Erotic Shadows

Today's France

Whether he liked it or not, she found her way to him. When he was first confronted by her, all he knew was wrath and enduring fury; now, all he knew was kindness. He needed to feel the fullness of her breasts, to kiss the perfection of her light pink lips. He yearned to feel her suckling tongue caress his cock and buried his lips in the warm, supple skin of her cunt. He needed her like he'd never needed anything before.

The hard, fruity tips of her nipples begged to his lips and stroking tongue. He could only bend forward as she knelt before him and wrap his greedy mouth over a tip. His appetite for her was insatiable. Because she was so welcoming, she warmed the icy block of animosity that had formed around his heart, making him want for her all the more. Made him crave a kiss from her and a touch from her.

Between his thighs, his cock was a raging beast, aching, and wanting the tight scorching clasp of her cunt. She'd be smooth as liquid and as hot as silk. If she were to enter the picture, it would mark the end of a centuries-long experiment in forced chastity.

When his hands closed around her slim waist and felt her tender flesh, he was convinced beyond all reasonable doubt that she was far more formidable than she looked. Even so, he continued to lick her nipples. He just wanted more and more of it. As she sobbed and shook before him, his teeth softly tugged at his scalp, her nails like little pinpoints of fire. He stepped back, his eyes lingering on hers as he noticed the subtle changes in the shape of her face and the brightness of her expression. Despite the striking likeness, he was confident that the woman in his arms was not Antea.

In a low voice, he asked, "Who are you?" as he pressed her back against the bed. She lay before him, lithe and beautiful, her emerald eyes heavy with sexual pleasure as she watched him travel between her thighs. His fingers fanned over the damp curls and slid through the moist slit. Her hands squeezed the covers as her hips cocked and she let out a moan.

His voice roughened at the prospect of her raw skin being exposed without even those flimsy curls between his fingers. If I ask you to take it away from here, you will.

It brought a grin on her face. A cryptic female smile that told him she would not be tamed easy. His ego swelled as he considered all of the sexually enticing ways he might win her over.

When she muttered, "Make me," he narrowed his eyes in challenge. The Eighth Shadow of Lora Leigh

I'll find you soon," he muttered menacingly. I recognise this for the illusion that it is, but I will track you down. If you don't take off the fleece, you won't feel my lips on yours or my tongue on yours as I lick the fluid from your body.

Her eyes widened and a whimper from her mouth as she jerked against him. The motion forced his fingertip to brush against her. It slid in between her puffy cunt lips and gave her vagina a honey-soaked kiss.

He encouraged her, "Promise me you will do this thing for me," as he frantically massaged the narrow doorway, tensing every muscle in his body. For this, "I would feel you silken and smooth against me."

His finger slid slowly inside of her, and he could feel the clench of her vagina as he reached in. Her muscles loosened to accommodate the intruder as he pushed through the smooth opening. As he watched his body mate with hers, his hand kept her thighs apart. Seeing her softest flesh rip open at the touch of his finger was almost too much for him to handle.

Again, he muttered, "Promise me," and backed away, his heart racing at the sight of her shiny juices clinging to his rough finger.

She yelled, "I promise," as he attempted to slide out of her cosy cunt. “Anything. Assurances are given. Continue, if you please. Please.”

When he saw her lying there helpless, he knew it was too much temptation for him to resist, so he picked her up and held her in his arms. Oh, how he craved her he did. He was afraid that if he grabbed her now, he would treat her horribly. In a second, he told himself. At least until he found the self-control to gradually introduce her to their union rather than jolt her into it. The struggle for air did not prevent him from pushing her closer to his chest and running his hands over her back.

Identify yourself. He snarled at you impatiently, "I know where to locate you. Without knowing your name, "I cannot take you."

She tightened up in his arms, as though experiencing terror.

She pleaded, "Remember me," with a note of desperation and terror in her voice. To paraphrase: "Remember me, Devlin. Save me.

With every passing second, he clung to her more tightly, convinced that someone, somewhere was plotting to steal her away from him. When his lips met hers, they lingered on her neck, while his tongue ran over her ear's tender clamshell. Instead of being calloused like he recalled Antea's being, her hand was smooth and silky as she ran it over his shoulders and down to his waist. He took a deep breath in, feeling it all the way down to his stomach's hard surface.

He grew agitated and commanded, "Touch me," demanding physical contact like he had never desired anything before. He almost dropped his seed as she touched his cock and he nearly screamed. Her hold was gentle and shy-feeling. She ran her fingers up and down the thick stem, following the veins and the puffed out top, which pulsed with her touch. Jesus, have mercy. He struggled against the eruption he knew was brewing in his testicles. They say she lit him up. More and more of her was something he required constantly. His hands pulled her closer to his body as he borne her to the bed beneath him, and before he could question himself or his ravenous hunger, his lips covered hers. When he worked his way between her legs, she moaned as her hand tightened around his hip. Shadowed Legacy #9: Lora Leigh

The dream changed then. Indignant and desperate, he let out a yell as he realised the bed was gone and his partner's and his nude, linked bodies were no longer melting into one another. As long as he held her, he was happy. They were holding each other, and she was looking up at him from her pained, terrified state. Devlin's hands shook as they reached out to touch the blood that stained her abdomen. His entire being was overcome with disbelief and surprise.

"Devlin, I adore you."

“No. No. Please don't abandon me." The thought of her name came to him at that moment, although why she was important to him was still a mystery. Chant, chant, chante...

In a nutshell: * * * * * * "Chantel..." He got out of bed, his heart throbbing with hate and anger even as the realisation that this was all an illusion passed through his mind. Before he could make the transition from nightmare to reality, his chest heaved and his hand reached for his revolver. He trembled in the grip of anguish he couldn't name, brought on by memories that faded away as if they had never been, yet left behind a trace of loss to cut his heart. When he raised a hand to his face, his fingers came back wet with his own tears. The tears were welling up in his eyes, and he knew that his heart was breaking. The intensity of the dream left him shaking.

It was the same face he'd seen before—Antea, the cunning and spiteful woman he'd been married to before. Like before, he struggled against his recollections and ended up forgetting specifics of their wedding and his feelings of tenderness for her. Just like he didn't know why he hated her so much. Yet, he did recall her passing, and it was different from what he had seen in his nightmares. And why was he still hearing Chantel's name reverberate about him? He was familiar with her surname. Remembered the feel of her hand, the flavour of her kiss, and the source of an inexplicable happiness. In a fit of anger, he threw himself off the bed and into a pair of pants and a T-shirt. He hurried out of his room after shoving his feet into a pair of leather running shoes.

The castle was still and dark, with only the moonlight streaming in through the tall, narrow windows at the end of the corridor to guide him. That he required any illumination is beside the point. Using his abilities, even the darkest tunnels became navigable. A groan came out of his mouth at the idea. As presents. Everyone of them had condemned him. However he still wasn't sure how to do it. After a moment of thought, he shook his head and started walking downstairs. He would require a large amount of coffee, he decided. After all, he and his troops were set to leave in a few hours. An old buddy from the United States had called that morning. An urgent call for reinforcements as Jonar wages yet another war. Yet another hopeless war. More time wasted without any chance of dying.

Current Day and Age, U.S.A., Lora Leigh, Shadowed Legacy 10,

The dream seemed more real than ever. The crystal dangling from the metal, glittering with the promise of its inlay gems but always just out of reach. Shapes in the shadows morphed. All of her nerve endings were shattered by the pain, and she eventually died. Chantel resisted the hands that held her, the terrible voices that muttered vile things in her ears, and the rough fingers that clawed her skin.

She was having her sanity drained right along with their touch. The mocking, giggling voices, the promises that she would not be missed in the afterlife. Then he reached down and touched her lower stomach. Fire. Agony. The agony of death gave birth to a desperate appeal, a scream of desire that ended with her calling out his name.

“Devlin!” It hurt too much to give birth. It ate away gnaw her from the inside out, creeping ever so slowly and treacherously closer to her heart until ultimately it destroyed both. Soon he was beside her, his sobs a hot, wet splash on her face, his hands soft as he pulled her to him. In those dark, foreboding eyes, she saw her own inevitable demise.

His voice was hoarse as he pleaded with her, "Do not leave me, Chantel." A sob tore from his chest as her blood flowed between them. Do not abandon me; without you, I cannot see in this night.

He sobbed for her, shedding the tears she was unable to, yet her innermost being grieved for the pain she knew he would experience.

She whispered, "I love you, Devlin," as the black emptiness of death settled over her body. I'll adore you forever, my sweetheart.

Finally, there was total blackout. She heard his scream of denial from afar, felt his hands draw her closer, and shouted back silently.

* * * * *

It was Chantel's own screams that echoed throughout the room and jolted her into consciousness. She leaped out of bed and crashed into her dresser mirror in a fit of panic. She winced, the dream-sick stomach pain still fresh in her mind. Her whole body trembled in violent convulsions, and she let out a series of whimpers from her throat that were almost as terrifying as the dream itself. To her own ears, she sounded like a confused, frightened animal.

As she fumbled for the light switch next to the mirror, a string of screams from her throat. A gentle glow illuminated the space, revealing just the bedroom where she had fallen asleep. There were no sinister figures lurking in the dark, no mad, vengeful eyes staring at her. Nobody could have hurt her, and nobody could have come to her aid if they had.

She tore at her white nightgown, her fingers raking over her tummy in a desperate quest for the huge wound she had seen in her nightmares. It was only after she had touched her fingers together that she realised the thick, sticky residue of her own blood was coating them and draining her life away, but all she felt was the warmth of sweat moistened skin.

A Legacy in Shadow: Eleven Years of Lora Leigh

She fought for air as she sputtered, "Another dream." Her nightmare worries and demons had followed her into waking life.

She raised her head, hands on the dresser's front, and stared at the reflection in the mirror. From behind the glass, a pair of wide, abnormally bright, dark green eyes glowed. Under her long, white lashes, they shone like jewels freshly washed in dew. Her white skin and expression of fright were set off by the radiance of her eyes. She appeared as ethereal and fantastical as a figure from a nightmare.

Chantel shook her head to calm herself, attempting to suppress the panic and the jerky whimpers that were threatening to leave her throat. She tried desperately to remind herself that it was all a dream. Fortunately, it was all in my head. She reminded herself, "Nightmares can't damage you," as her body shook in a continuous reaction to the recurring dream.

She felt herself rocking gently and instinctively placed her arms around her chest. She knew, deep down, that she was on the brink of another one of the hysterical outbursts that had become so characteristic of her adolescence. But, she had to face the fact that she was now on her own. Neither her mother nor her brother would be standing there, bewildered but wanting to help, if she hadn't just cried. No longer would she have to battle the aftereffects of her fantasies while hearing her father's disapproval reverberate from his bedroom. She surveyed the cramped bedroom and its unadorned wooden furniture. The unkempt bed was still there, the tangled comforter of forest green and white lace draping down the side. Her mother had given her an antique night table, which was highly polished next to the overstuffed chair in the corner. She had not yet emerged from her bedroom. The room made of stone that she had dreamed of vanished. Faded recollections of screams and the man's cries as he held her close to his chest were all that remained.

There was no mistaking that Chantel was awake, but she certainly wasn't aware of it. She couldn't tell dream from reality and was scared of being dragged back to the misery and gloom she'd just left. She reminded herself that she was no longer a child, even as the terror continued to pulse violently through her body. There was no truth to the nightmares. These were fake. As her adolescent psychologist put it, they were caused by stress, fear, and an overactive imagination. The weekly visits to the condescending doctor didn't assist her then, and they aren't helping her today. Despite her knowledge that the dreams were fictitious, they continued to torment her. Carefully hiding her face with her hands, Chantel moved around and sat down on the bed. Even if they weren't genuine, they seemed more lifelike and terrifying than ever. Every night for the past two weeks they had occurred. More horrific images appeared with each fresh nightmare. She had never seen the pain and vivid brutality of her own death until tonight.

She pushed back memories of humiliation and misery with a whimper, but they won out in the end. Was she having a premonition, or just confirming her worst fears? Her life certainly wasn't boring or predictable on a daily basis, but she had no reason to fear an untimely end.

As Chantel saw her trembling hands, she grimaced and realised that sleep was out of the question for the foreseeable future. She took a quick look at the clock and noticed the wee hands that informed her it was just 4:00 am. Those terrifying dreams were starting to disrupt her life and prevent her from getting the sleep she so desperately needed, all for something that wasn't real. She shook her head and reached down to take up the long white flannel robe from the floor. She slipped it on, buckled it tightly, and dragged her weary body towards the kitchen. There was no way she could risk another episode of that nightmare if she tried to sleep at the moment. She might as well start the day the way it was going to go and drink a lot of coffee.

Chantel ignored the dreams and thought about the task she had just finished and how she had escaped the war-torn country. She thought about asking her dad for a break. Before she did anything to murder herself or someone else, she needed to get some sleep.

Even contemplating asking her strict mom for something like this made her frown. She doubted that Terrorism Control Agency head Michael Ducaine would be amenable to her plea. Maybe after her brother James got back, thought Chantel. He'd be able to have that conversation with their dad and get her some much-needed alone time. For if a break didn't occur soon, she wouldn't be able to save herself or the other agents she was tasked with protecting. At this rate, she would likely collapse from weariness before she was ever reached by Blackthorne, the group they were attempting to bring down.

The Terrorism Control Agency was a shadowy government agency whose sole mission was to monitor terrorist groups. For the past few years, the organisation has zeroed down on Blackthorne and its leader, Jonar, assimilating lesser, less successful terrorist groups. There were growing signs that Blackthorne posed a significant and maybe catastrophic threat to the global power balance. A frightening force that, in Chantel's estimation, would grow more lethal with the passage of time.