Highland Desire

 

Highland Desire by Nia Farrell writing as Erinn Ellender Quinn

Length: 7,632 words.  Release Date December 20, 2017

Amazon e-book         Smashwords FREE BOOK 

 

In 1602 Scotland, a young widow traveling alone with her three-year-old daughter finds herself indebted to her clan’s enemy after he saves her child.

A steamy historical Highland romance novelette, written for Ages 18+.

Excerpt:

“Ye look better,” he murmured, sounding as if the mere act of speaking was all that he could manage.

 

“As do ye,” she replied.  If she were judging by looks alone, she would have deemed him fit for travel.  But his voice betrayed his weakness. They would be here at least one night, possibly two.

The last time she was on Rannoch Moor, she was a frightened fifteen-year-old, headed for a marriage that her stepfather had arranged.  Now, she was a woman grown and had a choice—to stay with Niall or go.  Wounded though he was, she still felt safer with him than alone.  Too, she owed him her daughter’s life.  Saving his seemed the least that she could do.

She gathered berries and wood sorrel, shaved more meat, and made tea.  Eventually, she helped him up when the water she’d been pushing in him demanded to be let out.  Judging the hour, she gathered bits of wood and dried dung, anything that would burn to help ward off the chill of night.  They spend it hunkered by the fire, trying to stay warm, with her child tethered to her so she could not wander off. 

In the morning, Muirgheal steeped more sorrel and shaved meat for him, and fed Phee and herself.  Niall was quiet.  She wished that he would speak.  Even if he was not up for conversation, he could at least tell her exactly where he lived.  She prayed that it was close.  Hopefully, it was within a day’s ride.  Surely he would not range far from his home to hunt, but with men, one never knew.

By the time the three of them finished breaking their fast, Niall deemed himself ready to try riding.

Muirgheal said nothing.  She nodded, keeping her doubts to herself.  Willpower alone might get him in the saddle and keep him there.  But he would be seated alone this time.  He could barely handle himself.  There was no way that he could handle Phee and her.

She tied their bags behind his saddle.  At least that much of her burden would be lighter.  The two of them walked beside him, or she walked and Phee rode her hip.  They traveled until they entered Gleann Dubh—the Black Glen, which lay west of Loch Rannoch, about eleven miles east of where they had been on Rannoch Moor.  It was almost as pretty a place as where she was born.  The stone cottage they finally reached looked cozy and well-made.

Approaching it, Muirgheal noted a small garden out back.  The door in the side of a hill marked where a root cellar had been dug into it.  The barn behind the house had a paddock.  From beyond the barn, she thought she heard the laugh of a stream as it tumbled over rocks and rills.

The trip had taken most of Niall’s strength.  “Ye need to rest,” she said.  “I’ll take care of yer horse if ye will tell me what ye want.”

There was a long, awkward pause.

He had to clear his throat to answer her.

She listened to his words, but more than that, she searched his eyes, wishing to rewind the clock and read again what she thought they were saying.

Tell me what ye want.

He wanted her.

She had begun to suspect it, the way that he tried, so very hard, to not look at her.  He was a quiet one, except for the occasional tune he hummed or sang before a bullet had nearly felled him.  He didn’t feel the need to fill the air with idle chatter, and in that, they were alike.  She would rather listen to his breath and to his heartbeat and know that when he did say something, his words had weight and meaning.

Niall rode the horse into the barn and managed to dismount.  While Phee jumped on a rick of straw, Muirgheal helped him with the saddle and pad.  He took off the bridle and turned the stallion out into the paddock to graze on lush, green grass.

The inside of the house was cooler than outside, thanks to the thickness of the stone walls and windows that faced east.  It was a typical one-room Highland cottage, with a bed downstairs and a sleeping loft above.  Niall lived here with his ghosts, in the framed silhouette of a woman on the wall, the abandoned spinning wheel near the hearth, and the empty cradle in the corner.

“Nap!” Phee gave it a push and giggled, wanting to lie in it.

“Nay, lassie.  Ye willnae fit.”  Even if she did, her climbing in the cradle might violate his sacred space, and Niall was already hurting.

“Sit,” she insisted when Niall stopped beside a pair of wooden buckets.  “Tell me where tae fill them, and I shall.”

“The burn,” he said, pointing in the direction of the barn.

Taking a bucket in each hand, Muirgheal ordered Phee to come and set out to find water.  The burn was close by.  In the summer heat, the spring-fed water was blessedly cold and clear.  She walked to a point above where the horse drank and brought the wooden pails back full.

Setting them by the door, she found Niall asleep on the floor by the hearth, choosing to lie there rather than dirty his sheets or climb to the sleeping loft.  To let him rest, she took Phee with her and visited the root cellar, taking stock of what was there in crocks, baskets, bottles, and kegs.  Niall clearly needed more variety in his diet.  There was dried meat aplenty but little in the way of vegetables, and his garden was too small to meet more than the moment’s need.

Next year, she thought, then stopped herself.  So close to home, she was.  So near to her mother, her family, her friends.  Try as she might to picture herself on the far side of the pass, she could as easily see herself here, sewing by the hearth, mending stockings and making clothes for her growing little girl who was more comfortable with Niall than she’d ever been with the man who wished only for a son.

Did she want to stay?  Dare she ask?  And if she did, would he let her?  She knew next to nothing about the man who lived here.  How did he earn his living?  Was he wealthy?  Was he happy?  If he wasn’t, could she be the one to ease his sadness and make him so?

She’d only known him three days, and already she could envision a future with him.  In her heart, she was willing to risk it.  Whatever happened now, he would be the one to decide.

 

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A Wicked Christmas 1869

A Wicked Christmas 1869.jpg

A WICKED CHRISTMAS 1869

by Nia Farrell

Release Date December 1, 2017.  Length: 6,442 words.

Amazon e-book http://mybook.to/WC1869 or https://www.amazon.com/dp/B076VNB7DN

Goodreads http://bit.ly/WC1869GR or https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36481530-a-wicked-christmas-1869

 

In this sizzling short story, Elena Davenport Wainwright gets ready to celebrate her second Christmas with her husbands Edward Wainwright and Daniel O’Flaherty.  Suffering from “soldier’s heart” (PTSD) from her service in the Civil War, Elena looks to the Dominant Edward for shelter from the storms of life.  But on the anniversary of her kidnapping, it’s the Master who needs reassurance.

Although written as a standalone, your enjoyment will be enhanced if you have read As Wicked as You Want, named one of The 50 Best Indie Books of 2016, voted #1 erotica and #10 overall.

Historical MMF ménage erotic romance, a short story written for Ages 18+.

 

Excerpt:

Edward had been quiet at supper.  Introspective, rather than troubled or morose.  Indeed, he was not given to nostalgia, nor to the dark nights of the soul that had plagued me since the war.  Daniel understood what it meant to have “soldier’s heart.”  He had one, too, although to a much lesser degree.  Mine was crippling.  The first time Edward witnessed it, he had served as my anchor, offering safe harbor when Fourth of July gunfire had triggered an episode that left me puddled on the floor.

Then, and now, he provided shelter from every storm.  Tonight, though, he was in need of reassurance.

Disregarding the ache in my thigh, I knelt between his and Daniel’s feet and rested my cheek against the fine wool covering Edward’s muscled thigh, welcoming the feel of his hand upon my head.  My hair had grown out considerably since I’d met him.  It pleased him to free it from its net and pins, winnow his fingers through my ebony locks, arrange them over my shoulders, and smooth my hair with his hand.

I sighed, content with my station.

“My boy,” Edward rumbled after a time.  Even before he used his pet name for Daniel, I could feel the shift in his energy.  Whatever had made him quiet before had given way to burgeoning passion.  The proof of it was straining his seams and testing the buttons of his pants.  “Lock the door.”

Not that the servants would bother us.  His staff had been with him long enough to understand the way of things.  A closed door meant that we wished for privacy.  Only an emergency that demanded the master’s attention was cause enough for their interruption.

No sooner had Daniel turned the key than Edward had his fly open and his erection in hand.  Fisting himself, he watched watching Daniel’s approach with keen interest, his deviant’s mind alive with possibilities.

What he would ask of us was anyone’s guess.

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Wicked Lady

Wic

“Wicked Lady” by Nia Farrell

Length 5,147 words.  Release Date July 1, 2017

Amazon e-book http://mybook.to/WLady (ASIN B072KFNBGD)

Goodreads http://bit.ly/WLadyGR

Blurb:  In Restoration England, Catherine Fanshawe is a young widow without the means to run the estate that she has inherited.  Driven to desperation and inspired by her namesake (believed to have been a notorious female highwayman), Catherine decides that the Wicked Lady will ride once more.

Her target is Lord Leighton, James Devereaux, a scandalous bounder, handsome as sin, and rich as Croesus.  When she stops his carriage, she punishes his attempt to distract her by demanding more than money.

James resists, at first, until he realizes the masked highwayman is a woman.  When she leaves him bound to a tree and unsatisfied, he vows revenge.  Being a confidant of King Charles adds a world of privilege to his rank, and resources at his command.  He will not rest until he finds his Wicked Lady.  Whatever it takes, her crimes against him will not go unpunished, even if he must take the law into own hands.

Catherine doesn’t know it, but the tables are about to be turned.

A sizzling hot short story, written for ages 18+.

 

Excerpt:

Lady Donnelly did not protest when James took her arm and bade her accompany him to somewhere more private where they could…talk.

Both of them knew there would be little of that—at least in the near future.

Alone in his private chamber, he took an inordinate amount of pleasure in the way she trembled before him.  She should be frightened.  Her fate was in his hands.

“Nice mask,” James remarked.  “Much nicer than the plain one you wore in Hertfordshire.  Purchased with my coin, no doubt.  Take it off.”

Her hands shook as she did so, revealing a pert nose and smooth cheeks.  Her pale complexion contrasted sharply with her ebony hair and emerald eyes.  Framed with a thick brush of absurdly long lashes, they were stunning to behold.

“And the dress.”

She blinked, hard.  “What?”

James’s smile held no humor.  “You heard me.  The dress.  I know damned well it was purchased with my coin, too.  Be glad I do not choose to strip your brother, or make him privy to your shame.  Test me, and you will not be the only one who pays the price for treason.”

“Treason?!  But—”

“When you accost an officer of the King, you attack your sovereign.  Did you think that there would be no repercussion for your crimes against me?  Fortunately for you, Charles has agreed to let me handle this myself.  Now, I can order a hanging, but I have much more appealing uses for rope.  Your choice,” he said simply.  “Be taken, naked, to the Tower or submit freely to me.  Tell me, which is it to be?”

“I have no choice,” she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.  He’d remedy that soon enough.

“Nor did I,” he reminded her curtly.  “Your dress is still on.”

“I am sorry.  I need help, Sir.  Without a maid, I am afraid that I must beg your assistance.”

James used his considerable experience to dispense with her dress and underpinnings, leaving her clad only in her shoes and stockings, corset and chemise.  He circled her, judging her attributes with a critical eye and finding himself well pleased.  She was healthy, at least, with a soft curve to her belly, enough hips to hold onto, and creamy breasts that swelled above her stays.  With her height a good foot shorter than his, it would make for some interesting dynamics when he took her to bed.

He went to sit upon it.  “You shall lie across my lap with your head here and your arse here.”  He pointed to each in turn.  “I am going to spank you, blister that bottom of yours. You will keep count, and thank me for each blow.  Lose track, and we begin again.  You are not to speak otherwise.  When you are allowed to do so, in private, you will call me Master.  Nod if you understand.”

Mortification stained her cheeks.  She jerked her head and wrung her hands.

“Good.  You are intelligent, if unwise.  We shall see how biddable you are.  Now come.”

She approached him with as much eagerness as a convict did a hanging tree.  Stopping by his knee, she bent over it, settled herself, and waited for him to begin.

James grabbed a handful of soft, fine linen and pulled up the back of her chemise, not stopping until the fabric was bunched above her waist and her bottom was bared.  And what a lovely bottom it was.  He palmed each cheek in turn, squeezing, molding, warming the tissue, preparing her for what was to come.  She stifled a moan and clenched her thighs.  He could smell her arousal.

His Wicked Lady was proving a lusty wench.

Smack!

“One,” she gasped.  “Thank you, Master.”

Smack!  A matching strike on the other side.

“Two.  Thank you, Master.”

He kept going, alternating sides, keeping his strikes on the fleshy globes of her buttocks.  The flesh pinkened, then reddened, as she counted the cost.  He did not stop until she had dissolved into tears, gulping breaths between her choked responses, and her nether lips were swollen and slick with dew.

James thrust two fingers into her breach, pumped his hand, and pulled it out, licking his fingers and tasting her essence.  Delicious.  She moaned, no doubt feeling the emptiness and aching to be filled.

Not yet.

He pushed her off his lap and let her crumple on the floor.  “Kneel,” he rumbled, reaching to open his breeches.  “I am going to fuck your mouth.  If you know what’s best, you shall keep your teeth away and your claws sheathed—and you shall swallow anything that I choose to give you.  Nod if you understand.”

The dark head bobbed.

“Have you done this before?  Taken a man in your mouth?”  He had discovered too little on her late husband to know his true measure as a man, let alone a sexual partner.  “You may answer me.”

She pushed herself up, keeping her eyes down, never raising her gaze above his chest.  “No, Master.”

For some reason, that pleased him, to learn he would be her first.  “I shall teach you,” he said, taking out his cock and stroking it fully erect.  “Show you how to give the greatest pleasure.  There are sensitive spots here, here, and here.”  He pointed to the base of his shaft, the whole of the crown, and the place underneath that could bring a man to his knees.  “The rim and the first few inches are the most sensitive.  You shall learn to take me down your throat—oh, yes, you shall do that, too.  Use your tongue to tempt and tease, the suction of your mouth to bring me to a satisfying end.  Swallow my seed, and I shall reward you.  Fail in any of this, and you shall suffer the consequences.  Now, begin.”

James fisted her hair and guided her to him, pushing his way between her lips and relishing the feel of her mouth and tongue.  He forged deeper, his glans rubbing against the ridges of her palate, pushing against the back of her throat.  She fought not to gag.

He drew back a little.  “Suck,” he ordered.  She obeyed, cheeks hollowing with her efforts.  He grabbed his sac and squeezed his testes, jacked his hips and deepened his strokes.  He fucked her face, pleased with her first efforts.  Feeling his balls draw up and his cock swell, he growled a warning.  “Get ready.  Here it comes.”

James exploded, pouring himself into the warmth of her mouth as she fought to swallow the volume.  When he had finished using her, he let go of her hair and let her sit back on her heels.  Her green eyes were tear-smacked, her nose red, and her lips swollen.

Beautiful.

Her eyes widened when he grabbed her biceps, hauled her to her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.  He stripped her, bound her, spread her wide and secured her wrists and ankles to the four corners of his world.  Here, in this room, he was king.  He was her sovereign.  Lady Donnelly was here to serve his will and be the receptacle for his lust.  His to do with as he pleased.  To discard or to keep.

Power was intoxicating.  More so, when he could see her fear and smell her arousal.  He thrust two fingers into her slit and pumped until she climaxed.

Shedding his clothes, he climbed onto the end of the bed and crawled up her body, dragging his chest on her front, letting his thatch of hair abrade that incredible skin of hers, sensitizing her breasts, and teasing her nipples into tight, hard buds.  He took one in his teeth and plucked it, making her body arch and writhe beneath him.

Taking himself in hand, he parted her folds and found her opening, notched his head, and thrust inside, a primal claiming that tore a cry from her throat from the sheer force of it.  He pulled back and thrust again, just as hard, just as deep, hips flexing, finding his rhythm and maintaining it.  She was as perfect as he remembered.  Tight.  Wet.  Responsive to his touch and willing to do anything he wished.

Nothing was sacrosanct.  Everything was within his grasp.  The only limits were his imagination and the whim of mercy that would eventually surface, when she reached her breaking point, if not before.

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