London, 1850
By night Moira Bentley dreamed of phantoms. Beautiful beings shrouded in darkness that cast graceful silhouettes on her bedroom wall; images of sensual dances that brought each pair of them closer and closer….until finally they succumbed to the intimacy of the dance, merging together to engage in unspeakable acts that defied all moral convention.
“Which means they must feel awfully good,” she mused, her senses inflamed by those erotic dreams that haunted her every night.
She usually played the role of voyeur in most of these nocturnal visions, watching as gorgeous, mysterious beings collapsed together on a shiny dance floor; their lips merged in passionate kisses, their arms and legs entwined, their naked, sweaty bodies becoming one with the night. On occasion, however, the most beautiful phantom-an ethereal male with long, silken auburn hair, wide dark eyes, full lips and sculpted features-parted from the sensual fray; his muscled body standing tall above the chaos as he extended his hand to her.
Then, blast it, she woke up.
“Bloody hell!”
Surging upward in the silken sheets of her floral feathered bed, she took a moment to focus on the calming, beautiful rose print that lined her overhead canopy. It was a beautiful sight indeed.
“Only not as beautiful as that man,” she sighed, wiping some telltale sweat from her brow and rising from her bed.
Crossing the room in a few quick strides, she took a seat at the cherry wood writing desk that formed a corner of her bedroom.
Settling her rubenesque body onto the cushions of a straight back wicker chair, Moira soothed the skirts of her lavender nightgown and took a deep, sustaining breath as she clutched her quill pen.
Placing a piece of parchment paper at the center of her desk, she wrote three words across the top of the page: The Phantom Lover.
One year later
“Moira, you are an amazing lady.”
Lord Thomas Caldwell smiled as he accepted a steaming lavender teacup from Moira Bentley, his newest and most successful author at Silver Ridge Books; a premiere publishing house in the heart of London.
The two now sat in the elaborate drawing room of Moira’s stately manor house, situated in a quiet enclave on the outskirts of the city.
“Thank you, Lord Caldwell.” Moira cast a quick glance around her living space, relieved to find that her prized drawing room-with its cherry wood furniture, red brocade wallpaper and plush ivory carpeting-was neat, clean and prepared to welcome the most particular guest.
Only no one can really be quite prepared for Lord Caldwell, she pursed her lips as he launched into a familiar oratory that hurt her ears nonetheless.
“I still find it difficult to believe that an unmarried woman could manage to pen such great and exciting romances,” he took a deep sip of tea, fixing her with an assessing gaze.
“Quite the contrary, Lord Caldwell,” Moira forced a small smile, “Many of my married friends have quite despaired of ever again experiencing romance in any form.” She shrugged. “As a solitary female, I am free to dream.”
Lord Caldwell guffawed outright.
“Well young lady, your dreams are magnificent,” he admitted. “The ladies of the London ton cannot get enough of your works. The Phantom Lover is our top selling title at Silver Ridge.” The graying nobleman shook his head, eyes wide. “An amazing accomplishment for a woman writer, especially one who dares to use her own name.”
Cringing slightly, Moira smoothed the sleek skirts of her azure silk day gown across the cushions of her prized floral settee-only at this point she wished that it was Lord Cardwell’s wrinkled, smirking face she could smash against any random piece of furnishing.
“Well I do hope that my success will encourage you to give other female authors the chance that was offered me,” she said finally, meeting his pointed stare with one of her own. “It saddens me to think of all the great books we’ll never read, simply because their authors didn’t happen to have a…” she bit her lip, suppressing a nasty thought, “…a monocle.”
Lord Caldwell cleared his throat.
“I just may have to do that,” he pinned her with a sly smile, “especially as the most successful book in my stable has just been optioned as a stage musical.”
Moira doubled over, coming dangerously close to coughing up the contents of her tea cup.
“The Phantom Lover, on a stage?” She shook her head, stunned. “Just so I’m clear, a theatrical troupe is going to act out the scenes detailed in my book,” the color of her face now matching the pearl pink carnations that sat in a tall bronzed vase at her side, “and set them to music?”
“Um, yes.” Lord Caldwell shifted in his seat. “Only they are not a theater troupe, precisely. From what I gathered they are instead a ballet troupe that incorporates drama into their performances.”
“Yes, well,” Moira folded her arms before her, cocking her head to one side, “I find that difficult to envision.”
And that is something of an understatement, she added silently.
Lord Caldwell reached in to the side pocket of his sleek brown jacket, withdrawing a folded parcel of papers that he handed to a gaping Moira.
“What you will have no difficulty envisioning, dear girl, is the princely sum that the troupe is offering us to dramatize your work.” He gestured toward the papers. “There you will find their proposed contract, as well as an invitation to their London theater, to see their latest production.” He arched his eyebrows. “The very same place that they will bring your book to life.”
“If I deem it fitting,” Moira drew herself up and squared her shoulders, adding with a small smile, “I must admit, though, that I am rather flattered at the thought.”
She stopped a moment to consider Ian, the hero of The Phantom Lover. She pondered just who the troupe would select to dance the role of that exquisite creature who ruled her dreams; the one who filled her nights with visions that represented the embodiment of her secret desires.
Surely they couldn’t find anyone that beautiful or (ahem) outright limber, she arched a curious eyebrow, even in the dancing world.
Even Moira had no true model for her hero; a man with carved and impossibly gorgeous features, thick layers of auburn gold hair that fell across muscled shoulders, and wide ebony eyes, he seemed more a dream than a human being.
In addition, she reasoned, it seemed unlikely that a lean, lithe dancer could portray a muscular man of such hulking masculinity; the type of man that could consume a woman in his deepest embrace, making her feel both worshipped and protected while kissing her quite senseless….
“Moira, are you quite all right?” Lord Caldwell cocked his head, squinting his eyes in Moira’s direction.
“Yes, of course.” Jarring herself from her reverie, she sat up straight on the settee and focused her gaze on the invitation that occupied her sturdy grasp; an elegant ivory invite trimmed with pink ribbon and paper lace, that bore a message inscribed in flowing script-words meant only for her.
“Ballet Noir would be honored by the presence of Moira Bentley, the esteemed author, at the London performance of our current show, A Dance of Lovers, to take place the 23rd of May at Theatre Satine downtown.”
“Theatre Satine,” she murmured aloud, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m a lifelong Londoner and I swear I’ve never heard of the place.”
Lord Caldwell shrugged.
“From what I understand it is a low profile theater owned and maintained by the troupe,” he explained. “They do seem to be a small and mysterious company, but certainly well endowed.”
“Well endowed?” Moira squeaked, eyes flying wide.
“Indeed,” Totally missing the “point,” Lord Caldwell once again gestured toward the papers in Moira’s hands. “They are offering us a substantial stipend to produce ‘The Phantom Lover’ as a full-scale ballet production.”
Moira nodded.
“Well that’s very kind of them.” Still distracted and more than a bit aroused, she struggled to focus on the contracts in her hand as images of Ian still haunted her psyche. “I just want to insure that they respect the integrity of my work.”
And that they find someone delicious enough to play Ian, she added silently.
Aloud she said, “I’d be more than pleased to attend their show and meet the troupe.”
“Excellent!” Lord Caldwell clapped his hands together, adding through gritted teeth, “Although I warn you, lass, you may want to take an escort to the show.” He stroked his chin. “Something about these people seems just a bit,” he paused, “unseemly. Bizarre, even.”
Ignoring Lord Caldwell’s paternal advice, Moira ventured alone the next evening to Theater Satine; first adorning herself in a rarely worn red silk dress lined with tiny diamonds on the front. A shiny pearl pin held her unruly mass of ebony hair firmly in place, accentuating her wide dark eyes and ivory complexion. A pair of sleek red satin slippers completed the costume, which was not in keeping with her usual mode of dress.
I guess I’m not quite myself tonight. She smiled as she hopped into the hired coach that would whisk her across the city; delivering her at the front entryway of the magnificent Theater Satine.
The theater, it turned out, stood as a small but impressively structured building on the outskirts of London.
In her estimation the theater seemed something out of a fairy tale; or, at the very least, a captivating study in contrasts. Its exterior was a rich confection of ivory stone arches, stained glass windows painted in grand fashion with all the colors of the rainbow, cast iron gates and-flanking these gates-statues of sweet winged cherubs who smiled in greeting.
Yet once she stepped through these gates, slipping also through the stained glass double doors that fronted Theater Satine, she entered a world of dark beauty that stole her breath.
It turned out the building’s brilliant windows provided it’s only light; illuminating the polished cherry wood furniture placed in the club’s sitting area, setting visual fire to the rose brocade wallpaper and scarlet-hued seat cushions that also distinguished this space.
The windows also lent a curious light to the unique oil paintings that lined the walls of Theater Satine. As she drew closer to them, Moira’s eyes flew wide as she realized that each of the paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.
Either that, she pursed her lips at the glorious backgrounds and intricate paint strokes that comprised each portrait, or they just collapsed on top of one another when they saw the price of the painting.
“Like what you see, Ms. Bentley?”
Her thoughts disrupted by a soft feminine voice that nonetheless purred with power, Moira turned to face a short fiftyish woman of generous proportions, much like her own. Clad in a foot length dress of sleek black satin, her keen blue eyes assessed her visitor with a strength and clarity that made Moira wince.
“How did you know my name?” Moira stepped forward to take the woman’s offered hand, immediately noticing the long fingernails that protruded from her ebony lace gloves.
“Somehow,” the woman smiled, “I just knew.”
Releasing Moira’s hand, she made a broad gesture that seemed to define and encompass the whole of their surroundings.
“I am Bethelyn Castor, the owner and proprietor of both Theater Satine and Ballet Noir,” she leaned forward to plant a daring kiss on the cheek of a stunned Moira. “And you, dear Moira, have written a brilliant book that is sure to make a beautiful ballet; our first full length production.”
“Why thank you.” Moira took a seat in a latticework chair at a table near the front of the club; watching as her hostess claimed a seat beside her and motioned for a nearby waiter. “I greatly look forward to tonight’s performance.”
A handsome young blond server presented her with a gold-hued tankard that brimmed with what appeared to be a rich red wine; then handed a second cup to her smiling hostess.
“I know that you will enjoy our show, Ms. Bentley,” she nodded with confidence. “I hand select the best dancers for Ballet Noir.” She arched her eyebrows, taking a deep sip of rich red wine. “And they just happen to include some of the most handsome young men in the city.”
“Really?” Moira felt her curiosity peak. “Well now I truly can’t wait to see the show.”
The two shared a girlish giggle as Bethelyn nudged her guest with a conspiratorial elbow.
“You are a truly unique young woman who always speaks her mind, I sense it through your writing,” she praised Moira. “I have a feeling that you and I will get on very well.” She leaned forward, retrieving Moira’s golden tankard and placing it in her hands. “And I have a feeling that you will love tonight’s performance, Ms. Bentley.”
“I’m sure I shall.” Moira took a deep, fortifying drink of the sweetest ruby hued wine she’d ever tasted; a brew with a fruity, herbal taste that both soothed and aroused her senses. “And do call me Moira.”
Turning her attention to the front of the club, she marveled at the sight of a tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain; and bordered by a gold framed mural of ethereal cherubs in flight.
“Beautiful,” she breathed, taking a second sharp gulp of wine.
“Oh my dear,” Bethelyn giggled, gracing her with a second sisterly nudge, “You have seen nothing yet.”
As if on cue, the curtain lifted to reveal a stage decorated with endless bouquets of ebullient florals: roses red and gold, pearl pink carnations, and lavender water lilies gathered in golden urns that bordered the stage on all sides.
Standing center stage were two dancers, a male and a female, who themselves had floral attributes; both, Moira noted, were tall and willowy beings with exquisite lean forms and luxurious long hair.
The golden haired couple wore brass trimmed uniforms that shone ivory in the lights of the stage. The young man, an angelic being with carved bronzed features and bright azure eyes, wore an elegant tailored suit that could befit a prince.
His partner, a stunning young woman with keen green eyes and blonde hair that fell to her waist, stunned in a gauzy, floor-length gown that swept the floor as she walked.
This luminous couple met center stage as the music commenced; filling the atmosphere with the surge of violins and the rich timbre of a grand piano.
Moira gaped as the couple moved in perfect synch with this airy, ethereal tune, their arms entangling as their feet seemed to float on air.
Suddenly they launched into a flawless dance, their bodies moving in concert as they performed all of the twirls, dips and pirouettes common to the dance of ballet.
Then, at least in Moira’s eyes, they did something quite uncommon; coming together at the center of the stage in what looked like a passionate clench.
Her mouth dropped open as the female dancer sank in the male’s embrace, pressing her full breasts against his chest as their perfect hips shook and locked in the perfect likeness of intercourse.
Staring deep into one another’s eyes, the couple writhed in a seductive clench as their feet continued to float across the floor; finally the man dipped his partner in a thrilling manner, the reams of his long golden hair falling to drape their faces as he seized her lips in a passionate kiss.
Moira gasped as, in plain view of the audience, the couple’s mouths merged and their tongues entangled to complete their dance.
The crowd erupted in applause, with an excited Moira hollering her approval as the couple bowed and left the stage.
“They must be lovers in real life,” she whispered to Bethelyn.
“No,” the troupe owner shook her head. “Actually Noel is my lover.”
Moira’s eyes flew wide; she took a deep sip of wine, struggling to recover from this first shock as the second arrived in grand fashion just a few moments later.
The second dancer of the evening was a solo male, adorned in skin-fitting royal blue tights and a matching gold-trimmed jacket.
The splendor of this dancer’s costume paled in comparison to his flawless features: his wide dark eyes, his carved cheekbones, his full lips-a succulent mouth that now curved upward in a sensual smile meant only for her.
Ensnaring her with a hypnotic gaze, the dancer performed some flawless twirls and a graceful pirouette; moves that seemed uncommon for a man of his hard and divine muscularity.
She was just as impressed by his graceful fall of long, auburn hair; locks that he threw about like a lion’s mane as his feet canvassed the floor beneath him.
“It’s Ian,” she breathed.
“Yes,” Bethelyn’s soft voice just barely penetrated her aroused psyche. “He’s your Ian.”
Moira said nothing, only watched enraptured as the dancer thrust his firm arms high above his head and shifted his hips. His grin turned wicked as he launched into a full bodied gyration; his hips thrusting forward in her direction as his eyes continued to probe her.
Moira’s own gaze seemed pinned to his as the crowd dissolved around them; his every look, his every move, was only for her; and when he slowly unbuttoned his royal blue jacket to bare his body for her, she felt a wave of sheer, sharp arousal that threatened to overwhelm her.
Her heart pounded and her pussy gushed as his sudden, suggestive move revealed a massive muscled chest and sculpted ab muscles; both of which glowed in the lights above them.
His dance took on a sexual character as he writhed across the stage like a cat in heat; his chest and arm muscles flexing to delightful effect as he continued to gyrate.
He’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen, Moira bit her lip, her cheeks flushing red hot. I want to touch him.
Seeming to sense her need, the dancer advanced to the front of the stage with a feline stroll that stole her breath; then, coming to a dead halt at her table, he held his hand out to her.
Just like in my dream, she mused.
Yet unlike the dreams that plagued her psyche every night, this one did not fade to black; quite the contrary, Ian’s arms were hard and warm as they swept her onto the stage, encompassing her in an embrace that united their bodies in a passionate clench.
“I must warn you,” she stared into his eyes, her own voice barely audible above the pounding of her own heart, “I don’t dance nearly as well as I write.”
His answering chuckle was deep and sensual.
“Do not worry Madame,” he pressed those delicious lips firm against her cheek. “Relax and let me do everything.” He engaged her in a thrilling dip, pressing his muscled chest against hers. “I am here for your pleasure.”
Suddenly he surged upward, lifting her full-figured form with effortless ease and twirling her free in the air.
Letting loose with an uncharacteristic giggle, she threw her head back and braced her hands on his sturdy shoulders; sighing a moment later as he joined their bodies for an unforgettable tango.
Their hands clenched between them as he moved against her; his hips rocking against hers in a suggestive manner as she rested his head on his bare chest and fell with ease into his rhythm.
“I’ve never danced this way at a society ball,” she smiled, inhaling his rich citrus scent as her fingers dared to tangle in the strands of his long auburn hair.
“Really?” He teased her with a flirtatious wink. “So tell me, do they do this at society balls?”
Sweeping her up in a heated embrace, he seized her lips in a passionate kiss; swallowing her surprised gasp as he rubbed his full, moist lips against hers and thrust his tongue inward-its slow, smooth back and forth motion emulating the motions of sex.
Wrapping her arms around his muscled shoulders and leaning inward, Moira lost herself in his kiss; pressing her lips against his as his delectable hands ran like warm water down her back.
All too soon he pulled away; once again offering his hand as the crowd roared around them.
“Care to go backstage, love?” He seared her with his sultry eyes.
“You think?” She arched her eyebrows, making quick steps for that mysterious region behind the second velvet curtain.
Soon she found herself seated on a lush settee of crinkled lavender silk; staring around her with wide eyes at an elaborately adorned area that seemed to double as a dressing room.
The blond couple that she’d seen earlier on stage lounged easily on scarlet cushions at opposite sides of the room; feasting on an assortment of cheeses and fruits as they regarded their guest with curious stares. Meanwhile, the next act scheduled to dance-an ebony-haired duo with similar striking features-scurried to slip in to their skin tight costumes as their intro music surged around them.
Moira, by contrast, lounged easy on her seat, smiling as her handsome host fed her an assortment of sumptuous petit fours; tasty delicacies served up on a shiny silver platter.
“You are officially too wonderful,” she praised him, smacking her lips. “Do tell me your name.”
The dancer shrugged.
“As you well know, Ms. Bentley.” He charmed her with a white-toothed grin. “I am your Ian.” His beam dissolved as he set aside the platter, taking her hand in his. “For so long, Moira, I have felt lost in life-I walked the streets of London as an orphan, and for a while I worked in the service of older ladies in need of male companionship.”
“Really?” Moira straightened in her seat, startled by his frankness.
“So sorry, didn’t mean to shock you miss.” The dancer clasped her hands in his, leaning forward to grace her with a gaze of tender sincerity.
“Oh it’s all right.” She squeezed his fingers. “Do go on.”
“Well, I fear there’s not much to tell.” Her companion gestured toward the other troupe members, who offered shy smiles in return. “You are looking at my brothers and sisters of the street. Bethelyn found us when we were in our early 20s, and she taught us to dress and dance.” He smiled slightly at the thought of his mentor. “She is a very generous woman, Miss-and while she gave us all that we needed in life, she didn’t give me a true identity.” He threw his hands up in a helpless gesture. “I did not know who I was,” with this his brilliant smile returned, and he surged forward to sear her lips with a quick but meaningful kiss. “Then I read your book, Miss. And in your hero Ian I found a reflection of myself, only he was so much better. So great and noble.” His darkened gaze came alight with wonder as he considered his character. “I started to think and speak as he did, to read the same books and practice the same beliefs. Suddenly I had a persona, a world view.” He gathered a beaming Moira in his arms, clutching her close. “Bethelyn made me a dancer, Moira-but you made me a person.”
Drawing back with a soft sob, Moira cupped Ian’s carved cheeks and rained kisses on his smiling lips.
“I am honored that my novel inspired you so,” she smiled, “And I understand your feelings, as Ian has given me life as well, at least in a manner of speaking.” She squinted thoughtfully. “For so long, I was known primarily as the sheltered matron who still resided in her parents’ home and cared for them as they aged.” Her gaze grew misty as she pictured the kind faces of Lord and Lady Bentley. “It was an honor to care for my parents-but when they passed I found myself alone, and quite without purpose.”
“I’m sorry.” Ian held her closer to him. “Surely, though, many a man has asked for your hand in marriage.”
He jumped as Moira met his words with a burst of raucous laughter.
“Not a single one dear,” she rolled her eyes heavenward. “I was never what you would call a belle of the ton.” She shrugged. “The gentlemen of my class seem to be in search of a woman who lacks both brains and hips.” She lifted her chin in a proud stance. “I have both in abundance, and am quite happy by myself-especially now that I’ve written my book, and I have a career and a purpose.”
“That’s wonderful Miss. You are an amazing woman, like none I’ve ever met.” Ian applauded, adding in a softened voice, “Only I must observe, my lady, that when I read your work I feel such warmth and passion rising from your pages.” His voice lowered to a sultry whisper as his arms tightened around her waist. “I sense a desire that needs to be satisfied.” Ian arched his eyebrows, nestling her neck as his tickling fingertips massaged her lower back. “Perhaps I could help.”
She took in her breath as he planted sweet baby kisses across the surface of his tender nape; all the while running his hands down her sides and across her rounded hips.
Closing her eyes, Moira tipped her head back and moaned softly as he lowered his head to her breasts; licking their exposed tops before kissing her nipples through the soft sheen of her silken gown.
For a moment the woman lost herself in passion, running loving hands through his long, soft hair as he worshipped her with his mouth.
Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she flushed beneath the scrutinizing gaze of the blonde Noir dancers.
“Ian, they’re watching us,” she hissed.
“It’s quite all right love.”
She jumped at the sight of a smirking Bethelyn, who swept into the backstage area with the soft swish of her satin skirts.
“We are all very open around here.” She watched as her final dancers of the evening, the sculpted ivory skinned brunette couple, took leave of the stage; joining them in the backstage area. “Indeed, it is after a performance of Ballet Noir that the real show begins.”
Claiming a seat in a cushioned wicker fan chair at the center of their dressing room, Bethelyn watched with a casual gaze as the dark-haired male stripped out of his fitted silver-hued tights; revealing a lean, sleek body that shone pure white in the lights above him.
Not to be outdone the golden-haired dancer abandoned his plush scarlet cushion and crawled to Bethelyn’s side; searing her with a sedulous glance as he rose up on his knees before her.
“May I please you Bethelyn?” He entreated her, flexing his muscles for her pleasure.
“You may Noel.” Relaxing in her seat, Bethelyn closed her eyes as he surged upward to claim her lips in a sweet kiss.
Standing tall and proud before her, Noel slipped out of his tight black pants; revealing in full a glorious study in sculpted muscularity.
Again dropping to his knees, the dancer crawled between her parted thighs and kissed her feet; groveling as he rose to plant additional warm kisses on her soft skin and thighs.
“She wears no petticoats,” Moira murmured, stopping just short of believing the scene before her.
“That is what you find most shocking about this situation?” Ian continued to rub her shoulders and back, all the while chuckling his mirth at her vague observation. “You delight me Miss.”
Returning her gaze to her besotted companion, Moira wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned her head on his chest.
“I like you as well Ian. I feel like I’ve known you forever.” She gave him an affirming squeeze. “Only you do seem to keep some very strange company, I must say.”
She shook her head as she saw Noel surge between Bethelyn’s parted legs, fixing his full lips around her throbbing clit as the other dancers watched with smiling, placid expressions.
All, that is, save one. Lips pulled in a jealous pout, the naked raven-haired dancer also approached the mistress of the troupe; coming from behind to massage her sturdy shoulders and kiss her neck.
His hands dropping to her breasts, he rubbed her nipples to aroused peaks as the blond dancer saw to her other pleasure point; licking and laving her hot, hard nub as she purred her approval.
“They live for her pleasure,” Moira whispered, shifting in Ian’s arms as a line of sweat formed on her brow.
“And I, my darling, live for yours.” She didn’t resist as Ian pulled her to him, laying a luscious lick down the length of her cheek as she marveled at the show before her. “Don’t you see, Moira? All this time you have been writing and dreaming the intimate dance of the phantoms.” He cupped her flushed cheek in a tender hand, turning her head until their gazes locked. “Now you can do the dance, with me as your partner.”
“Yes,” Moira sighed, her hungry hands roaming the breadth of his massive chest as she leaned into his lap. “I want to feel the pleasure, Ian.”
“Your wish,” he whispered, “is my command.”
Running his hand down the silken folds of her evening gown, Ian’s fingers were reverent but daring as they rubbed her breasts and nurtured her rounded abdomen, then descending to tend to her weary legs before stealing up her skirt.
“Consider me your servant,” he whispered, staring into her eyes, “Let me bring your fantasy to life.”
Seizing her lips in an impassioned kiss, he put his tongue and his fingers to work; indeed, while his tongue laved and seduced her mouth his fingers rubbed and tickled their way up her legs; stealing beneath her petticoats to stroke the skin of her feminine mound.
Opening herself to him with a contented sigh, Moira threw her head back and pressed her full breasts against his chest.
Although a quick glance downward revealed the pressing of a long, hard shaft against the threads of his tights, his focus remained solely on her pleasure as he cupped her femininity; tickling and teasing her throbbing nub as he continued to kiss and caress her.
“Just think of this as a dance,” he whispered, “a dance of the phantoms.”
Vaulting into his lap, Moira let out at a cry of joy as his fingers quickened their motions; pressing against her clit to create a divine friction that drove her insane.
Finally her body exploded in the throes of an incredible climax; the first she’d ever experienced. Her heart pounded and her pussy gushed as she collapsed in Ian’s arms; giving him a drunken smile as he kissed her face and neck.
“That was amazing, Darling,” she stole a stray glance across the room, where a contented Bethelyn also writhed in the heat of apparent ecstasy; her golden haired lover rising to his feet to switch places with the dark-haired dancer-a bold fellow who immediately sank into her lap and rocked his hips against hers.
“What manner of dance is that?”Moira rested in Ian’s arms, watching with raised eyebrows as the dancer gyrated in Bethelyn’s lap, then grew still as his mistress surged forward and sank her teeth in his neck.
“What on earth?” Moira surged to her feet, prepared to run to the dancer’s aide.
She froze as the young man peered over his shoulder, his eyes glowing a curious gold as he pinned her with a serene smile.
Bethelyn, meanwhile, continued to nip and suck her dancer’s neck, her own eyes gleaming scarlet red as she moaned her pleasure.
“It’s all right, darling.” Even Ian’s soothing voice failed to succor her senses. “It’s simply a part of what they do. He enjoys it.”
“Even so,” Moira clenched her fists at her sides, “it is simply not natural.”
Turning away from the unsettling scene, she grasped her skirts and walked with a flourish toward a convenient backstage exit.
“It is, however, quite clarifying,” she said over her shoulder, “You people are indeed the phantoms of my novel. You planted your sinful story in my mind….with the intent to corrupt a gentlewoman!”
****
The next morning, the rare appearance of a London sun roused Moira from a restless sleep; prompting her to turn over on her stomach and bury her head in her pillow.
Ah, what is this? I usually love a sunny morning. She closed her eyes, blocking out the rays that assailed her gaze like shards of broken glass. I guess just have a few hours with those people rendered me a creature of the night.
Her sleep had been plagued with an unsavory mixture of dreams and nightmares; one minute she savored a dreamed remembrance of Ian’s tender touch. The next she saw Bethelyn’s evil eyes, and almost felt the prick of her pointed fangs.
Surging upward in her bed, she wrapped her arms around her knees and opened her eyes.
“Who are they?” She said aloud. “What do they want of me?”
Her troubled meditation was disrupted by a sharp knock at her door; expecting the maid with her morning’s breakfast, she called for her visitor to enter.
She gaped seconds later as her door opened to reveal a tall, auburn haired man dressed in a smart white day suit-and carrying what she had to admit was a sumptuous breakfast tray; one topped with a generous serving of crepes doused in strawberry syrup.
“How did you know that I love….” She trailed off, waving away her own question with a dismissive hand. “I know, I know-you see my every fantasy and know my every desire.”
Easing her with a robust laugh, Ian perched himself on the edge of her bed and greeted her with a gentle smile.
“You look absolutely lovely with your hair down,” he ran a tender hand through the soft brown lengths of her curly tresses.
Ignoring his compliment, Moira jerked away from her lover and sat away from him on the bed.
“What have you done with my maid?” She demanded, planting her hands on her hips.
“I bribed her with chocolate and gold coins,” Ian chuckled, “both of which she is enjoying downstairs in your kitchen.”
His grin dissolved as he took Moira’s hands in his, kissing them warmly.
“Moira, I need you to listen to me.” He leaned forward on the bed. “You were right to refer to the dancers of Ballet Noir as phantoms. We are indeed creatures of the night.” He cringed at his own words. “The only way I could visit you this morning was under the cover of a dark cloak. And even as I wore it, the sun still plagued me.”
Immediately softening, Moira squeezed Ian’s fingers as she pursed her lips in empathy.
“You do look a bit weary, though still annoyingly perfect.” She cocked her head. “Why did you risk your life to come to me, Ian?”
“How could I not?” Ian shook his head, tone emphatic. “For months I dreamed of you, Moira. For ages I dreamed of the woman who was light in the darkness, who would care for me as a person, not just as some dancing phantom…” he spat out these last words as though they were venomous.
His eyes flew wide with surprise as Moira surged forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.
“I dreamed of you as well, Ian, and I know in my heart that you are not a creature of evil.” She raised a finger for emphasis. “But Bethelyn is, isn’t she? Much like the creatures in those old legends, she bit you and took your soul….”
“True,” Ian interrupted, “but she also gave me a life, and a home. She taught me a skill. In dancing I have found such pleasure and freedom….”
“At the expense of what?” Moira balled her fists, eyes flashing. “Believe me Ian, I’ve read and studied the legends of the vampire. I know what you are….”
“No, you do not!” Ian clutched her in his arms, pinning her with an imploring gaze. “I am not a killer, Moira. I don’t drink blood-indeed, the only thing that I give my ‘victims’, all of whom are willing, is a good sound pleasuring.”
Moira jumped, shaking her head in what seemed to be a show of sheer disbelief.
“You mean to say that you derive your nourishment from the pleasuring of women?”
“I thrive on women’s sexual energies,” Ian agreed, voice softening as he moved closer to her. “I, along with all the dancers at Ballet Noir, can sense immediately if someone is attracted to me. This is why we first connected in our dreams.” He smiled slightly, “And when we read your book, Moira….”
“My sexual energy probably charted pretty much off the map,” the author blushed, averting her gaze to the ground.
“Not just your sexual energy, Moira,” Ian chuckled, gracing her with a playful nudge. “Your creativity, your warmth,” he beamed. “We need someone like you in our fold Moira, which is why I’ve continued to visit your dreams.” His voice lowered to a seductive whisper. “I needed to lure you inward.”
Moira shrugged, unimpressed.
“You keep referencing what the troupe wants.” She pursed her lips. “What do you want, Ian?”
Without hesitation, Ian once again drew her in to a sweet, loving embrace.
“What I want Moira,” he kissed her lips, “is a woman who will show concern for me, who will ask me about my life…and, indeed, about what I want from my life.” He drew her inward, pressing their bodies together. “I want you.”
“Don’t tell me,” Moira leaned back into the sheets of her floral canopied bed, taking Ian to the place where she’d first dreamed of him. “Show me, love.”
Eager to oblige her, Ian stripped Moira’s buxom body of its tight, confining nightgown; tossing it on the floor as he planted adoring kisses down the length of her neck and across the breadth of her bare, sensitive breasts.
His hands bracing her soft-skinned waist, he licked her belly button before ducking low between her parted knees; the soft fabric of his suit a pleasing sensation against the surface of her bare skin.
An even more pleasing sensation ensued when he tossed his head so that his lips hovered just above her feminine area; as the sleek strands of his coppery hair settled in an appealing mass around her waist, he licked open her tender folds and fixed his lips around her clit, suckling her as she sighed with delight and bucked her hips upward.
Taking this as a cue, he laved her nub with his long, wet tongue and braced his hands on her soft hips; devouring her clit with an animal growl as she covered his hands with hers.
With a last mighty lick he sent her over the edge, careening across the bounds of an intense orgasm.
Her entire body reverberating with the impact of her pleasure, she relaxed as shards of erotic ecstasy covered her from head to toe.
In a haze of pleasure she watched as Ian rose up on his knees, holding her gaze as he stripped off his gentleman’s jacket to reveal a body made for sin. His tailored pants came off next, further revealing the long, hard shaft that seemed to salute her presence.
“Come here you beautiful man,” she swept him in her arms, delighting as his hard, massive body covered her own.
“Take me,” Ian hissed, sweeping her up in a passionate embrace as their arms and legs entangled. “I only want to be yours.”
“We certainly can arrange that,” Moira whispered, leaning down to layer his chest with sweet baby kisses as he settled between her legs.
Their hips and thighs locked to create a tender sort of friction, lighting a fire that spread wild through every fiber of their beings.
Collapsing on the bed in a frenzy of passion, their lips and tongues also merged as he hugged her to him; his hair settling around her shoulders as their kisses grew more intense.
“I know this is your first time love,” Ian heaved a frustrated sigh, touching her cheek in a loving stroke. “I do not wish to hurt you.”
“I assure you,” Taking matters in her own hands, Moira rolled atop her shocked lover and wrapped her legs around his back, bringing him into her. “I’ll be fine.”
With a lustful howl he penetrated her, thrusting his graceful hips forward as his long, hard cock filled her to the core.
Enacting the most intimate dance of all, the couple joined hands as their bodies writhed in the heat of their sublime joining; their arms clenching in a timeless embrace as he continued to move inside her.
Their eyes flew open as they merged as one, and they clung to one another as they weathered the storm of an intense mutual climax.
Sharing a bonding energy that left them both breathless, their sweaty bodies reverberated with a force that culminated a desire long denied.
Sinking in the sheets of Moira’s lush feathered bed, the couple sealed this bond with tender kisses and whispered words.
“I shall return to the ballet with you, Ian.” Moira kissed his lips. “Yet before I give them the rights to my work, I must see and experience more of this strange world, this dark life you lead….”
“Only now it doesn’t seem so dark,” Ian silenced her with a gentle smile. “Not so dark at all, Moira.”