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The Pirate's Tale -- A Maeve & Devlin Story, No. 2

Devlin's had a tough day. Maeve has just the antidote. A story...full of pirates, and keys, and just a hint of magic. 

The Pirate's Tale...

Raised in a convent orphanage, Gertrude always had tendency to cross forbidden thresholds--including running away with the baker's delivery boy. So when a captain comes to the convent seeking a servant, the Mother Superior offers him Gertrude...as a wife.

Gertrude thinks her forced marriage to the dark and commanding captain is the perfect opportunity to escape once and for all. But everything changes when the captain gives her the key to a magical door that reveals erotic secrets from his past--and shows Gertrude all kinds of sensual possibilities...

An excerpt:

In one swift motion, the Captain emerged utterly naked from the tub, steam rising off his skin, water splashing everywhere.

Showered in the drops off his body, Gertrude was treated to a shocking view of his privates, right in front of her face.

“Good lord!” she yelped.

She meant to close her eyes. She planned to. Eventually.

It looked nothing like what she’d expected. Everything appeared heavier, darker, redder, all softly secreted in black curly hair. Contrasted to his muscled thighs and the flat strength of his abdomen, here, he was vulnerable. At first. Even as she stared, a change began. His skin darkened in the very masculine opposite of a blush. No shame, no retreat implied by this rush of blood. He stretched and swelled as if his cock were reaching out for her, pointing at her, choosing her.

The Captain took full advantage of her inspection. He was out of the water and reaching for her, even as she turned away. Pulling her back to his chest, he caught her in his arms. His dripping body soaked through the back of her shift.

Leaning over her ear, he spoke. “Piracy taught me three lessons.”

She felt too much at once. Warm. Wet. The weight of him. The low rumble of his voice.

“One. To be a pirate is to take without asking.”

Each of his arms dampened an area across the front of her gown, hot where their skin touched, cool along the edges, where the air met bathwater. The contrast made her shiver. She lifted her chin and swallowed.

His fingertip traced a line down her throat to the tip of her breast. “Two.”

She jolted. Too fast for her to object, his palm cupped her breast completely. Hot. Hard.

“A wise pirate takes where there is excess, where something of value is wasted.”

Gertrude felt her heart pumping under his hand.

“Three.” His words whispered through her hair. “A good pirate never gives anything back.”

He released her so quickly she wobbled, eyes tight-shut.

“I may not understand all of who you are, or even how you came to be here, but this time--you will stay.”

This time?

The expression on his face led her to glance down at herself. Her gown hung, almost as wet as if she’d gotten into the tub with him. It clung to her skin, raising goose bumps. But worst of all, the sodden fabric was completely translucent. Without thinking, she cupped her breasts to hide the burning peaks.

He grabbed his clothes from the floor and stomped toward the door. At the threshold, he halted. He fumbled with the clothes he carried. From the pocket of his trousers, he pulled out a ring of keys. They jingled, soft as a church bell. “I’m going to close the house for the night. Stay here.”

Sight of the keys made Gertrude tremble. “Do you think to lock me in?”

His back stiffened, as if he had some horrible decision to make. She tried not to stare. His naked torso made her think of statues--Greek statues. Ancient gods. Pagan rituals.

“For better or worse, you are my wife now. These are the keys to my household,” he said softly. With thumb and forefinger, he singled out a small gold key, shinier than all the rest. “Use all but this one. This one is mine alone. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” She felt relieved and edgy, at once.

He dropped the key ring onto the credenza.

“You will wait here.”

The bedroom door shut with a snap.

Gertrude hurried over to where she’d dropped her gown. Quickly, she switched her cold, wet shift for the dry dress in her satchel, but her skin continued to prickle, her heart continued to flutter.

Pacing the room, window to door, fireplace to bed, she stepped into a damp patch on the rug. Everything came to a halt, as she recalled the sensation of water from his naked body dripping over her. Her nipples tightened again.

The keys gleamed in the firelight.

Why did he get angry when she offered to release him from a forced marriage?

And why would expose himself to her so blatently, and then…walk out?

Her hands reached to comfort her aching breasts. Tentatively, she squeezed. Her own hand was smaller, cooler. It soothed, where the memory of his hand burned. She squeezed herself tighter, harder. It wasn’t the same.

It wasn’t quite right.

Gertrude frowned at the back of the door. What was taking the man so long?

Of course, she was being completely irrational, wondering if he’d left her for good, like that rotten boy who sometimes delivered bread to the convent. This was the Captain’s home, after all. He had to return.

She stared at the golden key.

Was it some sort of test? Ordering her to stay in her room and wait for him? How much did this pirate know much about her?

Gertrude’s inability to follow the rule of confinement had been the Mother Superior’s greatest distress. As a girl, crossing forbidden thresholds had been mostly a sin of curiosity, but running away with the bread delivery boy was sacrilege. An attempt to claim real freedom.

Bread Boy's seduction was a disappointment she might have lived with well enough, but his abandonment still infuriated her. Discovered, disgraced, and disobedient as usual, Gertrude had spent two months locked in routines of penance.

Never again, she'd promised herself.

The key ring seemed to glow where it lay waiting.

Keys to the household meant nothing if she was required to stay in her room. With careful fingers, she took up the ring.

Ting-a-ling. Again, the soft sounds of a bell.

"Gertude, the Patron Saint of the West Indies" was welcome to remain in her room, with her uplifting mental activities.

Gertrude, the woman, had doors to open. Questions to answer. And a naked husband to find....

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The Queen's Tale -- A Maeve & Devlin Story, No. 1

To inspire their love-play, Maeve weaves this intoxicating, erotic bedtime tale for her husband.

Queen Philomena’s love-life has been prescribed by duty. Hardly more than a child when she married the aged king, the young widow yearns to experience the ways of love in one singular night of passion before entering another loveless marriage of state. Sent to the Queen’s chamber to “amuse” Her Majesty, Dante is handsome, fascinating...and much too insolent. At first, Philomena is determined to assert her control, but as the night progresses, she discovers pleasures she’d never imagined and surrenders to ecstasy.

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An excerpt:

“Shall we have a story?” Devlin suggested, as another enormous clap of thunder rattled the rooftop. He traced the curve of his wife’s bare shoulder with the tip of his finger. “A bedtime story. Something distracting. Something to keep us warm on a wicked night.”

“What sort of a story?” Maeve turned her head, hiding her eyes but not her smile. His wife knew exactly what he had in mind.

“Oh, an erotic story, to be certain.” Dev’s finger traced her collar bone to the hollow in her throat. And then down. A thousand and one times he’d touched her, and still he felt the heat. “Those are the ones that warm and distract me best.”

It was a challenge. It was a game; a game he and his lovely Maeve had played before. Never quite the same, but always exciting.

Maeve plumped the pillow behind her and sat up. The candlelight caught the twinkle of her glass, half full of sherry. Dev watched her take a long swallow and lick her lips. The storm whistled outside. She made a point of snuggling deeper under the bedclothes, tucking the sheet around her.

“Tonight I’m Scheherazade?”

“And I’m your King.” He tugged at the sheet, until it spilled around her waist. “Entertain me, Madam, or suffer the consequences.”

“Well, let me think....”