A man of otherworldly seductive power travels to Paris to meet his intended bride—only to discover his erotic match in this historical paranormal romance.
The last in a fabled line of otherworldly aristocracy, the Lords of Satyr are born to wealth, power, and a talent for sensual delight that mere mortals only dream of. Commanded to marry, these passionate men will travel to Rome, Venice, and Paris—and along the way will explore desires both shamelessly wicked and blissfully divine . . .
The youngest of the Satyr brothers, Lyon enjoys working in the family's Tuscan vineyards, caring for his menagerie of animals and bedding beautiful women. But he knows he must fulfill his destiny of taking the last daughter of King Feydon as his bride. And so he travels to Paris to wed the infamous Juliet Rabelais . . .
A celebrated courtesan noted for both her culinary and carnal talents, Juliet is a voluptuous beauty with a body meant to tease. And with a full moon only days away, Lyon is quickly aroused. But after a night of intimacy, Lyon wonders if Juliet is truly a mistress of sensual pleasure or whether his sexual mastery will be her undoing . . .
Release date:
August 1, 2008
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
320
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“A well-written story with enough variety in the sexual situations to satisfy just about any reader. The characters are complex and intriguing and the leading man is the sexiest one this reader has seen in a long time! The author has cleverly set the stage for at least two sequels in the Lords of Satyr series and based on this book, they will be something to look forward to.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
“Elizabeth Amber has drawn a world that pulls you in and keeps hold of your heart and mind.”
—Joyfully Reviewed, a Recommended Read
“[Ms. Amber] gives great depth to her characters and the dialogues are smooth and natural. Everything about this story and the elements within worked…a wonderful book that did not disappoint!”
—Paranormal Romance Reviews
“I really didn’t want this book to end, and when I finished I knew that it would stay with me for a while. This is one you don’t want to miss.”
“Both Nicholas and Jane are well-matched, though it took a delicious tension-filled while for them to figure it out. There is a villainess to surpass all villains, and more supporting villains that fit into the story neatly…It was well-paced—it’s engrossing and easy to read in one sitting. While the romance is lovely, the sex is knock-out hot.”
—Just Erotic Romance Reviews, “O”, their highest rating for hotness
“Nicholas, The Lords of Satyr has taken a place on my top ten favorite erotic books list.”
—Night Owl Romance, 5 stars
“I have to admit, Nicholas left me wanting—wanting the next book in this wonderful new series, that is!”
—CK2S Kwips & Kritiques, 4.5 Klovers; 5 stars on Amazon.com
“…a strong storyline with a very nasty villainess—one of the worst that this reader has come upon…This is a page turner from start to finish! Turn on the air conditioner or fan and enjoy!”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“Elizabeth Amber has created a steamy, hot tale that scorches the pages. Her imagination skyrockets in this energizing story. I am anxious to read Raine’s and Lyon’s tales.”
—Coffee Time Romance
“An excellent debut…Very highly recommended.”
—Deborah MacGillivray, author of A Restless Knight
“Amber’s unique voice and obvious knowledge of her subject and setting lead to beautifully written stories with powerful, well-drawn characters in a fascinating symbiosis of mythology, history, romance and eroticism. Like the fine wines from the vineyards of Tuscany where the Lords of Satyr make their home, these are stories to be savored for a satisfying, hedonistic treat.”
—Kate Douglas, author of Wolf Tales
Reviewers on Raine:
“One of the the strongest heroines I have ever read…great, erotic sex. “
“…without question the best historical paranormal erotic romance this reviewer has ever read…This is a must read book for 2008!”
—Paranormal Romance Reviews (Janalee)
“Two thumbs up for another sensual read that will be gracing my keeper shelf.”
—Night Owl Romance (Top Pick—Tammie)
“Superb…Very erotic sex scenes that will singe your eyebrows, while you love every minute of it…”
—Coffeetime Romance (Wateena)
“…a trip back to the land of Satyr, where things are not always as they seem, and everything has more than a touch of magic.”
—Joyfully Reviewed (Recommended Read—Amelia)
“This storyline went far above my expectations and encompasses all the passion, suspense, and mystical wonders I so enjoyed in the first book.”
—Romance Junkies (5 ribbons—Chrissy)
“The sex scenes are varied and well written, and the heroine’s unusual physical features add a spicy element to this hot read…Amber has done another fine job of blending good storytelling, excellent sex and happily-ever-after romance.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews (Rhomylly Forbes, March 2008)
“…not only lived up to my expectations, but managed to surprise me in ways I could never have imagined!”
—CK2S Kwips & Kritiques (Jennifer Ray)
“Raine and Jordan were wonderfully written, lovable characters and from the very first I was hoping for them to find their happily ever after. I highly recommend this story, as it will keep the reader completely engrossed.”
—The Romance Studio (5 Hearts, Sandra)
“…pour yourself a glass of wine, sit back and relish the opening of this present delivered by Elizabeth Amber. You won’t want to miss one passionate word…The Lords of Satyr series will find a permanent place on my bookshelf to be read and reread, these characters too wonderful to let loose.”
—Simply Romance Reviews (Grade A+, Lynda)
EarthWorld, Paris, France, November, 1823
Lord Lyon Satyr prowled the twilight streets of Paris, hunting. He breathed deep, searching the air and finding it rife with the scents of chimney smoke, dank river, and likely feminine prey. The blood of his ancestors pumped in him tonight, priming his body toward a carnal lust that was vital to the survival of his kind.
Because King Feydon had sown his seed where he should not have, Lyon would soon find himself yoked with a bride not of his own choosing. One whose name and face were unknown to him, but whom he nevertheless had journeyed here from Tuscany to find.
According to Feydon, his three FaerieBlend daughters were each in some sort of danger and time was of the essence. Nicholas, his eldest brother, had found the first of the daughters on the outskirts of Rome in a matter of weeks and quickly wed her. Raine had recently located the second daughter in Venice and brought her under his protection.
Now Lyon was left with the task of finding the third daughter here in Paris. But tomorrow would be time enough for duty. Tonight was for something altogether different.
This–his first night in Paris—could well be his last night of freedom. He planned to enjoy it.
A shout drew his attention. There was some sort of revelry commencing ahead, atop the Pont Neuf, the Seine River’s most famous bridge. The “new bridge” it was called, though it had seen completion over two centuries earlier.
Lyon veered in its direction, abandoning the row of stately town homes along the Quai de Conti for the opposite sidewalk that edged the river. As the light waned, the black-clad booksellers who lined the walk had begun to pack away unsold books in their boxes. In the depths of the channel just beyond them, the river flowed like molasses, cutting a long serpentine swath through Paris.
His hotel was expecting him. He’d sent his bag ahead and could be there himself within thirty minutes. Which meant his cock could be buried deep inside a conjured Shimmerskin female within thirty-one. No doubt his brothers would have made their way there and done exactly that in his place. It would be the wise thing to do. The careful thing.
But unlike his brothers, he craved variation in both setting and partner in his liaisons. And an element of risk.
He was on the bridge now. Kiosks in the half-round bastions that protruded at intervals from the railings were being abandoned by the costumers, perfumers, and sellers of fans, trinkets, crêpes, and fromage. These were giving way to street performers, chestnut carts, and throngs of unusually high-spirited Parisians. Pickpockets seeking prey, and prostitutes vying for custom, had come as well to rub elbows with the finely dressed.
As Lyon threaded among them, women of every rank in society turned to gaze after him, analyzing his worth and weighing the outward signs of his sexual prowess all in the sweep of a well-trained feminine eye. Taller and more muscular than his brothers and blessed with a masculine face so remarkably handsome it had actually caused women to swoon, he was accustomed to such attention and hardly noticed.
A couple passed and the lady’s skirt brushed him, wafting her natural feminine perfume to his nostrils. He took it in, closing his eyes briefly at the jolt of euphoria it afforded. It mingled with those of other nameless females, a jumble of waxy pomades, spicy fragrances spritzed from crystal bottles, and Human musk. A heady combination for a man who was already consumed with libidinous intentions.
Whispers reached his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he was startled to note that at least a half dozen women trailed in his wake. And all were eyeing him as though he were a prime cut of meat at the local butcher shop.
Dismayed, he ground to a halt. His entourage took this as an invitation and swarmed. Prettily gloved hands petted his arm, his back, his hair.
“Bon soir, monsieur.”
“Bienvenue, monsieur.”
“Est-ce que je peux vous aider?”
A chill crawled its way between his shoulder blades and up the back of his neck. He’d never suffered from an inability to attract the opposite sex, but this level of overt attention was disconcertingly bizarre. The notion that something was very out of kilter tugged at him, but it lost out to other more overwhelming considerations. Whatever magic troubled Paris tonight would have to wait for his attention until after this soul-deep hunger within him was satisfied.
“Bon soir, mesdames,” he greeted them, for it would have been insulting to presume that the situation of any unfamiliar French female was that of spinster. He stroked a cheek, a throat, a pulse.
Carefully powdered faces returned his smiles and touches. Soft voices cajoled. Padded, shapely garments rustled and enticed. A covetous hand brushed his cock—mano morte. It could have been any one of them, pretending it was an accident.
All acted on him like aphrodisiacs sending blood coursing ever hotter through his system. The fabric of his trousers and shirt rasped the sensitized skin of his thighs, massive shoulders, and broad chest.
He needed a woman. Now.
With a brief dip of his head in her direction, he singled out a plump female in a pink dress, who stood just outside the circle of admirers. She’d been staring at him as had the others, but more shyly. His instincts told him she was a woman who’d known men. One who yearned for what he would offer. One whose body would accommodate his better than those of most Human women.
Unsure of his invitation, she touched her chest and raised her brows. At his nod, pin lights of delight brightened her mellow brown eyes and transformed a plain countenance into a pretty one. With a brusque word or two, she brushed off her young attendant before parting the crowd and moving toward him in tacit acceptance of his summons.
Though the rest of the besotted troupe must have realized he’d made a selection, they lingered, reluctant to accept it. He fanned his fingers, palm toward them, disbursing a hint of magic in the air.
“Allez,” he murmured. “Go.”
As one, they immediately dispersed to carry on with their business, seeming to forget why they’d gathered around him in the first place.
The silk gloving the hand of his chosen one slid across his work-toughened palm. She smiled shyly at him and his cock twitched, thirsting for a taste of her. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked her head to the hollow of his shoulder.
Eyes narrowed, he surveyed the bridge, quickly locating an area of isolation and leading her toward it. She went unquestioningly and within a few steps, they’d quit the thick of the crowd for the shadows behind the equestrian statue that lorded over the center of the bridge. Other couples had already congregated there along the railing, their heads close. Surreptitious hands moved busily under clothing and covert encouragements warmed the air. Intent on their own gratification, the current residents paid the new arrivals no attention.
“Madame?”
Lyon’s head whipped in the direction of the speaker and saw it was a servant, who took a nervous step back at his fierce expression. Apparently, his lady’s maid had decided to trail after them, trying to dissuade her mistress from folly.
He reached out and touched the girl’s cheek, sending a Calm over her. The concerned expression on her young face instantly eased and she returned to the place on the bridge where he’d first seen her, prepared to placidly await her employer.
Lyon looked down and found the woman’s gaze on him. He ducked his head close. “Bon soir, Madame.”
“Bon soir,” she whispered.
He pressed her back against the base of the statue—against inscribed words which explained that it was a bronze King Henri IV who rode majestically above them—the very monarch who had seen this bridge finished.
“Ici? Here?” His lover’s rapt attention had never once left his face, but now an uncertain frown puckered her brow and she glanced about them.
He touched the underside of her jaw with two fingertips, lifting her to his kiss. His hand slid into her hair, his palm so broad that it encompassed the back of her skull. “No one will see. Nor care,” his husky voice promised against her parted lips. “Just enjoy.”
His body crowded hers flush against the gritty stone and still he spoke to her—low reassuring words that warmed her ear and readied her for what was to come. Here, he would take his clandestine pleasure of her under sky and, later, star.
Her body was Human and would require considerable time to adjust to the size and strength of his. Even then she would be unable to take all of him in as well as the half-Faerie he’d come to Paris to find might have.
Annoyed that thoughts of that duty had intruded, he shook them off. Still, it was true that women in EarthWorld were frail and he could safely join himself to this one no more than a half dozen times here in this alcove. It would have to be enough.
With gentle lips, he brushed the tendon that ran from her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat. His pawlike hands roamed lower, gathering and lifting the front of her skirt and petticoat in great fistfuls, baring her to the cool air.
Her bosom rose on a sharp indrawn breath and her fingers fluttered to clutch the chiseled muscles of his shoulders. He leaned in, surrounding her with his body and scent.
Long, knowing fingers slipped under her skirts—first warming a thigh, then sliding between them and roving even higher to thread through soft, feminine bristle. A strangled moan escaped her as the first finger brushed her clit. At the second brush, she closed her eyes on a sigh.
He stroked her again and again, knowing all the while that it wasn’t a kindness he would be doing her in this act. Far from it. For after this night, a remembrance of their joining would remain with this woman, a new constant in her physical makeup. Though he would wipe the specifics of the hours they spent here from her mind, a small part of her would hereafter always pine for him, not knowing why or for whom she longed. And though this was a hurt he was reluctant to give her, he needed her too badly to let her go. The least he could do was to make sure that any impression he left was an extremely pleasant one.
She was panting now, emitting a tiny whimper each time he caressed her. Her arms had gone lax, hanging on either side of her hips against the stone. Slender wrists were turned upward in a pose of vulnerability, a sign she’d placed herself at his mercy.
His desire to possess her ratcheted higher. Heat pooled in his scrotum, tightening his balls into fists and thickening knotted blue veins that corded the length of his cock. He drew one of her hands to his groin and taught her the shape of him. She groaned against his neck.
His middle finger pressed urgently at the brink of humid feminine folds that gated what he sought. She was wet. Ready. He pushed her hand aside and found the fastening of his trousers, releasing himself.
Gods! Relief could not come soon enough!
Abruptly, an eerie crooning broke the air around them, reaching him even through a haze of lust and the surrounding din. A breath away from his sweet goal, he faltered. His head lifted and cocked to better listen.
The song came again. Eyes narrowed, he tipped his face in the direction from which it had issued. The river.
It came yet again familiar and feminine.
Nymphs. From the sound of things, they, too, were out hunting tonight. And they’d scented his presence. Voracious lovers, their bodies would be well able to handle all he had to offer. And they were noted gossips as well, a fact that might prove beneficial to his purpose in coming to Paris. Perhaps they’d gotten wind of the whereabouts of a certain female with a mix of both Faerie and Human blood in her veins.
He glanced at the willing woman before him. Her soft, experienced fingers warmed his cock. His body urged him to take her, to finish what he’d scarcely begun. But some latent sense of compassion impelled him to let her go. Now, before they mated and he gained a lasting hold over her.
Biting off a curse, he tamped his need and lay a palm against her cheek to bespell her. Silently, he commanded her to go. Willed her to forget her desire for the act they’d left unconsummated as best she could.
Tugging her hand away, he refastened his trousers. For long seconds, her brown eyes only blinked up at him, wounded and confused. He stepped back and her skirts swished into place again, covering thighs, dimpled knees, then ankles.
Her flushed face was a picture of reluctance, but she nevertheless straightened and turned away as he’d bid her. As she retraced her steps toward her waiting servant, her eyes followed him. Within hours, the particulars of their encounter would fade, but a vague yearning for him would remain with her for far longer, like a bruise on her heart.
Thoughts of her already fading, Lyon took the worn stone steps on the Pont Neuf’s north side two at a time. Descending to the brick walkway on a level with the river, he then veered under a wide arch, passing the clochards—harmless beggars who huddled in the nooks and crannies of Paris.
Behind him stretched the bulk of the island called Île de la Cité. Ahead of him, at its western tip lay the Parc Vert Gallant, a triangular spit formed by centuries of sediment deposits. Jutting into the Seine from just below the bridge, it pointed downstream like the prow of a ship.
Stepping into the park, he quickly swept the banks with his eyes, but saw nothing move. Where were they?
The crooning reached him again, louder and more beguiling this time. He walked the perimeters of the park where land met water, searching more keenly.
Here, the fresh natural odors of loam and vegetation filled him, offering a welcome respite from less pleasant smells of brick and smoke above in the bustling city. Cities were entertaining in their own way and on occasion, but why anyone of means would choose to inhabit an urban area in preference to the vast expanses of rural terrain that lay outside its borders was beyond his reasoning. Something in his soul tied him to the land.
Suddenly, he whipped around. The crooning had come again, this time from the park’s north bank. An unanticipated thrill engulfed him, prickling his skin, and hardening his cock to ever-greater dimensions.
For this time, the sound had brought with it something new. A precious fragrance. It entwined the call, separating itself from Human smells and marking itself as peculiar. It was an unmistakable scent. That of Faerie. Aroused Faerie.
Was it possible he’d so easily located the very female he’d come to Paris to find? He paced the length of the north shore again, more impatient than ever for a first glimpse of the river nymphs. Convinced now, that King Feydon’s third daughter was among them.
Never mind that until this moment he’d been aggrieved at this duty and reluctant to meet her. Never mind that having her find him the very night of his arrival in Paris seemed an errand too easily accomplished. Never mind that it appeared she was inexplicably of the sea, rather than of the land.
One thought and one only rode him—that within minutes, in this very park, he would make her his. Reason could wait until after his cock had found a haven in her.
His eyes scanned the bank. Where was she, damn it all?
Something stirred the river just beyond a patch of grassy silt beneath a plane tree. A lithe form rose from the depths, water streaming from its dark hair and slicking over shoulders and full, tipped breasts. Silhouetted against the sunset’s brilliant orange reflection on the Seine’s surface, a nymph reached toward the park embankment. Bracing her arms there, she pulled herself higher and turned to sit onshore with her glistening back toward him.
Lyon devoured the distance between them. Earlier, he hadn’t wanted to find her, but now that he had…
He came to stand just behind her, his legs warm on either side of her river-chilled spine. Twin opalescent dorsal fins at her shoulder blades twitched against him, like the gentle flutter of faerie wings.
Her body was sleek and curved, beautiful and mysterious. Her hair was a dark wet scarf, its length wrapped once around her neck and its ends draping forward to cling damply at her hips and lap. The tip of her tail remained hidden, still swallowed by the Seine.
His hands touched the sides of her face and caught her hair, smoothing it from her cheeks and unwinding it until its length hung free down her back, soaking the front of his trousers.
Beyond her he heard two more nymphs making their way to shore, but he ignored them. This one was Feydon’s daughter. From the moment he’d drawn near to her, he’d been certain of it.
Slipping his hands under her armpits he gently lifted her dripping figure clear of the river. The sooner he got her on land, the sooner she’d dry enough to transform for him.
Over her shoulder, her head angled his way, but otherwise she didn’t acknowledge him.
Other heads had swiveled toward him as well, for the crowds had spilled down the staircases on either side of the bridge and out into the park. Human voyeurs, eager to be shocked and entertained, craned their necks and whispered.
“You see nothing,” he murmured in their direction. Eddies of air caught his words and carried them, spreading a mindspell throughout the atmosphere of the park and beyond.
One by one, the gawkers turned away and forgot what had captured their interest in the first place. No longer would they be able to detect him or the fey in any way. The more perceptive among them could still see had they chosen to do so, but now they would no longer be inclined to look.
Turning the nymph to face him, Lyon anchored her against him with a muscular forearm at her lower back. Of necessity, he supported her entire weight, for she would remain unable to stand on her own until the transformation occurred that would replace her tail with two limbs.
His gritted his teeth at the thought of the wait ahead. As a protection against rape, nymphs’ mating cavities were sealed until their bodies had been sufficiently aroused by their partners. It would take at least a half an hour on land before her tail would bisect. Only then would she be available for mounting.
He pulled back to see her, but she kept her face averted. Her arms lay on his chest and gleamed with the phosphorescence of sea creatures that haunted only the deepest parts of the ocean. It would fade with her metamorphosis, disappearing completely if she remained on land. Which, if things worked out as he expected, she would.
The curtain of her hair streamed over shoulders made strong by many days of battling sea currents. It partially cloaked her like ropes of wet satin hanging almost to her knees.
Against him, her ice-blue breasts soaked his shirt in dual fat circles. A dozen or more strands of sumptuous jewels draped her neck. Frigid, pointed nipples peeked from among them, poking his chest as hard as two fingertips.
Having grown to its usual legendary proportions, his long-suffering cock nudged her through his trousers, beyond anxious for a taste. It occurred to him that wedding this half-Faerie might not be as bad as he’d feared.
“Look at me,” he growled.
With the smooth elegance that typified water-dwellers, she lifted her gaze. His head jerked back as he got his first look at her face, for it bore telltale pearlescent V-shaped scales.
“Twelve hells! You’re a Nereid?”
She cocked her head. “You expected something tamer?”
Damn! King Feydon had saddled him for life with a Nereid? A nymph who was equal parts sea-faerie and she-devil?
Her hands clutched the hard swells of his biceps as though she feared he’d withdraw from her. “I am the king’s child—the one you seek,” she assured him.
“Your name?” Lyon heard himself ask.
“Sibela, my love.” Her voice was pleasing, her every utterance a lilting chant of the kind that had lured legions of males to their doom.
She tug. . .
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