All Chapters of Compilation Of Short Stories (Erotica): Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Meredith gasped, not with fear, but with a shiver of pure, unadulterated lust so overwhelming that it was as if she'd been struck windless. Her Patron, Lord Valerius of the Fae, was at the moonlit window of his own sanctum, a place she'd never so much as entered until tonight. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and something even older, the crackle of his magic, of his untrammeled, raw power. He'd summoned her to him not in words, but in a fragile, unspoken string of need she'd felt pulling at her own core from across the estate."You've been painting the twilights," he asserted, his rich rumble of voice vibrating through the spotless obsidian floor and the soles of her bare feet. He didn't turn to look at her, he simply stared ahead. "You're trying to capture the moment when the sun goes down and my power is at its greatest. You use broken amethyst and dragonfly wings for the pigment. It is audacious."Meredith’s heart thudding within her ribcage forced her voice to remain f

He was known only as the Artisan, a man who spoke more in the language of spanners and oil than words, and his universe was a cathedral of ticking blackness. His workshop was a labyrinth of half-made things: brass limbs suspended from copper threads, glass eyes staring blankly from velvet trays, and the constant, muttering hiss of steam from a dozen soft engines. And in the center, on an obsidian pedestal, stood his creation, his secret shame, his passion.She was unit 737, but he had long since stopped thinking of her as a number. He'd placed all forbidden tomes of mechanics and lust in her making, heating a body of hot brass and ivory, bound with silver wires and powered by a captured lightning for a heart. Her body was not a body, but a marvel of alchemically treated leather, soft and yielding as velvet at its best, stretched over a structure of dazzling beauty. Her hair was a mess of spun gold wire, every strand separately threaded. And her eyes were cut amethysts, dark enough to

The silence in the lodge was taut, an empty circle of a frenzied, desperate mated hunger.Sorin paced back and forth in front of the mirror, the blood red of lace she wore was a raw slash of color against the muted colors of their bedroom. The werewolf in her, a beast of instinct and blind hunger, paced restlessly within her. It was this frustration that had led her here, to this deliberate act of seduction. She was tired of the silence, tired of the soft kisses and holy, near-sacramental sex that left some part of her soul starved for the brutality they had lost. Tonight, she would not plead. Tonight, she would take.The crunch of the front door, the weighty boots being kicked off with a bang, and the scent of pine and cold night air welcomed Aric home. Sorin's heart was pounding in her chest, a wild drumbeat that thrashed the very air into servitude. She entered into the bedroom, taking her place in the center of their large bed, the flickering shadows created by the fire's flame

There had been quiet in the house, a heavy emptiness pressing down on her everywhere, but with his key in the door turning, the air burst open and reshaped itself into tautness and jitters.She was there before the door fully opened, a vision that made his breath catch after a week of clinical hotel rooms and behind-the-scenes negotiations. He stood on the threshold, jet-lagged, the acrid odor of jet fuel and other cities on his woolen jacket. She said nothing, but smiled instead, giving everything and nothing simultaneously. She leaned her hand against his as she took from him the big leather briefcase, letting it fall down onto the floor with the soft thud that seemed to echo through the awed quietness."The bath is drawn," she told him, her throat heavy and vibrating, cutting through his weariness and going straight to his groin. Her eyes, dark with intent, roamed his face. "Go, wash the world off."He wanted to pull her into his arms and take a breath of the smell of her skin, ear

It all began the moment the Fae King, Lysanor, laid his hands upon her in the moon drenched glade of his world. One second she was clutching the rough bark of an oak in the mortal world, the next she was on her knees in a circle of standing stones, velvet moss beneath her and a sky of swirling amethyst above. And his touch was like lightning made silk, tracing the line of her jaw and sending waves of pure, undiluted sensation straight to her core.“She is the one,” his voice, a low thrum of power and desire, was not meant for her alone. It echoed through the clearing, reaching the two formidable figures who stood as silent, watchful sentinels at the edge of the stones. His personal guards. “The anchor for my magic. The key to the throne.”Lyriana could only gasp, her head falling back as his fingers trailed down the column of her throat. This was not the terror of abduction she had expected. This was an awakening. Her skin hummed, her blood sang, and a deep, aching emptiness bloomed b