by Renee George
Kiss My Ash
Renee George
A werewolf who’s hairless in full shift.
A water sprite who can’t hold his shape at the slightest touch of water.
An ash-tree nymph with a black thumb who kills every bit of flora in her vicinity.
That’s Fortunate, Missouri, in a nutshell—the town for abnormal paranormals. Nymph Romy, however, can one-up them all—her particular flaw is killing her. But thanks to a possible love spell, the wolf and the water sprite could be Romy’s key to cheating death. And the three misfits may find that even imperfect creatures can still create a sexy, loving, perfect union.
Inside Scoop: Sol, Romy and Lucien love each other—emotionally, spiritually and physically. Which means both ménage and male/male action. You lucky reader, you.
A Romantica® paranormal erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Kiss My Ash
Renee George
Chapter One
The door chimed and the frame swished softly against the floor as Romy Shea took the walk of shame into the Bloomin’ Wild Flower Shop.
The owner, Mathias, whose skin appeared wrinkled and cracked in the stark daylight, stood behind the counter arranging a bouquet. He had the most beautiful red hair and long beard, which, unlike his skin, stayed shiny and healthy no matter the time of day. He studied her with eyes the color of blood, another effect of being out in the daytime.
Romy glared at him. Her own frizzy red hair spilled over her shoulders and her bottom lip jutted out as she thrust a dead plant onto the counter—ficus. The normally green, waxy leaves were yellow, dry and drooped. The latest victim of Romy’s brown thumb.
Mathias tsked. Not an easy task, considering his overly large teeth. “Son of a Ghilli Dhu, Romy.”
“It’s not fair!” she sputtered. She held his eerie gaze. Mathias was more paternal than infernal, so he didn’t scare her. “I try so hard. I don’t understand why I can’t keep a stupid plant alive.” Or myself, for that matter.
Mathias took the plant and shrugged. “Maybe try being a little nicer.” He shook his head. “Plants have feelings, much like people.”
“It’s not like I cussed the little fucker out.”
He shook his head with two quick movements. “No, I can plainly hear you wouldn’t do anything of the sort.”
“Smartass.”
His eyes widened and he clutched his chest with long, thin fingers. “Thank Artemis I’m not a tree.” He smiled before jumping down from the crate he’d been perched on and disappeared behind the counter.
Mathias was a korrigan, a fairy dwarf, and to his detriment, he’d been born male. An abomination amongst the korrigans, who were always female. Even his own mother had wanted him dead, but you can’t kill an immortal.
When he finally strolled out from behind the counter, his height no more than four feet, he held a red clay pot filled to the brim with a dark, loamy soil. Carefully, he handed it to Romy. “Here.”
She stepped away. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with dirt?” Maybe Mathias was tired of her bringing back dead plant after dead plant. It didn’t matter how much she watered the damn things, fed them, or even talked to them—none survived. She’d stopped giving them names after a while, awash with guilt and shame over each death.
His red eyes sparkled with excitement. “In this soil, there is a very special seed, my girl. Very rare and unique. I’m entrusting you with its care.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. There is no way in hell I’m taking on a ‘rare and unique’ plant. No. No. No. Give me a hardy shrub or weed. Better yet, maybe a cabbage. I won’t feel so bad about a cabbage when it croaks.”
Romy was a dryad; specifically, an ash tree nymph. Which meant, in theory, plants should flourish around her, but she couldn’t even keep her own tree alive. Her mother had postulated it had something to do with the sperm donor, aka Romy’s biological father, but the elder dryad had refused to say more on the subject. Tree nymphs were traditionally a love-’em-and-leave-’em race of females. They didn’t get involved with beings they considered no more than means to an end. Males born to tree nymphs always developed into the same race as the male halves of the couplings, while the females were always dryads.
Unfortunately, something had gone very wrong in the making of Romy. It hadn’t taken long after the dryad equivalent of puberty set in before her people had decided she was toxic.
She pushed the pot back to Mathias. “Uh-uh. You’ve seen my track record.”
When her “birth defect” had eventually started to affect the trees of her forest six months ago, Romy had been summarily kicked out by the other dryads. Of course, her people had called it a “long, extended respite” and sent her to the town of Fortunate, Missouri.
The moniker, over the years, had become a joke. The town had been named after the Fortunate Isles, also called the Isles of the Blessed, and had been used for more than two hundred years as a dumping ground for the “paranormally challenged”. Those who didn’t fit in with their own kind were sent to Fortunate to finish out their days. For immortals like Mathias, the end of days was a long-ass time.
For Romy, well…without a tree to tend, she wouldn’t live another year, the chlorophyll drying in her veins. The plants were test subjects for her, to see if she could sustain life. So far, they’d served only to help ease the ache of dying. But as far as tending plants and making them flourish, she failed constantly.
For Mathias to trust her with a “special” plant…no way was she taking on that kind of responsibility.
It was one thing to kill a common houseplant, but a whole ’nother thing to be responsible for something “rare and unique”. Was Mathias crazy? Romy shook her head again. “I can’t. Don’t you have an air plant or something? Hell, those suckers don’t even require watering.”
He patted her hands, his fingers soothing and gentle. “Ah, but my dear, I hope this may be the answer to—”
Mathias’ explanation was cut off by a barking baritone. “Ah, shit!”
Romy put the pot on the counter as she scooted around Mathias to see who the unfamiliar voice belonged to.
In the greenhouse area beyond the main shop, two long, well-muscled legs and a firm ass, all packaged in perfectly tight jeans, stood nestled between two rows of plants.
“Hello,” Romy said.
The owner of the legs and ass straightened, making him a foot taller than Romy. And oh goddess, did he have an upper body and face to go with the lower half—thickly muscled chest and broad shoulders crowned by a face with bow lips, a Roman nose and the brightest green eyes. All framed by messy, shiny black hair that fell about his shoulders. It was as if the gods had decided to create perfection.
Ridiculous though—they would never do that. But hot damn, they’d come pretty close.
“Uh, hello yourself,” he said back, dusting his palms against his jeans.
His really low voice, which would have better suited a grizzly bear, sent a humming through Romy that made her body sing.
“What have you done now, Lucien?” Mathias asked when he walked into the back. His presence was enough to break the harmony, and Romy snapped out of her new-guy-induced daze.
“What a great name.” She smiled. It made her feel foolish, but she couldn’t punch down the giddiness.
“It’s a name.” He shrugged then leaned over again, which gave Romy another clear shot of his fabulous ass. When he stood once more, he held a small plant, cradling the roots carefully. He looked at Mathias. “I broke the pot, but the fern is fine.”
Lucien had a slight accent, but Romy couldn’t put her finger on the origin. If possible, it made the young man even more exotic and mysterious.
Mathias shook his head, making his red beard sweep h
is chest. “Where’s Sol?”
“I’m here!” Sol Winter, who’d been working for Mathias long before Romy had moved to Fortunate, stepped out from behind the last row of plants. He wore a baby-blue polo shirt that matched his light-blue eyes. It also complemented his tan, a deep golden bronze. Natural, according to him. Strange for an elf, but who was Romy to judge? His long blond hair was pulled into a ponytail. He often wore it down and spilling over his shoulders, but generally had it tied back for work.
Sol was taller than Lucien by several inches and a little broader. His smile brightened when he saw Romy. “Hey, you.” His mouth turned down in sympathy. “Kill another one?”
They’d had a strange relationship ever since Romy had arrived in Fortunate, which generally involved spirited banter and sarcasm. Even when the conversation turned a little mean, Romy was still thankful for Sol. He was the closest thing she had to a friend.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Nice.” He raised a brow. “Bitchy much?”
Even though she was certain Sol was gay, it didn’t stop her from having some wicked fantasies about him. After all, the man was hot-hot and knew how to dress. “Takes one to know one.”
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the oak this morning.” Sol scooped a handful of topsoil and pitched it at her.
“Oh no you didn’t.” In retaliation, Romy grabbed a nearby hose and squeezed the nozzle trigger, dowsing Sol where he stood.
“Stop!” Lucien yelled.
Too late. At Lucien’s shout, Romy turned, the spray of water slapping across the man’s face—and Lucien instantly melted into a clear puddle on the greenhouse floor.
Mortified, she dropped the hose. “Oh no!” She shook her head and stumbled forward. “What have I done?” Not only was she a plant killer, apparently she was a man killer as well.
Two lips formed in the clear pool. “I’m fine. Really.”
Romy jumped. “It talks!”
“I’m not an it,” the puddle said as it slowly grew to full height and formed back into a watery, transparent version of Lucien.
“What the heck?” She tentatively reached out, her fingers dipping centimeters beneath the surface. It was warm and thick, more like blood than water. It pulsed over her skin.
The impulse to submerge her entire body in the fluid overpowered her good sense, but before she acted on it, Lucien stepped away.
“Please don’t do that.”
“What are you?” She couldn’t keep the awe out of her voice.
Sol laughed. “Lucien Kobald, meet Romy Shea. Our local walking, talking natural disaster.”
Romy ignored Sol as Lucien solidified. The color slowly returned to his human form, and Romy noticed he was naked. She looked down at the greenhouse floor. His clothes lay in a heap under his feet. Her gaze traveled from his toes to his legs to his…
Holy smokes. He was hard, long and thick. A real standout—pun intended.
Mathias patted her back. “You’re being rude, Romy.”
“Yes, love,” Sol said, draping a cloth around Lucien’s shoulders. “Rude.” A glint of jealousy or something similar flashed in his eyes. He sniffed the air, and almost instantly, the flickering emotion changed back to a jovial flippancy. “And wow, you’re turned-on. Interesting.”
Embarrassed, she backed away. Sol smelled her arousal? And to top it off, he had to say it out loud? And then there was the look he’d given her. Was he interested in Lucien as more than a coworker? Well…who wouldn’t be? The man was fantastically gorgeous.
“I’m sorry. Sorry.” She directed her apology to Lucien. “I’ve got to…well, you know…”
As she fled the florist shop, Romy heard Mathias calling out for her. Conveniently, she forgot to grab the new plant on the way out. Ah well, one less thing to kill.
Chapter Two
The hum of fluorescent lights in the kitchen penetrated the walls to the bedroom. He’d left them on. An old habit from his days prior to Fortunate, when he’d needed every edge when it came to his personal safety. The small, sixty-by-twelve-foot trailer often reminded Sol how truly miserable and simple his life had become.
He’d been born werewolf. That should have made him superior, powerful. But unfortunately, when his turning happened at puberty, his wolf-self hadn’t emerged.
Instead, he’d turned into an abomination—a creature his pack couldn’t abide.
His deep hatred for his own kind, and even more for himself, created a chasm in Sol’s heart. He’d had to steal away the vulnerable vessel for his own protection. Self-preservation could be a powerful motivator. And he thought he’d successfully managed to stop caring about others. Yes, he had a full-time job, and his boss was a gentle soul, but Sol had never developed a strong tie to Fortunate or anyone in it.
At least, not until he’d met her.
He recalled the first moment he’d met her. She was beautiful without knowing so, and curvy and voluptuous, two things he loved in a woman. But it wasn’t her looks that opened his heart. She had walked into the flower shop with her head hung low. He couldn’t see her face through the tangled mess of red hair until she’d finally looked up, and brushed the hair back.
The color of celadon, a beautiful grayish-green, those two big eyes held him captive with a determination that nearly overshadowed the sadness. Nearly.
He’d stood behind the back door inside the green house, instantly wondering what it would be like to hold her, to possess her, to love her.
She’d caught him staring and snapped out, “What you gawking at, pretty boy? Or is your rudeness a lack of imagination?”
The quick flash of her temper had startled him, and he fell back on what he knew best—being fake. “Like you’d know pretty.” He’d stepped fully into the doorway, so she could get a good look at his long physique.
She’d actually gaped.
“Take a picture, sister. It lasts longer.”
And that’s all it had taken for him to be relegated to the friend zone.
Often he wished he could go back in time and change that day. He’d have answered differently, not so flippantly. He would have been charming and seductive instead of flamboyant. He’d developed the trait to keep the other males in his pack from kicking his ass when he was young—as long as he pretended he wasn’t a threat to the pecking order, they left him alone—and his act had carried over into adulthood, even following him to Fortunate. A place where everyone was fucked-up. A place where he didn’t have to pretend, yet still couldn’t be himself.
Gods. Romy. The gorgeous little vixen was dying because of her curse—the reason for her exile amongst the outcasts. The thought made Sol’s gut clench.
He must have moved as he thought of that first meeting with Romy, because Lucien stirred awake beside him and murmured. “You okay?”
Sol stroked Lucien’s thick dark hair as the water sprite snuggled into the crook between his body and arm. “Yes.” He kissed the top of Lucien’s head.
The nix was a recent arrival in Fortunate, and he and Sol had been instantly physically attracted to each other. He worried about how much he’d come to like the man in his bed. At first the arrangement had been purely physical, but Lucien was bright and funny and, damn, the man was smart too. Looks and brains with a sense of humor. A combination to lose a heart over.
They’d been sleeping together for several weeks, and while they were playful, they’d both maintained certain boundaries. But with men and sex, there were all kinds of pleasurable options available. Still, the intimacy between them had created a bond.
So when Romy had come into the shop earlier, and she’d had a physical reaction to Lucien, Sol hadn’t been sure who he was more jealous about.
Until then, he’d considered Lucien no more than a bed warmer. Someone to stave off the loneliness from being without a pack. Did he really care about the nix?
Yes. The answer was a definitive yes.
He quickly shoved the thought away.
He didn’t care, h
e told himself. His jealousy had been a direct response to Romy’s lusting over another man and not because he had feelings for Lucien. Besides, the dark-haired man had never given him any indication he wanted more than a warm body to keep the nightmares at bay.
Sol sighed and looped his free arm behind his head. Poor Lucien. If the few nightmares he’d had at Sol’s trailer were any indication, the nix chased demons on a nightly basis. Every great while, he would yell out the name “Siobhan!” She must have been very important, but Sol respected Lucien’s privacy enough to leave it alone.
His thoughts were interrupted by the languid drag of wet tongue on his skin, mingled with nips and kisses trailing down his neck to his chest. Lucien’s hair blanketed Sol’s chest in a web of soft, silky threads of comfort.
He gazed into Sol’s eyes. “Since you’re awake…”
“No complaints here.” Sol laughed. The nix never failed to astonish him. They kicked the sheet down the bed and onto the floor of the cramped room. Lucien smiled, his cool hand taking hold of Sol’s erection and fondling the length between his fingers and palm.
Sol sighed his pleasure. He turned on his side, facing Lucien. The nix’s muscles were highly defined and well-developed. For a sprite, one of the water fae, Lucien was very masculine, with a strong jaw and wide cheekbones. His sensual mouth was the only thing that could be considered pretty.
Well, his mouth and his remarkable green eyes.
Lucien was a little shorter than Sol. Even so, his cock, when aroused, was Sol’s equal. He raised an eyebrow at the stiff length. “Your body is rockin’.”
“A ringing endorsement.” He stretched, also on his side, giving Sol a better view.
Wrapping his fingers around Lucien’s length, the skin soft as muscled silk, Sol closed the small distance between them until his own cock shared space in the same hand. He stroked both shafts at once and Lucien rewarded him with a low moan. The sweet pressure of Lucien’s mouth on his added infinitely to Sol’s pleasure.