Knowing the Ropes

by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Teresa is a crunchy granola girl who enjoys belly dance, yoga, medieval re-creation, playing in the ocean, cooking, and growing more vegetables than she and her husband can possibly eat. She shares her home in southern Massachusetts with her husband, a Leo who works in law enforcement, and two overstuffed cats, who deserve their own shout-out as inspirations for her works. She and her husband often plan vacations around food, history, and/or proximity to water.

  To learn more about Teresa Noelle Roberts, please visit www.teresanoelleroberts.com. Follow her on Twitter, where she’s TeresNoeRoberts, or on Facebook: www.facebook.com/#!/teresanoelleroberts.

  Look for these titles by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Now Available:

  Lions’ Pride

  Foxes’ Den

  Fox’s Folly

  What happens in Vegas lasts forever…if you’re lucky.

  Fox’s Folly

  © 2012 Teresa Noelle Roberts

  A Duals and Donavans Story

  Las Vegas is the wrong place for an inexperienced witch like Paul Donavan. But he has no choice; his family owes a debt of honor to a half-fae casino owner, whose guests have been dying under mysterious circumstances. The normy police haven’t connected the dots between the deaths, and the owner has called in his marker.

  When Paul literally runs into fox dual Taggart Ross, the instant, powerful attraction between them bristles with red flags. Not only should there be no sparks between him and this “hillbilly with a tail,” the fact is a dual couldn’t have committed murder-by-magic. But until he’s got proof, caution rules.

  Tag’s own suspicions are on high alert. Magic killed his favorite uncle, and Paul, who senses Tag’s dual nature way too easily, should be a prime suspect. Except Tag’s libido responds to the witch in a way that shouldn’t happen.

  Whatever this thing is between them, the raw sexual energy feeds a power that becomes their best hope of drawing out the killer before he, she, or it strikes again. Until love gets involved, and things get real complicated, real fast…

  Warning: Sly foxes, smoky Southern drawls, sex magic, dangerous demons, tacky Las Vegas glitz, and did we mention the hot guy-on-guy sex?

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Fox’s Folly:

  “Is this moving a little fast, or is just me?” Tag said, laughing. He had to laugh to make sure he did it, to make sure he didn’t continue kissing and nibbling the man’s fingers long after the last bit of sushi was gone. “I’ve been known to be a man-ho, but I usually wait to learn someone’s name before I ask him out. Or her, or, in at least one case, zir. And I usually ask the last name before we start messing around this much. At least I have since I graduated from college, and that was a few years ago.”

  “Something in the water.”

  “Except I’d already dragged you off to dinner before I had any water here. Must be in the air.” He paused and sniffed, scenting in a way he hoped his human companion wouldn’t notice. Definitely something in the air. He hadn’t imagined that woods-and-ocean-and-amber scent, and his foxside assured him it wasn’t cologne. Paul just smelled like nature, and like, oh gods, hot sex. “Why else would they need a slogan like ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’?”

  Paul grabbed his hand. His face turned serious, startlingly intent. “I’m single. I’d been dating someone casually until recently, but she and I both realized we weren’t a good fit before it got to the point that ending it was messy. So, I’m a free man. I hope you can say the same.”

  “I have a couple of…I’d guess you’d say friends with benefits. They’re married to each other. I’m their good friend, and we all fuck sometimes. They’d probably be disappointed if I didn’t come home with a wild story from Vegas.” Now why had he told Paul about Charmaine and Joe? It sounded sordid to most normies, who didn’t understand fox culture, where extended families and long-term ménages were the norm.

  Paul nodded, though, as if he understood or at least accepted. “Nice work if you can get it. Threesomes can get messy, but it sounds like you guys have it worked out.” He added in a softer voice, “I suppose it’s easier for you than it would be for most humans. Three’s sacred in dual culture—but are you Lord or Trickster? I know you’re not the Lady.”

  There was no point in denying it. Paul was obviously not a speciesist. But Tag still dropped his voice. Paul might be fine, but other people weren’t, and in an increasingly conservative political climate, normies’ fears about duals were being codified into law. The last thing he wanted to do was spend part of his time in Las Vegas being harassed by the Agency, which monitored duals and other Differents.

  Actually, that might be the second-to-last thing. Dragging Paul into that kind of mess would probably be the last thing. He seemed so nice, as well as hotter than hell.

  Tag tried to make light of it. “I didn’t get so rattled I let my ears show, did I? Haven’t done that since I was six and my folks took me into Knoxville for the first time.”

  “No. Not that anyone else would see, that is. I can see the fox in your aura, of course, and…oh shit,” Paul whispered, the ordinary profanity sounding foul in his cultured voice. “I did it again. I am so sorry.” He managed to eke out a smile. “I guess I just blew your cover and my chances at a Las Vegas fling.”

  His aura? Paul knew what he was from his aura? Paul could see his aura? Who was this guy, other than insanely hot and now more than a little freaky? “What the hell kind of consulting gig are you here on, Paul who hasn’t told me his last name?”

  “Security consultant for the casino.”

  Tag sniffed at the air, not bothering to conceal it now that his secret was out. He smelled no lies, but still, his ears perked inside the human seeming. Something was not quite right here. “I’ve met the kind of security they hire for high-stakes games. They look like thugs, and you never see the guns, but you know they’re carrying. You look like a college professor. A young, attractive professor, but still a professor. And you’re not the kind of security who’s supposed to blend in, because you don’t blend. You’re too good-looking, and you’re too uncomfortable. I’d say being in a city makes your paws itch, except you don’t have paws. Maybe you mean computer security, but a geek would be talking about work by now and fiddling with his iWhatever. Who are you really, Paul? What are you? I’m pretty sure you’re human, but you smell like no one I’ve ever met before.”

  “My name,” Paul said, as if answering that one question would answer all of them, “is Paul Donovan.”

  It did—not the name, which was common enough, but the way he said it.

  “As in Desmond Donovan, the former presidential advisor on magic and the Different?”

  The one who’d resigned in solitary protest as, despite his best efforts, laws were passed denying duals their civil rights. A hero in his own right among the Different, though he was a human witch, not a dual.

  Paul nodded.

  “So you’re one of those Donovans.” Tag exaggerated his drawl. It tended to make people think he was dumber than he was, although it was probably too late for that with Paul. “One of the most powerful witches in this country.” If it was true, it would explain Paul’s amazing scent, the combination of raw sex and curious purity. Witches were human, but a witch on the Donovan power level was as unlike a normy as a shape-shifting dual was. Donovans supposedly had the kind of magic that inspired the freakier western European fairytales—only they were the good witches, the ones who saved the heroine’s butt when everything was going against her. They didn’t use their powers for material gain.

  Which didn’t exactly jibe with being a security consultant at one of the ritziest casinos in Las Vegas.

  As far as Tag could smell, Paul was telling the truth about his family, but it could be a partial truth. He could be a low-powered witch who was taking odd jobs to improve his skills—even the Donovans must occasionally have a kid who wasn’t as powerful, just like his own clan had produced Aunt Mary Frances, who opted to pass for human so she could marry
a right-wing Bubba. He could have fallen out with his family for some reason. Just because they were capital-G Good Guys didn’t mean they might not be annoying as horseflies to live with. He could just be checking out the mundane world, like Amish teenagers did before settling down.

  Or maybe he was one of the bad witches. There had to be bad witches. Every sentient species produced a few rotters, and since witches were basically just humans with some twists to their DNA, they’d be no exception.

  Maybe he was a witch bad enough to commit murder with magic and get away with it.

  It didn’t seem likely, not with that fresh, yummy smell. A murderer wouldn’t necessarily stink, but it didn’t seem like a killer could smell like pure joy. But what did Tag really know about witches?

  Some of them had healing magic. Maybe they could change their natural odor. But would they think of it? Humans didn’t understand that scent was a rich, complex language.

  Killer or potential lover? Tag had to know, had to know with all the urgency of a fox’s natural curiosity heightened by loyalty to Uncle Randolph. And face it, he really wanted Paul Donovan to be what he said he was, or at least nothing worse than a minor witch hoping to impress a guy by bragging on or outright inventing a connection to the witch family a non-witch was most likely to recognize. Tag could respect that possibility. It was a foxy thing to do—okay, an adolescent foxy thing to do. A guy in his late twenties should know better tricks by now, but humans weren’t as good at the game as foxes were. And Paul, gorgeous as he was, seemed like a guy who didn’t get out much, the type so wrapped up in his work he remembered to date only if someone landed naked in his lap and wiggled.

  Which Tag had done, or as close to it as you could do in a public place in broad daylight, even in Vegas.

  No holds barred. No mercy. No going back…

  Hard Way

  © 2013 Katie Porter

  Vegas Top Guns, Book 4

  Throughout their eight-year marriage, U.S. Air Force Captain Liam “Dash” Christiansen and his wife, Sunita, stayed strong through long separations. However Sunny’s new job as a high-profile legal advisor puts a severe strain on their enduring bond.

  Her abrupt announcement that she wants a divorce is like a missile to Dash’s gut—but her confession that she’s met another man is what unleashes his shocking passion. Sunny is surprised and nearly repulsed by her body’s reaction to Dash’s animalistic attempt at complete possession. That doesn’t stop her from craving more.

  With Sunny’s whispered approval, their sex life explodes. Not only does Dash’s aggression tap into dark fantasies, she’s hopeful that now, at last, she’ll get what she’s always wanted from her devil-may-care, don’t-give-a-damn husband. Something honest and candid. Something real.

  Yet fiery, carnal encounters won’t heal two long-broken hearts. Their bodies are finally speaking the same forbidden language, but it will take more than taboo desires to learn each other for the first time—and to save a marriage that’s only just begun.

  Warning: Time to put the kidding aside. Although 100% consensual between a husband and wife, this book contains violent sex that, in some scenes, will appear forced. Readers sensitive to rape scenarios should proceed with caution.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Hard Way:

  The quiet beep of her alarm the next morning was useless. She’d been lying flat, staring up at the coffered ceilings, where white-painted molding outlined boxes of pale yellow. Sunny had painted the ceiling herself. Liam had offered to help, but life kept getting in the way until she’d pulled out the buckets and the ladders while he was off at some exercise.

  It hadn’t felt like a big deal at the time.

  Lying there, she couldn’t help but see the contrast with I would give you anything. Maybe he’d give her anything when it came to his dick.

  Too much of her wanted to believe he meant it.

  She got up and went about getting ready for work—all the usual stuff, along with aching legs, stiff shoulders and a sore ass. The lightweight linen pantsuit was the best she could do to hide the evidence—not because she feared they might get caught, but because she wanted to keep their night close and private. Theirs.

  At least it was Friday. She would only need to hide it for eight hours.

  Then what? It wasn’t as if facing a weekend alone with Liam meant she’d be healed by Monday—healed in any sense.

  Emerging from the bedroom, she tingled with the same heightened awareness she’d experienced the night before when stepping out of her office. The hair stood up across the back of her neck and her hearing flared. She was prey leaving the safety of her den, sneaking out as if a taxi were her only escape route.

  The house wasn’t exactly quiet. It ticked and sighed with all the usual noises of a house she knew intimately. The refrigerator hummed and wind whistled around the eastern cornice.

  No sign of Dash.

  He wasn’t asleep in the living room, so maybe he’d left early. He’d taken to folding the blanket and topping it with a pillow after crawling off the couch for each of the five mornings.

  Maybe he’d… What, took a taxi himself to go get her Acura? Headed to base in some turnaround means of spiting her, leaving her to her own devices. One was generous, if a little over the top. One was too easy for her mind to latch on to. Dash, letting her down.

  She curled her hand around the handle of her attaché case. The leather smashed into her flesh—not cutting, because the case was too well made for that. She could use a bite of pain to keep her jaw from locking.

  Trailing her hand down the cool wall, she waited for something. The cab’s honk? A sign? So damn stupid. A few feet more and she’d be free for the day. She could bury herself in work and let everything else go away.

  Just over three weeks now.

  A pair of steps from the door, she heard him behind her. Not heard. Felt. The skin between her shoulder blades prickled. The air shifted and weighed heavily against her skin.

  “Where are you going, Sunny?” His voice was low. Gravelly.

  That was what she’d been waiting for.

  She didn’t look back. Her tongue slicked over her bottom lip, and there was no denying the way her body clenched and readied. A flood of moisture dampened her panties. Her expensive, pretty pink panties, which matched her lace balconette bra. She was such an idiot, holding on to secret hopes and wants that she hadn’t stopped to examine. She’d wanted to be pretty. For him. Just in case.

  But she still played along.

  “I’m going to work.” She lifted her chin and put as much attitude as she could into her words. She reached for the brass door handle. Let him come for her. Let him try. “You can’t stop me.”

  That quick.

  Between one breath and the next.

  She’d turned the knob when the slam of their combined weight made the door shake in the frame. Her already-raw knees burned where they ground against the wood. The oval leaded glass shuddered.

  He was bare from the waist up. Jeans were hitched around his hips, but what pressed against her torso and bent over her shoulders was pure skin. Smooth, healthy, tanned skin. He was warm with sleep.

  She managed not to shiver.

  His head bowed low, and he nudged her neck with his chin. Tousled hair tickled her ear. “You’re not going anywhere. Thought you would’ve learned that last night. You go where I let you.”

  His bare foot shoved between hers, his thigh pressing hers apart. She tried to surprise him with her heel—lifting and slamming down. His reflexes were too fast. He jerked back at the same time as he pushed his upper chest more firmly against her back. She was pinned.

  “You’re a mean little whore, aren’t you?”

  She ground her teeth and tried to headbutt him. She caught him across the temple, but he didn’t even sway. Her insides clamped in a happy little lost-girl response. This was what she wanted. Being completely dominated meant she could give up her choices, let the world fall away and scream her goddamn head
off.

  She wasn’t going down easily.

  After throwing her case to the side, she dropped to her bruised knees. Pain spiked up to her hips, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She kicked.

  He caught her ankle. That grin. Oh fuck, that grin. It did wicked things to her pussy, making her heated and soaked and ready.

  “Uh-uh, Sunny,” he said. “Don’t be a bad girl.”

  She couldn’t help but grin as well, which quickly turned into a laugh. Maybe a giggle. It probably sounded hysterical. “Fuck off, Liam. Don’t do this. I’m going to be late. Again.”

  He put one bare foot on her other ankle. She thought about trying to jerk him off balance, but he caught the direction she was looking. “Nope. Won’t work. You’re too small. I’m too well centered on my other foot.”

  “You beast.”

  His smile was positively lethal. She couldn’t look straight at him, but looking anywhere else meant swaths of bare skin and strong torso. He held her ankle at his hip in a seemingly casual grip. Lean muscles twitched and pulled.

  “Okay, fine. You wanna play a different game, Sunny?” He spoke with latent threat. “I’ll let you go. If you manage to get all the way down the hallway without me pinning you…well. You’ll win. And you know what won’t happen.”

  Her first response was no. She didn’t want to play. Because shit, he was right. What if she won? This felt like a choice, and she didn’t want choices.

  But she nodded.

  The moment dripped like cold honey—him watching her and her watching him, and her breath catching in her throat as she waited for him to blink and let go.

  He stepped away from her ankle and released her leg. She flipped. Scrambled to her sore knees. Her elbows protested. Even a well-aimed donkey kick didn’t save her.

  First she felt his fingers inside the back of her slacks’ waistband. The tight pinch across her waist snatched her breath. She tried to evade, slip sideways. He knew her too well. She slapped backward, connecting with his cheekbone.