It’s easy to overlook it, but he’s handsome in an intense sort of way—those intelligent eyes, that firm jaw, and his well-toned body moving with such deadly precision underneath the perpetually casual ensembles.
He’s lethal and sexy—like a clandestine crocodile, dressed in discount clothing, playing itself off as an iguana for the benefit of the world around him.
I know who he is.
I know what he does.
And I want to him to notice me.
I need those strong hands on my body, grasping and stroking. Those laser beam eyes looking into the depths of my soul as he plunges into me, over and over, and I scream out his name.
—For the record, I mean fuck me, not kill me.
Of course, you never know…
*Because I’ve always had a thing for Michael C. Hall as Dexter.
My great aunt is from the old country, and she has one hell of a nose for occult items. If you let her wrinkled highness within ten feet of anything carrying a curse, that old lady will sniff it out for you.
Of course, not a lot of people know how to handle cursed items, these days, and even less want to deal with them. That’s how my business, Snakebit & Co., came into existence. It’s basically a hands-off, magically protected repository for all the cursed paraphernalia people don’t want to deal with. You can’t destroy a cursed item, but, for a modest monthly storage fee, you’ll never have to come in contact with it again.
Curses are a funny thing, though—it turns out that one woman’s karmic trash is another one’s treasure. For instance, I recently took in a crystal ball belonging to a recovering nympho fortune teller. That ball had been cursed by an ex-lover and every single time she looked in the glass, guess what happened? Faster than you could say Chippendales dancer, a Grade A, UDSA approved man appeared.
Now, the nympho might be tired of all the men but, well, let’s just say the president of Snakebit & Co. has been going through a bit of a dry spell in the boudoir, lately, so … she’s currently learning all there is to know about the scrying game.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m pleased to announce that my first erotic story with Cobblestone Press, Have Mercy, is scheduled for release tomorrow, July 15, 2016. The link has been added, so you can join sweet Sister Mercy for some hot, steamy, dominant demonic love.
I’ve been called a lot of things in Paranormal Forces—wolf bait, vamp killer, sexy-ass bitch—but expendable?
Oh, honey, let me tell you, right now … that has never been one of them.
I can carry a gun in places that will haunt your dreams.
Woman, man, or anything in between, we’re good.
I will still fuck you three ways to Sunday.
This tongue can do things to you that even your father was afraid to tell you about.
If you beg for it, baby, I just might give you everything but my real name.
But, be warned, if you’re out to harm the human race, I will kill you.
If you ask me, the priests in the village are the twisted ones. Those hairless bastards are always sending the girls with a goat. Like any self-respecting demon would seriously fuck a goat. I mean, it’s good eating, but, come on, not even Marvin Gaye himself could make a goat even the slightest bit erotic.
They’ve been getting a little lax when it comes to their definition of virginity, too. Not that the girls aren’t lovely, either way. It’s just that they all seem heavy on the makeup and light on the underwear these days. We’ve never seen that much jewelry on private parts, either—it’s like the local jeweler had a two-for-one special on labia and breasts.
This last one swore she’d never done anal.
Naturally, we pretended to correct what was clearly a nonexistent issue and thanked her for her (supposed) honesty. Personally, I’m not sure we should have counted her because we were all pretty confident that she was a repeat sacrificial offender, even before she gave us the cheerful wave and skipped off, saying, “thanks, guys, see you next time.”
Of course, we never fuck the goats.
I suppose they could be the virgin part of the sacrifice.
Should you ever visit the embassy, there, on the border of the Wildlands, a starched and sensible tour guide will undoubtedly tell you that the green room holds no significance.
He or she will say that the lack of furniture, the feeling of disuse and sadness lingering in the air is all completely unintentional.
And, of course, the odds are that you will believe them, and you will never meet the beautiful thing that was trapped between worlds, long ago, in that room.
You will never know the silken slide of those sweet phantom lips on your naked skin. You will never feed her hunger or fuel her sighs…
You will never know the danger in beauty or, for one brief moment in your fragile, finite existence, catch an unfiltered glimpse of paradise.
Then again, you won’t die.
I suppose it is all for the best.
The sorcerer explained to me that magic and time were fluid, like water.
He said those who honed their talents might someday touch the gods.
Then, he showed me Poseidon—as an incentive, I guess.
A good idea but, in my case, counterproductive.
So far, all I’ve been touching is myself.