Tag Archives: Ireland

Licks

Lick of Shadow

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This  Lick comes  from The Shadow Road, book four of  the Eight Kingdoms series! This excerpt is a site exclusive, as The Shadow Road won’t be on pre-order until December! 

Remember, Licks are NSFW excerpts, so read carefully – and look forward to another erotic excerpt on the smutty seventeenth of next month!

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There was desire without restraint in Bran’s touch, Bran’s kiss. Some barrier Macsen had only been vaguely aware of was broken down within him, and for a moment he was breathless. Passion he knew, and fire, but this was both those things and more. Could he stand it, take it, bear it? Yes, oh yes. He wanted more and more, all that Bran was, breathing and beating, heart and soul.

He stepped back, let Bran go and Bran growled at him, but Macsen pulled at his tunic and his expression changed. He let Macsen drag it over his head and off his arms, and he was already kicking off his boots when Macsen dropped it and jerked at the tie of his trousers.

Naked, perfect, the scent of him drowned everything else from Macsen’s awareness. He pulled Bran close, then dragged him down to the ground and darted over him without pause. All for me. Bran was already hard and reaching for him, pulled up his legs and tried to drag Macsen over him, onto him, into him.

Macsen held back, but barely. He took Bran’s cock in his fist, stroked as he bent over him, kissed him, and Bran groaned, arched off the ground. Macsen took the wetness from Bran’s cock onto his fingers, pressed one inside and Bran was hot for him and tight, shuddered, moaned. Want.

There was suddenly grass, soft and green under Macsen’s knees, but that didn’t matter. Bran was rocking impatiently back against his fingers, his hands on Macsen’s shoulders. Where had his embarrassment gone? He had eyes for no one but Macsen, attention for no one but Macsen, and when he finally begged, the words came eager and easy. “Please, enough, it’s enough. Just give me your cock. I need it. I need it—now, now, now.”

The echo undid the last of Macsen’s restraint. He pulled his fingers away and gripped Bran’s thighs, pulled them up and apart, then pressed in. It was always good this way, but usually he took more time, prepared Bran more, and now the tight heat grasping his cock one inch at a time was tighter. He thrust deeper, deeper, and Bran’s legs wrapped around his back, urging him on.

Macsen cast his gaze around them one last time, teeth showing. Winter had fallen into blood-rut, as if his own descent onto Bran had given them permission. Perhaps it had. But no one met his eyes, no one looked his way. He saw what he had wanted to see. No one, no one dared to look at Bran under him.

The hunter, satisfied, turned wholly to his prey.

 

 

Licks

Lick Twice

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This  Lick comes  from The Burning Season, book three of Eight Kingdoms available here! Remember, Licks are NSFW excerpts, so read carefully – and look forward to another erotic excerpt on the smutty seventeenth of next month!

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Bran lay quiet, his eyes closed and his breathing growing slowly steady.

“When do you have to go? How soon?”

“Soon, but not now.”

Bran’s hands wandered across Macsen’s chest, up to cup his jaw, drew him close so Bran could kiss him, skimmed the sides of his body. “Good. Good.” Bran reached across his hip to run his fingertips along the underside of Macsen’s cock.

“Again, Bran? Impatient and insatiable.” There were heat and amusement both in Macsen’s voice as he turned against Bran’s body, reached over to close his fingers around the swift thickening of Bran’s erection.

“Yes. I want to still be feeling you when you leave.”

Macsen pressed his lips to Bran’s throat, licked the stinging punctures there, stroked him slowly. Bran turned his head again, lifted one leg over Macsen’s thighs behind him and shifted so that Macsen’s cock pressed between his buttocks.

“Please.” Macsen pushed , and Bran let out a broken moan. There was no discomfort now, his body still stretched and more than ready. There was only pleasure with every inch of Macsen’s penetration. “Want it harder, Macsen—” One slow thrust after another filled him with rigid thickness, then pulled back.

If Macsen kept to this pace, slower than before, Bran might die. He tilted his head back, exposed the vulnerable curve of his throat and met Macsen’s eyes. There was more red in them than violet now, red of blood, red of fire, and beneath those things, the swirling of a winter storm.

“Harder, Macsen. Please—cock in me, teeth in me, harder please.”

The more Bran begged the more he felt Macsen tensing behind him, coming closer to an edge he rarely crossed. As if he were afraid. Now, as always, Bran could tell he was holding back, and that was the opposite of what he wanted.

“It’s too much, Bran. I’ve already taken too much.”

“I want too much.” Bran rolled his hips and felt the sharp heat of Macsen’s exhalation against his back, the tightening of Macsen’s fingers at his hip. “Give me what I want, Macsen. Give me what I want, you know you can’t say no.”

In a moment, Bran was flat on his back again and empty, so empty. The glare of Macsen’s eyes blazed down at him through the fall of his hair.

“I can’t say no. I can’t, I can’t.” He spread Bran’s legs with warm hands that went cold without warning. “That means you should be careful what you ask for.” Wholly, fully, Macsen thrust deep, pulled himself forward over Bran’s body and set a pace that was fast and hard.

 

 

 

Licks

Lick By Moonlight

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This  Lick comes  from Wolf of the West, a standalone novel currently available here! Remember, Licks are NSFW excerpts, so read carefully – and look forward to another erotic excerpt on the smutty seventeenth of next month!

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Just Marcas’ kiss was almost enough to bring Connor over the edge. When Marcas pulled back again, Connor was glad, not wanting to make a fool of himself, but the next moment he thought it might not matter. He felt a single one of Marcas’ fingers moving over the entrance of his body, circles that teased with a dip inward, never really penetrating, stimulating nerves new to sensual sensation. His other hand gripped Connor’s cock at the base, stroked slowly.

“Marcas—Marcas, please, I’m—”

“Close?” The word was a growl that came close to his skin. “Good. You like when I touch you, Connor?”

“Yes.”

“You like when I touch you here.”

Slowly, the finger penetrated, and there was both pleasure and faint burning. “Yes…“ Marcas pressed deeper, and Connor let his head fall back against the ground. “Oh yes.” The feeling was wholly new, different from any way he’d ever touched himself or been touched by any lover. “Please, Marcas, more.”

He felt more stretching him, knew it was two fingers inside him now, but the slow pace of Marcas’ stroking didn’t change. Gods. He’d been wanting for so long that it was all he could do to keep himself from really begging, but Connor’s body wouldn’t obey like his voice did. He moved his hips against Marcas’ fingers, into his fist, reached up to grip Marcas’ shoulders with both hands.

He had been teasing himself before Marcas came—what Marcas was doing now was driving him to distraction. Connor slipped his hands down Marcas’ sides, pressed his palm against the rigid throbbing of Marcas’ cock.

“Want you, Marcas. Want more—want you—”

The fingers moving in him thrust faster, sharper. The fist wrapped around his cock squeezed tighter, sped its strokes, and Connor lost his words to gasps and moans. He stared up into Marcas’ eyes and felt another surge of heat. So good, the fingers inside him, the fist wrapped around his cock—and the way Marcas’ looked at him, hungry, panting wolf in the back of his gaze, as if he would swallow Connor whole—

So good.

“Marcas, you—you—please—“

The words were barely coherent, but Marcas laughed at him still, his voice almost hoarse with wanting.

“No, Connor. No more than this. Not now.” He flicked his gaze up to meet Connor’s eyes. “Not unless you want more fingers inside you.”

“Yes—anything, yes—”

Connor heard Marcas groan, then gasped as he pulled two fingers away and pushed three back inside. It was almost too much, slow burning stretch, deep feeling, but too much wasn’t enough.

“So tight, Connor. So tight around my fingers, how will I fit my cock in you?”

Connor squeezed the thickness of Marcas’ cock under his hand, felt his fingers inside touch something hot with pleasure. He groaned and bucked up twice into Marcas’ fist, fire spreading everywhere inside him, a shattering ecstasy. He felt the wet warmth of his own essence on his chest, his belly, and over him Marcas trembling—trembling so that Connor was able to pull himself back, away from fingers and hand and the heat of his body, and tumble him back onto the grass.

 

 

Author Rants

Werewolves of Dublin

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To begin, may I say that the title of this post and the entirety of its contents are entirely the fault of two things?

1. I’ve been listening to “Werewolves of London” on repeat. You know, THIS lovely piece of pajama party dance track:

2. Ireland is awesome and voted gay marriage into a thing. A thing that people can do. WOO.

Because of these two things, Marcas, the faoladh who stars in Wolf of the West, decided it was time for me to write his and Connor’s wedding.  (And this blog post.) I have enough books in the works without a sequel for that one too, but I can’ t help myself. I’m under the command of numerous imaginary figments, and Marcas can howl loudly when he wants to!

So, the actual point of this post is…faoladh! Marcas is one, which is why he’s such a pain – and the rest of the wolves of the west are, too, which is why they are such a pain. The faoladh are the werewolves of Ireland (technically of the Ossory area and not really Dublin, but could YOU pass up that pun? Didn’t think so.) and unlike most werewolves, the faoladh are heroic, instead of monstrous.

Are you a child alone at night, all by yourself on your way home and afraid of the dark?  A faoladh would guide you home, protect you from predators and the the danger of the dark.  A wounded warrior, perhaps the last survivor of some honorable battle? The same goes for you, because the faoladh are the protectors of the lost, and the wounded.

Rather than being cursed lycanthropes with a lust for flesh (though we’ll see about that ‘cursed’ bit in a minute), the faoladh are people, generally associated with Ossory and the nearby regions of Ireland, who choose to take on the shape of a wolf for seven years, protecting the land.

This was of course a dangerous occupation, as nothing separated one of the faoladh in wolf-shape from a normal wolf. In some of the folklore, the faoladh had the ability to speak human language , and this could protect them – if they weren’t thought to be sidhe or stray spirits. Still, there is more than one story about faoladh being hunted down, all unknowing, by those they had sacrificed so much to protect.

Remember up there I mentioned curses? Well, part of the legend of the faoladh that was changed under the influence of Christianity relates to their origin. Rather than servants of an ancient god, or chosen protectors of man, the faoladh were men and women who had made fun of a Christian saint. (Some stories say St. Natalis of Ulster…some say St. Patrick.) Because they had howled like wolves at the saint’s sermon, they were cursed to stay in the shape of wolves for seven years.

Personally, I like the older version, which made the faoladh volunteers performing a sacred duty. Considering that in all versions, they’re good creatures, helping and protecting human beings, I like to think they came into being with some dignity!

If you want to read more about the foaladh, and ancient Irish mythology in general,  try Wolf of the West! The main character Marcas is faoladh, and I had fun exploring the folklore to come up with a consistent portrayal of my favorite kind of werewolf. After all, how often do werewolves get to do anything but eat people or kill vampires? (Not that that isn’t fun too!)