stood in the center of the graveyard.
"Shy, you can't even see Maya from your window."
"I did," the young girl answered. Her eyelids drooped and she swayed a little on her feet. Conall stood, scooping her up to carry her back to her room.
As he tucked her back into bed, she settled into soft, faint
snoring. Absentminded, he tried to straighten her hair, then picked up a small stuffed dog from her old, mostly-forgotten toy box, tucking it in beside her.
Almost thirteen years old, Shyla had recently sprung up into a lean, gawkish tomboy. Like this, though—curled in her bed, face soft and thoughtful with whatever dreams she'd slipped into—she appeared so much younger. His little girl.
"Sleep well," he mumbled. Then he retreated, mindful not to trip over any piles of books or the small desk chair she'd dragged out to the center of the room.
Back in the hall, he stood at her doorframe, watching her. Then his gaze drifted past her to the window, which faced the cemetery.
The night outside crept close in dense fog. Gray veils drifted, slow and ponderous, beyond the glass. Even if Shyla had a view of Maya, she couldn't possibly have seen anything out there tonight.
Yes, he thought. Just dreaming.
Although...
Those drifting grays...dancing whorls, like silk ribbons on the wind.
No. He told himself. Fog, is all. Nothing else out there.
Chapter Two
During the day, dappled green and gold sunlight played around the graves in Conall's cemetery. Cool, quiet woodland bordered three broad, gated sections, tree branches overreaching a tall iron fence, vines growing through and around scrolled-iron bars. He kept the tombstones clean and neat, scraped the moss from the mausoleums, and trimmed the worst of the overgrowth. He'd never clear away all the natural brush, however. It gave his cemetery a breath of quiet serenity.
Today, though, a thorny growth of brambles breached a little too far onto the grounds, creeping up toward an ancient pair of gray headstones. The inscriptions on those two stones had long eroded away, but Conall devoted an entire afternoon one spring, years ago, to deciphering and re-engraving the names of two young children, twins. Shyla sat behind him on another marker, swinging her little legs back and forth and watching him. He hadn't ever chided her for sitting on the graves. He'd didn't see any harm in it.
The bramble clung stubbornly to the trellis of an old mausoleum gate stuck in the ground, and Conall spat out an oath as he lost his grip. It sprang back to its anchor, scoring his palms with its thorns.
"How did the blasted thing creep so far in like this?" he growled, shooting an icy glower at the dark, gnarled creepers. He hadn't been by this corner of the graveyard in several days, but, still, he'd never have missed an intruder this overrun.
"It wasn't so bad yesterday," Shyla offered in a thoughtful tone. She leaned forward from her perch to inspect the bush. "I came by here to have a picnic under the willow."
"Well, it didn't sprout into a monstrous weed overnight," Conall grunted as he seized another branch and strove to untangle it.
Shyla cocked her head like a curious bird and swung her legs again. Though sitting on the graves had never been taboo, she still carefully avoided kicking the stone with her heels.
"Maybe the woman caused it to spring up. She could have been a witch, I suppose."
Conall paused and shut his eyes, quietly reminding himself to be patient.
He'd never been a fanciful or superstitious man, not by nature. He saw his graveyard as a simple thing, the community burial ground, and he tended it in dutiful respect. His daughter, on the other hand, precocious little creature, continually pondered the stories and secrets of its inhabitants. This wasn't the first time she'd taken up interest in one or another personality buried here, talking about witches or fantastic creatures hiding in the small surrounding wood.
Of course, he'd always tell himself, she's a child. Children are imaginative.
Lately, though, he worried about it more. At her age, such nonsense became less charming and more...weird.
"It's almost lunchtime," he grunted as he finally pried an arm of gnarling limb away. Tossing it aside, he wiped his brow. "Shall we go in?"
Shyla hopped off the grave, smoothing out her overalls, and nodded.
"Goodbye Luke, Lucia," she said, giving a tiny bob of a curtsy to each of the little graves. "We'll come back later to cut away the rest of it."
About a year ago, Shyla had decided the twins buried here had drowned in the river, clinging to one another as the current overtook them. She'd spent some weeks pondering aloud if they'd run away from home to escape an evil stepmother, or if they'd been following fairies through the woods and become lost. Conall frowned to himself as she turned away from their graves and started skipping back to the house ahead of him.
He sighed, rubbing at the back of his damp neck. Even in the shade, the day had grown outrageously hot. He carefully arranged his heavy toolbox and set it aside, by the mausoleum, before following his daughter up toward the house. He wanted a cold splash of water from the backyard pump, and then the cool interior of his kitchen. Most days he began work in the cemetery at dawn, and today he'd risen with the sun as normal. He'd earned the midday break. Before he came back, he'd set Shyla to her own chores. It'd do her good to get out of the old boneyard for a while.
Limping up the hillside to the higher, newer areas of the grounds, he didn't notice Richard Trask waiting at the cemetery gates, until the other man called out to him. Trask, a slight bit paunchy, took shelter from the sun under a broad oak tree, and the shadows had hidden him for a moment. Now, as he came toward Conall, waving, the groundskeeper crossed his arms over his chest and nodded a welcome.
"Alderman," he greeted.
"Hot as all blazes out, isn't it?" Trask said cheerfully. "How's the leg?"
"About the same as ever," Con replied. "Course, it hurts worse in the cold."
"And how are you and your girl?"
Conall glanced up toward the house. "Well enough. What brings you by?"
Trask paused before answering. Conall recognized the usual wariness his neighbors all appeared to suffer when visiting him in the graveyard. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, he followed Trask's gaze to the statue at the center of the main ring of tombstones.
Maya. Conall's stone angel.
Frustration pricked at the back of his neck. He'd always been sure the neighbors' discomfort had something to do with her.
"Well?" he asked Trask. "What brings you so far out of town, Alderman?"
"Father Frederick wanted to invite you to lunch," Trask said. "I had an errand to run over at the Dillons' farm so I told him I'd pass on the message."
Father Frederick was the local priest and quite possibly Conall's one "friend" in the small village of Whitetail Knoll. Conall nodded to Alderman Trask. "Thanks for passin' it along. I'll be there," he said.
Trask owned the tavern where Father Fred most often liked to meet. Before he turned away, his gaze flickered up to Conall's house.
"How's the girl, then?"
"She's fine," Conall grated. He tried not to betray the annoyance it gave him when others asked about Shyla too much. They never hid their doubt very well, as though he would be incapable of raising a child on his own. Everyone knew Shyla wasn't really his daughter. They believed her to be his niece instead, taken in when his sister died giving birth. He let them think so. Their nosy disdain would be even worse if they found out Con had no sister, and in fact, no kin left at all. He and Shyla were not even distantly related.
Trask caught the brusque tone, and his expression turned apologetic.
"Will you be bringing her along tonight?" he asked. "The wife'll have a dinner ready for her, if you like."
Conall considered and then bobbed his head yes.
"Right then," Trask said. An awkward silence settled between them, until the alderman tipped his cap and added, "We'll serve at sundown. Don't be late."
"We won't."
He watched Trask leave, thinking maybe he'd been a bit uncharitable. His temper might be shorter than normal thanks to the bramble and his stinging palms.
He turned and spent a long moment eyeing the angel.
What was it about her that always spooked others away?
Chapter Three
&
nbsp; He'd carved Maya the autumn after Shyla came to him. He'd never understood what motivated him to do it: besides not being very fanciful, Conall had never been particularly artistic, either. The inspiration must have come thanks to the baby.
He'd discovered the poor infant alone in his graveyard, tucked a sheltering crevice of an old boulder. He remembered thinking she'd been arranged as though in a cradle. Whoever left her did it with care, placing her in a spot where she'd be protected from rain, above any wildlife...and sure to be seen by the first human who passed by. Con later used the same boulder as the base for Maya's statue. Perhaps because those small, thoughtful, careful details might be all he would ever know about Shyla's real mother.
Shyla was a golden child: fair where Conall proved tawny and dark; silky blonde with a cherub nose and soft eyes of differing blue and green, where he had sharp features and irises of amber. Con told everyone she'd been his sister's child because it avoided a lot of extra complications, but he could barely understand how his neighbors believed it. It couldn't be more obvious he and Shyla didn't belong to one another. Whoever delivered her into his graveyard probably hadn't realized who they left her with.
The mystery of it bothered him. Who could possibly abandon their little one there in a cemetery at all? Then, the answer came: someone to whom the shelter of a sturdy rock, and the hope of a stranger's kindness, were preferable to whatever circumstances led her to them.
That affected him. It affected him so profoundly, he'd made a decision no one would understand.
He chose to raise the baby himself.
***
Over lunch, he told Shyla about the trip into town. As always, she listened obediently, nodded when he finished, and stood to begin her afternoon chores without being asked. She'd clear the table, tidy the house, and then go outside to tend their small vegetable garden. With those tasks finished, she'd bathe and dress for a visit with the Trasks.
Impure Bargains (Impure series Book 1) Page 16
