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Passiontide
by
Kassie
Burns
Calle climbed to the top of
the ridge and stopped to catch her breath after the strenuous hike up the
mountainside. She stood on an outcropping of rock and gazed down at the valley
that held her sleeping village. How could normal folk sleep so soundly when the
moon was full? She could feel its pull in her blood, like a rising tide of
passion.
Turning her face up at the
huge yellow orb that dominated the sky, she undid the bun at the back of her
neck and swept her hands through her long hair, freeing it to blow in the night
wind. She opened her cloak and let the chilly air dry the sweat on her skin.
A different kind of heat
burned inside her, a heat that no night wind could relieve. Her growing lust for
Jarab, the blacksmith’s eldest son, throbbed in her veins like the relentless
beat of his hammer against a resistant piece of iron. Daily, she passed by his
father’s shop to watch Jarab crouched over the blacksmith’s fire. The sight of
his bare, broad shoulders and muscled chest glistening with sweat made her blood
run molten through her veins. She longed to drag her fingers through the thick
chestnut hair that curled damply on the nap of his neck, to grab his ass and
pull his body into the cradle of her hips, to grind against him and see if his
cock was as long and thick as she suspected.
She had to have him, but so
far he’d ignored her attempts at seduction. Over and over again she asked
herself the agonizing question, why? She’d
bedded her share of men, enough to know that males found her attractive. Her
long, dark and lustrous hair was her best feature, but she also had deep blue
eyes and a full, kissable mouth. Even so, some men avoided her because she was
the daughter of the village witch and had inherited the witch blood. Was Jarab
one of those?
It didn’t matter. She was
determined to have him. It was time to tap into a power no man could resist.
Tonight she’d climbed the mountain that towered over her village to seek the
rare farieflower that only bloomed in high forests by the light of the full
moon. She’d take the pale white blossom and grind it into a powder, then give
the powder to Jarab’s younger sister. She’d already bribed the girl to slip it
into his morning tea. When he came outside after breakfast, he’d fall in love
with the first woman he saw.
Calle would make certain
she was that woman.
Turning away from the
sleeping village far below, she headed into the mountain meadow that stretched
before her. The villagers drove their cattle up here to feast on the lush grass
in the late summer when the hot sun scorched the valley below. The evening dew
soaked her leather sandals and the wind took on an icy edge that made her draw
her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The moon climbed higher in the sky and
turned from yellow to bone white before she reached the edge of the meadow.
The forest loomed before
her, dark and thick, crowded with ancient trees. Here the earth smelled of
decay. The villagers avoided entering its depths, for superstitious legends
claimed it was enchanted. Praying that her witch blood would protect her, Calle
plunged into the shadow of the trees. The thick
branches closed over her head and she caught only glimpses of the moon shining
through the dense canopy. The darkness of the forest oppressed her spirit and
strange cracking and skittering sounds made her jumpy. She half stumbled over
the rough ground. Twigs caught at her skirt and thorns scratched her hands as
she searched for the elusive blossom.
Finally she caught the
glimmer of white at the edge of a shadow, next to the trunk of a tall tree. The
farieflower, at last! “You’ll be mine soon, Jarab,” she whispered in triumph,
bending low to pluck several fragrant petals from the tall plant. She imagined
him lying on her bed, his chest heaving with his lust for her, his tanned skin
slick with sweat, his proud, thick cock jutting upward while she lowered herself
slowly onto his length. Her pussy throbbed with anticipation and the musky scent
of her arousal mingled with the sweet aroma of the farieflower.
Something rustled in the
brush to her right. Calle jerked sharply around, her heart suddenly in her
throat. She saw only the dark shape of trees, heard only the wind whispering
through the branches. She was getting as skittish as a new colt. Tucking the
precious blossoms safely in her pocket, she turned and started back toward the
meadow.
A twig snapped behind her.
She froze in place, heart back in her throat, sweat dampening her brow. A drop
trickled down one cheek. She tried to tell herself it was her imagination run
wild, but then the wind shifted and she caught the unmistakable scent of
fur.
A bolt of fear shot through
her. She glanced up through the leaves at the full moon and a sudden premonition
roared through her mind. She knew what that scent meant, knew what stalked her
in the forest. Full moon. Shapeshifter. Werewolf.
Terrified, she broke into a
run, crashing through the underbrush, heedless of the branches that ripped her
skirt and whipped across her arms and legs. She had only one goal, to take the
shortest path to the open meadow. She prayed the wolf would not venture outside
the forest. At least the bright moonlight would allow her to see what chased
her. A sob rose in her throat, but she forced it back down and ran for her
life.
She dashed through the last
of the trees and into the meadow with a burst of speed. Only then did she dare
glance back. The dark sleek shape of a huge gray wolf bounded out of the forest
after her. The beast stopped at the edge and reared up on its hind legs,
scanning the meadow. Its eyes met hers for a terrible instant. They glittered
with golden lust and human intelligence.
Calle turned and ran,
although she knew she had no hope of reaching the safety of the village. She
pumped her arms and legs, her long, dark hair streaming out behind her, but the
wolf was faster. She could hear him bounding through the grass as he gained on
her.
Her heart hammered against
her ribs, her sides heaved and her lungs burned, but she kept running as she had
never run before, praying to the gods of her village for salvation. She was
barely a quarter of the way back to the outcropping when her foot struck against
a rock and she went sprawling face first onto the ground.
In a second, the wolf was
upon her. His hot breath singed her neck, his four paws straddled her body and
his heavy weight held her pinned. She struggled, reaching back and grabbing a
handful of his silky fur, but he snapped his jaw close to her ear and growled a
warning. Instantly, she froze. Panting, she pressed her forehead into the grass
and squeezed her eyes shut. Was this the end? Would he rip open her throat and
spill her blood beneath the silver light of the moon?
The wolf lifted his weight
from her body and crouched over her. Throwing back his head, he howled at the
sky with a wild and terrifying cry.
Calle lay on her stomach,
her head buried in her arms, and whimpered in fear. Then she heard another,
stranger sound, the crackle and crunch of bones shifting in the wolf’s body. He
must be changing and that could only mean one thing. He was transforming back
into a man.
Calle felt a moment of wild
hope, but then strong hands grabbed her shoulders, pinning her to the earth, and
she knew why the wolf had become a man. An arm snaked under her belly and pulled
up on her middle, forcing her to kneel in a bowed position, with her head and
shoulders down and her butt lifted in the air. Rough hands threw her skirts over
her and pulled down her undergarment. The icy caress of the night wind raised
chill bumps on her exposed ass. A knee shoved its way between her thighs,
opening her legs. Callused palms smacked her bare cheeks.
“Sweet woman flesh,” a
voice growled, rough and low. “Feed my lust and I may not rip it from your
bones.”
Calle stiffened. She knew
that voice despite the bestial timbre that lowered it. Jarab! Was it possible?
Was the man she’d lusted after for months secretly a werewolf?
Desire kindled in her
belly, mingling with her fear. Moisture flooded the folds of her pussy. The
wolfman smelled it. He bent over her, sniffing, then a hot tongue raked the
length of the pulsing slit between her legs.
“Goddess!” Calle cried out
to the silver orb that watched from the sky. The scent of crushed farieflower in
her pocket filled her with an unearthly desire. The rough rasp of the
shapeshifter’s tongue on the tender flesh between her legs sent fiery sparks
racing along her nerve endings. Her breasts grew swollen and ached where they
pressed against the rough earth. If this was indeed Jarab, she wanted him,
wanted him to plunge into her, deep and fast, and fuck her senseless beneath
this burning, silvery moon.
“You’d better pray to your
deity, witch woman, because I’m going to take you and fill you with my
seed.”
With a start, Calle
remembered that a werewolf became fertile when the full summer moon rose in the
sky. What would their child be, half witch and half werebeast? Someone to be
feared, that much was certain.
Her womb clenched inside
her, hot with desire for his seed. She raised her butt higher in the air and
opened her legs wide. The werewolf gave a low growl of satisfaction. The chill
night air played over the heated flesh of her pussy like icy fingers, sending
rivers of frosty delight flowing up and down her spine. Then Jarab bent over
her, shielding her from the wind with his massive, masculine body, and his musky
heat enveloped her.
The thick head of his cock
pressed against her entrance. Excitement exploded deep in her core and another
burst of moisture drenched her pussy. With a feral snarl, he sank into her and
she shuddered with sensual pleasure as his length filled her slick pussy. His
shaft was hard and thick, stretching the walls of her sheath. He buried his
length to his balls, withdrew and plunged again. Each fierce, hard stroke made
her shudder in unbridled pleasure. The emptiness she’d always felt was filled at
last. She smelled the earth beneath her, rich and fertile, breathed in his
animal scent around her, musky with his lust. His hard, strong body moved in a
relentless rhythm, thrusting in and out, and his bestial grunts rose heavenward
toward the moon.
A pressure grew deep inside
Calle’s core with each ravaging thrust from the strong male body behind her.
Fire kindled wherever his shaft plunged. She tightened around him and backed
against his hips, forcing him ever deeper into her. Her inner muscles
contracted, gripping his length, then exploded into the throbbing madness of
orgasm. Her whole body shook, and she hugged the ground while he lunged into her
one more time and stiffened, releasing his seed into her hungry
depths.
Slowly Calle’s spasms
subsided and she found she could breathe again. She collapsed on the thick
grass. The werewolf lay down next to her, curling possessively around her body.
He gave a low growl of male contentment.
“I’ve wanted you for a long
time, woman, but I was afraid you could not accept me as I am. I see I misjudged
you.”
A sleepy contentment made
her voice soft. “Witch and werewolf. We fit together well.”
Jarab chucked, then lifted
his head and sniffed the air. “What’s that I smell?”
She laughed. “Our juices
mingled together.”
“No, besides that. A
sweeter scent.”
Calle drew his arm over her
shoulder and pressed his hand to her breast. The moon beamed down at them, full
and fertile. She wondered if his seed had reached her womb yet. “I came to the
forest to find the farieflower.”
“You did?” He growled near
her ear. “Was there some other man you wanted to seduce?”
She turned in his arms and
looked up into Jarab’s amber eyes. “There’s no need for jealousy, my love. I
want only you.”
The wolfman’s eyes glinted
with pride. He lifted his head and howled at the sky. High above, the moon bore
witness to their union.
About
the Author
Kassie Burns is the author
of Dreams of Desire and Gabriel’s Gift, both available from Extasy. Her latest
novel, Passion’s Citadel, is coming soon.
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