My medieval historical romance 'A Summer Bewitchment' is now available to pre-order from Bookstrand.
This novel is a sequel to 'The Snow Bride' and features Elfrida and Magnus again as my heroine and hero.
Here is an excerpt from the opening chapter:
England, summer, 1132
“I am the troll king of this land and you owe me a forfeit.”
Elfrida glanced behind the shadowed figure who barred her way. He was alone, but then so was she.
Do I turn and run along the track? Should I flee into the woods or back to the river? He is close, less than the distance of the cast of a spear. Can I make it hard for him to catch me? Yes.
But catch her he would.
Play for time.
“Indeed?” she asked, using one of her husband’s favorite expressions, then sharpened her tone. “Why must I pay anything?”
“You have trespassed in these woods. In my woods.”
The nagging ache in her shoulders and hands vanished in a tingling rush of anticipation. Elfrida dropped her basket of washed, dried clothes onto the dusty pathway, the better to fight. “King Henry is lord of England.”
“I am king here.”
A point to him. “I kept to the path, and then the river.”
“That may be so, but I claim a kiss.”
He had not moved yet, nor shown his face. The summer evening made his shadow huge, bloody. Her heart beating harder as she anticipated their final, delicious encounter, Elfrida asked, “Are you so bold? My husband is a mighty warrior, the greatest in all Christendom.”
“That is a large claim.” He sounded amused. “All Christendom? He must be a splendid fellow. The harpers should sing of him.”
Elfrida raised her chin, determined to have her say. “I am proud of my lord. He is a crusader. He has seen Jerusalem and he has learning. He can whistle any tune. He defends all those weaker than himself.” Should I say what I next want to say? Tease him as he has teased me? Why not? Are we are not playing? “Go back to your woods, troll king.”
She heard the crack of a pine cone as he shifted. In a haze of motion the troll king was out of the tree shade and into the bright sunset, dominating the path in front of her. Taller than a spear, broad as a door, he had a face as stark as granite, of weathered, broken stone. Heavily scarred—many would say grooved—he had the terrible beauty of a victor, a winner wounded but unbowed.
A ribbon of heat, like hot breath, flickered across her breasts. He was so magnificent , so handsome. She both loved and hated defying him, even in jest. Striving for calm, she said, “You will come no closer.”
“Or what, little laundress?”
That tease irked her. “The clothes and bedding do not wash themselves. Not even for you, troll king.”
He smiled, a daunting unfurling of that scarred, sword-cut face. The churning heat in her belly swept up into her cheeks and down to her loins.
“I am a witch, besides,” she added, though not as coolly as she would have liked. She saw the gleam in his large brown eyes pool into molten bronze.
“You would put a spell on me, elfling?” he challenged.
“Perhaps I already have.” Her tone and mouth were as dry as the summer. How much farther can we stretch this sweet foolishness?
He raised thick black eyebrows, while a breeze flicked and flirted with his shoulder-length curls. “Is that Christian?”
She wanted to cross her arms before herself, to shield her body from his bold stare. At the same time she longed to strip herself naked for him, unlace his tunic and caress him. Unsure how he might react, she armed herself with words instead. “I am a good witch, Magnus.”
“Indeed.” Again he looked her up and down, glanced at her buckets, basket, and clothes. “Should you not have an escort, wife?”
Do I tell him I sent Piers off to help? Are we still playing now or is he truly angry?
Looming over her, he was close enough for her to touch him. To caress his strong body will be like stroking sun-warmed stone. Distracted, she shook her head. “There is the sheep shearing…”
“Done.” He tossed a stack of rolled, lanolin-scented fleeces at her feet. “I did my share and more and, as I have said already, I claim a reward.”
He winked at her and she found herself smiling in return. “Forfeit and reward, too, sire? Is that not greedy?”
“Are we in Lent, that I should fast?” He raised his hand, cupping her face with supple fingers. “But you are too dainty to linger alone, witch or no.”
He traced the curve of her lips with his thumb and, as she trembled, he gathered her firmly into his arms. “Any man will try to spirit you away.”
“Hush!” She made a sign against the evil eye and wood elves, but he shook his head at her caution.
“I have faith in your magic craft, Elfrida. But a passing knave or outlaw? He is quite another matter. He would see you as a tempting piece, my wife, my lovely.”
“I am not helpless,” she protested, but her heart soared at his loving words. His mouth, as crooked and scarred as the rest of his face, stole a kiss from hers.
He smelled of lanolin, salt, and summer green-stuff, and tasted of apples and himself. Elfrida closed her eyes under his tender onslaught, her thighs trembling.
“Troll King?” she murmured, when they broke apart slightly. “Is that how you wish me to address you in the future, husband?”
“‘Sire’ will do, or ‘greatest knight in Christendom.’ Those will do very well.” He kissed her again.
“You rob me, sire,” she murmured, a breathless space later.
“Of kisses?” He sounded delighted at the idea, the beast, and grinned when she pinched him.
“Even one-handed I can do that better than you.”
He demonstrated, squeezing and lightly slapping her bottom, chuckling as she thrust her hips back against his fondling fingers. A shred of modesty remained as her wits dissolved into a sweet blaze of need. “Magnus, what if someone comes?”
by Zenobia Renquist
Publisher: Changeling Press
Genre: Erotic Dark Fantasy Romance, Demons, Interracial, Voyeurism and Exhibitionism
Hidden fees are hell to pay when a demon collects.
Cheyenne didn’t know what she was in for when she took over her friend’s lease. She thought she was getting a perfect apartment with reasonable rent. And then a demon shows up on her first night, demanding the sex that’s owed him. That’s when she regrets not reading before she signs, though she doesn’t regret it long.
The landlord made a deal with August — an entire apartment complex as his sexual playground in exchange for personal gain. Cheyenne is August’s latest acquisition, and his prowess has her eagerly awaiting his return. She happily meets his every challenge because the second she refuses, he’ll drop her into Hell to satisfy his many brothers instead.
With the end of the lease approaching, Cheyenne discovers emotions developing for a demon who could probably never return her feelings. The terms of the agreement are simple, but she’s planning to negotiate for an extension with an option for love.
Cheyenne swallowed and licked her dry lips. She didn't know what came next but her heart pounded in anticipation. She crawled onto the bed with her ass pointed at August and moved her knees apart as far as they would go, dipping her pussy close to the comforter.
"Damn, I love your eagerness. You're already wet, and I haven't told you what we're doing yet."
She watched him over her shoulder. He took one step toward the bed, and she wiggled her hips -- an involuntary motion that made August chuckle. He shook his head. "Stop it before I fuck you and ruin my plans."
"I can't help it." She arched her back down, pressing her ass into the air. "You made me like this."
"Yes, I did. I do damn good work, if I do say so myself. Who would have thought the shy girl who moved in here over a year ago would be such an exhibitionistic sex kitten?" He bumped the bed as he got closer. "I could just stand here, and you would come from me staring at you."
Her breath caught and she clenched her pussy, sending an arc of pleasure up her spine. He was right. His gaze alone, staring at her, fixating on her gaping slit, had her remembering every touch, every caress, every decadent lick. She panted as she lowered her upper body to the bed so she rested on her breasts.
She flexed and rolled her pelvis, riding a dick that wasn't there. Just August's gaze. Watching. Wanting. Craving her.
August flipped the tip of one finger over her asshole. That little bit of contact sent Cheyenne into a convulsive orgasm, shaking her and the bed. She moaned low in her throat as the sensation rumbled through her.
"Fucking hotter than Hell on a summer day." He slid his hand over her ass. "You are so tempting right now."
"Please. Please, August." Her orgasm had made her more sensitive. She would come again from August entering her, no movement needed.
"No, and no begging. I've got something better in store for you. Now behave and stop trying to distract me." He swatted her ass, which made her squeak before she wiggled her hips.
He opened the box he held and pulled out a metal, teardrop anal plug with a blue-jeweled base. "Stainless steel, and this" -- he turned it so she could see the jewel -- "is a real sapphire."
She blinked at the blue gem, not believing it was real. It couldn't be. It was the size of a fifty-cent piece. "It's not."
"It is. From the personal collection of a king with lots of wishes and a bank account to back them up. It's not my usual style to take monetary payment, but I couldn't pass up certain pieces. Now I'm glad I didn't. I had this particular sapphire mounted on this little beauty just for you." He bobbed the plug.
"That's not little," she said in a breathy voice.
"It is compared to the one I have planned for later."
"How much later?" Though it didn't matter since she wasn't sure she would be able to take it. August had fingered her ass on many occasions but they hadn't done more than that because she'd been too scared to try anything else.
Discover Different and Unique Romance
The girls tell everyone they’re just friends, but the bride’s cousin Vanessa is not convinced. Vanessa’s a hardcore dyke, and she can spot femmes in lust from a mile away. When Shonette denies she loves Kristen, Vanessa won’t let go. She’s got ice cream and she knows how to use it.
“Tell yourself whatever it takes to get that sheet down.” Vanessa mixed the chocolate ice cream into a sweet paste. “Come on, Krissy. Show us your tits.”
“Go to hell!”
“Show us your tits.”
“Show us your tits.”
Shonette caught the fever. “Yeah, show us your tits.”
“Fine,” Kristen said, like a brat. “You want to see my tits? Here!”
When Kristen flipped down the sheet, Shonette’s pussy pounded. She’d seen that body countless times. It wasn’t usually this exciting. Something about Vanessa standing there in the corner, staring at that body she’d never wanted to share… it was strangely exciting.
“Hold her down,” Vanessa said. “Take off your panties and sit on her face.”
Never in her life had Shonette been in a situation like this. Without thinking, she pushed down her underpants. Should she take off her bra too? No, not without Vanessa’s instruction. She’d do what she was told. Nothing more, nothing less.
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Find out more about the Wedding Heat series:
Bran let out a short, humorless laugh. He needed a nice stiff drink, which he’d have shortly. He needed a good fuck too, but that wasn’t on the immediate horizon, so he might as well vent as long as Jon had asked.
Glancing up, he saw the cocktail waitress on her way toward them. “Hang on until she’s gone, and then I’ll tell you.”
“Gentlemen.” The brunette bent at the waist and Bran got a nice view of the globes of her breasts showing above the buttons of the white shirt.
She lifted the first glass of amber liquid off the tray and handed it to him. She pivoted toward Jon, giving Bran a close-up view of the curves of her ass beneath the clingy black pants of her uniform.
He raised the glass to his lips and watched, amused, as Jon’s gaze dropped to her cleavage as she bent to serve him.
“You’re new, aren’t you?” Jon asked.
“Yes, sir.” She bobbed her head in a nod.
“Well, it’s nice to have you aboard.” Jon shot her the smile that Bran had seen charm the panties off more than a few females, sometimes two at a time.
“Thank you.” She smiled in return, but it had a professional feel to it. That of a person who wanted to keep her new job.
A woman immune to Jon… Interesting.
Bran guessed she was young, not long out of college, but she was no girl. She had all the curves of a woman. She adhered to the club’s employee dress code, but with an extra button left undone, a heel to lift her ass a bit higher, and trousers that fit like a second skin, she managed to ensure the male patrons had something to look at, as well as guarantee herself a nice tip at the end of the day.
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Her blue eyes, so intense in color they appeared almost a violet-blue in this light, moved from one man to the other.
Oh, Bran needed something all right. To sweat out this foul mood of his. Since racquetball hadn’t done it, perhaps bending her over the arm of the chair and spanking that sweet ass before he fucked her would, but Granddaddy would most definitely frown upon that behavior. Besides, this girl didn’t look the type.
He nodded, dismissing her. As she turned and made her way back to the bar, Jon shook his head. “She did that on purpose.”
Bran lifted a brow. “Did what?”
“Bent over so I’d get an eyeful of tit.”
“Of course, she did. She works for tips.” Bran didn’t blame her one bit. She did what she had to do to survive, just as he did.
Truth be told, her way was a hell of a lot more palatable to him than what he’d been forced to endure from his family, all in the name of keeping his trust fund—the carrot his grandfather had dangled and then threatened to yank away for most of Bran’s life.
He swallowed another long swig of whisky. It scorched its way down his throat. Bran savored the burn. It was sure as hell preferable to being numb and feeling nothing, like his father. The man had become nothing more than a puppet to Bran’s grandfather. That’s what a life under this family’s thumb did. Bran wasn’t about to let that happen to him.
“Bran.” Jon saying his name brought Bran’s head up from where he’d been transfixed watching the liquid swirl in the glass.
A frown creased his friend’s forehead. “There’s no one in here but us, so talk.”
A houseboy moved passed them and added another log to the fire, but Bran knew what Jon meant. It was early in the day. The bar was empty of members, save for them. There was no one here who would overhear and report back to his grandfather.
Letting out a sigh, Bran said, “Granddaddy has decided I need to grow up.”
The furrows in Jon’s brow deepened. “You work full time administering the foundation. You sit on how many boards? Hell, you even bought yourself a damn sedan to drive instead of that hot new British two-seater I tried to talk you into. How much more grown up does he want you to be?”
“He wants me married and popping out new pawns for him to control.”
“Married?” The shocked expression on Jon’s face was enough to make Bran snort out a laugh. “You’re not even thirty yet.”
“Yes, I know. But Grandfather was married by thirty, so apparently I have to be, as well.”
“Have to be.” Jon’s eyes opened wider. “Shit, is that written into the terms of your trust fund?”
“No, he’s more subtle, and manipulative, than that. My trust is fully revocable at any time by his whim alone, up until my thirtieth birthday. What he did say was he strongly suggested I find a woman to settle down with because he, and I quote, ‘would hate to have to reevaluate the future of the family’s holdings’.”
“That’s crazy. I couldn’t live like that. What are you going to do?”
“Finish this drink and order another. Where’s the waitress?” Bran leaned forward in the chair and craned his neck to search for her. She wasn’t in the room. He fell back with a huff.
“Hey, that’s an idea…”
“What’s an idea? Remain so drunk I don’t notice I’m destitute when he yanks it all away from me?”
“No, my idea is a bit more fun than that, and you get to keep your money.”
“We’re rich. It’s about time we started acting like it.”
“I’m rich for now, until Granddaddy says otherwise. And what do you mean act like we’re rich?” Bran pointedly eyed the immediate surroundings. The oak paneled room. The polished sterling silver trophies on the mantle that surrounded a fireplace large enough a grown man could almost stand upright inside. The life-size John Singer Sergeant portrait of the exclusive club’s founder hanging above.
“I meant you can buy a drink, so why can’t you buy a fiancée?”
“Oh? Is there a new store in town I missed? Fiancées-R-Us?”
“No, smart ass, but I have an idea where you might be able to get one. Here she comes. Be quiet and let me do the talking.” Jon pulled his feet off the ottoman and planted them square on the floor.
“She who?” Bran frowned at his friend.
“Shh.” Jon leaned forward and raised one hand to signal the server.