15 Erotic Stories BUNDLE: Huge Collection of Individually Sold Short Sex Stories (22 page)

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?”