Aborigen is a subversive, transgressive artist in an increasingly prohibitive and hypocritical conservative regime.
But even Fiona can't deny her attraction to the handsome young Viking. Desire rises faster than the heat from Fiona's forge. Will she risk all to win the heart of "Her Viking Slave?"
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Gentle Rhiannon protect me. I never thought I would find him beautiful.
He lay on his back on the thin, narrow cot. The blankets she had lent him had been kicked off sometime in the night, and his nude body, caught in the low, slanting sunbeam that streamed through the open shutter in the opposite wall, was gilded in shades of honey and gold. His belly was flat, his chest broad and strong, his lips curved in the faintest of sweet smiles, as if he dreamed of home. Soft hair that made her fingers itch for its touch covered his chest, then gathered in a downy river past his breastbone and navel, there to pool in a lovely thicket that surrounded his hard, jutting manhood. It rose hard and rampant, aroused by who knew what signal in his sleeping mind. Long and thick, but somehow innocent at the same time.
A pang struck her. She had been kidnapped, enslaved, and brutalized when she was little more than a child, her budding body used for the pleasure of men who gave no thought for her own. The memories of the shy kisses and furtive caresses she had shared with the young men of her own age in her home village had been all but erased from her mind by a decade where the only thing at stake was her own survival.
Some women were different, she knew. At the Kinvarra village well, in the small market, in the communal bath-house where maidens and crones alike gathered to talk and gossip, there were sly glances and hidden giggles as the married women spoke of how their menfolk served them at night. Some were not bashful at all, but openly bragged about the lusty power of their husbands and lovers, or how many times they could make their staffs rise in one evening.
But not her. Never her. She stared at Harald’s sleeping body, her fists clenched in helpless fury. Even after she had found a home in Kinvarra, she had avoided men. And the men of the village had avoided her as well, knowing she was no maiden, that she had bartered her body in exchange for her own freedom. She had won a place there by her skill in the smithy. But no man chose to woo her.
Well. One did. But she would sooner cut off her own hands than take Ultan to her bed.
Why not? A whisper in the back of her mind. Why not the northman? You have brought yourself pleasure with your own hands and fingers. Why not use his body? Do not his people owe you that much at least, after all the pain they brought you?
She blinked. Did she dare? Between her legs, a throbbing pressure grew, and drops of sweat beaded her brow. Through all the long years since her capture, she had never chosen. Never been the one who had reached out her hand to a man, bidding him to her bed. Could she do it now? Even with the object of her desire sodden in sleep?
After her husband’s death, Nelly hid herself deep in the swamps of Louisiana. Filling the hole left in her life with fishing and whiskey, she was content in her misery and in the simple existence she pulled from the land. Days blurred one into another, until Nelly notices there’s something odd about the gator that visits her stilt house each night, something odd in the way those dark eyes watch her every move.
An unusual encounter leaves Nelly convinced she’s losing her mind, as there’s no evidence for what’s happening to her aside from a pleasure riddled body and renewed hope in life. The nightly encounters continue, each one more passionate than the last, until Nelly finally discovers one of the swamp’s greatest secrets and uncovers the truth that lays hidden in the gator’s dark eyes.
While Nelly may have uncovered a secret known only to the most reclusive swamp dwellers, Martian is left with little more than questions -and a strong hunch that there’s more to these locals than meets the eye.
Phaedra Laskaris doesn't want a man. But since the strange statue crossed her path, her will has not been her own. Her eyes are straying to her young tenant, Nick. And one amazing night she gains a new body, a new purpose, and Nick becomes Aphrodite's Lover!
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She barely remembered the drive home. By the time she arrived back at her apartment, her slacks were unzipped and gaping wide. At every stoplight her hands had dipped helplessly below the waistband.
She stumbled up the stairs to the apartment she shared with Nikki, empty to everything but the insatiable need inside her. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to slot the key into the lock, and once inside, she left her clothes behind her as she made a beeline for the bedroom. By the time she pushed open the door to her bedroom, her slacks were down to her knees, and she half-hopped, half-hobbled to the bed, where the shoved them down and off her legs with quick jerks of her arms.
She laid back with a groan, her eyes closed. This was less a desire than a need, a panting need to climax.
Goddess...Goddess, please. I need...I need...
~I can grant you what you wish,~ a voice seemed to murmur in her ears. ~But there will be a price. There always is. Great gifts demand great sacrifices.~
“Anything,” she panted. “Please!”
~So be it.~
It started at the same time as her climax, that too-seldom-experienced feeling of joyous release. As the muscles of her belly and womb tensed and relaxed, as her mind spiraled upward in bliss, the pounding heartbeat in her ears and the thrusting rhythm of her fingers began to merge.
And her body changed.
She first noticed it in her breasts. Looking down over her chest to the slightly rounded expanse of her belly, she gasped. Her breasts were growing. The skin over her chest seemed to tighten, then expand, her flat, saggy bags blossoming with every breath. As she watched, disbelieving, the new flesh spilled up and over her clutching hands. They grew in a pulsing rhythm, each heartbeat increasing her bust-size. She filled her hands with them, as if she could stop the growth, somehow force her body back into its flat-chested rut. But the feel of her hot fingers made her tilt her head back and moan in wanton pleasure.
And that was not the only change. Her entire body was slowly transforming before her very eyes. Her skin grew richer, smoother, darker, losing its sallow hue. It almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the room. The low rise of her belly sank, her navel becoming a wonderful dimple in a smooth plane of taut skin. While her waist drew in, her hips grew slightly, the jutting bones of her pelvis now clothed with sleek flesh, wonderfully curved. Her thighs were more attractive as well, no longer skinny, but subtly different, drawing the eye.
Pain spiked in her left side, and her head spun as she gasped in agony. Then her eyes filled with sudden tears. Her scars, her burn marks, the physical residue of a fear-filled night thirty years in the past, were disappearing. Ropy, knotted masses of skin were transformed into unmarred flesh, smooth and sensitive as a child's. Even as she watched, the last traces of her burns faded away.
And then it stopped. She lay for a moment on her bed, gasping in confusion and sudden, heart-stopping wonder.
A voice spoke in her mind, pure and clear and filled with vast amusement. ~Well, my handmaiden? Do you approve of my work?~Phaedra Laskaris fainted dead away.