SATYRS: SUPERNATURAL MÉNAGE A QUATRE
by
Erika Masten
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2012 Erika Masten.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Erika Masten
Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Satyrs: Supernatural Ménage A Quatre
Excerpt From
Claimed In Hunger: Master Vampire #2
Excerpt From
Bad Boys’ Submissive: Hot Hard Ménage #2
SATYRS: SUPERNATURAL MÉNAGE A QUATRE
On the last night of the Wine and Roses Festival, the biggest tourist draw this little town has to its name, we pull out all the stops. Booths line the major downtown streets offering visitors samples of local cooking and crafts. Hometown musicians play on mobile stages erected at careful intervals to make sure you’re not out of earshot of one band before the next catches your attention. And Duffy’s Place throws the wildest party of the year.
We might look like a sleepy farm town, and outside these four days, we are. Tonight, though, every winery within thirty miles has set Duffy’s up with cases of their best. Townies and tourists mingle on the dance floor, and a group of local boys are wailing out damn good rhythm and blues on the tiny stage tucked to one side.
Geordi Nicholas is front and center on the guitar, playing better than any mortal man has a right to and drawing lascivious stares from every woman in the place. With that slightly ruffled black hair, those bright blue eyes, and the muscles that won’t quit, left strategically visible through the front of his half-buttoned chambray shirt, who can blame them?
I’d like to say I’m too busy waiting tables to leer at Geordi or any of the Nicholas boys. I’m technically the bookkeeper and manager, too, when Duffy’s not around, but everyone has to pitch in with business this good. But, anyway, yeah, it would be lying to say I couldn’t tell you exactly where those boys are at any given moment. Those three are lust in motion, sex in jeans. I think I show marvelous restraint in limiting myself to just looking.
Truth is, I don’t think I could choose just one of them if I had to. Best to keep my distance from all of them.
I glance at Geordi onstage as I’m clearing a high, round table of bottles and glasses, trying not to slosh anything onto my summery white dress. No aprons left after Duffy hired extra waitresses for the night. White wasn’t the best idea, I know, but I always get compliments on the way I look in it, the way it plays off my pale skin and long, dark blond hair.
Geordi’s got his guitar laying against his groin, strumming it with the passion I’d only expect from…well…a man pleasuring himself. I can’t help but stop and watch. Like every other woman for miles around, I’ll love to be that guitar, feel those skillful hands playing my body, making me wail.
At the end of the song, as his fingers ring the last notes out of his instrument, Geordi looks up, straight at me. “That one’s for you, Deanna,” he calls out, and the crowd hoots. I’m on the receiving end of a few jealous glares, too.
“That man is a compulsive flirt,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head and smiling. I don’t like to encourage him, mostly because I don’t want to get my hopes up, my heart broken. The Nicholas boys get around in this town.
When I turn back to clearing the table, it’s not just to discourage Geordi’s flirting. His older brother Cole is heading right for me, and I want to be busy. He’s worse than Geordi—or better—in every way imaginable. His black hair is a touch longer, not far from shoulder-length. His chest is broader, his muscles more pronounced. And his lines so wicked he could make a girl come with that voice alone. I don’t think he owns a t-shirt that isn’t a size too small. It’s nearly impossible to hold a conversation with him without staring at his arms or his chest or the incredible definition in his abs, visible right through the thin cotton.
Putting a hand on the table and leaning close behind me, Cole breathes into my ear. “Not letting Geordi steal my girl, are you?” he rumbles in a voice deep as chocolate or scotch that’s old enough to vote.