Morgana Robinson Nude Novels & Stories

Twelve warriors, Kael beside me, Marcus on my other side, Reyna behind with her hand on her weapon. The woman standing at the territory’s edge was not what I’d built in my imagination. I’d been imagining Vivian — that precise, managed quality, the clinical distance. Same generation, same training, the same twenty years of building toward something. Morgana was nothing like Vivian. She was older, that was visible — mid-sixties, perhaps, with white hair that hadn’t been managed toward youth and silver-gray eyes that held the accumulated experience of someone who had seen a great many things and had stopped being surprised by most of them. Tall, elegant in the way of someone whose bearing was a

"What… exactly are you two doing?" At the sound of my voice, Morgan's defiance instantly faltered, though his tail snapped straight up behind him. With a reluctant rip of fabric, he finally yanked his shirt off, voice tight with resentment. "Fine. Let's just get this over with." Unlike Eli, Morgan's build was obvious even through clothing. Shirtless, his sculpted, bronze-toned body radiated raw, masculine power—every muscle sharp and solid. Raw power… for what, exactly? I was completely lost.

The air seemed charged, as if a storm were brewing in. Then a scream pierced the silence. Tina. I ran forward. I found them in the heart of the ruins. Tina, Selene, and Ronan knelt down trapped within a circle of dangerous glowing red lights. Morgana stood over them, her black dress blending with the wind, her red eyes glowing with dangerous red light. "You took your time," she said, her voice silky and dangerous. I held my fists. "Release them." She laughed softly. "Why should I?"

I was livid, we had enough problems in the kingdom as it is, and the last thing I wanted was for my own alpha's to compound them even more. I was livid, but Lygion was way beyond livid. We growled at Morgan and ordered him to get on his knees to address us. Then I turned to look at her, her head was slightly turned away from me, but I could see her face was swollen, with dark bruises everywhere, she might have a dislocated jaw but I wasn't too sure. I instantly got Morgan to get her a robe, to cover her up. For some reason the thought of another man seeing her naked with sexual intentions, drove me mad.

Until. She caught it. The dark weaves dissolving into dust. I fall upon the concrete with a heavy thud as I morphed out of Lucy. Morgana knelt besides me, barely catching her breath. "Finally." She grunted, making to move her arms when she flinched. "Shit! Those damn weaves left a hole on my shoulders." Her gaze shifted to me and she paused. Amusement gradually flickering in her eyes. "You are naked." I quickly wrap the necklace around my neck and clutched my body with my arms.

Another maid carefully manicures her hands, filing down the jagged nails left from weeks of hard labor. Then they move to her private part, using practiced, clinical movements, and smoothly shave her private parts. They pull her from the water, drying her skin with thick, plush towels. One maid steps forward with a small jar of honey. Carefully, she rubs it over Morgana’s lips, then applies it directly to her nipples. Finally, they drape her in her attire for the night. A crimson nightgown made of a flimsy, see-through silk that leaves nothing to the imagination.

I want to go into that house and beat the shit out of him. Morgan backs up and unbelts her robe, letting it fall to the floor, "Look at me. Look what he's done." I'm finally seeing my sister naked and all I want to do is cry. She has bruises on her breasts, her hips and thighs. A red handprint on the side of her face. I so want to kill that man. I pick up her robe and drape it over her. "Morgan, you didn't need to do that, I get it."

Why keep up the thin paper window of politeness? Ray ignored both the soup and the offered spoon. He took another drag on his cigarette, voice flat: “You’re not the only one who wants that role. So tell me—why you? On what grounds should I give it to you?” Morgan wasn’t flustered. She didn’t rush. Instead, she hooked a fingertip under the edge of her dress, letting the fabric slide off in one fluid motion. There was nothing else beneath. Her body—toned from years of gym routines—unfolded before him, curves sharp yet soft, a sculpted prize on display.

The time I usually go into Paris’s room to fill the void in my heart with her scent. When I turned back around, my breath caught. Morgana had slipped off her dress. She stood there half naked, her skin pale under the candlelight. Her eyes looked desperate, but also determined. “You can use me,” she said, voice soft and low. “For pleasure. Right now. Take whatever you want from me. Just let me go to my mother. Even if it is only for one day.” She stepped closer. Her hands reached for my chest. I moved back quickly.

Morgan is truly a great beauty, her long thick curly bronze hair, sultry topaz eyes. Her perfect unblemished cinnamon skin. Dressed as an a****n ready for battle. Her perfect hourglass figure and her ample breast put a spell on the male and female species. I would bet my life they’d sell their souls to touch her. It was like an angel, and incubus had a baby, and the outcome was Morgan. On her back between her rose gold wings laid her sword.