Hi all! Hope your fall is going well. I am busy, busy, busy, but I wanted to give you a peek at the first excerpt for Silken Rapture, which will release November 22 from Samhain! And for those interested, I’m giving away 5 print books of the first book in the series, Velvet Cataclysm at Goodreads. The link is at the end of the excerpt.
Also, just a heads up–I will be having a fun two week contest with some of the fabulous authors from Samhain this November, so stay tuned for spicy excerpts and daily giveaways!
Princes of the Underground 2
Genre: erotic paranormal–vampire, shapeshifter
He is her captor…
She is his soul…
When Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, rescues a young woman from the clutches of his vampiritic clone the sheer amount of soul energy blazing from her unconscious body stuns him…and awakens a primal, parasitic hunger he has fought for centuries to quell.
Determined to keep her safe from the ravenous Scourge horde, Blaise must hide her in his underground stronghold. Where the powerful urge to consume her gnaws at the last shreds of his control.
With a touch, Isabel Lanscourt can divine the darkest of secrets. Her ability is little help, though, when she awakens in a lush world where sensuality rules. Her shining spirit is a beacon to all the powerful immortals in Sanctuary, but only one can touch her. The enigmatic Lord Delraven, whose brusque coldness is belied by the heated need in his eyes.
In a dangerous zone between temptation and memory, desire ignites an explosion of luminescent beauty. And Isabel’s healing touch begins to fill his emptiness with an impossible gift: a soul. But Blaise holds a dangerous secret, one that could extinguish Isabel’s inner light. And cast his lonely world into eternal darkness.
Warning: Step into a sensual world of vampires who love to feed and love to…er…feast, where sexual variety is the spice of their lives. No sweetness and light here, this is one vampire who can put the “B” into “bad guy” without batting an eye.
Read an Excerpt
A tension swelled in her sex. It hurt where his teeth pierced her neck, but his lips moved around the puncture wounds, the movement striking her as decadently erotic. She felt the heat of his mouth penetrate her. Somehow, the sharp pain he wrought mingled with nerve and flesh until it transformed into a potent, sharp need for release.
She struggled weakly against him, not because she wanted this bizarre, electrical experience to stop—no, she would have begged him to continue—but distantly, she was mortified that she was about to climax explosively beneath a stranger…
That the act shouldn’t feel like the height of intimacy, but did, confused and panicked her.
The movements he made while he fed—the subtle suckling actions of his jaw and the convulsions of his throat as he swallowed her blood—came to a halt when he felt her weak struggle. His hold on her shoulders became more firm.
She cried out shakily when he withdrew his teeth from her flesh. “Shhhh,” he quieted. “Do not fight me.”
She came at the sensation of his teeth sliding back into her flesh. Orgasm ripped through her, pain edging vast waves of pleasure. It was as if those crashing surges of sharp climax whisked away the familiar landmarks of her known world.
The next conscious thought she had was of movement and stability at once. She cracked open her eyes and saw she was in a torch-lit, domed corridor. Through a hazed consciousness, she saw angels and gods cavorting above her, some leered down at her mockingly, others reached to touch her, to comfort.
But they may retract their healing, beneficent fingertips. She required no comfort. She felt numb. No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t feel numb, but alive. She buzzed with life; she was drunk on it.
She rolled her head on a hard object and looked up. This angel was real—a dark, fierce one. The cavorting angels overhead were faded caricatures compared to him. His gaze remained fixed ahead, like a cold, straight blade lodged in stone. She realized the hardness behind her head was his biceps, and that he carried her down a long corridor.
“Hey,” she said.
Her lips felt heavy and odd, as if the already sensitive flesh had sprouted billions of new nerve-endings. Perhaps her voice resounded only in her mind, because his gaze didn’t waver.
Still, he didn’t acknowledge her. “I know you can hear me. I know you’re aware of me,” she finished softly. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She didn’t know what had made her say it, but it suddenly struck her that she’d spoken the truth. Despite his averted gaze, he might as well have been carrying a ticking bomb, he was so focused on her.
He carried her into a room. He kicked the heavy door shut and shifted his hand beneath her. The furtive snick of the lock sliding home made her shiver with excitement.
A sideways glance informed her they were in the bedroom where she’d breakfasted with Margaret Turrow—had that just been today? It felt as if it might have been weeks ago, months…
He laid her on the bed. “What are you—
She broke off when he began to unbutton her blouse. A bedside lamp wasthe only source of light in the room. It cast his face in shadow and gold. Her heart swelled in her breast. Her eyes dampened.
He removed the blouse and tossed it aside. He slid his open hands along her sides and she shivered in concentrated pleasure. Her skin seemed to take on a life of its own, thrilling at his touch.
The sadness she saw on his rigid features and gleaming eyes, the torment, the wild, desperate longing, confused her…angered her. He removed the lacey confection of a bra Margaret had brought her in the velvet reticule along with dozens of items of expensive lingerie. She trembled uncontrollably at the sensation of palms caressing the tender skin at the sides of her bare breasts.
“Don’t do me any favors,” she said with difficulty through a throat that had tightened with emotion.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his cold tone bizarrely at odds with the smoldering heat in his eyes when he plumped her small breasts in his hands. She cried out in sharp arousal when he casually pinched both nipples at once. Desire sluiced through her, making her struggle to recall what she had meant to say.
“You look like you don’t want to do this. Don’t, then. I’m not going to beg you.”
“Beg?” he glanced up from where he’d been watching himself finesse her breasts with adroit fingertips. He looked confused. “You’re saying you want me to stop?”
“Not exactly. No…I’m not staying that,” she whispered.
“Good. Because I’ve tasted you, there’s no going back. I will have you now.” He stood abruptly and began to lift her skirt. Beneath it, she wore the ivory panties that matched the bra and a pair of thigh-high stockings. She didn’t typically dress in skirts and hose, but she had no choice but to wear the clothing Margaret had brought her, unless she wanted to walk around Sanctuary in her rumpled evening dress. It had disturbed her a little to admit it, considering she was being kept prisoner at Sanctuary, but donning the pretty, delicate lingerie had pleased her for some reason, stroked her feminine pride.
She whimpered in uncontrollable pleasure when he ran his hands along her hips and pulled down her panties. His touch electrified her. She lay there on the bed, a whirlwind of feeling, angry and bewildered by what was happening to her, but primarily drunk with desire.
He spread her legs and pinned her with his stare. His nostrils flared.
She craved his touch like an addict, and he gave her what she needed, stroking her naked thighs and ribs and breasts until she trembled uncontrollably. Her limbs felt heavy and useless. She was paralyzed by desire as she lay there, unable to pull her eyes off his transfixed expression as he learned her body with his hands.
In the end, she did beg. Again and again.
“Please,” she moaned, her head thrashing on the pillow, unable to take the torture a moment longer. He paused, her breasts in his hands. He’d been molding them to his palms and lifting up before releasing them abruptly, appearing fascinated by their tendency to pertly spring back into place. His wicked fingertips had turned the nipples into hard, pointed crests. She gritted her teeth when he touched them, they were so sensitive. She begged him to touch them again when he focused his attention elsewhere.
She sighed shakily when he released her, hating the absence of his touch. Her pussy was molten now, liquid and hot, a volatile explosion brewing in its depths. He stood. She watched, her breath caught in her lungs, as he rapidly undressed. The flex and ripple of muscle over bone held her spellbound when he removed his shirt. Every nerve, every cell in her body strained toward him when he liberated the long, thick pillar of his cock from his jeans. He still wore the strange leather harness instead of underwear. Her mouth opened in surprise when he turned as he kicked off his pants and she saw the sheath that rode down his right hip and upper thigh. A supple strap wrapped around his leg, holding it in place. She wanted to ask him about the weapon, but her tongue had grown as heavy as her limbs.
Her heart seemed to have swelled to two times its normal size. It throbbed against her sternum as if it were running out of room. His male beauty was breathtaking, but intimidating, as well. Lord Delraven’s body wasn’t one to be petted and coddled by a woman’s touch. It was the tool of a warrior, hard and grown accustomed to labor and pain.
He paused next to the bed. She ripped her eyes off the potently erotic vision of his cock and heavy balls surrounded by leather and met his gaze.
“Take off your gloves,” he said.
A sliver of panic pierced her. She shook her head on the pillow. He didn’t know the protection the gloves afforded her and her consciousness felt too thick with arousal and need to explain such a complicated thing.
His face hardened at her refusal. He knelt on the bed and peeled back the velvet from a forearm and hand. She grimaced when her hand fell to the bed, foreign images and sensations impinging upon her. She could only partially interpret them, they were so strange and alien—the sweetness of the mulberry leaf, the friction in the gland before it secreted the sticky residue, soft, quick hands touching and spinning and stretching—
He gripped the upper part of her forearm and lifted her hand. The invading images abruptly ceased. Sweat beaded on her brow. She glanced up at him.
“Silk,” she whispered, referring to the luxurious fabric covering the bed. “It came from a living thing. I can feel its origins.”
He surprised her by nodding once, as if he perfectly understood her. He quickly removed her other glove, carefully holding her hands in the air and touching only her forearms. She murmured in surprise when he drew her hands above her head and efficiently tied her wrists together with the long, stretchy glove. He carefully laid her hands on the pillow, palms and fingertips facing upwards. She stared up at him, her skirt rucked up around her waist, her thighs spread, the cool air in the room kissing her hot, moist sex, her wrists restrained above her head.
“Why did you do that?” she asked.
She saw his throat convulse. For a strained few seconds, she thought he wasn’t going to reply.
“I wanted to see your hands naked while I was inside you.”
Pre-order Silken Rapture
Enter for a free copy of Velvet Cataclysm, Princes of the Underground 1 in print at Goodreads.