One of the iconic images out of a Halloween horror movie is the antebellum mansion standing against a slate-color storm-tossed sky. Lightning streaks overhead and monsters lurk beneath. That’s the location where Portia Fenton finds herself when she inerhits a home from a great aunt she barely knew. Except in this case, the monster really does live in the basement, and he’d much rather do other things than kill her. Unless, of course, it’s la petite mort.
I wanted to use that image of a stormy night and an abandoned old house in one of my older books, Willed and Waiting, from Changeling Press. I hope you like my take on an old gothic trope and that you find a little bit of Halloween in May.
When Portia Fenton inherits an antebellum mansion from her great aunt in Tennessee, she knows it will change her life. She doesn’t realize how much until she meets Rody Aylor, Myrtlewood’s hunky handyman. All she wants is a chance to get away from New York City and start a new life. She never imagined a man whose kisses take her breath away and whose touch leaves her hungry for more.
Rody Aylor expects Portia to be a dour old maid like Clara. He doesn’t expect her to be the woman who can break his curse. A young woman to love him — and perhaps to free him. With Portia he hungers, for her body and her blood. And in night after night of dizzying passion, he takes her. He hopes one day he can convince her he’s been willed to her, and he’s waiting for her to set him free.
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Outside, thunder rumbled. Portia shivered. “You must be cold,” she said, her hands reaching for her waistband. “Here, let me warm you up.” She wriggled out of her jeans and barely-there lace panties, then snuggled under the covers.
She swore he growled. The rasp of a zipper filled the air. His jeans whooshed to the floor, revealing Rory in all his glory. Long, muscled legs, a thick cock, her mouth watered just looking at him. She reached from beneath the blanket and crooked her fingers at him. A bit presumptuous of her to crawl into his bed. The storm outside made her think of being buried under the blankets, hiding from the dark.
Rory leaned forward. He curled his fingers around the blankets and pulled them back. He stared at her lying in his bed, her skin pale against his dark wine-colored sheets. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he pressed his knee against it. Leaning over, he reverently touched her. Fingers spanned across her skin, feather-light touches along her shoulder, over the slope of her breasts, and down, across her flat stomach.
Tiny fires flared along her skin. Restless, she moved her legs, parting them, hoping he saw the glistening juices on her labia. Her lips parted. Her panting breaths echoed in the room.
A rumble of thunder shook the house.
She shivered. She couldn’t help it, and then he was there, his body hot and hard above her. Bracing his weight on his arms, shielding her from the storm outside. His protective action ignited one deep inside her, and she longed to feel her nipples rasping against his hair-roughed chest. She threaded her fingers through his hair, combing the silken strands away from his face. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she buried her face against his chest and licked his salty skin.
His groan vibrated through her body like her best silver bullet. Her clit hummed. A scrape of her teeth demanded he take her, his cock against her slick folds telling her he was more than capable of doing it. She lifted her face and kissed him. Lips parted, she plunged her tongue into his mouth, a carnal mating of lips and flesh that stole the breath from her lungs.
She wanted to crawl inside him and never come out. Another rumble of thunder shook the house. Down here she heard less of the violent storm outside. Thick curtains kept the flashes of lightning from the windows. And yet she sensed it, a tang of ozone in the air, a hunkering down of man and beast, waiting for the storm to pass. Everywhere Rory touched he ignited a new storm, the kind that stole her breath and left her aching and needy in ways she’d never been before. No man, not the rich businessmen or bohemian artisans she’d dated in New York had left her like this. It thrilled her.
Her heels pressed into the backs of his thighs. His cock slid along her slick folds. She canted her hips, trying to urge his head inside her.
“Easy,” he crooned. “We have all night.”
“I want you now,” she countered, the New York woman determined to get what she wanted coming to the fore. She inched her heels higher until they pressed into his ass, her thighs as open as they could be.
Rory skimmed his hand down her side to cup her hip. His fingers curled into the flesh of her ass and he stilled the pumping of her hips. Reaching behind him, he grabbed her wrist and pinned it on the pillow above her head. “You want fucked, we’re doing it my way.”
“Yes,” she hissed as he lowered his mouth to nip her neck. Portia whimpered. Where had he come from, this handyman who worked at the mansion? The hell with the house, she’d take the man holding her to the blanket. He shifted on her, the head of his cock probing her entrance. She started to lift her hips. His grip tightened and he stilled her.
“Wait,” he ordered.
Portia mewled with frustration. She inched her heels higher, pressed them deeper into his hard gluteus muscles and managed to deepen the penetration. Just a little. Just enough to frustrate her and leave her panting with need and desire. Why wouldn’t this man just fuck her?
He released her hip and grabbed her other wrist. Pulling it above her head, he transferred both of them into one hand. He reared off of her and looked down. Her hands secured above her head, held by his strong grip, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. Portia imagined what she looked like, a woman ready for a good tumble. She grinned.
“Like what you see?”
“God, yeah.” His husky admission sent shivers down her spine. His eyes flashed, nearly red in the dim light.
“Rory?” Suddenly uncertain she lay limp in his grip. His cock barely filled her, a teasing hint of pleasures to come. And yet, for an instant, she thought he hadn’t been a man at all, but something different, more. Better?
His lips descended on hers. Thoughts of his eyes, of what she might have seen, fled under the sensual onslaught of his kiss. He suckled her lower lip. Drawing it into his mouth, he nibbled on her like she was the finest gourmet candy he’d ever tasted. The slow seduction made her think of a death by a thousand bites. If he kept this up, she’d be gone after just a few.
His lips trailed over her chin, her neck, until he once more found the pulse point that beat so rapidly against her skin. He nipped.
Portia moaned. She arched against him, moving restlessly against his body. His cock still barely penetrated her, made her think of the long, slow screw he could give her. Or a hard, fast fucking. At this point, she didn’t care. She only knew one thing could cure the relentless ache in her body. Rory.
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