Six times the cock must blow, once as a lady, once as beau.
Once upon the master’s head, once below the leather strap.
Once where feet must tread and at last within the trap.
Only then will the bonds be broke and freedom, your right to invoke.
Inadvertently stuck by Cupid’s arrow on Valentine’s Day, Rose falls under Constantine’s spell. They have less than twenty-four hours to complete their passionate sexual marathon. Join them as Rose explores her hidden vixen under Constantine’s experienced touch, tongue and tutelage.
Type: Short Story
Company: Ellora’s Cave Publishing
Rose sat completely still for a second, listening to her heart bang against her breastbone. Her hands clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled death grip. More feathers rained down. Oh for chrissake, she must have hit the neighbor’s geese. Calm down. Part of her wondered just how much damage a goose could do to a car. The other part wondered why the frickin’ geese were wandering on the road at three in the morning.
She stepped out of the car. She had to know if what she hit was dead or injured. The car lights illuminated the scene well enough. And then her mind went into shock.
She must have hit her head. People didn’t just fall from the sky. And they certainly as hell didn’t have six-foot wings attached to them. Then the no-nonsense nurse in her took over. The angel man lay crumpled in front of her car, one wing draped over part of her crunched hood, the other curled under his body. There was blood coming from his side.
She backed away, retrieved a first-aid kit from the trunk of the car and returned to his side. Her mind was analyzing the extent of his injuries before she’d even donned gloves. His breathing was slow and even. She laid two fingers against his throat. His pulse was steady too. Her eyes roved over his bare chest. Muscles popped and rippled like a bodice-ripping cover of a romance novel. She licked her lips.
Focus now, she told herself sternly. This man, creature, whatever he was, was bleeding all over the asphalt. She needed to staunch the blood. Admire the view later.
There were two wooden shafts sticking out of a seeping hole in his side. She gently probed the gash. His eyelids fluttered and he groaned. She bet he had a handsome face when it wasn’t contorted in pain. Her fingers searched deeper. The wooden shafts were tipped with metal. She skirted their edges, lightly tracing their size and shape. The shafts would have to come out before she could plug the hole. Gritting her teeth, she grasped one shaft, eyed its position and angle, and pulled.
The man’s body lurched up, back arching. And she had a front row seat for the muscle dance. His wings fluttered and she raised an arm to keep from getting pelted. “Sorry, pal,” she muttered. Then she steeled herself and gripped the second shaft. It came out easier than the first. She folded a bandage against his wound and pressed. Now what? Call the police and explain that she’d hit some half man, half bird on her way home? They’d think she was drunk.
Maybe she was.
She kept one hand at his side, pressure firm. With her other hand, she carefully traced the graceful arch of wing bent beneath his body. It certainly looked real. She leaned forward and felt along his back. The wing attached to his back. Not with straps, but with flesh, muscle and tendon.
His eyes popped open, six inches from her face. She yipped and sat back. They were deep midnight blue, filled with intelligence. A mop of blond hair partially draped over his face. He shook it back, wincing.
“Where am I? Who are you?” he asked.
“I was about to ask you the same thing, only my twenty questions start with what are you?”
“I hurt,” he said simply. His voice was deep and rich, a perfect sexy match to his features.
“No shit. I hit you with my car.”
He smiled a bit lopsided. “Now why would you do that?” Shifting, he groaned. The wing bent over her car’s hood and fender folded, tucking tighter to his body. She was mesmerized by its motion.
“So you can control them?”
He held his hand up and waggled his fingers at her. “Like my hand.” He propped himself up on his elbows and grimaced.
“You’re bleeding,” she said. “I pulled those out of you.” She pointed at the two bloody shafts.
“Bastard son of bloody Zeus,” he cursed. “That wily bitch…”
“Sorry.” He glanced at her, his voice suddenly gone cold. “You need to leave. Now.”
“You’re hurt,” she protested.
“I heal fast.” He reached for the bandage. Their fingertips brushed and she felt a tingle.
His hand closed over hers, lacing their fingers. Then he abruptly pulled them free. “Damn it, it’s already working.”
“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re caught up in the gods’ crossfire. It’d be best if you left now. I can’t guarantee what I’ll be like in a few minutes.” He brushed her hand from the bandage, pressing it against his side himself.
“Fine.” She rocked back on her heels and stood. “You just lay there in the road and bleed while I drive away.” She paused and glanced at her car. “Who’s going to pay for this damage?”
“You hit me, lady.”
“Rose. My name is Rose Sheridan.”
“You got to be kidding. Rose? How perfect,” he muttered.
He glared at her, his blue eyes bright with rage. “Happy fucking Valentine’s Day, Rose. You just hit Cupid with your car and stuck me with my own arrows.”