Authors: Teresa Noelle Roberts
He won, of course. Since he was bigger, he would have even if she hadn’t wanted him to, but she did want him to.
Wanted to feel him overpower her, overwhelm her again, in a lighthearted way this time, in contrast to the previous night’s fire. Wanted to feel his strength, his energy, his mock fierceness that could become real, intensely sexual fierceness at the drop of a hat, or in this case, a sheet.
After the inevitable result—tracing the lines left by last night’s caning, giving her a few delicious smacks to redden her again, warm her up, make her sex swell and dampen and her need for him, which had been dulled a bit by sleepiness, rise again, a quick, furious, good-morning doggy-style fucking that brought her over the edge and tumbling into the oblivion of space—after all that and the cuddling and the laughter, he looked at her again and said, “And I love to see you like that too, all flushed and tender and sweaty from sex.”
“Now that I’ll believe. I love you seeing you that way too.”
“Doms do not get not flushed and tender!” he proclaimed in his most pretentious voice.
She couldn’t resist.
She hit him with her pillow.
He retaliated, and before they knew it, they were chasing each other through the condo, buffeting each other with down.
This time, she wasn’t going to let him win and smacked at him with the pillows for all she was worth.
And in the middle of the laughter, Nick said, “Yeah, I definitely love waking up with you. Move in.”
The pillow that was about to come down on Nick’s head without mercy fell to the floor. “Nick, did you just ask me to move in?”
“You’re not on the lease at your place, right?”
She shook her head. “Moved in to fill a vacancy. I need to give Lashonda time to find someone new.” She hadn’t gotten close to her roommate, but she didn’t want to leave the other woman in the lurch, stuck with more rent than she could afford. Lashonda was fresh out of undergrad, without the savings reserves Selene had from selling her house in Rochester.
“Funny you should say that,” he said. “I’ve got a new coworker. Nice kid, moved out here from Cincinnati to take the job. She’s living on a college friend’s couch now, but she’s kind of desperate for a room of her own. I think she and Lashonda would get along okay. How about it? Eventually we’d need to find someplace bigger, where we could have pets and throw parties and stuff, but this could do while we’re looking.”
The reality of the question hit her, and she threw her arms around Nick and squealed like a happy little girl. “Of course! I’d love to. I love you. I…”
She stopped abruptly. “Am not very coherent at the moment?” Nick suggested helpfully.
“Yeah, that too.” She stayed silent, thinking. Of course she wanted to move in. That wasn’t a question. She loved Nick, loved being with him, wanted to see if they could make it work on the next level.
But something was niggling at her.
“If I move in…when I move in… will there be rules?”
“Yes,” Nick said unhesitatingly. Then, a little more hesitatingly, “If it works for you too. Not slave rules, nothing too strict. Just little things to remind you that you’re mine.”
Her heart fluttered. “Yours?”
“Mine. Not my slave, just mine. Mine always, because I’m not going to let you go. Mine.”
He grabbed a handful of hair at her nape as he said
mine
the final time, and Selene felt herself melting. She thought the recent lovemaking had left her sated, boneless, but all it took was those words, that gesture, to make her pussy swollen and slick, her nipples achingly taut.
Nick’s blue eyes bored into hers, and the world narrowed to him and her and that was just as it should be.
“Yours always,” she said softly.
And that was all the talking they did for a long, long time. At least with words.
About the Author
Teresa Noelle Roberts started writing stories in kindergarten and she hasn’t stopped yet. A prolific author of short erotica, she’s also a published poet and fantasy writer—but BDSM-spiced contemporaries and hot paranormals are her favorites. She’s hard at work writing the kinky tales of hot dominant guys and smart women who submit to them—but not anyone else!—and making more sexy Duals and Donovans magic for your reading pleasure.
Teresa is a crunchy granola girl who enjoys belly dance, yoga, medieval re-creation, playing in the ocean, cooking, and growing more vegetables than she and her husband can possibly eat. She shares her home in southern Massachusetts with her husband, a Leo who works in law enforcement, and two overstuffed cats, who deserve their own shout-out as inspirations for her works. She and her husband often plan vacations around food, history, and/or proximity to water.
To learn more about Teresa Noelle Roberts, please visit
www.teresanoelleroberts.com
. Follow her on Twitter, where she’s
TeresNoeRoberts
, or on Facebook:
www.facebook.com/#!/teresanoelleroberts
.
Look for these titles by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Now Available:
Lions’ Pride
Foxes’ Den
Fox’s Folly
What happens in Vegas lasts forever…if you’re lucky.
Fox’s Folly
© 2012 Teresa Noelle Roberts
A
Duals and Donavans
Story
Las Vegas is the wrong place for an inexperienced witch like Paul Donavan. But he has no choice; his family owes a debt of honor to a half-fae casino owner, whose guests have been dying under mysterious circumstances. The normy police haven’t connected the dots between the deaths, and the owner has called in his marker.
When Paul literally runs into fox dual Taggart Ross, the instant, powerful attraction between them bristles with red flags. Not only should there be no sparks between him and this “hillbilly with a tail,” the fact is a dual couldn’t have committed murder-by-magic. But until he’s got proof, caution rules.
Tag’s own suspicions are on high alert. Magic killed his favorite uncle, and Paul, who senses Tag’s dual nature way too easily, should be a prime suspect. Except Tag’s libido responds to the witch in a way that shouldn’t happen.
Whatever this thing is between them, the raw sexual energy feeds a power that becomes their best hope of drawing out the killer before he, she, or
it
strikes again. Until love gets involved, and things get real complicated, real fast…
Warning: Sly foxes, smoky Southern drawls, sex magic, dangerous demons, tacky Las Vegas glitz, and did we mention the hot guy-on-guy sex?
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Fox’s Folly:
“Is this moving a little fast, or is just me?” Tag said, laughing. He had to laugh to make sure he did it, to make sure he didn’t continue kissing and nibbling the man’s fingers long after the last bit of sushi was gone. “I’ve been known to be a man-ho, but I usually wait to learn someone’s name before I ask him out. Or her, or, in at least one case, zir. And I usually ask the last name before we start messing around this much. At least I have since I graduated from college, and that was a few years ago.”
“Something in the water.”
“Except I’d already dragged you off to dinner before I had any water here. Must be in the air.” He paused and sniffed, scenting in a way he hoped his human companion wouldn’t notice. Definitely something in the air. He hadn’t imagined that woods-and-ocean-and-amber scent, and his foxside assured him it wasn’t cologne. Paul just smelled like nature, and like, oh gods, hot sex. “Why else would they need a slogan like ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’?”
Paul grabbed his hand. His face turned serious, startlingly intent. “I’m single. I’d been dating someone casually until recently, but she and I both realized we weren’t a good fit before it got to the point that ending it was messy. So, I’m a free man. I hope you can say the same.”
“I have a couple of…I’d guess you’d say friends with benefits. They’re married to each other. I’m their good friend, and we all fuck sometimes. They’d probably be disappointed if I didn’t come home with a wild story from Vegas.” Now why had he told Paul about Charmaine and Joe? It sounded sordid to most normies, who didn’t understand fox culture, where extended families and long-term ménages were the norm.
Paul nodded, though, as if he understood or at least accepted. “Nice work if you can get it. Threesomes can get messy, but it sounds like you guys have it worked out.” He added in a softer voice, “I suppose it’s easier for you than it would be for most humans. Three’s sacred in dual culture—but are you Lord or Trickster? I know you’re not the Lady.”
There was no point in denying it. Paul was obviously not a speciesist. But Tag still dropped his voice. Paul might be fine, but other people weren’t, and in an increasingly conservative political climate, normies’ fears about duals were being codified into law. The last thing he wanted to do was spend part of his time in Las Vegas being harassed by the Agency, which monitored duals and other Differents.
Actually, that might be the second-to-last thing. Dragging Paul into that kind of mess would probably be the last thing. He seemed so nice, as well as hotter than hell.
Tag tried to make light of it. “I didn’t get so rattled I let my ears show, did I? Haven’t done that since I was six and my folks took me into Knoxville for the first time.”
“No. Not that anyone else would see, that is. I can see the fox in your aura, of course, and…oh shit,” Paul whispered, the ordinary profanity sounding foul in his cultured voice. “I did it again. I am so sorry.” He managed to eke out a smile. “I guess I just blew your cover and my chances at a Las Vegas fling.”
His aura? Paul knew what he was from his aura? Paul could
see
his aura? Who was this guy, other than insanely hot and now more than a little freaky? “What the
hell
kind of consulting gig are you here on, Paul who hasn’t told me his last name?”
“Security consultant for the casino.”
Tag sniffed at the air, not bothering to conceal it now that his secret was out. He smelled no lies, but still, his ears perked inside the human seeming. Something was not quite right here. “I’ve met the kind of security they hire for high-stakes games. They look like thugs, and you never see the guns, but you know they’re carrying. You look like a college professor. A young, attractive professor, but still a professor. And you’re not the kind of security who’s supposed to blend in, because you don’t blend. You’re too good-looking, and you’re too uncomfortable. I’d say being in a city makes your paws itch, except you don’t have paws. Maybe you mean computer security, but a geek would be talking about work by now and fiddling with his iWhatever. Who are you really, Paul?
What
are you? I’m pretty sure you’re human, but you smell like no one I’ve ever met before.”
“My name,” Paul said, as if answering that one question would answer all of them, “is Paul Donovan.”
It did—not the name, which was common enough, but the way he said it.
“As in Desmond Donovan, the former presidential advisor on magic and the Different?”
The one who’d resigned in solitary protest as, despite his best efforts, laws were passed denying duals their civil rights. A hero in his own right among the Different, though he was a human witch, not a dual.
Paul nodded.
“So you’re one of
those
Donovans.” Tag exaggerated his drawl. It tended to make people think he was dumber than he was, although it was probably too late for that with Paul. “One of the most powerful witches in this country.” If it was true, it would explain Paul’s amazing scent, the combination of raw sex and curious purity. Witches were human, but a witch on the Donovan power level was as unlike a normy as a shape-shifting dual was. Donovans supposedly had the kind of magic that inspired the freakier western European fairytales—only they were the good witches, the ones who saved the heroine’s butt when everything was going against her. They didn’t use their powers for material gain.
Which didn’t exactly jibe with being a security consultant at one of the ritziest casinos in Las Vegas.
As far as Tag could smell, Paul was telling the truth about his family, but it could be a partial truth. He could be a low-powered witch who was taking odd jobs to improve his skills—even the Donovans must occasionally have a kid who wasn’t as powerful, just like his own clan had produced Aunt Mary Frances, who opted to pass for human so she could marry a right-wing Bubba. He could have fallen out with his family for some reason. Just because they were capital-G Good Guys didn’t mean they might not be annoying as horseflies to live with. He could just be checking out the mundane world, like Amish teenagers did before settling down.
Or maybe he was one of the bad witches. There had to be bad witches. Every sentient species produced a few rotters, and since witches were basically just humans with some twists to their DNA, they’d be no exception.
Maybe he was a witch bad enough to commit murder with magic and get away with it.
It didn’t seem likely, not with that fresh, yummy smell. A murderer wouldn’t necessarily stink, but it didn’t seem like a killer could smell like pure joy. But what did Tag really know about witches?