Kiss Me Now – #BDSM #RomanticErotica #SecondChance @PebblesLacasse @kandi.model

Blurb

A decade ago, I fled the misconception of happily ever after and began Kiss Me Now; a nightclub catering to the kinky. But my past has caught up to me.

Aged eyes, once belonging to a teenager who professed his love to me, reappear. Time wears well on Tristan’s handsome face and manly physique. Can I resist his ferocious sexual energy?

My best friend, Colby, knows me better than anyone. Is he wise to doubt my visitor’s intentions, or does the fear of losing me to another man cloud his judgement?

Is Tristan’s heart pure or is his charm laced with the broken trust of costly secrets?

Warning: MATURE READERS ONLY 

Some BDSM content may contain subject matter that is too intense to readers with a sensitive trigger. Explicit sexual content, sexual language, violence.

Buy Links

Universal Link: https://books2read.com/BrokenCharm

Amazon.com: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B194QGLJ

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/61117930-broken-charm

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/broken-charm-by-pebbles-lacasse

Enter to win a signed paperback copy of Broken Charm!

https://forms.gle/9D7xX55LY4vuQ15HA

Winner will be chosen on July 14, 2022

 

Excerpt (XXX-Rated)

Sleep takes me quickly, but the sex dream involving Tristan startles me awake at four o’clock. The darkness feels heavy, as if I’ll choke if I don’t get out of bed. As I sit up, bile rises in my throat. I rush to the bathroom and vomit my guts out. My bare ass chills on the floor beside the toilet as my hands weave into my hair to stop them from shaking. Was it the vomiting or the dream that has tears streaming down my cheeks? Deep breaths rush in and out of my chest, each feeling less burdensome, as if the weight of the air eases by the second.

“Mistress, are you okay?” Ted’s voice cuts through my racing thoughts.

My eyes squeeze shut as my head shakes to rid my mind of the dream. Why did Tristan have to come back into my life? Seeing his face flooded me with the memories I’ve fought so hard to suppress.

“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you, Ted.” I pull myself off the floor and flush the toilet before splashing my face with cool water. My hand cups the stream toward my mouth to rinse the taste of vomit from my throat.

I didn’t want Tristan back then, and I don’t want him now. So, what’s with the dream? Maybe my body needs a sexual release. There’s no denying the man’s handsome, and surely he could fuck me into a coma, but taking him to my bed would only exacerbate the situation, and he’ll never leave me alone.

My fingers slip between my labia and into the wetness of my wonton pussy. I circle my clit and rest my back against the cool off-white painted wall. I lose myself behind closed eyelids and allow the memory of Tristan’s baby-blue eyes to cast their alluring spell.

The coolness of the floor, wall, and air causes a shiver, ruining the fantasy. “Fuck this!”

Ted remains handcuffed to the bed by his right wrist on a two-foot-long chain connecting him to the headboard. His shadow proves him sitting up with the covers hovering about his waist, leaving a dusting of light from the streetlight to grace his well-formed chest.

“Lie back,” I say as my feet slap the hardwood floor in my rush to get to the bed for warmth. Ted’s quick to follow my instructions. My legs straddle his head and my feet tuck beneath his shoulders when he lifts his arms to hold my thighs. The chain spans across my thigh and is colder than the bathroom was.

Knowing what I want, he opens his mouth and engulfs my pussy. He sucks and licks while I grip the headboard and slowly rock my hips. My forehead rests against the wooden headboard. The image of Tristan’s younger eyes looking up while he savoured my flavours pushes me over the edge. My body stiffens as my mind swims in the black pools surrounded by the brightest blue of his eyes.

A gasp jolts me back to reality. I lift my leg and slide my body down Tristan’s hot flesh until his thick, hard erection buries deep inside me. Without pause, I fuck him fast and rough while my lungs burn from frantic breaths. But I still want more.

My feet slip beneath Tristan’s hips, and my hands grip his shoulders. As I roll, I whisper, “Fuck me like you hate me.”

Tristan rests himself up on his shins and grips my hip with his free hand while his other grips the straining links of chain. He slams into me with pained aggression, as I’d commanded him to. I don’t see Ted’s shadowed face looking down at me in the darkness. No. I see Tristan’s wicked eyes watching me scream my way through another climax.

My muscles tighten and shake until Ted’s breath on my face slaps me back to the realization of the here and now.

What the fuck am I doing?

“Get off me!” I hiss and push at Ted’s chest. When he doesn’t move fast enough, I yell, “Get off! Get the fuck off!”

Ted pants as he sits on his side of the bed while I curl onto my side, facing away from him and fight back angry tears. Fuck! Poor Ted.

How to find Pebbles

Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/pebbleslacasseandfriendsgroup

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Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Pebbles-Lacasse/e/B07C82WN7K/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1

Website: https://www.pebbleslacasse.com

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Want to join her ARC review team?

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Cover Model’s links:

https://www.instagram.com/kandi.model/

https://www.notgentlemanlycigarsmokers.com

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Book her for modeling: Chris@theNGCS.com

Sharing bodies and pleasure – #SciFi #Menage #Aliens @AllieRitch

Blurb

When Liz is abducted by aliens, she doesn’t expect to wind up sharing her body with one. Fortunately for her, Zen presents himself as a man straight out of her fantasies, and he’s not alone. Cole is also a human sharing space with another consciousness—an alien named Voss. Zen, Cole, and Voss have been lovers for years, and they want Liz to join them. Can she really be part of this unusual foursome? Or will her inhibitions and human hang-ups get in the way?

Content: ménage, graphic love scenes, m/f romance, m/m/f/m romance, a little bit of m/m romance between a human and alien

Buy Links

Books2Read/Universal Book Link: https://books2read.com/u/3yz6Qe

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08QJR1TQX

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/carnal-fusion

Apple: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1544797806

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/carnal-fusion-allie-ritch/1138466836?ean=2940164688677

Excerpt

He took his time kissing her until she was oblivious to the rest of the universe beyond them. Then he relinquished her lips to plant kisses down her neck. She could even feel his warm breath against her pulse point. He traced her shape with his hand, starting at her outer thigh and working his way up.

Liz’s breath turned ragged when Zen dipped his mouth lower at the same time that he slipped his hand higher. He cupped her breast and sucked on the opposite nipple at once. She arched her back and cradled his head against her. His mind-reading abilities were fantastic. He knew just how much pressure was enough and when the soft scrape of his teeth bordered on too much. Whereas she had been nervous with previous lovers during their first time together, she realized she could trust Zen absolutely.

“I feel what you feel,” he reminded her. Then he went back to his sensual assault.

She gave herself up to whatever he wanted to do to her. By the time he kissed his way back up to face her, she was mindless with need. She was throbbing and empty between her legs.

“I’m trying not to rush this,” he gritted out, “but I can’t wait any longer.”

He was already spreading her thighs and slipping a finger inside her sheath.

“You consider that rushing?” She’d never enjoyed such exquisite foreplay.

“Yes, but I’ll make it good.” He set his cock against her entrance and thrust inside her.

His sudden entry made her cry out in rapture. After as long as she’d gone without a partner, she expected some strain and burn. She didn’t feel even the slightest twinge. Of course, his cock wasn’t really there, which probably meant he was somehow using her fingers.

“You’re still thinking too much,” Zen grunted. “Relax and accept the pleasure.”

He didn’t give her a choice. In the next instant, he started taking her, filling her with firm thrusts of his cock. He found her G-spot—a spot she hadn’t even been convinced existed—and hit it with every stroke. The friction sent sharp jolts of ecstasy through her until she lifted her hips in greedy counterpoint. She had never sped toward climax so quickly.

“Not yet.” He rolled, taking her with him so that she wound up on top, straddling his hips. “Ride me.”

Liz rested her hands against him for balance, still amazed by how solid he felt beneath her. Her first slide up and down his shaft was slow and measured—a test of how he’d feel in this new position. He gave her two more strokes to get used to it before he gripped her hips to show her the hard rhythm he wanted.

“That’s it,” he praised her, leaving her to work herself over him.

He sent his hands exploring everywhere he could reach, arousing her further. She felt like he claimed every last part of her body until all her nerves were supersensitive. The moist slap of her skin against his seemed to chant more, more, more!

Beneath her, Zen groaned and pumped faster. “You feel so good. I’m going to make you come so hard.”

“Please.” She had never been so desperate for release.

He kept her on the razor’s edge for what seemed like an eternity. With one hand, he pressed his thumb to her clit to rub it in tight circles. With the other, he caught her hip again and pulled her down hard as he bucked beneath her. That final deep stroke sent her spiraling into climax. She cried out and was pretty sure he yelled right along with her. Her sex contracted again and again, greedy for more. He was so hot and hard and real inside her.

By the time the orgasm ended, her thighs were quivering. Zen slipped out of her, and she collapsed on the bed beside him.

“Oh my god.” Liz was breathing as if she’d finished a marathon.

Zen matched her panting beside her. “So I’m upgraded from tenant to sex god? I like it.”

She laughed, but the sound came out airy since she was still gasping for breath. Her whole body tingled, and she was as limp as an overcooked noodle.

He ran his hand down her spine to caress her butt.

Her eyes popped wide. “Again?”

“I think we’ve both suffered a drought lately,” he pointed out. “Why not make up for lost time?”

“Don’t you need a few minutes to recover?” She had never heard of a man who didn’t. Then again, he wasn’t really a man.

Zen gave her a lascivious grin. “I don’t if you don’t.”

He immediately set about proving it.

About the Author

Allie Ritch is a multi-published author of steamy sci-fi and paranormal romance. Her works include her bestselling Children of Nanook series, her popular Alien Sex Ed series, and other books that feature shifters, psychics, genetically engineered husbands, vampires, and other interesting characters.

She has an active imagination and enjoys entertaining others through storytelling. Allie lives in her own little world in the Southeastern United States, where she spends time appreciating the ocean and sunshine.

You can visit Allie's website/blog at http://allieritch.wordpress.com

to learn more about her and her books or follow her on Twitter @AllieRitch.

Website/Blog: https://allieritch.wordpress.com

Books2Read: https://books2read.com/Allie-Ritch

Twitter: https://twitter.com/AllieRitch

Amazon Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/allieritch

Goodreads Page: http://www.goodreads.com/AllieRitch

iBooks : https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/allie-ritch/id442493579?mt=11

Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/authors/allie-ritch

Like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm... #LGBT #Pride #ParanormalEroticRomance #MFRWHooks

Welcome to this week’s Marketing for Romance Writers Book Hooks blog hop!

Pride Month is almost over, yet I’ve hardly done anything to celebrate, despite my having quite a few LGBTQ titles (and dearly loving gender-bending and sexual diversity).

To partially remedy this omission, I have another excerpt from my FFF paranormal erotic romance The Witches of Gloucester. Enjoy! 

Blurb 

It’s not about power. It’s about love.

The historic port of Gloucester, Massachusetts has a special charm, due at least in part to its resident witches. For decades, raven-maned Marguerite and red-headed Beryl have lived among its hard-working inhabitants, making magic and mischief. Love and sex fuel their supernatural abilities, but duality limits their power. To reach their full potential, they need a third witch to complete their circle.

Rejected as a nymphomaniac by her puritanical boyfriend, Emmeline escapes to Gloucester to work on her PhD thesis. From the moment she arrives, Marguerite and Beryl sense her erotic vitality and unrecognized paranormal talent. The platinum-haired beauty may well be the enchantress they have been awaiting for so long. Now they need to show Em that her prodigious libido is a gift, not a liability, and to persuade her that her destiny lies in the sea-girt town they guard, and in their arms.

SPECIAL BONUS: Also includes "Late Show", a contemporary FF erotic romance tale about second chances.

The Hook (rated R)

Emmeline perched on the rail of her tiny porch, watching the gulls wheel and swoop among the masts crowding the sky. A man in a knit cap and tall rubber boots balanced in a dingy, shouting to someone who looked like his twin back on the wharf. One of the town’s many churches rang six PM, but the sun still rode high above the inner harbor. Honeysuckle blossoms growing across the narrow bay scented the air, mingling with the closer odor of raw fish.

She loved the sea, always had. Renting a cottage right on the water, a space of her own where she could work on her dissertation in peace and privacy – that had been her one dream after the nasty break-up with Tim. Okay, so the place was hardly more than a shack, one room plus a cramped bath with a cold shower, but it was painted lemon yellow and had pansies in the box beneath its one front window. Not to mention this back porch, the ideal place for her to hang out and enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of the ocean. At night, little waves lapped at the pilings that supported the rear half of the building, lulling her to sleep. It was hard to imagine an environment more conducive to study.

She couldn’t seem to relax, though. She couldn’t focus on her work. Since she’d arrived a week ago, there’d been a constant undercurrent of tension running through her, a sort of mental itch that made it difficult to sit in one place for any length of time. Like the atmosphere before a thunderstorm, she bristled with electric potential, with a sense of impending change.

Maybe I just need sex. She’d brought her vibrator, of course, but the recollection of Tim’s ugly accusations held her back from indulging. “You’re a nymphomaniac,” he’d complained. “An addict. Sex is all you think about. You’re sick, Emmeline. You need professional help, girl.”

Was it true? Was she really sick? Nonsense! Sure, she needed help – in the form of a man who wouldn’t reject her just because she had strong physical desires. Wasn’t that what most guys pretended to like?

What about that guy with the boots? Would he be interested? She imagined pulling her top over her head, exposing her bra-less tits to the sun and his eyes. The denim between her thighs dampened as she imagined the scene. He’d row his dingy over to her porch and gaze up at her like Romeo adoring Juliet. A rickety ladder led down to water level. She’d descend to his boat, kneel on the waterlogged planks at the bottom, unzip him...

Bang! Bang! What the heck? Who could be knocking on her bright yellow door? No one but her mother knew Emmeline was hiding out here, and Mom had sworn to keep the secret safe. In particular, she didn’t want Timothy showing up, begging for another chance. Everyone had told them that they made a perfect couple, but she understood now just how false that perception was.

“Go away,” she muttered to herself. “Nobody’s home.” The banging continued, however. Maybe whoever was out there had caught a glimpse of her out here behind the building.

Bang, bang! The window rattled in its frame. Would they kick the door in if she didn’t answer?

“Okay, okay – I’m coming.”

The door didn’t have a peephole. Hiding herself behind the door, Emmeline peeked out through the wavy glass of the old windowpanes.

Two women stood side by side on the short path that led from the street to her door. Two very remarkable women.

The one on the left made Emmeline think of a lioness. A gleaming black mane framed her face, which featured high cheekbones and unusually plump lips. Her caramel-hued skin flowed over finely balanced muscle, alternately hidden and revealed by the royal purple cape that fluttered from her bare shoulders. Underneath, she wore a brief, sleeveless black dress that molded to her generous curves. As unlikely as it seemed on a steamy June day in New England, the dress appeared to be made of leather.

The one on the right was as fair as her companion was dark. A storm of red curls tumbled over her shoulders, catching glints from the afternoon sun. Her chin was perhaps a bit too sharp, her nose a little too prominent, for her to be called classically beautiful, but she had a sort of presence that drew the eye and the mind. Like the Amazon queen at her side, the redhead was taller than average, but she had a slighter build, compact and athletic rather than voluptuous. She was clad in a long Indian print skirt that grazed her instep and a green cotton halter top which made it abundantly clear she wore no bra. Brass bangles circled her wrists and her ankles, tinkling softly when she shifted her weight. Perhaps it was just her classic hippie image – though she could not have been older than thirty – but Emmeline thought she looked familiar.

Both visitors wore smiles of such warmth that Emmeline felt embarrassed. How could she be so suspicious and inhospitable? She unlatched the bolt and swung the door wide.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Good afternoon.” The redhead glanced at a scrap of paper she carried. “Ms. Emmeline Scott?”

Suspicion tugged at Emmeline’s spirit. She ignored it. “Yes, that’s me, though I can’t imagine how you would know.”

“Electric company records, Ms. Scott.” The lioness had a musical voice that soothed away all Emmeline’s concerns. Indeed, when the woman paused for breath, Emmeline ached for her to continue, to hear that melody again. “Forgive us for what may seem like an invasion of privacy, but we’re from the Ladies’ Welcome Brigade. When we heard through the grapevine that a young woman had rented old Flaherty’s cottage, we felt we should drop by and say hello.”

“Um – that’s very kind of you. Thanks very much.” Emmeline suddenly remembered how scantily she was dressed. Hot blood climbed into her cheeks. She was annoyed to realize that her nipples had beaded under her thin shirt and that her denim shorts had stuck to her skin.

“We wanted to make sure you have everything you need.” The copper-haired hippie picked up where the lioness left off. “We thought you might be lonely out here by yourself.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I need the quiet, the privacy. I’m working on my doctoral thesis.”

“Ah! That’s why you were looking for those old books. In my shop, over on Main Street,” the hippie added.

“Oh, right! I knew you looked familiar. I’m so sorry!” Emmeline had thought the proprietress acted a bit odd that day, but she’d put it out of her mind. Now she recalled how the inner itch had intensified to a near-unbearable level under the woman’s stare. In fact, she’d left the store without finding any of the titles she was seeking. She’d been too uncomfortable to stay.

“We brought you this.” From somewhere in the folds of her cape, the lioness produced a pastry box. “Baked especially for you.”

“How – how incredibly sweet...”

“They are indeed sweet. Oatmeal, almond and honey bonbons. They’re my special recipe. Good for you, too. I’m Beryl, by the way. Beryl Robinson. And this is my dear friend Maguerite da Silva.”

Strangely reluctant, Emmeline grasped Beryl’s outstretched hand. Weird electricity buzzed through her as their skin made contact. She pulled away as though she’d been burned, then blushed further at her lack of politeness.

“I hope we may call you Emmeline,” Marguerite purred. She took a step closer. Magnetism pulled at Emmeline’s already taut nipples, so that they lengthened and hardened further. A giddy rush of lust swept through her.

What was going on?

Buy Links (Ebook)

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DBB3ZTN/

Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07DBB3ZTN/

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/832808

Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-witches-of-gloucester-lisabet-sarai/1128809847?

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/th/en/ebook/the-witches-of-gloucester-1

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40234194-the-witches-of-gloucester

Buy Links (Audio)

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/The-Witches-of-Gloucester/dp/B07MJQSS2X

Audible: https://www.audible.com/pd/The-Witches-of-Gloucester-Audiobook/B07MQMS93Z

Be sure to visit the other authors participating in today’s Book Hooks event!

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No good deed goes unpunished … #RecencyRomance #MarriageOfConvenience #Giveaway @Jenna_Jaxon

Blurb

Enter the world of the most notorious gambling den in London, where matches are made... unusually. Welcome to the world of THE LYON'S DEN: The Black Widow of Whitehall Connected World, where the underground of Regency London thrives... and loves.

What’s a young lady to do when a powerful lord tries to abscond with her and make her his mistress?

When you’re Miss Honoria Quinn, you leap from his carriage and run like the wind to find some place to hide. Trouble is, Honoria mistakenly chooses The Lyon’s Den, a disreputable gambling house as her sanctuary, a move that ends up with her having to make another choice at the hands of the Den’s match-making proprietor Mrs. Dove-Lyons: wed a complete stranger or become the lord’s mistress.

No good deed goes unpunished…

Thomas, Lord Braeton agrees to attend a wager at The Lyon’s Den only to keep his brother-in-law out of trouble. What he doesn’t count on is becoming embroiled in one of Mrs. Dove-Lyons’s schemes to marry him off. But when he tries to come to the aid of another peer, Thomas finds the only honorable thing he can do to save Miss Quinn’s reputation is put aside his hopes for a love match for himself and instead offer to marry her.

As Thomas and Honoria set out on a wary journey to matrimony, can they learn to live together and hope love will grow between them? Or are they doomed to a loveless marriage of convenience from which one or both will want to escape?

Excerpt

His light amber eyes had turned dark again. Was it a trick of the light in this corridor that did that? It made him look so…hungry.

A shiver raced down her back.

“As today is our wedding day, Honoria…”

Every muscle in her body tensed. Would he go back on his word not to press her so soon? Her heart raced and her body heated. Did she want him to press her?

“Yes?” The single word was barely a breath.

“I wondered if you would allow me…”

She held her breath. Allow him…what?

“A kiss?”

Gasping, Honoria didn’t know whether to laugh or scowl at him. Thomas could be a rascal it seemed. “I believe that would be in order.” They had not even kissed after the ceremony. Papa had always frowned upon such public displays. “It is, as you say, our wedding day.”

“Yes, it is.” Suddenly he loomed so close to her all the air seemed to have been sucked out of the corridor. Gently, he raised her chin and lowered his head until her mouth was mere inches from his.

Unable to stare into those darkening eyes any longer, Honoria closed hers and waited breathlessly.

Suddenly his lips pressed against her, soft and warm. Everything about the man made her feel warm. He held her head in both hands and turned it ever so slightly, until their mouths seemed to merge into one. With that small change came an overawing feeling of rightness, as though this was the way a kiss was meant to be.

She shifted just a little toward him, drawn ever closer to his masculine presence.

In response, he pressed his lips against her harder, more insistent.

A thrill of longing shot through her. As though she wanted more of that.

About the Author

Jenna Jaxon is a best-selling author of historical romance, writing in a variety of time periods because she believes that passion is timeless. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, Jenna has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise. She tries to incorporate all of these elements into her own stories.

She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets--including two vocal cats, one almost silent cat, two curious bunnies, and a Shar-pei mix named Frenchie.

Blog: www.jennajaxon.wordpress.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jenna.jaxon

Twitter: https://twitter.com/Jenna_Jaxon

Instagram: passionistimeless

TicTok: @jennajaxon1

Buy Link: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0B2B8KLB3

 

Jenna Jaxon will be awarding a $20 Amazon or B/N GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Pride and Earthquake Relief – #LGBTQ #Afghanistan #CharitySunday

Welcome to the Charity Sunday blog hop for the month of June. Since this is Pride Month (though I’ve barely had the opportunity to mark or celebrate this), I thought I’d support the National LGBTQ Task Force. The National LGBTQ Task Force Action Fund builds political power, takes action and creates change to achieve freedom and justice for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer people and their families. Heaven knows that we need that kind of action these days, when some people want to criminalize even talking about gender diversity.

But then I started reading about the recent devastating earthquake in Afghanistan. It would be so easy to say, “Oh, the Taliban are the enemy” or “It’s their own fault that the international aid that propped up the country for so long has dried up.” That doesn’t alter the fact that thousands of people – people like you and me – have lost homes, loved ones and livelihood, and are dealing with hunger and disease. 

So today, I’m doing a dual Charity Sunday. For every comment I receive, I will donate one dollar to the National LGBTQ Task force and one dollar to Global Giving’s Afghanistan Earthquake Relief Fund.

 

Meanwhile, to celebrate Pride Month, I’ve got a juicy, summery excerpt from my lesbian fantasy novella The Witches of Gloucester. Enjoy!

 

Excerpt

Once upon a time, in an old port city north of the capital where the clippers used to flit in and out of the bay like giant butterflies, there were three witches. Well, only two of them knew they were witches, at least at the start of the story.

Marguerite, who counted Portuguese traders and African shamans among her ancestors, sported a frenzy of lustrous black hair and was partial to velvet. She had inherited a rambling clapboard house that perched on the hill overlooking Western Harbor, which she had filled with ancient Chinese porcelain, Colonial silver, Hindu carvings of entwined gods, and bright tribal hangings woven from alpaca wool or mulberry bark. She had no regular employment. Once or twice a year, she’d invite the public into her museum-like abode, to sell a few artifacts with which she’d become bored and scout out people who might be worth collecting.

Beryl hailed from generations of Boston Irish, as one might guess from her fiery curls and milk-white, freckle-dusted complexion. She ran an antiquarian bookstore on Main Street, on one of the few blocks that had not yet succumbed to chain drugstores and tacky souvenir shops, and lived in a bungalow at the end of one of the Neck’s tiny lanes. With her tie-dyed dresses, dangling earrings and hand-made sandals, she fit perfectly into the artists’ colony. Her talents, however, lay in realms other than painting and sculpture.

Over their years together, Marguerite and Beryl had been responsible for much unexpected good fortune and not a little mischief. The townspeople didn’t realize how much of the city’s special qualities – the invigorating crispness of the breeze on even the hottest days, the crystalline sparkle of sunlight on the waves, the welcoming sense of history that pervaded the narrow streets – was the work of their resident witches. Still, duality limited the women’s power. They were well aware that they needed a third to complete their circle and perfect their occult abilities. However, you can’t simply conjure a witch into existence. You must wait for her to appear on her own.

One lazy Saturday in June, Beryl and Marguerite relaxed in Beryl’s bedroom, which balanced over the water on barnacle-encrusted pilings. Late afternoon sun slanted in through the wide open window. The pungency of the cove at low tide mingled with a hint of primroses from Beryl’s garden. But the mud flats outside were not wholly responsible for the ocean scent hanging in the air.

Beryl licked a salty line across Marguerite’s round belly and up to her dusky breasts. The black-haired woman shivered and threaded her fingers into Beryl’s copper curls, forcing that active mouth onto a nipple. Though they’d been in bed since noon, neither was totally sated. They never were. Inexhaustible libido is one of the defining attributes of a witch.

Marguerite moaned as her partner sucked with vigor at her swollen teat. “Yes, my jewel, that’s lovely. Exactly right...” She didn’t really need to say anything – each knew every nuance of the other’s responses – but she understood how the praise would stir her lover to more energetic attentions. Sure enough, Beryl let her teeth graze the sensitive nub, then nipped hard enough to wake a spike of pain that drove deep into Marguerite’s cunt, transforming itself into the most exquisite pleasure on the way.

Arching her back, she offered more of her breast and Beryl took it, pulling the ripe flesh into her mouth and drenching it in warm saliva. Marguerite bent a knee, aiming her thigh at the Beryl’s juicy cleft. With a choked cry, Beryl ground her crotch against the smooth limb, meanwhile ramping up the suction until Marguerite wondered if she could bear the intensity.

Her face buried in Marguerite’s ample chest, Beryl stabbed her fingers down in a blind search for her lover’s cunt. Through luck or experience, she found her target at first attempt, parting Marguerite’s wiry fur and sinking three digits into luscious wetness.

The rude invasion sent a pre-orgasmic shudder up Marguerite’s spine and wrenched a hoarse cry from her throat. “Oh no you don’t, you minx! You’re going to come for me this time.” Beryl didn’t seem to object; she rocked back and forth against the thigh pressed between hers, struggling for enough friction to push her over the edge. At the same time, she didn’t stop frigging Marguerite, though she let the current nipple pop out of her mouth and captured the other.

It didn’t take long – it never did – before they convulsed in a shared climax. The sun brightened for an instant. The scent of roses grew thick and heady. As their breathing slowed and they fell backwards on the bed to let the air cool their sweat-streaked skin, the wild cry of a gull floated in on the salt-tinged breeze.

Fingertips brushing, they lay together in companionable silence. Marguerite recovered first.

“There’s a new girl in town.”

“I know.” Beryl stretched her white arms over her head, to their maximum extent, then pulled herself up into a sit, legs crossed Indian style. A rich fragrance of pussy rose from between her parted thighs. “She stopped at the store yesterday, looking for titles about colonial-period Salem.”

“I’m sure you were very helpful.” Rolling onto her side and propping her chin up on her palm, Marguerite grinned at her redheaded partner.

“I didn’t dare get close. She was broadcasting sexual energy in every direction – pulsing like some hunk of radioactive matter. I swear, I nearly came, standing twenty feet away. Amazing!”

“Yes – I’ve been aware of her aura for the last few days. But I haven’t actually seen her.”

Beryl leaned forward for a quick kiss. Marguerite fought the urge to pull that pale, compact body down on top of her own. Not that Beryl would mind, of course. In fact, the little ginger cat took advantage of their closeness to tweak one of Marguerite’s still throbbing nipples, before pulling back.

“You’ll appreciate her,” Beryl added. “She’s just your type.”

“You mean, loud and bratty, like you?” Marguerite dodged Beryl’s flying fist. “No, seriously – what’s she like?”

“Young. Ethereal. Full of light.”

Enjoy the last few days of Pride Month. And don’t forget to leave a comment! (Visit the other authors participating, too!)

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