London, 1851
As Moira Bentley escaped the earthly world that confined and restrained her, she flew in dreams to a distant tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain; and bordered by a gold framed mural of cherubs in flight.
The beauty of this theater paled in comparison to the man who stood center stage; an ethereal creature with long, silken auburn hair, wide dark eyes, full lips and sculpted features. She warmed as he opened his arms to her; soon their bodies merged as one on the stage, engaging in a forbidden dance that left her breathless.
She knew that, in the audience before them, people watched and judged her. Even so she couldn’t help but devour his succulent lips in a hot, full-bodied kiss; or to run her hands all over his hard muscled form.
All too soon the dance came to an end, as did Moira’s dream.
Yet unlike evenings past, when such an erotic fever dream left her frustrated and agonizingly aroused, she awoke this night with a gentle smile-and the knowledge that the man of her dreams was now the man of her life.
Indeed, Moira’s dreams of a sensual phantom had haunted her for more than a year; and at first the frustrated society maiden poured her resulting lust and passion into the pages of her first novel-a romance titled “The Phantom Lover” that had scandalized London society.
The book scandalized many people to the point that they just had to buy a copy, she pursed her lips. In many cases, two.
The tome was such a smash hit, in fact, that a local ballet troupe announced its intentions to produce her work as a musical production. And, as divine luck would have it, the lead dancer of Ballet Noir was the living embodiment of her hero Ian; the true and literal man of her dreams.
This would indeed be a perfect match, a perfect situation, Shifting in the silk sheets of her floral feathered bed, she stared in contemplation at the lovely rose print that graced her overhead canopy, if he wasn’t such a bloody vampire.
Indeed, all dancers involved in Ballet Noir were creatures of the incubus; vampires who live by night and-in lieu of blood-draw their nourishment from the sexual energies of humans.
At least they boast some sort of an excuse for their insatiable appetites, she bit her lip, rising from her bed and crossing the room to her sable hued wardrobe.
As much as Moira wanted to languish in dreams of her handsome lover, she had a day full of writing ahead of her; her editor, the honorable Lord Thomas Caldwell at Silver Ridge Books, had commissioned a sequel to The Phantom Lover. And the lady author had a plan.
“I shall write the first few chapters today,” she wrapped her plump body in her favorite white lace dressing gown, taking a seat at the cherry wood writing desk that formed a corner of her bedroom. “Then research my love scenes tonight, when Ian comes for dinner.”
And, if their last few engagements had been any indication, he’d also stay for breakfast the next morn.
On the other side of London a second woman woke; rousing herself from the sleep of the dead.
“I never was much of a day person.”
Bethelyn Castor rose from the sheets of the canopied, lavender doused sleeping place that marked the centerpiece of her personal living space at Theatre Satine; an exclusive ballet theater that she owned and operated on the secret outskirts of downtown London.
She always admired the sheer grandeur of her treasured boudoir, which came complete with lavender butterfly wallpaper, matching bedding, and a rich assortment of cherry wood furnishings.
Its most glorious accent, in her estimation, took the form of the handsome golden-haired sprite lying naked in her bed.
One of her star dancers at Ballet Noir, the only troupe to dance the halls of Theater Satine, Noel stood as a glorious example of beauty in motion.
And when sleeping, she observed, he resembled nothing short of an angel in repose.
Bethelyn paused just a moment to behold the vision that now slept alone in her bed. She marveled at the wave of pure gold hair that spilt unbound across her pillow; framing a bronzed face that came complete with flawless skin and full, lush lips. She relished the sight of thick eyelashes fanned over carved cheekbones; lamenting at the same time that these lashes concealed his gem blue eyes-and that her slick lavender sheets concealed his lean, perfect body.
Growling low in her throat, Noel’s older lover felt her fangs grow long in her mouth; always a sure sign of her own arousal. On any other morning, she mused, she’d act on this feeling; pouncing the warm and willing beauty to unite and satisfy their merged thirst.
“Make that any other evening.” Running a soothing hand through her unruly mass of light blonde hair, Bethelyn retrieved a black silk day dress from her wardrobe and tossed it over the curves of her full-figured body with careless aplomb. “Any respectable vampire would be in bed at this hour.”
Yet as the leader of an incubus den that doubled as a rather salacious dance troupe, she knew that nothing about her life was remotely respectable.
“And when one has to meet a human investor, a woman who is ready to provide the money for my next production,” with a broad smile she turned for the door, “one makes adjustments.”
Soon she stepped into the main sitting area of Theatre Satine; a lavish centre of dark beauty that never failed to steal her breath.
Fronted by a classic set of stained glass double doors, the club’s walls shone with a rich sheen of rose brocade wallpaper; a glorious surface that itself shone as a backdrop to various examples of erotic artwork. Each of these luminous oil paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.
Seated at one of the lace-covered tables that occupied this theater-which, for all intents and purposes, doubled as a private club-was Zelda Martin, a prominent seamstress who owned one of the busiest clothing shops in London.
A longtime friend and associate of Ballet Noir, this slender, raven-haired Englishwoman crafted many of the lush, lavish costumes that marked Noir performances.
A strong supporter of the arts, she’d also single-handedly funded several of the troupe’s shows.
“Zelda!” Swooping down upon her smiling visitor with a warm, maternal hug, Bethelyn claimed the seat beside her; staring in blatant admiration at her petite, olive-eyed guest. “You look lovelier than ever.”
“I’m also wealthier than ever,” Zelda squared her slender shoulders, running a smoothing hand through the folds of her pink velvet skirts. “The queen has commissioned my signature rose gown for the occasion of her birthday ball.”
“Splendid!” Bethelyn applauded, adding with a shrug, “If you seek a place to invest some of this money, we are planning a wonderful new production at Ballet Noir.”
Zelda tilted her head, gracing her hostess with a captivated smile.
“So pour me a magnum of your best champagne and tell me all about it,” she nodded.
One hour and a good number of bubbly glasses later, Bethelyn had given Zelda a full account of “The Phantom Lover”; the spellbinding novel that was sure to make the perfect Noel ballet.
“I only hope we’ve secured the rights,” Bethelyn folded her hands on the table. “The author came to see our show a few weeks ago, and she left in a huff when she beheld our…” she reddened in spite of herself, “after show activities.”
Zelda let loose with a raucous laugh that echoed throughout the theater.
“Blimey, that’s the best part!” She winked. “Now don’t misunderstand, the pirouettes are nice,” she allowed with a wave, “but the orgies that take place after the show are truly sublime.”
Matching her laughter, Bethelyn clapped Zelda’s back and sat back in her chair.
“So tell me dear,” she tilted her head, “Can I count on you to fund our show?”
Immediately sobering, Zelda took a long sip from her crystalline tankard as she considered this question.
“I shall,” she said finally, “only this time, Bethelyn, I want something special in return.”
“Name it!” Bethelyn smiled.
Her grin dissolved seconds later, as she heard the stated condition.
“I want an evening with Ian.” Zelda’s tone was firm and unyielding as she leaned across the table. “If he agrees to be mine for one night, I will fund your show in full.”
Bethelyn shifted in her seat, entwining her fingers tight.
“I am afraid, Zelda, that Ian is not available,” she released on a sigh.
“Not available?” Zelda scoffed, tossing her mane of raven hair to divinely haughty effect. “Before he came to you, dear lady, he was ‘available’ to half the matrons in the ton.”
“And in the time that has elapsed since then, I’ve enjoyed his attentions myself,” Bethelyn smiled, but only briefly. “As of late he’s been spending a great deal of time with Moira Bentley, the author of ‘The Phantom Lover.’” She grinned again at the mention of Moira. “Moira’s book changed his life, and the woman herself has given him life. For the first time since he came to me, Zelda, I see light in his eyes. For the first time he laughs and smiles….”
She paused, an uncharacteristic sheen of tears filling her azure eyes.
“He’s a man again, and he’s a man in love.”
“He’s a man I desire,” Zelda interrupted, unmoved by Bethelyn’s show of emotion.
Rising from their table, Zelda fixed Bethelyn with a pointed look as she turned for the door.
“No man,” she snarled, “no money.”
“Ian!”
As much as Moira loved her beautiful manor drawing room-with its cherry wood furniture, red brocade wallpaper and plush ivory carpeting-she found that its most beautiful accent came in the form of a newly arrived visitor; a tall, muscular man who managed to dwarf his delicate feminine surroundings-not to mention shame them through the sheer force of his incredible masculine beauty.
Boasting a silken fall of auburn hair and wide, dark eyes, Ian also sported carved cheekbones and full, sumptuous lips; a mouth made all the more sumptuous when pursed in a kiss.
Sweeping her up in his arms, Ian pressed that succulent mouth to hers as he cradled her to him. Their hands clenched between them as their tongues entangled, their bodies clinging in a passionate clench that made their hearts race.
The pace steadied as Ian massaged her shoulders with warm, nurturing hands; his lips continuing to woo and coax hers as his hands mimicked his movements.
Finally Moira broke away, cupping his face in tender hands.
“Well blessed good eve to you too Guvna.” She chuckled in spite of herself. “How are you Ian?”
She trembled as he took her in his arms once again, staring into her eyes with a raw, bare hunger that shook her to the core.
“I’m desperate for you,” he growled, running his fingers through her soft dark hair as he buried his head in her neck. “Why have you never returned to the theater?”
Breaking their clutch, Moira took Ian’s hand and lead her lover to the prized floral settee that marked the center of the room. Motioning for him to sit, she once again took his hands in hers and fixed him with a sincere gaze.
“Ian, I really look forward to seeing my novel produced on your stage,” she nodded. “And I would indeed like to spend more time with the Ballet Noir cast, one member in particular.” She nudged him with tender affection. “Only you must admit, Ian, that my last visit to Theater Satine was,” she paused, grasping for the right words, “just a mite unorthodox.”
Ian shrugged.
“Well I suppose one would call an impromptu fit of orgiastic ecstasy, coupled of course with a blatant show of erotic vampirism, to be just a bit unorthodox,” he twitched his lips, obviously trying to suppress his laughter.
“Yes, just a bit,” Moira grinned in spite of herself, adding with an awkward gesture, “I may need just a bit more time to adjust to your way of living.”
“Perhaps this will help.”
Reaching into the deepest pocket of his long, black velvet coat, Ian withdrew a small rectangular card, handing it to Moira with a mysterious smile. “This is our proposed lobby card for the new production.”
Moira’s eyes flew wide as they beheld a miniature work of art; a miniature painting with a border of roses, that depicted two performers interlocked in what appeared to be an intimate dance.
She immediately recognized the title of the show, “The Phantom Lover”; she ran her fingers across the scarlet block letters that formed this title on the face of the beauteous canvas.
Next she touched the image of the male dancer depicted on the card; one that bore an uncanny-and very becoming-likeness to her own Ian.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed, her fingertips seeming to memorize every curve and line of his face.
“Thank you,” he chuckled, gracing her cheek with a grateful kiss. “I fear, though, that my beauty does not equal that of my leading lady.”
“Really?” Stiffening beside him, Moira reluctantly shifted her gaze to the image of the phantom maiden; the one who would portray Micheline, the heroine of The Phantom Lover.
She immediately recognized the woman’s full-figured form, as well as her fair skin, wide dark eyes, and long ebony hair. Furthermore, this dancer posed in a scarlet-hued dress that looked eerily similar to her favorite frock.
“Ian,” she breathed, “You’ve found my twin! This woman not only likens my heroine,” she trembled in spite of herself, “She mirrors me, in every way.”
Ian smiled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
“She is you, love,” he whispered in her ear.
Eyes flying wide, Moira turned to pen Ian with a disbelieving stare.
Then she started laughing. Hard.
“Me, a ballerina?” She howled. “I fear I couldn’t dance if you dropped a flock of fire ants into the deepest reaches of my petticoats.”
Ian laughed.
“Since I met you, love, I find it difficult to dance-or do much of anything else-with anyone else.” He squeezed her shoulders, nipping her ear with an appreciative tongue. “I asked Bethelyn if she would allow you to dance the lead, and she immediately agreed.”
Moira shook her head.
“That’s lovely Darling, but really,” she arched her eyebrows, “as I so ably demonstrated the night we met at Theater Satine, I’m a writer-not a dancer.”
She took in her breath as Ian swept her in his arms; burying his head in her neck and coating its nape with ardent kisses.
“I’ve taught you many wonderful things since that night,” he growled, his hands enclosing her waist. “Did you not enjoy those lessons?”
Moira answered him with the flush of her cheeks and the swiftness of her breath.
“At least a bit,” she gasped out, giggling as he reached up to rub her breasts through the surface of their confining cloth.
“I thought as much,” Ian winked, adding more seriously, “Really though Darling, I did notice a great deal of grace and ease in your movements that night at the theater-along, I might add, with a healthy dose of sensuality.”
“Well I wonder why that might be,” she tweaked his nose. “I was never asked to dance that much at society balls, so I could never ascertain my talent.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I could try my luck on the stage.”
“Wonderful!” Ian applauded, adding with the sly waggle of his feathered eyebrows, “Care if I try my luck with you, lass?”
Moira rolled her eyes.
“Behave!” She graced his shoulder with a playful slap. “We should at least have dinner first. To the dining room with you, you beautiful rake!”
Across town another woman tossed restless in her bed; her movements rousing her golden haired lover from the depths of the deepest sleep.
“Bethelyn?” His silky reams of golden hair falling soft across his forehead, Noel-a male ballet star and one of the leading draws of Theater Satine-opened his angelic blue eyes to greet a new evening.
In the light of the bright luminous moon that shone forth through a nearby window, Noel’s bronzed, golden haired perfection was truly a sight to behold; yet Bethelyn could manage only a small smile as she turned to address him.
“Good eve, my beauty.” She ran the back of her chubby hand down the length of his carved cheek. “Did you sleep well?”
“You didn’t.” Noel frowned immediately, running a comforting hand down Bethelyn’s back. “You look as though you haven’t slept at all.”
“Why thank you, young man.” Bethelyn rolled her eyes. “Did I not teach my young men at Theater Satine to sing a woman’s praises at all times?” She slid a single condemning finger across Noel’s perfect lips. “Only words of glowing praise should pass those lovely lips.”
Ignoring her scolding words, Noel wrapped his arms around his lover and tilted his head against his.
“What troubles you, my lady?”
A sighing Bethelyn sank in his arms, running a soothing hand through the strands of his long blond hair.
“This morning I had a meeting with Zelda Martin, the investor behind many of our shows,” she explained. “I asked her to fund the production of The Phantom Lover, and she agreed-with one condition.” He sighed. “She wants Ian in her bed.”
“Ian?” Jerking upward, Noel shook his head in a show of utter shock. “He is in love with Moira.”
“I know.” Bethelyn nodded. “Yet before he knew Moira-indeed, before he even knew me-he made his money in women’s beds-not on a stage.”
“He has changed,” Noel insisted, once again taking a concerned Bethelyn in a warm, tender embrace. “We all have, with thanks to you.” He squeezed her shoulders.
Managing a small smile, Bethelyn tweaked Noel’s sculpted nose and moved away from him in the bed.
“I have money of my own, but not enough to do justice to the magnificent images that Moira composed in that book.” She shook her head, then, waving him from the bed, “This is not your worry, young man. Go and prepare for tonight’s performance.” She graced his shoulder with an affectionate nudge. “I think I’ll stay up here this evening, to conjure some sort of a plan.”
An hour later Noel stood outside the front door of Theater Satine; an elegant portrait of ivory stone arches, stained glass windows painted in lustrous fashion with all the hues of the rainbow, cast iron gates and-flanking these gates-statues of sweet winged cherubs who beamed in greeting.
The designated doorman for that evening, Noel also smiled at the long line of guests who awaited entrance into the theater; adding a wink or a sultry pout for the benefit of the females.
…at least one of whom seemed impressed by the gesture.
“Good evening Noel!” Dressed in a long gold lattice work dress that showed off her slender figure to nice effect, Zelda Martin stepped forward to clutch the hands of the smiling, handsome doorman. “Did Bethelyn post you out front, to lure hapless females into the theater?”
Noel chuckled, taking Zelda’s hand in his and kissing it with warm, soft lips.
“In your case, Miss,” he winked. “I certainly hope it works.”
Before she could respond, Noel swooped down upon her like a ravenous hawk; pulling her to him as he delivered a second sumptuous kiss-this one to her lips.
“Could I possibly ‘lure’ you into meeting me backstage?” He whispered against her mouth, running his massaging fingers across the back of her hand. “I’d love to show you the new dance steps I have learned…privately.”
His eyes flew wide as Zelda wrapped a snakelike arm around his waist; giving him a quick and unceremonious slap on the rump.
“Meet me after the final curtain,” she growled, eyes wild with desire.
Sending a salacious wink in the direction of a blushing Noel, she turned and walked with purposeful steps through the entrance of Theater Satine.
“That lass has accomplished quite a feat, Noel.” He immediately recognized the deep, sonorous voice of his next visitor. “I did not rightly think it was possible to make you blush.”
Noel raised his gaze to face a smirking Ian, already dressed for his lead role in that evening’s Ballet Noir production. At his side was Moira, who graced him with a gentler smile as she offered him her hand.
“It’s lovely to see you again, Noel.” She blushed prettily as he kissed her hand; her tender flush a lovely accent for her gown of scarlet satin.
“And you look most lovely this evening, Miss Moira.” Noel tilted his head. “It is good to see you back here at Theater Satine. I was afraid we had frightened you away.”
“Oh no,” Moira snorted, punching his shoulder. “You will find, dear Noel, that I am made of very strong stock-and, furthermore, that I have a very open mind.” She reinforced her words with a short, sharp nod. “It takes quite a lot to drive me away.”
“And it always helps when we offer her the lead role in her own production.” Ian nudged his companion, winking as he did at a chuckling Noel.
Moira gaped in mock indignation, planting her hands on her lips.
“I’ll have you know that had nothing to do with it!” She sniffed, adding in a low voice, “Well, virtually nothing at least.”
The trio laughed as Noel waved Ian and Moira onward into the theater.
I must say Ian has excellent choice in ladies, he mused, watching as the happy couple walked hand in hand in the opposite direction. I’ve never seen him this happy-and I intend to protect and preserve that happiness at any cost.” He pursed his lips. I’ll go in his place to the witch’s bed. And I shall make her forget him.
An hour later Moira sat at a front row table at Theater Satine, marveling at the spectacle of the theater’s main performance area; a tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain, and bordered by a gold framed mural of ethereal cherubs in flight.
She basked further in the spectacle of an angel in motion; or at least her Ian likened an angel as he danced alone on stage, stepping and swaying a graceful line through a maze of beautiful and bountiful props: endless bouquets of radiant florals, roses red and gold, pearl pink carnations, and lavender water lilies gathered in golden urns that bordered the stage on all sides.
As much as she memorized his every move, thrilling at the sight of his flawless pirouettes and smiling as he swayed and sashayed, she also felt a degree of uncertainty as she witnessed his performance.
He and the other dancers have such natural grace, and heaven knows they’ve been learning and training in their craft for years on end. She leaned forward to focus on Ian’s feet, which seemed to float on air. And while I certainly feel confident enough to see my work performed on stage, I don’t know that I’m ready to perform it.
Seeming to read her thoughts, Ian stopped stock still at the center of the stage; fixing her with an intense, unnerving stare.
Oh no, she fixed him with a look that was vaguely threatening-in a loving way, of course. He means to bring me onstage.
Totally ignoring her hard eyes, he stepped off stage and into the audience; sweeping her most literally off her feet and returning to his place in the spotlight.
Their gazes locked as he set her on her feet, and the couple fell easily into a dance that sent them twirling across the stage. Following Ian’s lead, Moira stepped with an uneasy grace across the breadth of the stage; watching her feet to see if they claimed the divine rhythm needed to complete the dance.
She took in her breath as Ian took her chin in his fingers, lifting her head until their gazes locked.
“Do not think about it, my darling,” he whispered. “Just feel it. Just imagine that we are making love.” He fixed her with a devilish grin. “Just think about what I’m going to do to you after the show.”
Aroused and energized by these evocative words, she threw herself into the dance; her breasts crushing against his chest as their arms clutched and their hips rocked together.
Sweeping her up in an impassioned embrace, he twirled her in mid air; their public surroundings dissolved around them as she fell forward in his arms, their lips colliding in a passionate kiss.
Wrapping her arms around his muscled shoulders, Moira devoured Ian’s mouth as their tongues entangled; engaging in their own delicious tango as their bodies sank together.
Moira again looked downward; this time spotting a noticeable bulge that strained the threads of his tights.
“Take me Moira,” he whispered, dipping her in a thrilling flourish as the crowd roared around them. “I must have you now.”
Moira attempted a wry chuckle as she trembled outright.
“I can see that,” she whispered, running a gentle, soothing hand down the surface of his carved cheek. “All the same, we really should finish the dance for the benefit….”
Silencing her with a passionate kiss, Ian covered her lips with his and slid his tongue inward. Seducing her with his mouth and hands, he massaged the tension from her shoulders as the back and forth motion of his tongue emulated sex.
His full lips lulled her into an erotic trance that stole her breath; soon he’d seduced her senses, once again making her forget herself and her very public surroundings.
Melting in his arms, she did not resist as he swept her up in his arms and carried her backstage; waving to acknowledge the cheers of the audience who applauded this bold move.
One viewer, however, was less than impressed by the lovers’ theatrics. Standing from her seat with a grumpy “Harrumph!”, Zelda Martin grabbed her clutch purse and headed for the door.
“They can forget about their money,” she grumbled, pushing her way through the crowd in the direction of the theater entrance. “They can forget about their show.”
“Did you forget about me, Zelda?”
Zelda froze at the sound of a deep, soft voice; and at the touch of a strong but gentle hand that fixed itself on hers.
She raised her gaze to behold an angelic vision in white; indeed, Noel likened an angel in a dancer’s costume of sheer ivory satin, his hair flowing in golden waves down his smooth, planed back.
He held his hand out to her, his azure eyes alight with a sheen of hot, tender seduction.
“I’d like to invite you to a private performance,” he purred, leading her to a mysterious doorway at the side of the theater. “And this time, the dance will be just for you.”
****
Moments later Zelda found herself on the better side of heaven.
Seated in a straight back chair of lush gold brocade, she watched as the beautiful Noel danced only for her; his flawless body in dangerous proximity as he moved and swayed before her.
“What manner of dance is this?” She whispered, watching transfixed as he gyrated his hips; thrusting forward in a manner that suggested the motions of intercourse.
“It is a private, intimate dance,” he purred, his chest muscles flexing beneath the surface of sleek white satin, “one intended for you eyes only.”
With this he fixed his sturdy hands at the collar of his costume, pulling the satin fabric downward in slow, sedulous movements. Soon he’d peeled away the whole of his lush, slick covering, revealing a hard golden chest and an impressive set of sculpted ab muscles.
“You’re beautiful,” she breathed.
“I’m yours for the taking,” Noel crooked his finger in a seductive manner. “Touch me, Zelda.”
Eager to oblige, Zelda ran a lustful hand down the surface of his firm, bronzed chest; ogling and caressing him as he continued to writhe and slither outright for her pleasure.
With tickling fingertips she canvassed his abs with light, teasing touches; moments later, though, she laid a more firm and resolute grasp on the cock that protruded semi aroused through the threads of his ivory hued tights.
“I’d quite like to join the dance,” she growled, searing him with a wolfish grin.
“Your wish is my command.” Noel smiled, sinking to his knees before her.
For a moment the couple locked gazes, Noel reaching forward to stroke the strands of Zelda’s soft raven hair.
Then he leaned forward to seize her lips in a hard, impassioned kiss.
Zelda sighed her contentment as his soft, full mouth devoured hers, his tongue sliding inward to engage her in a French delight of a kiss.
The sigh became a moan as he pulled away; only to sink between her parted legs, granting her another kiss that was far more intimate.
“May I pleasure you, my lady?”
Leaning down to kiss her feet, Noel kissed his way up Zelda’s slender legs as he massaged her slender thighs.
“You may.” Throwing her head back, Zelda parted her knees and moaned outright; thrilled by the presence of a long, wet tongue on the surface of her feminine folds.
These too soon parted to admit his entrance, and Noel growled as he fixed his moist lips around her throbbing clit. Bracing his hands on her trim hips to move her forward on the chair, Noel suckled his lover’s engorged nub; sending shards of unbridled ecstasy surging upward through every fiber of her being. Her nipples hardened, her pussy gushed, her heart pounded as his beautiful lips worked magic on her clit; kissing and licking her most intimate area as her entire body responded.
With a last mighty lick he sent her soaring across the bounds of a lush, full-bodied orgasm; one that swept her up in a wave of pleasure that shook her to the core.
She was so lost in pleasure, in fact, that she almost didn’t hear the slamming of the door; and the distant screech of a vampire banshee.
“Noel!” Storming into the room with balled fists and a furious glare, Bethelyn Castor pointed an accusing finger at a quiet, cowering Noel. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Settling the skirts of her golden gown and rising from her chair, Zelda stood to welcome their surly hostess; one who visited the room in the beautiful company of Callum, a dark-haired, ivory-skinned star of the Ballet Noir dance troupe.
Zelda watched with amused eyes as Noel glared at Callum; himself rising from the floor to stand tall and proud in the presence of his rival.
“You told her of my plan to seduce Zelda.” His voice dripped with anger as he addressed the smug, smiling Callum. “You saw this as your opportunity to steal Bethelyn’s affections.”
“Your plan was to have sex with another woman, in the house of our mistress,” Callum folded his arms before him. “I felt that Bethelyn deserved to know.”
“Indeed I did.” Bethelyn’s gaze softened as she addressed a skittish, blushing Noel. “I thought you loved me Noel.”
Running to the side of his mistress, Noel sank down in front of Bethelyn and took her hands in his.
“I do!” He fixed her with an imploring gaze. “And that is why I wished to distract Zelda, to take her attentions away from Ian and save our production.”
Arching a sardonic eyebrow at this assertion, Zelda crossed the room in three smooth strides; finally coming face to face with the incensed Bethelyn.
“You should be thanking the man.” Zelda reached downward to stroke the strands of Noel’s long golden hair. “He did indeed just secure the funding for your production.”
Bethelyn was unamused.
“Zelda, I’d greatly prefer that you take leave of my theater.” She waved the smug seamstress in the direction of the door. “And please, do not return.”
Zelda gaped.
“Very well then, Bethelyn.” Her skirts swished in a dramatic flourish as she abandoned the scene. “I wish you much good fortune in funding the ballet.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Though I do believe that the excessive publicity may very well help your cause.”
“Publicity?” Bethelyn blanched, voice barely above a whisper.
“Why yes,” Zelda purred over her shoulder. “Just imagine everyone’s surprise when they read in the newspapers that their beloved arts venue, the Theater Satine, is actually a den of vampires.”
Elsewhere at Theater Satine, a contented couple lay with their naked bodies entwined on a settee of crinkled lavender silk; blissfully unaware of the incredible drama that permeated its halls.
To them the entire world revolved around Ian and Moira; their arms and legs wrapped in a timeless cocoon as their lips merged.
Settling the curvy form of his precious Moira in the depths of her favorite settee, Ian buried his head in her neck and pulled her closer than close. Thrilling at the feel of his sharpened fangs as they grazed her tender skin, she wrapped her legs around his waist and threw her head back; further delighting as he left a lusty line of kisses from her neck to her breasts.
His hands massaged her tired back as he kissed and licked her nipples; his hips thrusting against hers in an irresistible tease.
“You’re everything to me Moira.” He raised his head to devour her with a gaze that dripped with impassioned loving. “Your book helped me find my identity,” he cupped her face in his hands, “and you helped me find love.”
“So love me Ian.” Moira wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, her breasts crushing against his chest as their mouths merged in a passionate kiss.
Never had the woman felt so loved; reclining in the arms of her enchanted companion, their hips locking as his tongue laved her mouth, and his lips romanced and seduced her.
Ducking his hand between them, Ian cupped Moira’s feminine area and rubbed the skin of her clit; sparking spasms of pleasure that covered her body as she sank contented in his arms.
His free hand rubbed her breasts as he smacked his lips against hers; soon she lost herself in all things Ian, inhaling his sweet citrus-tinged scent as his long, soft auburn hair brushed against her naked breasts.
And when his hard shaft surged to the depths of her soaking wet pussy, she lost herself in ecstasy.
Sweeping her up in his loving arms, Ian continued to kiss and caress her as his cock moved wild within her; surging to her core as their contented sighs mingled in the air above them.
“I love you Moira.” Ever gentle in his passion, Ian ran his fingers through her long dark hair; raining the surface of her flushed cheeks with endless adoring kisses. “Let me show you how much.”
With a final thrust of his trim hips he danced his partner across the brink; catapulting them both beyond the realm of a divine mutual orgasm.
Pleasure overtaking them, the couple collapsed on the floor beneath them and rolled wild on the floor; their arms and legs entangling as they laughed for the joy of it. Finally they fell together in an affectionate mass at the center of the room.
For a time they just lay contented in an easy embrace, sharing more sumptuous kisses as he rubbed her full hips and stared deep into her eyes.
“How could you ever doubt your grace as a dancer,” he kissed her lips, “when you make the perfect lover?”
“I guess I simply had to find the right partner.” She kissed his in kindest return.