Weeping Willow [Fang Fest 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage and More) Read online

  Fang Fest 1

  Weeping Willow

  One damaged dungeon puss, three ravenous beasts. Bound by BDSM, role-play, voyeurism and sin, Willow Isabel Catelli needs help, a quick marriage and quicker heir. But Cameron Scots are a crude, stubborn clan—their wolves wicked, carnal creatures. Their price—her body to be shared by the pack. Feeding on her flesh will hold these greedy beasts at bay. But for how long? Can she afford the ultimate price they will demand from her? Dare she?

  Altair Cameron has his own agenda. His brother’s scarred widow now belongs to him. She just doesn’t know it. With his brethren, Cameron cousins Jhor and Garret, they must bend her will. It’s no easy task. She’s feisty and presumptuous. Scarier still, she’s been broken. It’s a tricky path, two steps forward and one jump back, which requires wit, ingenuity and his unbridled dominion. Hunting is the right of an Alpha—submission, his prey’s duty. The pack always wins.

  Note: This book contains double anal penetration.

  Genre: Contemporary, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Paranormal, Shape-shifter, Vampires/Werewolves

  Length: 23,475 words

  WEEPING WILLOW

  Fang Fest 1

  Vin Stephens

  MENAGE AND MORE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer.

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage and More

  WEEPING WILLOW

  Copyright © 2015 by Vin Stephens

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-63259-816-5

  First E-book Publication: October 2015

  Cover design by Harris Channing

  All art and logo copyright © 2015 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Weeping Willow by Vin Stephens from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Vin Stephens’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Vin Stephens’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  To all those feisty women who just can’t help taking the lead in the tango. And the brave guys who scramble manfully to wrestle back control. Keep dancing.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  About the Author

  WEEPING WILLOW

  Fang Fest 1

  VIN STEPHENS

  Copyright © 2015

  Chapter 1

  Willow turned away from the view speeding by. The two escorting SUVs at the front and rear didn’t make her feel secure. The cocoon effect was eclipsed by her own fears, a feeling she knew all too well—trapped. “This trip seemed much shorter before.”

  “You were twelve.”

  “That explains everything.”

  Nonna snorted and reluctantly opened her eyes. “Things haven’t changed that much. You’re still a pain in the backside when all I want is some peace and quiet. Go back to playing on those ‘E’ thinga-ma-bobs.”

  “’I’ Pads and pods.”

  “I bet you don’t even know what the ‘I’ stands for.”

  Willow cleared her throat. “Internet. Individual. Instruct. Inform. Inspire.”

  “Yes. Well. As I said. Nothing’s changed. Especially the attitude.” She clicked her tongue. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  “Your father should have had more sense.”

  “My father should have had a son.”

  Nonna grumbled as they flew over a pothole, “Heathen had to live in hell.”

  Willow laughed. “Vocabulary, Nonna. We need this alliance.”

  “We’ve attracted the attention of all the barbarians worldwide. Throw some Scots in the mix and the macho orgy will be complete.”

  “We must keep an open mind.”

  “Do whatever you wish with your mind, coo-ca-looch. When you reach my age you learn to make up your mind once and stick to it. Changing it is too much effort.”

  “You’re not old, Nonna.”

  “But the Scottish are still barbarians.”

  They were close. Willow hadn’t forgotten that acute awareness that had settled over her as she’d crossed into Cameron stronghold so long ago. The wilderness was free, all-consuming. The rolling hills tumbled into and around a sea of lush greenery. It made you want to throw caution to the wind and simply fly. She stifled the urge. Only the young and carefree could indulge in romantic notions. Those weighed down by burdens and fears learnt to keep feet firm on solid ground.

  Around the final corner, her breath caught. It was just as magnificent as she’d remembered. Powerful turrets pierced the sky, a chalky gray penetration against the brilliant blue horizon. As a child she’d seen a magical castle, where the silently staring gargoyles perched atop granite were guardian angels, the high balconies where coy maidens blushed at serenading knights below and wood sprites danced in the thick undergrowth. Through mature, warier eyes she saw the place as it truly was—a fortress that either shut you out or imprisoned you within.

  “The devil’s playground,” whispered Nonna. She crossed herself and reached for the fist-sized crucifix around her neck.

  “There goes my chance of meeting a dashing vampire.”

  “Tut, child. You neve
r know how keen their hearing is.”

  Willow rolled her eyes and asked innocently, “Better to be called the devil then a vampire?”

  “Don’t make jokes. I am old. The creature will ignore my rambling. You on the other hand—”

  “—am worth listening to?”

  “You’re worth paying attention to. Big difference.” Nonna reached over and pulled down Willow’s veil. “No sense in inviting roving eyes.”

  Willow brushed Nonna fussing hands away. “I’m hardly an untouched virgin, Nonna. The creature will just as well overlook a mourning widow. No one’s going to stumble head over heels in lust with me.”

  “Stop fishing for compliments. For God’s sake hide that hair.”

  “Nonna, it’s going to be hard enough discussing business when you have me trussed up like an Arab woman in the market at rush-hour.”

  “Keep your eyes covered as well. And don’t speak.”

  “Point me in the right direction so I don’t end up conversing—in sign language—with a statue. I can’t even see my nose under this thing.”

  Escaping, Willow slipped out the cozy confines of the back seat and was immediately assaulted by a whistling wind that stung her cheeks and eyes. She made a mad dash for the welcoming warmth. The inside, however, proved to be just as draughty.

  “Who are ye? And why are ye dressed like a scraggly scarecrow fleeing the crows.”

  Willow drew herself up imperiously. Servants were free with their speech here. And dressing. “Wilhelmina Isabel Catelli. Take me to the master of the house.”

  The woman, scantily dressed to emphasize her ample curves, shook her curling blonde hair. “The Laird’s out hunting. Go away.”

  Willow resisted the woman’s hand at her back trying to forcibly help outdoors. “Laird Altair Cameron is expecting me. I’m not leaving before I see him.”

  “Then he wouldnae left, would he? And he ain’t here tae be seen, is he?”

  Willow was saved from an embarrassing eviction by the surprising strong woman as Nonna burst in. “Dear God. Has hell frozen over? Willow, why are you still standing here by the door? Find yourself a nice fire to heat your feet and”—she threw the woman a passing glance—“some to pour down our throats.”

  “I was just leaving instruction with the maid. See to my men. There are ten. You will feed them before showing them their beds.”

  “I arenae a servant, wench. I am mistress of this house and you arenae welcome—”

  Willow had had enough. She walked through the huge entrance, following the direction of memories, to the study where her father had held many meetings with the former Laird. The fond memories dispelled like smoke in wind once she entered the room. Where once sunlight streamed through spotless windows, reflecting gaily of pine-scented furniture and floors, now stood sooty glass and drab shadows.

  It was like taking a giant leap back in time. The fireplace was lifeless. She knelt on the cold floor, brushing away old ash before piling wood from a dusty heap. “What a rude woman. I didn’t know Altair had taken a wife.”

  “I don’t think she was talking about that kind of mistress,” replied Nonna.

  “Oh.” She moved aside at Nonna’s urging and peered through the smudges to the surrounding forest. “He was expecting me. So where is he?”

  “Probably high-tailing it far away from that one.” Nonna thumbed at the door and heaved herself up with a satisfied sigh as tiny orange flames licked the wood. “Warm yourself. I’ll send a tray and make sure she doesn’t poison the men.”

  “Get a maid with a duster-buster and clothes she can burn later. I refuse to wait in such filth.”

  “Keep yourself covered,” warned Nonna. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “I know what you mean.” The dark was alive somehow, watching, assessing—deciding what should be done with her. “It’ll be better after a little scrub.” I hope.

  She underestimated the task. Even with three maids they barely scratched the surface. The afternoon flew by and shadows lengthened. Willow reluctantly dismissed the girls. Her tired muscles couldn’t find the strength to move off the only clean bed in a moderately tidy room she managed to unearth. Sleep came fast and heavy.

  * * * *

  The thick drapes fluttered. Willow swallowed back paranoia. A wind, it had to be a breeze. But from a window she’d sealed herself? The shadows shifted. Panic wormed its way through her quivering body. “Who’s there?”

  Emerging from the darkness like a lost spirit coming to possess her soul, the creature approached.

  No. Go back to where you came from. Leave me alone.

  Following an unspoken command, definitely not hers, the shape wavered and split.

  Three. Oh God, there were three of them.

  Like invading sentinels in an ambush they took up attack positions around the king-size bed, one at the foot, two on either side. Hovering, seeming to float above the floor, they stared at her.

  Oh Lord, their eyes. Triangulated pairs of haunting spheres glowed, smoldering embers attached to God knew whose or what faces. They had her cornered, trapped, suffocating on the fear clawing at her throat while blood pumped a thunderous tempo in her head.

  “Stay back.”

  The coarse cover slipped through her grappling fingers by an unyielding force to glide down her body, as rough and arousing as a calloused, knowing caress.

  It was so dark, stygian black. She could make out no faces, no features, just shapes. They were huge—a massive chunk of still, ominous night that had broken free and come to claim her. They moved with stealth, not even a whisper on the earth as they drifted nearer. Their progress was precise, excruciatingly patient—hunters on the prowl.

  Willow shivered as the cover left her body. Cold and vulnerable, she trembled.

  They leaned in. Not a blink, not a wisp of breath. Too quiet, the music of the dead. The very air seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for them to pounce. A chilly sweat broke the surface of her icy skin. Her eyes widened, even as she longed to squeeze them shut, pretend they were not here, that she was not here.

  A touch. It was a brush so light, unexpectedly soft. If it hadn’t been on the tender tip of her erect nipple she might not have felt it at all. Every cell in her body screamed in reaction—“yes, no, mm—.” A stroke followed, bolder, more daring. Willow inhaled, a sharp hiss piercing the unholy hush.

  Fear surrendered to hormonal instinct. A new tension gripped her. She arched into the possessing hands. The barrier of her jeans and cotton teddy ceased to be welcome protection. It became an obstruction and she wanted it gone.

  A second pair of hands reached for her. Sharp sounds of renting fabric joined the roar of cascading blood in her ears. Cool air touched her chest all the way to her navel. The warmth came quickly. Hands the size of bear’s paws covered her breasts, squeezing and kneading, taking away pressure and feeding something more intense. Her nipples stabbed into the welcoming heat, begging, demanding.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  Silence. Willow leaned back into the pillows and moaned lustily as yet another pair of hands explored her body, running down her throat to her sensitive tummy, and kept going.

  The teddy bottom joined its partner’s obliteration, ripping slow and steady. She was a gift being unwrapped. Her ankles were captured in hands as ruthless as steel manacles. Her legs were pried apart. Her pussy throbbed. What were they waiting for? She wanted to be mauled. They savored. She needed to be taken, released. They lingered.

  Frantic, wanton, faintly registering that this was just a dream she reared up and groped for the hovering warmth at the junction of her thighs. Not “a” dream but “her” dream dammit. And it would go the way she wanted.

  Seizing something thick and scratchy, like the material of a burlap collar, she yanked. She’d expected hands. She got something far better—like reaching for a star and having the sun thrust at you. A hot mouth closed over her hot pussy, swallowing her.

  “Yesss.”
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  Whoever, whatever he was, he had better ideas. And a big, greedy mouth. She fell back, shoving the reins of control to him with each desperate thrust of her hips.

  “More.” Her demand was like a dam wall breaking loose. Hot, wet mouths closed over her tight nipples. Teeth scraped, making her own clamp down on her lower lip.

  Below, where the heat in her body coiled and simmered the creature spread her nether lips fed hungrily, noisily. One thick, hard digit slipped into her dripping channel, another quickly joined.

  “Move dammit.”

  A second ticked by, and then two more. Willow was on the verge of screaming when finally he began to pump. Full in, right to the hilt and slipping out to the very tip. And slam, she was full again. In, out, full, empty but always more, faster. Willow’s body tensed, wavered on the climatic pinnacle. She savored a moment’s glance at the three dark shapes moving over her body, suckling at her breasts and finger fucking her. They were her personal servants of lust. A little more, just a tiny bit longer but the shadow at her pussy had other ideas. Her dream but it wasn’t her rules. Teeth clamped down on her swollen clit and it was over. She exploded with a shrill scream. Her body convulsed as each liquid wave pulsed, one, two, three and then she lost count.

  * * * *

  Her lips relaxed into a satisfied smile as her eyelids fluttered open. Remnants of the night kept her in a hazy state of influx between dreams and awake. Her hand drifted down her body, wanting to relive the previous night’s pleasure. Her palm met bare flesh. Fully alert now, she leapt out the bed. Beside it lay the rags that were once her clothes—on top of the pile, like a trophy, sat her torn panties. “What the hell?”