by Lena Loneson
Selkie’s Rapture
Lena Loneson
Part of the Emerald Isle Fantasies series.
How can you fall in love if you don’t know who you are? Nora has thrown herself from lover to lover, haunted by Irish waters that call her home. Seduced by erotic dreams, she jumps into the waves, sure that her destiny awaits her in those depths.
Eamon lost one beloved to the sea. When he sees a woman slip beneath the water, he risks his life to save her. Entranced by the strange, ethereal Nora, Eamon takes her back to the hotel Castle Tullamore. Nora’s body is addictive and something in her stormy eyes calls to his soul. But rumor has it that Nora is a selkie, destined to leave him for the sea and break his heart.
A Romantica® paranormal erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Selkie’s Rapture
Lena Loneson
Chapter One
What waited beneath the black surface of the sea?
The rational part of Nora’s mind said death. Drowning. Sputtering for air, being pulled from shore by the undertow, inhaling saltwater until she choked on it. Having grown up here on the northwest coast of Ireland, Nora Connelly knew well the dangers of the sea.
Or was it lust that called to her? Standing on the sand, she could almost feel the dark liquid enveloping her skin, pulling her close, pressing itself into her body as a lover’s gentle fingers would. Nora shuddered with anticipation. Would she feel its touch deep in her throat? Would it open the folds of skin between her legs to gush inside her?
It was what had pulled her out to the shore tonight, in dreams she found harder and harder to resist these days. The expanse of the ocean stretched out before her, deep and seductive. She couldn’t see the end of it.
Wind whipped around Nora’s body, tearing her hair from its clip and slapping the dark strands against her face. She shivered in the cool summer night air. Her white shift dress gave her little protection from the weather. The tin pennywhistle she held was cold beneath her fingers.
Later, she would look back in her memory and recognize the signs of a rip current—murky splashes of heavy green seaweed flowing outward from the shore and silver foam glistening in the moonlight.
How stupid not to see it.
Now, she was immersed in sound. The wind howled in her ears. The surf roared only a few inches from the toes of her shoes. She lifted the pennywhistle to her lips, licking the tip of it with her tongue, trying to warm her mouth in preparation for playing. The small, light instrument would be easy to lose in the wind. She gripped it tighter and placed her fingers over the holes. The webbing between her fingers, thicker than normal for human hands, stretched uncomfortably. The whistle, with its holes close together, was one of the few instruments she could play. She shaped her lips and blew.
It stuttered at first, her mouth still too cold to take the proper form. She twitched numb lips. Ah, there it was. The haunting flute sound filled the air. Nora heard each note for less than a second before it was ripped away by the wind. A fast reel might be easiest to play, if her fingers could move that quickly in the cold.
But that was not what her soul wanted. The music that came from her mouth and fingers was a sad lament.
The wind was blowing southwest. With weather this ferocious, the old trick of licking a finger and holding it up wasn’t needed to estimate direction. Sand scattered furiously, scratching her bare legs, piling against her shoes. The ballerina flats were too dainty to give her feet much protection. A poor choice for the day. Waves rushed to shore diagonally, blown off course.
Her music would be drawn back to shore, and down the coast, not out to sea. It would be dashed on the cliffs past Castle Tullamore, if it survived that far.
The ocean wouldn’t hear her.
Some might laugh at the notion of communicating with the sea, but the water’s depths spoke to Nora. Night after night, it called to her in a language she couldn’t decipher. Her father’s language? She flexed her fingers. The webbing between them was always at the forefront of her mind. It was a simple mutation, that was all. She didn’t really believe in the mythical creatures of the sea. Few of her generation did. Nora was considered strange enough already. She didn’t need to add belief in selkies or mermaids to the list comprising her crazy life.
This morning she’d awoken with her knickers damp with desire and the faint memory of wet fur sliding across her legs in her dreams.
What was out there?
Nora shivered, missing a beat in her melody. She caught the music, smoothed it out. A small wave ran over her foot. It was so cold. She lowered the pennywhistle to her side as she looked down at the water. The waves were tamed this close to shore, a pathetic shadow of the strong whitecaps farther out. Their roar must be a mere echo of how the water’s music sounded out there.
Could she get near enough to hear it?
She moved closer to the water, kicking off her ballerina flats and feeling the cool, damp sand beneath her feet. She wriggled her toes, or tried to—the webbing between them meant they didn’t really move individually. In the darkness, she couldn’t see her feet, which was a blessing. After twenty years on this Earth, you’d think Nora would be used to her own body, but her unusual feet and hands still bothered her.
She blamed it on practicality. As a musician, the tight skin an inch long that stretched between her fingers kept her from playing the low whistle or the pipes—she simply didn’t have the range of movement.
Nora told herself that her resentment had little to do with the whispers of her neighbors calling her selkie, the seal-creature of Irish legend. She didn’t care about the sharp intake of a lover’s breath when he first touched them accidentally, before moving his hands away from hers and being ever so careful to avoid them.
Nora didn’t read her mother’s romance novels anymore. They peppered the house, the covers showing men with rippling muscles and women with perfect bodies. She knew how each love scene began. Fingers on fingers, hands exploring skin. Fingers in a man’s mouth, nails running down a man’s back in the throes of passion. A sensual foot massage in a bubble bath, which no man would ever give her. In the racier novels, a thumb caressing his cock. A finger pressing into the forbidden pucker in the center of his ass.
Might as well be limbless, deformed worse than she was, for all the good her hands and feet did her during sex. At least then there’d be tragedy. Sympathy rather than mocking.
She had dreams sometimes, while sleeping or half-awake, of a man who knew her body completely and wanted every part of her. She would dream of swimming, salt water stinging her eyes, so far from shore that she could have been off the coast of Ireland or in the middle of the Atlantic somewhere for all she knew. Nora would float naked and feel him pressing against her, the heat of his body a striking contrast to the cold water.
In her dream she knew the water was near to freezing, but she was never cold. At his touch, her skin would flush with heat so strong that she imagined the water churning to a boil around her, turning to steam and floating up to the clouds. His fingers would move over her body possessively and he’d take one of her hands in his, unhesitating in his exploration of every part of her. He’d float beneath her and she’d relax against him, leaning in to his muscular chest.
The dreams were was so realistic that she could feel the hairs on his chest, slick and wet, sliding across her back. She could feel his swollen cock against her ass, brushing up against the folds between her legs. The dream often ended with Nora parting her legs, reaching downward to grasp him with her fingers—
And that was where she always woke up, with sopping-wet knickers and tangled bedsheets. She never caught a glimpse of her mystery man’s face. She never heard his voice.
But she wanted him, more than she’d ever wanted
anyone. A tussle with one of the local lads at The Cave was pleasant, but couldn’t satisfy her. Musicians passing through Donegal County provided some novelty and a few good fucks, but she could fall asleep sweaty in their arms and still dream of her sea lover.
Nora closed her eyes and raised the pennywhistle to her mouth again, letting her fingers choose the next tune. They found the opening bars to Carrickfergus, one of her favorite sad laments. She’d heard this music in her dreams too.
By the time she finished playing, her feet were numb in the wet sand and sloshing water. They were almost warm. It was the air that was cold. The air was the problem. It stole her music away.
No one would ever hear her if she played in the wind. Nora could blow until her throat was sore, sing until she ran out of words, but the thief that was the air would take it all from her.
Her feet really did feel warm. As her body shivered, Nora dropped the pennywhistle. It stuck in the sand mouthpiece-first, the silvery tin body a helpless sundial pointing to the sky. Rubbing her hands together didn’t warm them.
She waded into the waves up to her thighs, sliding her feet through the sand. The white gown spread out around her, floating on the water. A wave rushed up between her legs, sloshing into her knickers. The liquid gave her a small jolt of pleasure.
Putting her hands in the water warmed them. The chattering of her teeth was silent in the wind. Or maybe she wasn’t cold at all. Moonlight sparkled on the surface of the water in front of her.
Nora walked forward, feet slipping on the ocean’s bottom, until the water touched her breasts, hardening her nipples beneath the cotton fabric of her dress. Were her hands shaking? She didn’t feel a chill. Her foot slipped again. A tide tugged at her ankles. It was too hard to walk, let alone turn around for shore. Wouldn’t swimming be easier?
Nora dived into the waves.
Chapter Two
Castle Tullamore stretched out before him, its stone ramparts glimmering orange in the rare sunset, foreboding and enticing all at once.
Eamon’s hands shook on the wheel of the rental car as he pulled up the long driveway leading to the castle. He remembered every stone of its gray walls. Every turn in its winding, luxuriously carpeted passageways. The castle was stunning. He wanted to stomp on the brake, open the driver’s side door and puke onto the road.
Why had he come back here?
He’d thought this could be just another job—write about a beautiful place, tell the stories of interesting people and leave, unchanged. He would fulfill his job as a travel writer and secure his place with the permanent magazine gig he’d been coveting for years—senior editor of The Antitourist, a magazine that had grown incredibly popular in print form among the wealthy, the hipsters and the cultured as “regular” tourists moved online.
Never mind his own story. Put his own loss from his mind.
In the light of day, it had seemed reasonable. Now as the sun set, he cursed himself for being a fool. This wasn’t a regular job. Following up on the castle-turned-luxury-hotel he’d made famous twenty years ago with this first Antitourist article wasn’t even your normal anniversary piece. Not when this should have been a different kind of anniversary—that of his marriage.
His left hand involuntarily touched the empty passenger seat behind him. More than twenty years after her death, he still expected to feel the softness of Keelin’s bare leg. His fingers slipped on the car’s leather seat.
The castle in front of him looked exactly the same, yet completely different. Perspective can change a place. Twenty years ago he’d approached the hotel in much the same way, slowly and up the winding driveway, but with hope in his heart and a beautiful new bride by his side.
The castle had stretched out before them, full of promise. The sprawling grounds had been lush, green and alive. The sea air had been both invigorating and calming. Now the living gardens mocked him and the ocean breeze choked him.
Now the endless gray turrets of the castle made him think of gravestones.
He only had to get through the next two weeks. Fourteen days and the magazine would be his to run. This shouldn’t even have been his assignment, but an Icelandic volcano had forced a landing on the way back to Canada, stranding him in Ireland, and the publisher had leaped at the chance for Eamon to reproduce his groundbreaking tour of the old country.
When he reached the castle, Eamon left the car idling, tossing the keys at a uniformed valet before grabbing his duffel bag and laptop case from the backseat. He nodded at the valet. Maybe he’d get lucky and the valet and check-in clerk would be the only folks he’d run into before retreating to the solitude of a suite. He might be able to get through this evening without speaking a word to anyone. But the thought was premature.
“Eamon McAllonan, as I live and breathe! I never expected to see you here again.”
It took Eamon a moment to recognize the woman standing outside the main castle gate. Shadows from the setting sun played across her face, transforming her into something other than human for a moment. Last time he’d seen the hotel’s owner, she’d only recently inherited Tullamore and was a young filly of a thing, slightly wild and far from the poised woman standing before him in the prim navy suit.
“Áiné. Look at you. You grew up to be a woman after all.”
She threw back her head and laughed. When she righted herself, not a hair was out of place. Some kind of magic, it must be. “Ah, Eamon, it’s been too long. She wouldn’t have wanted you to stay away.”
His smile tightened. Keelin was dead. It was hard to say what she might have wanted.
Was a job—even his dream job—worth coming back here for? It hadn’t even been a true decision, what with the volcanic eruption in Iceland blowing up a cloud of soot so great that flights to and from most of Europe had been cancelled. If he wanted this story finished by press time, Eamon was The Antitourist’s only choice.
And so he was here, walking up the path to the magnificent castle that he’d once written had “Elegance and mystery that will charm the most hardened of travelers.”
Now the building was an ogre looming in front of him, an ogre stalking its human prey. Eamon had forgotten how big it was. The castle could eat him and another five hundred men and still have room for an after-supper shot of whiskey.
Stones on the castle path crunched beneath his feet.
“Nay, it’s me ghost haunting the steps o’ the castle,” Áiné said.
He smiled at the deliberately thickened accent and her flippant response to his stupid remark. Might as well put his foot in it some more and tease her a bit. “I didn’t know ghosts aged.”
“I didn’t know moving to Canada made an Irishman lose his charm. I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite.”
He closed the distance between them, his loafers thudding on the steps, and they clasped hands warmly. “Áiné, I can’t believe it’s been twenty years. For real, you must’ve been snatched by some faerie ring and had time stop. You’re more beautiful than I remember.”
“Still as much of a flirt as ever?” The sadness in her eyes lent heaviness to her teasing words.
As colleagues in the hospitality industry—Eamon a travel writer, Áiné a hotel proprietor—they’d kept in touch by postcard and then by email. The cards arriving in his mailbox never bore the image of the stunning castle before him, however. Áiné always chose a generic photo, some goofy stereotype—a pint of Guinness or a four-leaf clover. She knew he didn’t need the reminders of his doomed honeymoon at the castle. He sent back postcards of a lumberjack or the CN Tower.
They’d never slept together. Chasing women had become a part of his life long after he’d known Áiné. His friendship with her was too dear to ruin. And women were easy enough to find. Eamon’s red hair and the strange Canadian-Irish lilt to his accent made him an enticing foreigner in many countries. He’d spent more than one night screwing in the back alley of a marketplace or going down on a woman on the soft bed in a luxury hotel. But after Keelin’s tragic
death at Tullamore, he’d never settled down. There’d never been anyone to capture his heart.
He met Áiné’s eyes and nodded.
“Ah, well, let’s get you settled, then. Put you in one of our best suites, shall we?”
“That’d be lovely, thanks.” Eamon heaved his duffle bag farther onto his shoulder and followed her inside. As he crossed the threshold, he looked up, seeing the familiar ancient, medieval shield depicting a griffin, a beast that was said to wander the castle ramparts, protecting its occupants.
The lobby was huge and elegant. A painted landscape of Tullamore was center stage, showing off the castle turrets and rambling grounds, the gray of the castle contrasting with splashes of rich-green gardens surrounding it. One of Brendan Pearse’s works, no doubt, though he hadn’t seen it before. He did remember the stunning chandelier and full-length fireplace, along with Keelin’s grin when she had poked him in the ribs and whispered, “Glad I’m not the poor maid hired to keep ash off that gorgeous monstrosity.” Indeed, the chandelier was as immaculate as the rest of the lobby.
Áiné led him to the main concierge desk and waved away the man working there. A few other employees, dressed in uniform, milled about with the efficiency Eamon knew Áiné demanded.
The splendor of the place hadn’t changed since he’d last been there. Wood grains, heavy carpets and rich colors still dominated the huge room, but now the desks held flat-screen computers, and the old-fashioned hanging key rings behind the main desk were gone, replaced by key cards and modern security. The lighting had been updated and the simplicity of the wall sconces felt very twenty-first century. It was brighter than he remembered. The warmth of the light glittered off highlights in Áiné’s hair as she bustled around, logging on to the computer and getting him checked in.
Áiné looked nothing like Keelin—the hotel owner’s red hair matched Eamon’s own rather than Keelin’s light blonde. But seeing the redhead now closer to fifty than twenty, with charming crow’s feet around her eyes and lines creased beside her smile, the years suddenly caught up with him. He’d spent half his life without his wife. How would Keelin have aged? Would her blonde tresses now be closer to white?
