Her Billionaire, Her Wolf--The Novel (A Paranormal Alpha Werewolf Romance)
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Lust and desire burn all that lies between them as demons rear their ugly heads, twisting their destinies together while powers beyond those of mankind exact their vile desires.
Blood will run before it is over and doom shall fall where it will in this continuing story of supernatural passion and erotic romance.
For your reading pleasure, an excerpt from The Marechal Chronicles:
The Marechal had no words with which to respond. His tongue was frozen in place as were his limbs. He found that he could not move even his smallest finger as the old woman hobbled from the room.
The light grew dimmer until he could no longer see the shelves across from him. He saw only that he was alone in the faint glow of a circle and that it now appeared as if the walls had receded with dark nothingness taking their place. Even the faint sounds of the swamp outside the witch's house were gone. The constant drip of water, or the raucous cry of some distant bird, all of it had dwindled to a muffled silence.
The Marechal had begun to wonder if the drink had somehow stoppered his ears when he heard a female voice, low and silky, speak from the surrounding shadows.
"Oh, you lovely man," he heard her say, then saw her emerge from the darkness and into the pool of light surrounding him. First came one long bare leg, the flesh of a marble purity that would have taken his breath away if he had not already been spelled still.
The rest of her followed.
She was dressed in gauzy, transparent black, a sort of robe such as noblewomen wear, except that the hemline was ragged, running in deep zigs and zags that showed the Marechal tantalizing glimpses of firm white skin before being hidden away again as she moved with a delicious languor around him.
Her hair was long, black, and shone like the finest silk, as if she had magicked the glint of fine silver into her color. Her lips were luscious and full, of a red deep and profound. The color reminded the Marechal of heart's blood running down the length of his sword, the final beats of his opponent's life felt down to the pommel.
She was carnal, she was feline, dark and light, she was contrast in motion.
Despite his compromised circumstances, the Marechal felt himself respond, his member growing heavy and warm, lengthening as he felt his pulse descend into his crotch.
"What an interesting scar, Marechal," she said. Her finger lingered at his jaw, tracing down to come round to his shirt front where she lightly flicked the buttons.
She leaned in close, letting her lips brush against his ear, and asked breathily, "Do you want me...Marechal?"
He felt his throat unlock with a hitch. He swallowed, then said, "What I do or do not want seems to be irrelevant at the moment. I believe that is the game we are playing, no?"
"Oh, this is no game, Marechal," she replied. "I am deadly serious. My intentions for you have nothing of goodness in them."
"My love for visitors is in their suffering which can be so poignant, so exquisite...so charming."
She stepped away from him and he saw that she carried a cavalier's quirt in her hand. In a long, drawn out motion, she drew her hand back and then swung at him, lashing his chest with what he believed was her fullest strength.
There was a crack and he felt the venomous sting of the lash leap through him. He clenched his jaws around the sound threatening to escape, sweat springing to his brow.
He fought against it, but he could feel that his erection had become enormous, straining against his trousers.
"Do you want me?" she asked again, her voice low as she reached out to toy with the tear in his shirt that the quirt had left behind. Her finger came away red and she licked his blood from it, smiling.
"That taste. It is amazing, Marechal. You really are of a special vintage, aren't you?
"You must make women weak in the knees and loose in the hips with the slightest glance. They take in your muscled shoulders, that broad chest hiding inside your immaculate white shirt. You come to them with thighs of oak and iron and lower yourself down upon them, letting them feel the weight of a real man, a man in his prime, rich, cultured, as you mesmerize them with your gray gaze and long lashes.
"Why I should imagine they are ready to come with just a smile from you, Marechal. Your beautiful smile as yet unstained by time or by wine."
The Marechal said nothing, the lash on his chest pulsing with each beat of his heart. He could feel small runnels of blood leaking down across his abdomen. And, still, he felt that he had become enormously, preposterously aroused.
She walked behind him and with no warning, she struck him again, two vicious cracks echoing in the air. His back felt as though he had just been gored by a bull, the pain so intense that he gasped with the suddenness of it.
He knew she was goading him, but that knowledge did not stop his anger from blossoming into red rage.
With his most mighty effort, he summoned his strength, willing his arms to move. In that moment, as the blood coursed down his back, he wanted this woman's neck in his hands, wanted to see fear in her eyes as he held her life between forefinger and thumb.
He roared like a wild beast, but his arms only twitched loosely, the geas of the spell holding him. He smiled inside, though. A twitch meant that he could weaken the spell's hold, he could work against it, and in time, break free.
"And, you are a fighter, as well, my dear," she said, amused. Something in her tone troubled him.
"But you shall not have the time you require, Marechal."
With a jerk, he felt his trousers undone and then she was pushing at his back. His body obeyed her touch as he was forced to bend over. She slapped the quirt against the inside of his thighs and to his horror, he spread his legs wide.
"Oh, so much better. If only you could see the look on your face," she said as she circled around him, trailing her fingertips upon his back.
Coming to a stop behind him, the Marechal felt the quirt touch lightly at his anus. He tried desperately to tighten, to find some means of stopping what she was about to do, but he was powerless.
There was pressure and then there was pain at the unfamiliar sensation. He felt suddenly very full, deep cramps racking him while he heard her laughing.
"Don't you like that, dear?" she asked as she walked around to his front. He could still feel the quirt where she left it, pushing at his insides.
She pushed lightly at his shoulders, forcing him back up to a standing position and then she took his penis into her hand, pulling and pushing, as the quirt behind him dangled and swung with her movements.
The Marechal groaned. The melange of pain and pleasure. It was not new for him, not after all this time, but to be held powerless in the face of it, a plaything for the whims of another was altogether different and worse than unsettling.
"Calm yourself, Marechal. I can see my toy twitching back there," she chuckled. Then she dropped to her knees before him and enveloped his cock with her lips. The heat of her mouth was intense and she pressed her tongue tightly against him as she worked up and down his shaft.
He wanted to refuse her, to break her hold upon him. Instead, the sensations that he felt overwhelmed him. He could feel the quirt rocking inside, pushing against him with a steady rhythm in time with the motions of the woman as she took him deep into her mouth with full, zealous strokes.
The most profound muscles of his abdomen began to tighten and he could feel himself lifting up, his cock stiffening in its extremity and then in great shuddering breaths, he came into her mouth, his muscles spasming, the sensations arising as much from the flesh holding the quirt in place as from the base of his member, pulsing with the force of his orgasm.
The Marechal strained, heaving and heaving, his muscles rippling in the throes of the moment even as his vision dimmed to near darkness.
Then, she was upon him and he, suddenly flat on his back, could only watch as she sunk down over his cock, her pendulous breasts now bared and her nipples standing out in reddened fury.
"I have never known the pleasure of riding a horse, Marechal
," she said while she slid up and down his cock. "But, I imagine it is like this, and that at times, you must show the beast who is master....
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Copyright 2013 Aimélie Aames
Cover Artwork Copyright 2013 Aimélie Aames
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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At first cock-crow the ghosts must go
Back to their quiet graves below.
--Theodosia Garrison
Table of Contents
1--His Every Desire
2--Lust and Lies
3--Blood Will Tell
4--These Cunning Bones
Afterword
Into the Nightlands
Other Fiction by Aimélie Aames