THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY:
Something Else, Something Different, Something More (Second Edition)
by Nia Farrell
Length 61,047 words. Expanded second edition release date December 1, 2018.
Goodreads (second edition) reviews
The Three Graces Trilogy includes Books 1-3 in the seven-book series.
SOMETHING ELSE (Book One, click on the title to see teasers)
Grace Murphy is the local psychic medium who dreams of her soulmates—Nico White, a bisexual American Indian musician, and J.T. Santiago, an ex-Navy SEAL and former cage fighter with PTSD on top of the guilt that he’s still carrying from other lifetimes that they’ve shared. J.T. is a Dominant, but he’s never had a male submissive and Grace and Nico are a package deal. It’s a learning curve for all of them, with J.T.’s initiation into MMF and MM relations and Grace’s introduction to BDSM. With Grace’s yin, J.T’s yang, and Nico’s center balance, the three of them come together as far as J.T.’s PTSD will allow. But forging a future will mean healing the past, however painful it might be.
An interracial paranormal MMF ménage BDSM erotic romance, this book is written as a standalone, but the epilogue ends with a teaser for the second book in the series. Contains explicit sexual content, written for mature readers. Ages 18+.
SOMETHING DIFFERENT (Book Two, click on the title to see teasers)
Singer/songwriter Anna James is getting desperate. Even with a day job, money’s tight, and she’s wound tighter yet, having sworn off sex to reconcile with her mother who’s in chemo and her father who disowned her for her wild, wicked ways. No sooner than her psychic best friend predicts an end to Anna’s self-imposed drought, rock stars Jackson and Jacob Thomason come to town, with the dream of an indie album co-written with local American Indian flutist Nico White and his songwriting partner AJ McPherson.
The triple-platinum artists are attracted to Anna, who gives as good as she gets. Learning that Anna’s alter ego AJ puts the “twist” in Nico’s “tribal” music only makes them want her more. The part-Comanche Thomason twins need an album’s worth of songs. That means spending night after night, working closely, getting to know each other, learning how to co-create.
Anna’s never written music with anyone but Nico. Their collaborations are so natural, so organic. They’re comfortable with each other. The Thomason twins, who perform as No Mercy, make her anything but. What’s a fangirl to do, when submitting to her rock star idols means exploring the darker side of passion?
A BDSM MFM ménage erotic rock star romance, written for Ages 18+.
Contains advanced BDSM and may contain triggers.
SOMETHING MORE—2016 Golden Flogger Finalist for Best BDSM Book of the Year (Book Three, click on the title to see teasers)
Loving a biker and his adult film star brother came at a terrible price. Taken by a rival gang, beaten beyond recognition and sexually assaulted, Rachel Givens saw a chance to survive by claiming the identity of the other girl who was taken and killed. She spent months recovering from her physical injuries but still struggles with PTSD. Add her three-year-old autistic daughter to the equation, and Rachel (now Rae Simmons) has her hands more than full as she makes a new life for them in a quiet little town.
When her former lovers walk into the restaurant where she works, it’s clear that the Colson brothers have come for more than the plate lunch special. Once Rachel gladly submitted to their domination, but she hasn’t been with a man since her ordeal. She has triggers and issues and a daughter whose needs come first. Cord and Cam don’t care whether or not Hannah is theirs. As far as they’re concerned, Hannah is Rachel’s and Rachel is theirs. They’ll do whatever it takes to convince Rachel that they belong together.
This newly expanded edition of a 2016 Golden Flogger Finalist is a BDSM MFM ménage erotic romance with adult situations and potential triggers. Written for Ages 18+.
Excerpt 1—from Something Else:
J.T. notices my submissive traits. I keep my eyes down and let the two men lead the conversation, listening more than talking. And I notice his Dominant traits. He pays attention to my needs, making certain Cherry finally brings the glass of water that I ordered when we first got here and asking if my burger is cooked the way I like it. He compliments my hair, my flowing New Age dress, and asks me the standard getting-to-know-you questions.
I tell him where I was born, where I went to school, where I work, where we live.
“You need to come out,” I tell him. Please, please, please. “It’s too cold for swimming, but on warm days, the fish still jump. Or we could kayak.” We have two, but a neighbor has several that he rents to campers, fishermen, and the occasional waterfowl hunter looking for a better way to retrieve downed birds.
Nico seconds the notion. “Sure,” he says, lifting his beer in a toast. “Bring your stuff. Spend the weekend. You can have my room. I’ll take the couch.” His choice of words reminds J.T. that, so far, we are only friends.
Hopefully, that’s about to change.
The warmth in Nico’s eyes makes me wonder if he’d rather share his room—his bed—with J.T. alone. It would let the two men bond before adding me to the mix. The trouble is, I can’t get a handle on J.T. What’s he up for?
I need J.T. to want us. Both of us. I want what I’ve seen. What I’ve dreamed about. The three of us sharing a bed together, sometimes with me between, sometimes with Nico. When we looked at properties, a master suite large enough for a California king was at the top of our list. So far Nico’s been sleeping there alone, just him and those big, talented hands of his, fisting himself into oblivion.
But I can almost hear J.T.’s doubting Thomas. The man doesn’t trust himself. I sense the same darkness he does, the part of him that makes him afraid he’ll cross a line and hurt someone.
Wounded spirit. And not just in this life.
Nothing that simple.
Nothing that easy.
Not that healing PTSD is ever easy.
Suddenly, I see him, struggling, hurting, lost. Crippled with “soldier’s heart” in an alternate-reality past life that we shared, he’s also suffered shell shock in wars that he fought without us. With the vision comes the knowledge of why we are here this time. To help him mend. To help him heal. He’s been trying to dispel the darkness when he needs to embrace it. Harness it. Learn to live with his shadow self.
I can almost feel his collar on my neck and see the ink on Nico’s.
Excerpt 2—from Something Different:
There are six feet three inches of male heat on my back when I grab one of the reusable glass bottles and close the refrigerator door. He bends down to murmur in my right ear; his nose nudges the row of hoops that rim it as his breath dances over my skin. “I don’t know where you went,” he says, “but I sure as hell hope you go there again–and take us the fuck with you next time.”
I catch myself leaning toward him, like I’m drawn by a goddamn magnet. There’s no denying I want them. I’d just like an idea of how this needs to go down. Before I give myself a chance to chicken out, I flat out ask him, “Do you two do everything together?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.” He lifts his hand–the one that has L O V E tattooed on his fingers–and strokes my arm, leaving gooseflesh in his wake. “If you know our music, you know us. It won’t be gentle, and it won’t be quick, but I can fucking guarantee we’ll give you the best sex of your life….”
If anyone else called me kitten, I might take offense. But the Spanish rolling off his tongue has an oddly erotic appeal.
Now I’m curious. “Kitten? You want to tell me where that came from?”
“Ever try to catch a feral cat?” he asks me, sliding his hand up to my shoulder and flexing his fingers around it. “Even a kitten will shred you to ribbons. But you’ve got the spice to go with the claws, don’t you, gatita?”
Shit. The temperature in here just raised ten degrees. Needing to chill, I twist off the lid, slam back a mouthful of cold spring water, and nearly die of brain freeze. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
Jackson chuckles. “That’s the plan.”
“Since when?” I stop rubbing my forehead long enough to throw a look over my shoulder. I flick my eyelashes at him, daring him to flirt some more. We kind of skipped that part when we went straight from heated looks to promises of three-way kink.
“The diner,” he says. “You gave as good as you got. You sounded like you could handle us.”
“Mmmm. My hooker voice. And how did I look?”
I’m fishing. He knows it. I know it. We’re both aware it’s not a deal breaker, but his answer could put a whole new spin on things.
“Like you’d dare anything. Risk anything. You were…hot,” he rumbles. “So fucking hot. I wanted to drag you into the back and bend you over a sink and—”
“Is that what you want, brat?” He underscores the last word with a slap on my bottom, his tone full of menace.
I shiver, and not from the chilled bottle that I’m holding against my chest.
“Ah,” he says, sounding pleased. “Then here’s a word of warning. A little sass gives us an excuse to get creative. Disrespect us, or anyone else, and we’ll keep you on the edge so long, you’ll be begging us to put you out of your misery. No Mercy,” he whispers, turning me to face him.
Up close, his tats are even more amazing. I’ve never wanted ink, but I’ll gladly give his some serious consideration.
“If you’ve wondered about the band’s name, there it is. From a former groupie when we were still performing as The Thomason Twins. She had a sweet little pussy, but she wouldn’t watch her mouth. When she figured out we’d never let her come, she moved on. The bitch lasted four weeks. It was the longest fucking month of my life.”
I can’t help it. Lifting my free hand, I palm his chest to feel his piercing and his nipple peaks against it. I drop my gaze and see a distinct tenting of his jeans.
“Yep, I feel your pain.” Slanting him a look, I wonder if they were thinking music and hoping for more when they bought me an excused absence.
If he’d known, would Kirk have given me time off work for bad behavior?
Not that it matters. I’m theirs, or will be.
Excerpt 3—from Something More:
Cam scoots his chair around. When I step between his feet, I’m facing him and, across the table, Cord. I lean forward, nuzzling Cam’s ear, watching his brother, remembering what it was like to have them both inside me. The plus-size dildo they bought to use while Cam was gone was a poor substitute for the real thing.
I catch his earlobe with my lips, caging it with my teeth and gently tugging. My mouth slides down, following the line of his jaw to the center of his chin. He was clean-shaven this morning, but Cam’s beard grows so quickly, he usually shaves twice a day. Right now, there’s sandpaper abrading my skin, making my lips ultrasensitive.
I glance at Cord, who’s watching us with the intensity of a hawk in a fresh-cut field, who knows that patience is a virtue well-rewarded. I just don’t know how prison has affected his control. Telling myself that I’d better not test it, I give my full attention to his older brother.
Cam smells like I remember him, ocean breeze and woodsy musk. I suck on his lower lip, hear the telling intake of breath, and know his body’s response. I’ve seen it too many times on screen and in person. He can go from flaccid to fully hard in seconds flat and can maintain an erection pretty much all night.
The memory jolts me, and I realize there is a tiny, tiny chance that my daughter is his. He usually took my mouth or my ass, but in a marathon session the night before the last time he left, he had all of me, every way that he could take me, with and without Cord, who was still there, watching, when he wasn’t joining in.
I wonder what he thought when I said that he couldn’t be Hannah’s father. Was he hurt, thinking that I could so easily forget? Or did he realize the horrors that followed mere days later messed with my mind?
“I remember,” I whisper against his mouth. “This. Us. I remember….” It’s why he needed tested, too. Oh, God.
I kiss him. Open mouth, tongue thrusting, hands fisting in his hair, bent on ruining his hundred dollar cut. Forgive me. Punish me. Take me. Don’t hurt me. My mind is a maelstrom, but my body is on fire.
The bag of peas falls to the floor. Rather than fisting my hair and pulling it like he used to during kink, Cam winnows his fingers in my pixie cut. If he rubs my scalp, he’ll feel the scar from the surgery, done to relieve the pressure on my brain.
My pussy throbs, outer lips engorged, inner folds getting wetter by the second. I feel a terrible emptiness in my womb. My breasts ache, hurting almost as much as they did when my sick baby Hannah slept through her feeding time. I long for what once was. For the three of us together, sharing my childhood home.
I wonder what Cord did with it. Except for the thousand dollars I left to my parent’s church, he inherited everything I had, everything my parents left me. The checking and savings accounts. Stocks and bonds. Daddy’s 401K and the insurance money divided into multiple CDs. The house I was forced to abandon, the day I officially died.
I pull back, breathing hard. Focusing on Cam, I look into eyes filled with pain, and hunger, and questions that I can’t begin to answer. “I’m sorry.” I touch my forehead to his, hoping he won’t press me to expound or to explain.
“You okay?” Cam asks, his voice hoarse with longing.
“I think so. And you?”
“I think so.” He quirks his trademark grin. “Give me two minutes in the bathroom and I’ll feel better.”