Synopsis
With her blond tresses and blue
eyes, London fabric retailer Margery “Margie” Tull is used to being admired.
When she’s hired to decorate a riverside manor house though, she suspects
ulterior motives.
Lord of the manor Percival
Winstanley reveals a long ago love triangle leading to death and the bewitching
of his son and heir Stephen. Margie’s cousin Shyan is supposed to protect her.
But he’s lured away by Winstanley’s cougarish housekeeper, Mrs. DePlessey,
leaving Margie in the dubious care of servant Kern.
Unsure whom to trust, Margie turns
first to artist Raphael Watts, also working at the house. Meanwhile Stephen
hovers in the background trying to draw her attention to a cottage across the
river. Somehow the women who live there are a portent of Margie’s fate. If only
Stephen can convince her of what lies in store Margie can give new hope to the
manor and its heir.
Buy Now
Excerpt
Margie crept from the hall to the
library and back again. It was the strangest thing how people either were not
there when they were wanted or were breathing down your neck and scaring you
out of your skin. There seemed no middle way in this house.
She would have to go upstairs. It
was the obvious place to look. She started climbing steps, feeling like an
intruder and unsure how she would explain why she was snooping around the house
if she did find someone. A snigger told her she was on the right track.
Tiptoeing across the landing and down a passage way, she homed in on the
intertwined voices, Shyan’s wisecracks and Mrs. DePlessey’s purrs of
appreciation.
Through the gap between an open
bedroom door and the jamb, Margie watched unobserved. Shyan was standing on a
foot stool wearing only underwear. Evidently measuring requirements had reached
the upper thigh. A crouching Mrs. DePlessey’s glistening nails trailed a tape
over the city boy’s pale flanks. Shyan’s muscles tensed as her fingers neared
the straining material of his briefs.
“Am I tickling?” The question was
made to sound guileless, like a dentist asking “Am I hurting you?”
“Well a bit,” Shyan said. “But it don’t
bother me.”
I’ll bet it doesn’t, Margie thought.
She was so mad at him. Had he forgotten why he had come? Not to dally with the
housekeeper, that’s for sure.
The waistband was the next number on
Mrs. DePlessey’s list, and as her arms circumnavigated Shyan’s midriff with the
tape measure she could not refrain from rubbing the bangles on her wrists
against his bare skin. The metal must have been cold, because Shyan jumped
slightly at the touch.
“Oh, I am sorry. Did I do that?”
You calculating bitch, Margie wanted
to shriek. She’d seen better acting on the soaps.
But there was nothing simulated
about Shyan’s reaction once the tape made contact at the base of his spine.
Margie didn’t have to see below his waistband to know his self-control was on
the edge. It wouldn’t take much to unbalance him.
All it did take was another move in
Mrs. DePlessey’s repertoire of suggestive contact. As her breasts prodded his
stomach, ostensibly so she could complete the tape loop, Shyan’s hands
descended onto her shoulders. Then the tape was forgotten as her lips came up
to meet his. Her clasping arms steadied him on the wobbling stool. They moved
to the bed in an uncoordinated tango, and toppled into a grinding embrace.
Shyan tackled the buttons on her blouse. His hand groped for the bra clip at
her back. He suckled on an inflamed turret of a nipple, with a gusto equal to
Ainsworth’s effort during Margie’s previous spying escapade. Then the couple’s
hands met and, steered by one or the other—or both—glided in unison down the
crevasse between their bodies until they disappeared inside Shyan’s briefs.
Margie was mesmerized. Exasperated
as she was by her cousin’s easy compliance, she couldn’t help being fascinated
by this mesh of desires. That was why it was so startling when Mrs. DePlessey
rolled Shyan to one side and, with a light kiss on the lips, told him, “We must
save this.”
Shyan gaped and attempted to insert
a hand between her closed thighs.
“For what?” he asked.
She smiled, not in the provocative
way Margie half expected, but rather as if Shyan hadn’t understood.
“In time,” she said. “In time.”
Meet the Author
A. Silenus spent his early years in
southern England and now lives in Arizona. He writes in various genres under
different names. His erotica-oriented material includes three self-published
sets of short stories, Fiends That Go Boink, which has otherworldly themes,
Obsessions and Two Men And A Woman In A Boat.
Other stories have been published in
anthologies, ezines and magazines, including Afternoon Delight (Cleis), The
MILF Anthology (Blue Moon), Wicked Pleasures (Ravenous Romance), and Forum
magazine in the UK.
For more about Silenus and his work,
please go to his blog: Basic Writes: http://asilenus.blogspot.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment