REPLAY REUNION 2: NAUGHTY VALENTINE

RR2 Naughty Valentine 6x9 sm

 

REPLAY REUNION 2: NAUGHTY VALENTINE

by Nia Farrell

Length 6,835 words. Release date February 22, 2019. FREE with KU.

Amazon Universal e-book     Amazon US e-book     Goodreads reviews

In this a standalone BDSM erotic romance, Replay Dominant Richard Franklin has been with Tory a year now.  The first five months were been the happiest of his life.  All that ended when Tory’s sister-in-law lost her baby and his ginger-haired witch lost her fire.

He wants his old Tory back.  The one who teased him.  Who challenged him.  The beautiful English heiress who captivated him even before she dared to cast a love spell using candle magick.  She was locked in there, somewhere.  He just needs to find the key.

Rich takes drastic measures and brings Tory to the Valentine’s party on the dark side of the resort, where RACK (Risk Aware Consensual Kink) scenes take place.  Can he get through to Tory and reclaim her, or will he lose her to the master of the whip?

This standalone short story has adult situations and a consensual power exchange that includes public exhibition, voyeurism, discipline, bondage, fire play, and sharing a submissive with another Dominant.  Written for Ages 18+.

Excerpt:

A clutch of black-robed priests and wimpled nuns stood to one side of the chamber.  Beyond them knelt five penitents, dressed in gleaming white robes and pointed hoods.  Even if she weren’t in this ancient space, she knew enough history to not assign them to a more modern era.  Their outfits predated the American Civil War by centuries.  The hoods were capirotes, worn during the Spanish Inquisition by penitents who would be flogged until their backs bled.

It wasn’t yet Lent, but that didn’t stop the first one from being stripped and bound to a whipping post facing her.

She recognized Conner from the eighteenth-century scenes that he’d done at the Georgian House.  When Rich slid his hands around her to cup her breasts and play with them, Conner didn’t even try to avert his gaze.  Instead, he focused on her and accepted the first lash of the whip on his back.

Tory flinched to see his reaction.  Pain twisted his features.  Watching her being fondled, knowing that she was out of his reach, just seemed to make it worse.

The next stripe fell.  The Dominant in priestly black robes wielded the whip like an extension of himself, each stroke as intimate as a bare-handed spanking.

“Watch,” Rich ordered when she started to look away.  “He thinks he needs to be punished, like his PTSD is his fault.  He feels responsible for what happened to his unit and guilty because he’s one of the few who survived.  You and I know that he’s not to blame, but he doesn’t see it that way, does he?”

“No, Sir,” she breathed, flinching when the next stroke fell.

Rich made her watch until Conner was let down and led away, headed for aftercare by one of the nuns.

Another man took his place.  Tory blanched when she saw that it was Luc Vashon and the priest wielding the whip was Replay psychiatrist Sir Josef.  This time, the scene didn’t end with a whipping.  Sir Josef tossed the whip aside, pulled up his robe, and impaled his submissive in one impassioned thrust that made Luc gasp and moan.

He took Luc where he stood, then freed him and led him away for aftercare.

Tory was a mass of seething lust by the time the fifth and final man was whipped.  Rich had kept her aroused and hovering on the brink of orgasm for what seemed like an hour.  She didn’t know how long that they had been here, but she was swollen and needy and craved Rich’s possession.

The whip-wielding priest scared her.  When he walked past the whipping post and stalked towards her, she instinctively shrank against Rich, silently begging her Dominant to protect her.

The priestly Dom had the look of a Spaniard about him.  Black hair.  Dark eyes.  Skin that looked kissed by the sun.  He spoke in accented English.  “I have seen your contract.  Are there any changes that you wish to make?”

Tory had reviewed its terms three months after meeting Rich, once she’d had a chance to observe the scenes at Replay and had a better understanding of what she was agreeing to.

“No, Sir,” she croaked.

His sculpted lips tilted in the barest hint of a smile.  “I am Don Diego,” he rumbled.  “In Brazil, we would call you a bruxa.  A witch.  You are a woman of power but for good or evil?  Not that it matters.  Tonight, you will be purified.  Bring her.”

Rich lowered her bound hands.  Tory’s arms ached from being extended for so long.  Rich rubbed at the tension, working her muscles once from the base of her neck to her wrists.  Cupping her shoulders, he guided her to stand beneath what looked like an oxen yoke with metal rings dangling from it.

It was the medieval equivalent of a spreader bar.

Don Diego lowered it from the ceiling.  Not to the floor, thank goodness.  She didn’t think she could take being strung upside-down.  She was freaking out enough when Rich untied her wrists and lashed each hand to one end of the yoke before it was hauled back up.

They didn’t stop until she was standing on her toes, feeling as close to a panic attack as she’d ever been.  Taking another bullwhip that he wielded with such skill, Don Diego ran the lethal leather coils down her sides, across her buttocks, and up her spine.

He stepped closer.  Close enough that she could feel the heat of his body and feel his breath stir her hair.

“Confess,” he rumbled.  “Unburden your soul.  What do you have to say, my child?”

Tory shivered, as much from Don Diego’s words as from the searing heat in Rich’s eyes.  But no words came.

Instead, there was a long moment of silence, then the lightning crack of the whip that left a fiery stripe on her skin.

Tory thought that she could take a lot, but the bullwhip was nearly too much for her to bear.  Rich was kinder in his discipline.  Firm but fair, he preferred rewards to threats of punishment.  Psychologically, she didn’t know if he would have been able to whip her.  He had spanked her and flogged her, but whips were far beyond the level of anything that they’d done.  She could tell that he was forcing himself to watch, yet he also enjoyed having her at their mercy.  His body didn’t lie.  There was a telltale tent in the front of his robe.

He wasn’t the only one who was excited.  When Don Diego inspected his work, he grasped her hips and pushed his pelvis into her backside, letting her feel his arousal. 

Rich knew what was happening and was okay with it.  His silence spoke volumes. 

He was letting this happen. 

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SECRET SANTA

SS Secret Santa 6x9 sm

 

SECRET SANTA

(MADE IN RUSSIA BOOK 1)

by Nia Farrell

Length 9,323 words. Release Date December 27, 2018. FREE with KU.

Amazon Universal Link e-book     Amazon US e-book     Goodreads reviews

 

It’s hard being a spy.

Katya Dostoevsky is a “little” and the young, submissive mistress of a Russian mobster.  Posing as a mercenary, Simon Tolliver is a forty-five-year-old British operative who’s been ordered to kill her.

Neither of them is what they seem.

Sold by human traffickers at the age of 14, Katya has endured eleven years of forced consent, serving the needs of Alexei Papanov, head of the Bratva in upstate New York.  She thinks that Simon is taking her toy shopping ahead of Christmas, but he’s been instructed to kill her en route.  After what she has suffered, he plans to be her Secret Santa and give her the quick, clean death that she deserves.

It was supposed to be his last night on his last mission before retiring.  Instead, this British spy with a gun and a girl on the run embark on a dark, thrilling ride that can only end one way.

Nia Farrell’s way.  Yippee ki-yay.

Contains guns, an ambush, a car chase, a kamikaze deer, and bad guys after flawed but endearing characters who would love peace on earth but find themselves looking over their shoulders and loading another clip.  Mandatory bedroom scene included.  Have a cold drink on hand.  Obviously written for Ages 18+.

 

Excerpt:

Simon followed Papanov upstairs, past three armed guards and a half-dozen rooms.  Stopping short of his private office, the Bratva kingpin opened a door and stepped inside, motioning for Simon to follow.

The room was decorated like a little girl’s dream with a fairytale four-poster bed, an ice cream parlor table and chairs, and an antique baby carriage full of dolls and stuffed toys.  An ornate desk sat in front of a bank of curtained windows.  Light from the crystal chandelier added to the soft glow from the computer screen of the laptop perched on the thighs of Papanov’s much-younger mistress.

Simon’s cock twitched at the sight of the pretty brunette.  Dressed only in a black bra and panties and red fuck-me heels, she sat on an office chair with her face lit and her gaze locked on the screen, oblivious to their presence.

Simon felt like a dirty old man for wishing he could stand there and watch her.  He was a spy.  He should be focused on Alexei.  Instead, he looked at the exquisite turn of Katya’s ankles and imagined them around his neck.

Katya Dostoevsky was twenty-five years old, five feet, three inches, a former gymnast, and an obedient servant to the whims of her master.  Sold by her father to Papanov when she was fourteen, she’d grown into a stunning young woman.

Too bad Alexei didn’t share.

Or did he?

“You remember Katya.”  His inflection made it a statement rather than a question.

Two sets of eyes darted to Alexei—hers alarmed and his wary.  What was Papanov’s game?

Simon schooled his features.  “Yes.”

“Myshka, you remember Mr. McCartney?”

She jerked her head in a stiff little nod.  “Da.”

She was careful to not look at Simon when she answered.  She knew Peter McCartney’s reputation, but she hadn’t really seen what he was capable of.  She’d only witnessed a clean kill.

Alexei had backhanded her, busting her lip when she wouldn’t stop crying.

Papanov nodded.  “Khorosho.  Good.  Myshka, I want you to pack a suitcase.  Take enough to last you a week.  Christmas is coming, and my mouseling wants her favorite bear fixed.  I say it is time for new ones if the old ones fall apart when you ride them.  Mr. McCartney will drive you to the apartment in Manhattan.  I will finish things here and meet you there.  Then we shop, da?”

Interesting.  Katya masturbated with teddy bears.  Knowing Alexei, he jacked off to the show and made her play the virgin to deflower as an encore.

Simon didn’t miss the look of dismay or the slight tremor that shook her shapely frame.  She swallowed the objection on the tip of her tongue and answered meekly, “Da, Papi.”

Alexei’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.  “That’s my good girl.  Set your luggage by the hallway door when you have it packed.  I want you downstairs and ready to leave in twenty minutes.  Come, Peter.”

Katya flew into action, kicking off her heels and sprinting to her closet.  Simon followed Papanov to his office one door over.  Katya’s room had been chosen for the Pakhan’s convenience.  When Alexei got an itch, he wanted it scratched immediately.  His personal sex slave was on call around the clock, anytime, day or night, in public or in private.

Alexei thought nothing of ordering Katya to please him while he entertained guests.  Humiliating her only added to his pleasure.

“Close the door.”

Simon did as ordered, questions writhing like Medusa’s snakes in his head.  He was pissed.  Alexei should have asked him first.  Instead, he’d told him in front of Katya.  Now Simon was stuck driving her down to the city.  He’d spend hours on the road and in traffic, closed in a car with a woman he wanted and could never have—

Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life as a eunuch.

The last man who’d touched her without permission had his balls cut off and shoved up his arse.  Simon hadn’t seen it, but he’d heard the story, now shared as a cautionary tale.

“Sit.”  Alexei pointed to the closest chair.  Simon took it.  Papanov did the same, settling into place behind a heavy wooden desk.

They stared at each other, a pissing contest that lasted all of fifteen seconds.

“What the fuck?” Simon growled.  This was supposed to be his last night as a spy.  The final time he’d risk life and limb for his Queen and country.  His goal in recent years was to be the exception to the rule.  He knew when he left the SAS and joined the Secret Intelligence Service that spies didn’t live long and prosper.  Retirement from MI6 was a three-by-eight piece of land and a bed six feet under, not a secret, off-the-grid cabin in the Great North Woods with a prepper’s pantry, a growing library of first editions, and an arsenal that had taken half of his life to amass.

His trip to Canada would have to wait.

Alexei let his mask drop for a moment so brief, Simon almost missed it.  Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.

The head of the Bratva in upstate New York looked out the bank of bullet-proof windows.  The clouds obscuring tonight’s full moon did nothing to dilute its effects.  Driving Katya to Manhattan was lunacy.

He told Alexei so.

Papanov sighed heavily.  “You are right,” he said, sounding weary and oddly torn.  “You will not go there.  When you leave here, you take her somewhere… and kill her.”  He huffed a breath and tapped his fingers on his desk.  “I do not need to know details.  Send word when it is done.”

Holy fuck.

It was a bloody miracle that Simon managed to look like he didn’t care, that this was just another assignment, no different than the other jobs that he’d done for Papanov.  But the men and women he’d killed before had earned it.  They were criminals.  Rivals.  Chechen Mafia.  Albanian Mafia.  Hell, he’d even killed someone from the Visconti crime family who had somehow given offense.

Alexei narrowed his eyes.  “You will do this, da?”

“Of course, I will.  I just—”

“You wish to know.”  Papanov pursed his lips, considering the wisdom in telling him.  He rarely bothered with explanations unless his blood pressure was up and he needed to vent.

“She is… too soft for this,” he said, waving an imperious hand.  “It was… mistake to bring her here.”

Papanov had had her since she was fourteen.  He’d gotten bored or annoyed or both.  Clearly, he didn’t like her asking to fix her broken bears.  After nine years of statutory rape and forced consent, he was discarding Katya as casually as a toy that he’d outgrown.  The trouble was, he couldn’t pass his plaything down, and he didn’t dare release her.  His mouseling was a liability.  She knew too much.  She’d seen too much for him to ever let her go.

 

 

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REAPER: AVENGING ANGELS MC BOOK 4

REAPER: AVENGING ANGELS MC BOOK 4

by Nia Farrell

Length 69,262 words.  Release date January 18, 2019.

Amazon Universal ebook     Amazon US ebook     Goodreads reviews

 

The dark, gripping Season One finale is loaded with triggers.  Consider yourself warned.

Maureen “Mama Mare” McLanahan is the mother of five grown children and married to Patrick “Papa Bear” McLanahan, President of the Avenging Angels MC.  For twenty-eight years, she has kept secrets that could shatter her marriage and ruin their lives.  No one knows that her oldest son might belong to Reaper Rhodes, President of the rival Blackwater Demons MC.

Reaper has been obsessed with Mare since high school.  When his collection crew brings back her daughter Rose as a party favor, he decides to save her for his son.  The next girl kidnapped has a mob boss uncle.  The Visconti crime family joins forces with the Angels to rescue both girls.

Reaper’s son is killed in a retaliatory strike by the Viscontis.  Wrongfully blaming the Angels, Reaper kidnaps Mama Mare to use as bait, with plans to kill her daughter.  Mare is rescued before that happens but Reaper escapes. She spends the next three years fearing for her daughter and struggling with PTSD from her ordeal.

Reaper eventually resurfaces with a vengeance, taking and using two more women before he’s through. His heinous acts demand justice, but whose hand will wield the sword?

This book had adult situations and triggers. Written for Ages 18+.

 

Excerpt 1:

“Remember that Fourth of July at the lake?” he rumbled.  “You couldn’t keep your hands off me, even when I warned you what would happen.”

“You were g-going away,” she stuttered, gasping at the feel of his hand.  “I wanted to give you a reason to come back.”

“You shouldn’t have.  You were too goddamn young and my best friend’s little sister.  I knew Jack would kill me if he learned that we were fooling around.”

“I was fifteen,” she reminded him.  “Old enough to know what I wanted.”

What she’d wanted was Patrick McLanahan, the boy she’d loved since she was twelve.  Let skeptics laugh, but it was God’s truth.

“You were a goddamn tease,” he rumbled.  “You’d worn your swimsuit under your clothes.  You peeled them off right in front of me.  Fuck if every guy there didn’t want you.”

“Except you,” she said, remembering his resistance.

“Oh, I wanted you, too, babygirl, but I had enough sense to wait until you were older.  You didn’t let me, though, did you?”

“No, Sir.”  She supposed that she should be sorry, but she wasn’t the least bit contrite.  She had wanted Patrick to be her first.  If she’d waited—

He added a third finger, stretching her out, preparing her for his possession.  “I remember you standing by yourself chest-deep in the water.  The sky was clear enough, you could see the Milky Way stretched out like a stairway to heaven.  There was only half a moon but it was enough to see your breasts when I came over and you took off your top for me.”

Despite her blatant invitation, he hadn’t reached for her.  Her whole body had ached for his touch.  Desperate, she had taken matters into her own hands.

“You came over to me,” Papa Bear rumbled, pumping his arm and hitting her hot spot.  “You wrapped your fingers around my cock and jacked me until I came in my briefs.”

She hadn’t known what else to do.  She’d been trying to get him to notice her, but he was so goddamn stubborn.  He’d kept his distance all night, talking to her brother and their friends and drinking beer that they’d snuck in.  When the first of them followed the girls into the water, Patrick had kicked off his shoes, peeled off his clothes, and waded out to her, wearing nothing but his white cotton underwear.

She had tried to get him out of his drawers, too.

“I wanted you to screw me.  You told me you wouldn’t.”

He had tried to shut her down with a tersely murmured string of swear words and a list of mumbled reasons why they couldn’t sleep together.  She’d given him a handjob, hoping that he’d change his mind and take what she was offering.

“And how long did that last?” he asked wryly.  “A month?”

“A month and three days.”  An eternity for a teenager teetering on the edge of spontaneous combustion.  “You were headed for boot camp in the morning.”

He was leaving, and she was desperate.  Dub Rhodes had been watching her… stalking her ever since his release.  She feared what would happen if he managed to catch her alone.  He was dangerous.  She knew that.  For whatever reason, he’d become fixated on her.  She had no doubt that he was capable of rape.  Given the chance, he’d steal her innocence and rob her of choice.

He would take what she had been saving for Patrick.

Patrick Seamus McLanahan was the boy of her dreams.  In her naughtiest fantasies, she had imagined him seducing her, deflowering her.  Despite her youth, despite her brother, despite his plans for a career in the military, she’d wanted Patrick to be her first.  On his last night home, she managed to make that happen.  There were things in the past that she wished she could change, but giving herself to Patrick wasn’t one of them.

“You were tight.  So fucking tight,” he rumbled, thrusting his hand and biting her neck in a claiming that betrayed his own tumult of emotions.  Outwardly today, he had stayed strong for her, for their family, for the club.  He needed to release his stress, to decompress, to reaffirm life and hope with sex, most basic of human needs.  “I thought I’d never work my way inside, even when I finally made it past your hymen.  Five kids and twenty-eight years later, and you still fit me like a glove.”

Excerpt 2:

“You have five minutes to get yourself off—and don’t think about faking it.  If that pussy’s not dripping wet, Mojo gets to ream your ass while I’m balls-deep in your cunt.”

Five minutes.  And she was filthy.

She ran to the door.  Swiped her face, wiped her hands, and cleaned her finger.  Instead of going back to the bed, she stayed where she was, facing the door.

Mare parted her folds with one hand and shoved her other hand between her legs.  Finding her clit, she teased it, circled it, rubbed it, fanning her flesh like a fire-starter, her fingers intent on sparking flames.  The heat built.  A familiar tension took hold of her core.  A desperate twist of her nipple and she came, gasping from the strength of her release.  Her body stiffened while her core convulsed.  Pussy walls spasmed, squeezing her juices like nectar from a cider press to trickle down her thighs.

She rested her forehead against the door, regaining her breath.

Reaper knocked it out of her again.

Coming up behind her, he kicked her feet apart, shoved his cock between her legs, found her opening, and impaled her with one, vicious thrust.  He slammed into her again, shoving her against the door, pinning her to it like a butterfly that he’d collected, spread, and mounted—except that she wasn’t dead. 

Not yet, anyway.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he grunted in her ear.  Sliding his teeth down her neck, he bit her shoulder so hard, she wondered if he’d drawn blood.  She whimpered from the pain and clamped down on her tongue to keep from begging.

“So fucking hot.”  He drilled into her, hips slamming into her with the force of a jackhammer and the ruthless rhythm of a heavy metal drum.  Reaching, he caught both breasts in a bruising grip and held her against him, her back to his front.

He tasted the tattoo on her shoulder, tracing the lines with his tongue.  “Ink’s good on you, little girl.  If we had more time, I’d commission another.  A tramp stamp with the Demons’ logo.  Every time you did it doggie, Papa Bear would know that I’ve owned this ass, too.”

With that, he pulled out, changed angles, and claimed her most private place, ignoring her squeals and pushing past the rings of muscle to seat himself inside.

“There it is,” he grated.  “As tight as I remember.  You were my first.  I’d never taken a girl’s ass.  I’d heard about it but had never done it.”

He jacked his hips and started pumping.  Her tender tissue screamed its objection.

“You were too drugged to fight me even if you’d been free.  I couldn’t turn you over bound to the bed, and I couldn’t lift your legs, so I untied you, flipped you over, and took your virgin ass.”

He was pounding into her now, reaming her raw, ruthless, merciless, a savage rut that ended with a sharp thrust and a guttural cry.

He poured himself into her depths.  When the last pulsing stream had subsided, he shook himself like the beast that he was and pulled out.  She tightened her sphincter, hoping to contain as much of the mess as she could.

Letting go of her breast, he took the washcloth off the doorknob and cleaned his junk with it.

He stuffed it in her crack when he was done.

“Turn around.”

She straightened from the door and pivoted on the balls of her feet to face him, feeling debased and ill-used and dirtier than she’d ever felt in her life.

“I hate you,” she whispered hoarsely.

He slid his dark brown gaze from her lips to her eyes, shook his head slowly, and tsked.  “You’re gonna hate me more before this is done.”

Leaning into her, he pushed her against the door.  His thickening cock surged between them, eager for another round.  Humping her with it, he whispered in her ear.  “Five minutes thirty-three seconds….”

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A WICKED CHRISTMAS 1870

WC70-0 A Wicked Christmas 1870 6x9 sm

A WICKED CHRISTMAS 1870

(Wicked Christmas #2)

by Nia Farrell

Release Date December 15, 2018.  Length: 11,904 words. 

FREE with Kindle Unlimited.

Amazon Universal link e-book     Amazon US e-book     Goodreads reviews 

 

In this holiday novelette, sculptor Elena Davenport Wainwright prepares to celebrate her art studio’s second open house and her third Christmas with her husbands Edward Wainwright and Daniel O’Flaherty. 

While working on her larger-than-life statue of Achilles, Patroclus, and Briseis, a fainting spell sends Elena tumbling from the scaffolding.  Daniel breaks her fall, but the episode makes them all wonder at the cause.  The doctor lists a number of potential suspects, including bone break fever, parasites, and a baby.  The possibility of contracting a disease is as disturbing as the possibility of pregnancy, but how will Elena know?

Maybe she should call in her Romani herbalist for an intuitive medical consultation.

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) and A Wicked Christmas 1869, a sizzling holiday short story.

Historical MMF ménage erotic BDSM romance, a steamy novelette written for Ages 18+.

 

Excerpt:

Lucy helped me into the striped blue silk dress that was Edward’s favorite and arranged my hair, coiling it at the back of my head and securing it with pins and a pair of jeweled dragonfly combs.  Adding pearls at my throat and a pair of earbobs, my transformation was complete.

Daniel was waiting in the hall to escort me downstairs for dinner.  Edward’s cook Babs had outdone herself.  The soup was savory.  The beef was fork-tender, the vegetables were tender-crisp, and dessert was to die for.

Paddy had two servings.  I envied him his constitution.  He could eat all he wanted and never gain a pound of fat, only muscle.  But then, he worked hard, too.  At the studio and in the morning regimen that the three of us maintained.  Sculpting was a very physical pursuit.  My work required me to be as fit as a field hand.

The men, of course, were great admirers of my form.  They could not wait to take me upstairs, undo all of Lucy’s work, and get me naked as Venus rising from the sea.

Edward hooked my wrapper on his finger, found the shoulders, and held it open for me.  He might be a hedonist, but I drew the line at traipsing nude through the halls when Young Frank’s duties included tending the attic boiler.  Babs’s son was an affable, dependable, impressionable young man.  I did not wish to frighten him away.  If he chose to stay in our service, no doubt he would get an education.

Tonight, there would be no corruption of his youth.

The three of us wore robes to the third-floor room that Edward had transformed into an indoor sexual park that we referred to as our play room.  Here, we played hard and fucked harder.  Our Master’s collection of “toys”—instruments and aids—was ever increasing.

As soon as the door closed behind us, I shrugged off my wrapper and dropped to my knees.  Daniel did the same, taking his place beside me.  We waited, wordless, to see what Edward desired.

Tonight, it was both of us.

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THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY (Something Else, Something Different, Something More)

TGr Three Graces Trilogy 2018

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.

Amazon Universal Link e-book   FREE with KU  Amazon US e-book  

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 so 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—”

“Spank me?”

“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.

Impressive.

“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.”

Something Precious (The Three Graces Book Seven)

Tough Middle Aged Man

Something Precious (The Three Graces Book Seven) by Nia Farrell

Length 28,243 words.  Release date November 1, 2018.

Free with Kindle Unlimited

 

Amazon Universal link e-book 

Amazon US e-book  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JDH36KS

Goodreads reviews  

 

Cordell “Cruz” Colson’s world ended when the woman he and his brother loved was kidnapped and killed by a rival MC.  After four years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, Cord learns that Rachel is alive and living under an assumed name.  As soon as Cord walks out a free man, the former biker and his porn star brother Cameron head for the little town of Posey, Minnesota.  They’re determined to take Rachel home with them where she belongs.

Only Rachel isn’t alone.

Rachel Givens aka Rae Simmons has post-rape PTSD and a three-year-old autistic daughter, father unknown.  A blood test will hopefully answer the question of paternity.  Chances are, Hannah belongs to Cord.  Whatever the results, the Colson brothers won’t rest until Rachel remembers what it was like to submit to them, to be shared by them.  Two men love her, and they’ll do whatever it takes to win her back and be a family.

A New Age, New Adult MFM BDSM ménage, written for ages 18+.

Excerpt 1:

“What do you mean, she’s alive?”

I stare at my brother Cam.  I reek with the stench of prison and he smells like the movie star that he is.  Granted, it’s porn, but he can afford a dresser, a hair stylist, and a personal trainer to keep his eight-pack abs in perfect shape.

“Just what I said.  Hell, Cord.”  He runs a hand through his hundred dollar haircut and slaps the steering wheel as he drives.  “Look, I heard about someone matching her description.  I hired someone to confirm it.  She goes by Rae Simmons now, but it’s her.  I didn’t tell you because you were too close to getting out.  I wouldn’t have put it past you to make a run for it, once you knew where to find her.”

I rub my temples, struggling to process what he’s telling me and all that his news implies.  Rachel—our Rachel—is alive.  It’s a goddamn miracle.  But no word to let us know?  She let us fucking believe that she died?  We loved her.  Her death ripped out our hearts.

She ripped out our hearts.

All this time, I’ve been blaming the Blackwater Demons MC.

Fuck.  Me.

Fuck.  Her.

“God damn it.”  I’m pissed now.  “How could she?”

Cam is calm enough, I want to punch him, shake him up.  But then, he’s had more time to deal with this.  “Think, Cord.  Remember the security camera footage?  They took her from her house.  She was probably afraid they’d come for her again.  Hell, she might still be afraid.  Right now, we need to think about how to approach her.  We can’t let her run again.  We’ve got to let her know that it’s safe to come home.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.  Two more, and it starts taking the edge off my anger.  “So where is she?”

“Some little hick town named Posey.  Its claim to fame is a couple of diners that have been featured on TV.  Rachel is a waitress at one of them.”

Déjà vu.  I almost smile.  Rachel worked in an ice cream shop when we met.  She had planned to go to college and be a nurse.  I guess all that changed when she “died.”  Now she’s waiting tables and goes by the name of Rae Simmons, the other girl who was taken.

The girl we buried in Rachel Given’s grave.

“How far?” I ask, not that it matters.  I’d go to the ends of the earth to see Rachel again.  The fucked-up part is not knowing what’s going to happen after that.  She was taken because of me.  She suffered because of me.  She’s been living a lie for four years, and she’s about to be slammed in the face with reality.  The truth is, I want her regardless.  I don’t care about the past.  I don’t care about who she’s been with in the time that we’ve been apart.  Well, I can’t let myself care, anyway.  I.  Just.  Can’t.

I can’t.

There’s too much at stake.  For the first time in years, I feel… alive.  I feel… hope.

When I was told that she’d died, it felt like the biggest part of me left with her.  I went through the motions, not caring what happened.  I went where I was directed and did what I was told.  The club was my life now that Rachel was gone.

I missed her.  Dear God, I missed her.  I took flowers to her grave and let myself shed the tears that no one else should see.  I got angry, with God, with that fickle bitch Luck, with Rachel, for not being here, for leaving me alone.  On the worst nights, I drank myself to sleep.  I became an animated, hollow shell of a man.  I existed.  Nothing more.  But now… the part of me that found her, that knew her and loved her… it’s back.  Resurrected.  The fracture line is still there, but I’m praying it will heal in time.  The only chance I have at any kind of life worth living is a second chance with her.

Excerpt 2:

Rachel opens the door.  We follow her into the living room.  It’s an older home, probably built in the forties or fifties, with dated fixtures and painted over wallpaper.  Good bones, though.  A fixer-upper if you’re handy, and I am.  Her furnishings are worn but the space is clean, neat and tidy except for a pile of building blocks abandoned near a three-shelf bookcase that’s filled with children’s books and DVDs.

My heart seizes when I realize her child is old enough for blocks and books and animated films.  A sense of urgency grips me, and I look for her.  Rachel’s daughter.  There’s a little girl lying under the coffee table with her eyes closed.  Her hair is the color of mine and Cam’s—and now Rachel’s since she dyed it.

“Have a seat, guys.”  Rachel points to the sofa.  “Just watch your feet around Hannah.”

Thanks to Cam’s lack of communication, I have questions that won’t wait.  “How old is she?”

“She turned three on March twenty-second.”

God.

Oh, God.

My jaw tightens, and I rub the back of my neck beneath my ponytail.  She’s quiet now, stopping short of disclosure.  She’s going to make me say it, make me ask the question whose answer I may hate to hear.  Rachel was taken, held by men with no mercy and an agenda.  The timeframe is so close.

I swallow, hard.  My voice is rough with emotion when I ask, “Is she mine?”

My words are like the crack of a whip, reopening wounds that clearly haven’t healed.

Rachel can’t bear to look at me.

She glances at my brother and drops her gaze to her lap.  “Probably.”

Holy mother of all—

I’ve been so focused on the enemy without I never considered I might need to look closer to home.

“Fuck, Cam!”

His eyes flash, indignant.

Fucker.

I almost snort.  He knows as well as I do what happened that last time we were together.  It was fucking Fourth of July weekend.  Three days, spent mostly in bed.  I was preoccupied with club business, about to leave, heading out to set up the Lost Creek MC safehouse, getting ready for the war that we feared was coming with the Blackwater Demons MC.  Cam was only too happy to distract Rachel while I packed.

We’ll be having more than words later, I fucking guarantee it.  Son.  Of.  A.  Bitch.

Cam bristles, still rejecting the idea that he might be a baby daddy.  If he is, he’d better man the fuck up.

“Hey!”

“Enough!” she hisses.  “You will watch your language, or you will leave.  She’s not Cam’s.  We never… we didn’t… We were never together without you.”

I say nothing but inside, I’m feeling this weird mix of relief and hope and trepidation.  Cam’s tastes run toward mouth and ass.  I don’t remember him dipping his wick in Rachel’s pussy more than once or twice if that.  But there are others.  The ones who kidnapped her.  Who brutalized her.

Who raped her.

Monsters, they took what was ours.

Rachel draws a deep breath.  And another.  She looks at her hands.

They’re shaking.

Fuck.

“You two need to go.”

We can’t.  Not yet.  I’ve spent four years mourning her loss and I’m not walking out of here without some answers.  She might not know who fathered Hannah, but she sure as hell can tell us why she let us think that she was dead.

I motion Cam to stay right where he is.  “Talk to me, Rachel.  Tell me why… this.”

The pain in her voice cuts me like a knife.  “You don’t want to know.  You won’t want to hear it.”

“Fuck, Rach—”

She throws up her hand, putting any conversation on hold.  Loading a DVD in the player, she glances at Hannah and motions for us to follow her into the kitchen.  She starts the exhaust fan over the stove before turning to face us.

Christ, the look on her face.  The innocent girl we knew is gone.  This is a woman who has clearly been through hell and back.

“They.  Took.  Me.”  She spits the words, full of bile, at me.  “They stole me from my house, and then they took me.  Do… you… understand?  For two nights and three days.  At least one of them had your coloring.”  She looks at the coffee table, where her daughter is hiding.  “Is she yours?  Who knows, really?”

Shit shit shit.

Her words strike me like brass knuckles, landing hard enough to strip away any pretense, beating me down and leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.  The harsh truth is, she didn’t say anything that I haven’t thought to myself.

Still, hearing it from her lips is wrenching.

I feel the color drain from my face.

“Sorry if I didn’t write you,” she snips, “but then, I’m supposed to be dead.”

Jesus, I don’t know how she can sound so cavalier, watching the blood pour from the holes her words have ripped in me.  She’s right.  I don’t want to listen, but hearing this is part of my fucking penance, punishment for not protecting her.

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SOMETHING AWESOME (The Three Graces Book Five)

Guitar Player With An Open Guitar Case

Something Awesome (The Three Graces Book Five) by Nia Farrell

Length 21,103 words.  Release date October 1, 2018.

 

Free with Kindle Unlimited

Amazon Universal link http://mybook.to/TG5

Amazon US https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07H1FXLLB/

Goodreads http://bit.ly/TG5GR or https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41588545-something-awesome

 

Jackson Thomason is a triple platinum recording artist who performs with his twin brother Jacob as No Mercy.  Unhappy with their current contract and hungry for something better, they dream of an independent project that speaks to their part-Comanche blood.  They contact American Indian composer and flutist Nico White about collaborating, but it’s his writing partner Anna James who’s responsible for putting the twist in his tribal music.  The songwriting sessions heat up, and the purple-eyed goth-haired gamer girl goes down on her knees, submitting to the darker side of passion in a rock star interracial MFM ménage BDSM romance.

Written for Ages 18+.

 

Excerpt 1:

“We know your work,” my brother tells them.  “We like it.  A lot.  We’ve had a project in mind for a couple of years now, but our label won’t touch it.  It’s important enough to us, we’ve decided to tell them to fuck themselves and do it ourselves.  It’s a concept album with a tribal theme.  We want to return to our roots.  Not musically, but ethnically.  We may be only a sixteenth Comanche, but we’re related to Quanah Parker.  We cut our teeth on the stories of his life, his family, our people.  We want to express those stories in song, and we’d like your help to do it.”

Nico stays silent, considering.  When we approached him about working with us, he didn’t ask for details.  He knows that teaming with No Mercy will give him exposure that he might never achieve on his own.  And Anna?  She looks like she’s having a songwriter’s wet dream.

Fuck, yeah.

“And how does that work,” she asks, “doing a record while you’re still on tour?”

It’s a good question.  Fair enough.  We had wondered that ourselves.  Had worried about it until we figured out just how we could make it happen.

Thank fuck for hi-speed WiFi.

“We’ve got ten days before our next gig,” I tell her.  “After that, we can hook up over the internet.  Nico says his connection will let us Skype.”

She’s used to her weekly one-on-ones with Nico, sharing space, feeling the energy, tapping into the same creative flow, but to co-create over the internet?  She hugs her Fender to her heart, clearly skeptical.

Jacob keeps talking about his ideas for the album as a whole and for individual tracks.  While he uses his powers of persuasion, I let my hands speak for me.  I pick up my guitar, a Master Classic Pacific with curly maple sides and a Sitka spruce top, and touch the strings, exploring.  My fingers find chords, random at first, slowly gathering form.  Anna turns on a digital recorder when patterns start to emerge.

I hold back a smile when she lowers the neck of her guitar to playing position.  Her fingers move, her strings dueling with mine, until suddenly we’re in sync, creating melody and harmony.  Nico weaves his flute around us.  Jacob adds rhythm on the djembe.

By the time we’re through, we have the musical equivalent of a manuscript’s first draft.

Fucking.  Awesome.

“This…this…is why we’re here,” I tell them, pumped as hell.  I don’t say that we’ve memorized every fucking track that Nico’s ever recorded, and all the best ones were co-written with AJ McPherson.  We knew that we needed them both.  Being here, playing with her, makes me want Anna even more.

Jacob catches me staring at Anna and smiles.  He knows where my mind is, knows that my stirring cock wants to follow.  Anna throws ice water on it when she starts breaking down.  “Sorry, guys.  I need three hours of sleep or I’m toast at work.” 

What.  The.  Fuck?

The mantle clock reads four in the morning.  She’s fucking leaving, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.  Nico sees her off, then comes back into the living room.  I debate packing up, too.  He nods when he sees that our guitars are still out.

“Sorry, guys,” he says.  “I know you’ve had some surprises today.  I needed to see if Anna could handle this—could handle working with you.  She’s never written with anyone but me.”

I take a breath, think about what I don’t want to say, which is anything that will jeopardize our working relationship.  “You didn’t tell me she has a job.”

He shakes his head and crooks half a smile, like I should have known.  “Writing doesn’t pay her bills.  Not yet, anyway.  Little sister works at a gaming store in Charleston.  Castle Keepers.”

“Wait.  She’s a gamer?”  This, from Jacob, who plays rings around anyone else on our team, comprised of us and a few of our roadies.  Chances are, if we’re not writing music in our downtime, we’re playing games or watching porn.

“Big time,” Nico says.  “Whatever you play, you do not want to go against her.  She’ll only smile and kick your asses.”

Fuck that.  We’ll add her to the team.

“Wednesday is her one guaranteed day off work.  That’s why I had you guys come tonight.  I went behind her back and asked her boss if there was any way she could get off work, but chances are slim to none.”

Which means he didn’t totally diss it.

“Give me his name and number.  I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him.

“Yes, Sir.”  There’s a shit-eating grin on Nico’s face when he flicks on his laptop and finds the contact information for Anna’s work.  Such a switch.  But he’s smooth, he’s smart, and he clearly cares for the gamer girl he calls “little sister.”  With that scene he arranged in the diner, I suspect he wanted to see how well Anna can handle us on every level, beyond fame, beyond music, beyond words.  I suspect that he’s researched us, enough to know our tastes.  Jacob and I do our own version of tribal with a twist, and after the grueling first half of our concert tour, with the almost mindless, meaningless sex that happens on the road, I’m ready to bring something better into our mix.

Anna James, before we leave, you will be ours.

Excerpt 2:

Anna gets here at half-past eight, hauls in, sets up.  J.T. has Grace in the playroom.  The way the thermostat is kicked up, I’m guessing there’s some nudity involved. 

By the time Anna finishes, she has sweat beading on her face.  A rivulet forms, tracking down her chest and disappearing between her luscious breasts.  Jacob and I take mental notes, not bothering to hide our interest.  She resists as long as she can, then says, “Fuck it,” and sheds her sweater.  She’s wearing a pink camouflage camisole underneath that technically covers her breasts, but every fucking detail is there if you look hard enough, and I do.

I grab my guitar and grind out a riff of stripper music.  Jacob gets theatrical and peels off his tee, swinging it overhead and letting it fly.

Anna’s jaw drops when she sees his inked torso.  “If I had you guys in my bed, I’d read myself to sleep every night….”

When Nico snorts, Anna realizes she didn’t just think it.  She fucking said it out loud.

I look at Jacob.  He’s thinking the same thing I am.

Maid service on the sheets tomorrow.

“Well, well.”  I lock my gaze on Anna’s purple fuck-me eyes.  God damn, she’s hot.  I set down my guitar and lose my shirt, revealing my tats and my pierced nipples.  Her mouth goes dry.  She licks her lips and looks away, dropping her gaze to the keyboard she hauls in but never touches.

Nico leans over, whispers in her ear.  Anna picks up the battered Gibson she brought tonight and starts playing, letting the music weaving itself in her head flow through her fingertips, stringing chords that shouldn’t go together, finding what makes them work.  It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard.  When Nico adds his flute, our jaws drop.

Magic.  Pure magic.

“Damn, little sister.”  Nico turns off his digital recorder.  Thank fuck at least one of them got it.

Jacob is at a loss for words.  “Anna.  That was… wow.”

I rub my chest, still feeling her music touch me like a lover.  When she goes to the kitchen for a chilled bottle of water, I follow her.

She reaches inside the refrigerator, grabs one of the reusable glass bottles, and closes the refrigerator door.  She can’t help but feel me behind her, a foot taller than her sixty-three inches and radiating heat like a fucking furnace.  I bend down; my nose, with its small silver hoops, nudges the rings that rim her right ear when I whisper into it.  “I don’t know where you went, but I sure as hell hope you go there again—and take us the fuck with you next time.”

She inhales a shaky breath, exhales, catches herself when she starts to lean back against me.  “Do you two do everything together?” she asks, still facing the fridge.  She doesn’t deny her attraction, but she’s not quite ready to let me see it, either.

“Yeah.  Pretty much.”  I lift my hand—the one that has L O V E tattooed on my fingers—and stroke her arm, leaving pebbles in its path.  “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, gatita.”

She cocks her head, tempted to look.  “Kitten?” she asks.  “You want to tell me where that came from?”

“Ever try to catch a feral cat?”  I slide my hand to her small shoulder and flex my 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?”

Anna twists the lid off her bottle and slams back a mouthful of cold spring water.  “Fuck fuck fuck!”

Brain freeze, not funny.  I chuckle anyway, because it’s like she’s reading my mind.  “That’s the plan.”

“Since when?”  She stops rubbing her forehead long enough to throw a look over her shoulder and fucking bats her eyelashes at me, revealing her inner dirty, flirty girl.

“The diner,” I admit.  “You gave as good as you got.  You sounded like you could handle us.”

When I say us, she doesn’t blink.  The thought of a threesome doesn’t scare her shitless.  If anything, she seems intrigued by it.

Thank you, Jesus.

“Mmm.  My hooker voice.  And how did I look?”

She’s fishing.  We both know it, but I’m feeling generous and goddamn if we’re not about to get lucky.  “Like you’d dare anything.  Risk anything.  You were… hot,” I rumble.  “Fucking hot.  I wanted to drag you into the back and bend you over a sink and—”

“Spank me?”

“Is that what you want, brat?”  I underscore the last word, slapping her sassy little ass, my tone full of menace, my mind alive with possibilities.

Anna shivers.  Her thoughts follow where mine are leading.

“Ah,” I say.  “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,” I whisper, turning her to face me.

She stares at my ink like she’s mesmerized by it.  Appreciates it.

Like she wants a taste of it.

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