One Wicked Night

by Noelle Mack

  "Please," she whispered one more time. "At least let me take you in my mouth, my lord. I must have you somehow. I must..."

  He undid his breeches and took them off so quickly it seemed to have happened by magic. His legs were strongly muscled, his buttocks indented as if meant to be clutched by a passionate woman. And then there was his cock, jutting out nine inches or more from his taut groin and a nest of very dark curls. His fore­skin was rolled back to reveal a plum-size head, tipped with a few more pearly drops of come that she wanted desperately to taste.

  "Let me suck you," she begged. "Let me pleasure you as you have pleasured me."

  He shook his head. "We shall pleasure each other, my love. My mouth on your cunt and your mouth on my cock. Lie back. Stay there."

  He climbed onto the bed, proudly and completely naked, and turned around above her. Fiona opened her mouth to re­ceive his member, taking as many inches as she could. But he did not thrust. He held still, letting her suck and stimulate him with her tongue, which she wrapped around his cock this way and that as she kept him in her mouth, devouring him.

  "Touch my balls," he said, his voice ragged. She stroked his scrotum, feeling it tighten and draw upwards. "Ah—like that. Yes. Oh, Fiona, yes," he moaned. "Just like that. Good girl. How good it feels ... oh!" His cock trembled and jerked in her mouth as he began to ejaculate.

  Fiona clasped the shaft to keep him from ramming it in but kept the top two inches in her mouth, sucking him hard. He moaned and buried his face in her pussy, attending to her with gentlemanly ardor even as his semen filled her mouth. Discreetly, she spat out the first pulsing shots he fired and swallowed the last of it, loving the way he came, healthy, strong and hot.

  Then her own orgasm took her by surprise. His vibrating moans triggered an unbelievably intense wave of sensation as he sucked her clitoris with lascivious tenderness, lapping up her juice the way she lapped up his.

  They collapsed side by side, still touching each other inti­mately, and rested in a tangle of sweaty sheets and one very di­sheveled gown.

  More, more, more . . . don't miss ONE MORE TIME by Leanne Shawler. Available now from Aphrodisia .. .

  One

  Abby Deane nudged the yoke, banking her plane to the left. Looking out the side window, she spotted her new home, a sprawling ancient mansion dating back to the Tudor period, added to over the ages.

  Her new home. Away from the pointless distractions of men, men who were so commitment phobic, wanting only a quick shag. Thank heavens for modern invention. She owned a potpourri of devices designed to please her. Who needed a man in the twenty-first century?

  Ever since she'd given up on the heartbreakers, her life seemed less off-kilter. She hoped this new job would rebalance her life. The toys'd definitely help.

  With a grin, she checked her instruments and glanced ahead, squinting in the sunlight even though she wore dark sunglasses. Puffy cumulonimbus blocked her vision of the private airstrip ahead.

  Circling, she slowed the Beech Bonanza into its gliding speed. She guided the plane into its descent, checking the altimeter until she broke clear of the cloud cover.

  She blinked. The airstrip had vanished. She glanced to the left and the right. Had she flown over the strip? Nope, nothing.

  Just below the cloud cover, she circled, searching.

  What the—A runway didn't just disappear.

  This one had. All she saw were mown hayfields and green fields of grazing sheep.

  The engine cut out, sputtering. She checked the fuel gauges. Not even close to empty. She throttled back on the engine and gave it power again, to no avail.

  Her forehead tightened. She took a deep breath. No need to panic. She knew how to make an emergency landing. She'd practiced it before.

  She leveled the wings, aiming for a mown hayfield. She low­ered the landing gear. At least she wasn't far from the hotel. If she managed to land in one piece, she'd walk over. If not, some­one from the hotel would see her go down and come to her aid.

  Checking her seat belts, Abby glided in. The plane touched down, not skewing, but bouncing over the dirt ridges and trun­cated hay stalks.

  The plane rolled to a stop. Abby sagged in her seat. Her seat belts relaxed their grip. A bone-deep ache radiated through her, a counterpoint to her thundering heart. Without further thought, she evacuated the plane. She stood at a safe distance, but the plane rested, still and silent.

  She returned to the plane, reaching for her toolbox. She touched the right-hand engine and snatched her fingers back. Cold. That wasn't right.

  Abby sighed. Both engines felt like they hadn't run at all. Weird. She'd never experienced anything like this before. She'd have to contact a mechanic to repair her plane.

  She unloaded her luggage, hoisting the wheeled bags over the rich black dirt to the field's edge. Through a small gap in the tall hedge surrounding the field (presumably hiding the spoils of hay from the adjacent grazing animals) Abby spotted a dirt track.

  That should take me to the main road, she thought.

  Two bags, one laptop, a large purse, and a long tube holding her copies of the hotel plans. She sat on the biggest bag to wait for assistance to arrive.

  And waited.

  Half an hour later, Abby came into sight of the hotel, her fu­ture home. Her future home with useless staff to fire. It didn't matter that her boss had agreed to keep the original household staff. Someone must have seen her plane in distress. Why hadn't anyone come to her aid?

  And this drive .. . Gravel made a nice crunch under a car's tires, but dragging heavy wheeled bags over it for a quarter mile was not so much fun. The other quarter mile had been nothing but dirt.

  That had to be fixed. Hotel guests may not be inclined to travel to a boutique hotel all on dirt road. She thought of flying stones scratching a BMW's paint job and shuddered.

  No, that had to be rectified at once. Well, once she'd hired new staff.

  She noted the shuttered windows on the house and at once forgave the staff. Keeping the windows closed preserved the restoration's freshness. That's why they didn't see her go down, and her landing had been practically silent.

  Speaking of silence ... a breeze brought the sound of baaing sheep, the rustle of leaves from the giant trees lining the drive. No sound of civilization reached her ears. Not the dull roar of the M3 highway, which was only a couple of miles off.

  Abby shrugged, shifting the tube strap on her shoulder. Maybe the house blocked the sound.

  She reached the grand front entrance. Two giant oaken doors, formidable and highly polished. Abby nodded in approval. The staff were doing superb work. Such attention to de­tail.

  Leaving her luggage at the foot of the broad stone steps, she slung her purse over her shoulder. She ascended and rang the bell, an old-fashioned pulley. Another nice touch. With the hotel's official opening, those doors would stay wide open and wel­coming.

  She leaned backward, surveying the facade, approving of the sparkling windows and pollutant-free bricks.

  A creak warned of the opening door. They polished the doors but didn't oil the hinges? Abby repressed a sigh of irrita­tion. So much to be done.

  The door opened a crack.

  Some welcome. Abby huffed. "Are you going to let me in?"

  A deep baritone voice answered: "Who are you?"

  "Your former boss if you don't let me in," Abby snapped.

  The pause from his end only maddened her further. "A woman?"

  She hauled the door open, ready to give him a piece of her mind, and stopped dead. Her jaw sank and she closed her mouth with a snap.

  Before her stood a gobsmackingly handsome man. She reg­istered that much before his odd attire caught her attention. Perhaps it was the dark vee of chest hair poking out from his crumpled white shirt. Or the supertight breeches that let her know, despite the buttoned-up flap, that he was a well endowed guy. Very well endowed.

  She cleared her throat. "Definitely your former boss. You're fired."
<
br />   "Fired?" The man might look gorgeous but apparently he lacked in the brains department. "I do not work for you."

  That gave her pause. Was this Lord David Winterton's son? She modulated her tone. "If you are not on my staff, who are you?

  He smiled, a broad smile that must have broken many a heart. Abby steeled herself. Not hers. "I'm just passing through."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Trespassing? And my staff let you?"

  "There's nobody here but me." He surveyed her, wholly un-inclined to leave her property. His eyelids lowering, his stern gaze turned his brown eyes into angry dark specks. "You don't look like the sort who possesses staff."

  Abby's blood boiled. "You bastard." She pushed past him and into the house. Where was her staff?

  In the middle of the large hall, she stopped, her sneakers squeaking on the marble tile floor. She frowned, surveying the space. "Something isn't right..."

  The idiot man came up behind her. "I'm glad you're ac­knowledging that at last."

  EROS ISLAND ... where it gets really hot.

  Here's Dawn Thompson's "The Dream Well."

  Coming soon from Aphrodisia!

  One

  Was he the only one aboard who heard the siren's song before the galley struck the Land's End shoals? Something nudged him hard, buoying him toward shore, and Gar Trivelyan, Knight of the Realm, hauled himself up out of the creaming surf and collapsed on the strand, coughing up what seemed like gallons of seawater. Drifting mist caressed him, like hundreds of probing fingers, groping, stroking—covering him like a blanket. He struggled to his feet and staggered like a blind man into the wraithlike whiteness that all but hid the full Samhain moon from view.

  He was aroused. Had he come that close to death? He'd heard such things occurred when a man was dying. Raising his codpiece, he soothed his burgeoning cock as he blundered into the mist. It seemed to be leading him inland. Until that mo­ment, the urgency in his loins had canceled the pain in his arm. He noticed it now, for it bled profusely, running in rivulets over the hammered gold bracelet coiled like a snake just below his elbow.

  Tearing a piece of homespun from the hem of his tunic, he cinched it tightly above the wound with the aid of his teeth, and staggered on, his good arm carving circles in the air ahead of him. The mist had become a thick, meandering wall impenetra­ble by the eye. It was as though he'd stepped off the planet. Where had the storm gone that ran the ship aground? Why was it warm here, not bitter cold as it had been when the cruel No­vember sea had spat him out upon these shores? Could he have crossed over into the Celtic Otherworld? He'd heard of seafar­ers doing just that after shipwreck in Cornish waters.

  He didn't see the well until he'd run right into it, a low round affair. A gurgling spring edged with stacked stones, rising from a whitethorn grove, the trees' branches aflutter with bits of col­ored cloth. A Celtic dream well?

  According to myth, if one in need of a dream fulfilled dipped a bit of cloth into the water of such a well and tied it to one of the trees that guarded it with proper tribute and incantation, the dream or wish or petition requested would be granted. He had never believed in such nonsense before, but his arm was nearly severed, and it couldn't hurt to try. There seemed no other help in the offing and he tore another strip from his tunic, dunked it in the satiny black water, and tied it to a whitethorn branch among the other bits of cloth hanging there. Then, slip­ping the hammered-gold bracelet from his wounded arm, he groaned and prayed, and tossed it into the well.

  No sooner had he done, when the water began to roil and bubble up, spitting over the edge as the perfect form of a naked woman broke the surface, his hammered-gold snake bracelet coiled about her upper arm. She was without blemish, her skin like alabaster, her hair teasing her buttocks with a long cascade of silken waves the color of copper burnished by the sun. It was surprisingly dry for having come from the depths of the well, and none covered her pubic mound. It was hairless, her en­trance beneath resembling not the sexual organ of a woman, but the column of a rare and costly orchid whose flushed lips and purple bud beckoned irresistibly in the eerie half-light. His wound forgotten, Gar could not take his eyes from it as she stepped from the well and floated toward him, rubbing her nip­ples to tall hardness between her thumbs and forefingers.

  What sorcery was this? And what sort of fool would he be if he didn't take advantage of it? Ripping off his codpiece, he ex­posed his thick, hard cock to her gaze, and groaned as she took it in her hands. Sucking in his breath, he made a strangled sound as she ran her cool fingers along the blue-veined surface in a spiraling motion from its bulky root to the ridge of its mushroom tip. His mind was speaking to her then, screaming what he dared not speak aloud—not even to ask her name—for fear she'd evaporate before his very eyes, the tip. .. touch the tip! Run those cool, soft fingers over the head of my cock and make it live, my beauty ...

  As if she'd heard, the woman did just that, sliding the tip of her finger over the rim of his sex, moistening the sensitive head with the drops of pearly pre-come leaking from it, her fore­finger lingering on the puckered opening, inviting more pearls to form.

  "Your wish is granted," she murmured. "Your wound is healed."

  So it was! Gar hadn't even noticed until now. That cool hand riding his hot hard shaft had canceled all thought except plung­ing into the petals of the exquisite orchid between her thighs until he'd filled her.

  Lifting the globe of one breast, she offered her nipple. "You may have me for a little if you wish," she said. "Every year when the moon waxes full at the Samhain feast, I am allowed to rise from the well and take a lover ... if the tribute is well to pass." She nodded toward the bracelet on her arm.” 'Tis a fine trinket, this."

  It had to be a dream. He had died in the wreck, and this was his torment. He slipped his arm around her waist and drew her closer. No, this was no dream, this was real flesh he was feeling, as smooth as satin and as fragrant as the night lilies blooming in the water.

  "Have I died, then?" he finally said. "Which are you, angel or demon?" Not that it mattered. He was enthralled.

  The woman smiled. There was a provocative little beauty spot above the right corner of her lip. "I am neither, Gar Trivelyan," she said. "I am called Analee, handmaiden of Annis, Goddess of the Wells. This well is mine."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "I know much, knight of the realm," she returned. "Will you drink ... or not?"

  Gar cupped the offered breast and took the nipple in his mouth. It was hot and hard, the areola puckering taut as he laved the tawny bud with his tongue until she purred like a contented cat.

  Overhead, the Samhain moon peeked down through drift­ing clouds like a voyeur as he nipped and sucked and drank her essence. She tasted golden, of the sun, of honey and bee pollen. Could this be happening? His mind said no, but his cock said yes as she let it go and stripped him of his tunic and breeches. He'd lost his cloak, sword, and sandals in the sea.

  "Come," she said, leading him into the mist.

  She led him through lush fields burgeoning with all manner of wildflowers, across streams and brooks swathed in the ghostly mist that seemed alive the way it followed them, weaving in and out among the trunks of ancient hawthorns and young saplings that seemed to sigh and sway and carry on hushed conversa­tions with each other.

  All at once, a red-and-white-striped canopy came into view; a tournament tent of the kind used by revelers at routs and feasts and festivals was nestled deep in a little clearing in the whitethorn grove, where it gave way to oak and ash. The flap was turned back, and a bed made with petal-strewn quilts of satin and down beckoned. Once inside, the goddess of the well drew Gar to her, hands flitting over his moist skin as they ex­plored his naked body until, unable to help himself, he drove her down beneath him in the bed.

  Nothing seemed real, and yet it was. Otherwordly visits were hazardous at best. Dangers lurked in wait at every turn for mortals sojourning in the parallel dimension—dangers that could trap a man forev
er, or devour him body and soul. Had he fallen into a trap? Was he about to lose his immortal soul? These were natural concerns. But then, in the arms of the capti­vating Analee, while her deft fingers were exploring his body, touching him in places no woman had ever touched him before, while her sweet essence nourished him as he suckled at those perfect breasts, nothing mattered but the moment, and the beautiful Goddess of the Well.

  Straddling him, she knelt there, her hands flitting over his body, exploring rock-hard muscles that had tensed in his bi­ceps, in his broad chest and roped torso. Inching lower, she gripped his cock in both her tiny hands, for one hand could not do it justice, and began pumping it in a spiraling motion like she had done before. Slow, deep revolutions along his shaft made him harder still, as she teased the mushroom tip just enough to drive him mad. Meanwhile, his fingers found her nipples, pinch­ing, tweaking, until she writhed against him, grinding the parted lips of her slit into his bulging testicles, into the base of his cock as she played with it.

  Gar groaned. He felt her release as she rubbed up against him, felt her juices flow, moistening his genitals, and the throb­bing, shuddering palpitations of her climax. Her pleasure moans were throaty and deep, as she threw her head back until her long coppery hair rippled over her buttocks and grazed his thighs beneath her. It was more than he could bear. His cock was bursting. Profoundly grateful that she had come, he rolled her over on her back and in one motion thrust into her, parting her orchid-like nether lips, gliding on her wetness until he'd filled her.

  "You said that I could have you for... a little," he panted, undulating gently, for to drive himself into her now would bring him to climax in a hearbeat. As it was, he'd begun to pray to forestall the inevitable; a tactic that had always given him more staying power in the past. But that was before Analee, Goddess of the Dream Well. She had bewitched him.