15 Erotic Stories BUNDLE: Huge Collection of Individually Sold Short Sex Stories (19 page)

“Which means they must feel awfully good,” she mused, her senses inflamed by those erotic dreams that haunted her every night.

She usually played the role of voyeur in most of these nocturnal visions, watching as gorgeous, mysterious beings collapsed together on a shiny dance floor; their lips merged in passionate kisses, their arms and legs entwined, their naked, sweaty bodies becoming one with the night. On occasion, however, the most beautiful phantom—an ethereal male with long, silken auburn hair, wide dark eyes, full lips and sculpted features—parted from the sensual fray; his muscled body standing tall above the chaos as he extended his hand to her.

Then, blast it, she woke up.

“Bloody hell!”

Surging upward in the silken sheets of her floral feathered bed, she took a moment to focus on the calming, beautiful rose print that lined her overhead canopy. It was a beautiful sight indeed.

“Only not as beautiful as that man,” she sighed, wiping some telltale sweat from her brow and rising from her bed.

Crossing the room in a few quick strides, she took a seat at the cherry wood writing desk that formed a corner of her bedroom.

Settling her rubenesque body onto the cushions of a straight back wicker chair, Moira soothed the skirts of her lavender nightgown and took a deep, sustaining breath as she clutched her quill pen.

Placing a piece of parchment paper at the center of her desk, she wrote three words across the top of the page: The Phantom Lover.

****

One year later

“Moira, you are an amazing lady.”

Lord Thomas Caldwell smiled as he accepted a steaming lavender teacup from Moira Bentley, his newest and most successful author at Silver Ridge Books; a premiere publishing house in the heart of London.

The two now sat in the elaborate drawing room of Moira’s stately manor house, situated in a quiet enclave on the outskirts of the city.

“Thank you, Lord Caldwell.” Moira cast a quick glance around her living space, relieved to find that her prized drawing room—with its cherry wood furniture, red brocade wallpaper and plush ivory carpeting—was neat, clean and prepared to welcome the most particular guest.

Only no one can really be quite prepared for Lord Caldwell
, she pursed her lips as he launched into a familiar oratory that hurt her ears nonetheless.

“I still find it difficult to believe that an unmarried woman could manage to pen such great and exciting romances,” he took a deep sip of tea, fixing her with an assessing gaze.

“Quite the contrary, Lord Caldwell,” Moira forced a small smile, “Many of my married friends have quite despaired of ever again experiencing romance in any form.” She shrugged. “As a solitary female, I am free to dream.”

Lord Caldwell guffawed outright.

“Well young lady, your dreams are magnificent,” he admitted. “The ladies of the London ton cannot get enough of your works.
The Phantom Lover
is our top selling title at Silver Ridge.” The graying nobleman shook his head, eyes wide. “An amazing accomplishment for a woman writer, especially one who dares to use her own name.”

Cringing slightly, Moira smoothed the sleek skirts of her azure silk day gown across the cushions of her prized floral settee—only at this point she wished that it was Lord Cardwell’s wrinkled, smirking face she could smash against any random piece of furnishing.

“Well I do hope that my success will encourage you to give other female authors the chance that was offered me,” she said finally, meeting his pointed stare with one of her own. “It saddens me to think of all the great books we’ll never read, simply because their authors didn’t happen to have a…” she bit her lip, suppressing a nasty thought, “…a monocle.”

Lord Caldwell cleared his throat.

“I just may have to do that,” he pinned her with a sly smile, “especially as the most successful book in my stable has just been optioned as a stage musical.”

Moira doubled over, coming dangerously close to coughing up the contents of her tea cup.

“
The Phantom Lover
, on a stage?” She shook her head, stunned. “Just so I’m clear, a theatrical troupe is going to act out the scenes detailed in my book,” the color of her face now matching the pearl pink carnations that sat in a tall bronzed vase at her side, “and set them to music?”

“Um, yes.” Lord Caldwell shifted in his seat. “Only they are not a theater troupe, precisely. From what I gathered they are instead a ballet troupe that incorporates drama into their performances.”

“Yes, well,” Moira folded her arms before her, cocking her head to one side, “I find that difficult to envision.”

And that is something of an understatement
, she added silently.

Lord Caldwell reached in to the side pocket of his sleek brown jacket, withdrawing a folded parcel of papers that he handed to a gaping Moira.

“What you will have no difficulty envisioning, dear girl, is the princely sum that the troupe is offering us to dramatize your work.” He gestured toward the papers. “There you will find their proposed contract, as well as an invitation to their London theater, to see their latest production.” He arched his eyebrows. “The very same place that they will bring your book to life.”

“If I deem it fitting,” Moira drew herself up and squared her shoulders, adding with a small smile, “I must admit, though, that I am rather flattered at the thought.”

She stopped a moment to consider Ian, the hero of
The Phantom Lover
. She pondered just who the troupe would select to dance the role of that exquisite creature who ruled her dreams; the one who filled her nights with visions that represented the embodiment of her secret desires.

Surely they couldn’t find anyone that beautiful or (ahem) outright limber,
she arched a curious eyebrow,
even in the dancing world.

Even Moira had no true model for her hero; a man with carved and impossibly gorgeous features, thick layers of auburn gold hair that fell across muscled shoulders, and wide ebony eyes, he seemed more a dream than a human being.

In addition, she reasoned, it seemed unlikely that a lean, lithe dancer could portray a muscular man of such hulking masculinity; the type of man that could consume a woman in his deepest embrace, making her feel both worshipped and protected while kissing her quite senseless….

“Moira, are you quite all right?” Lord Caldwell cocked his head, squinting his eyes in Moira’s direction.

“Yes, of course.” Jarring herself from her reverie, she sat up straight on the settee and focused her gaze on the invitation that occupied her sturdy grasp; an elegant ivory invite trimmed with pink ribbon and paper lace, that bore a message inscribed in flowing script—words meant only for her.

“Ballet Noir would be honored by the presence of Moira Bentley, the esteemed author, at the London performance of our current show, A Dance of Lovers, to take place the 23
^rd
of May at Theatre Satine downtown.”

“Theatre Satine,” she murmured aloud, brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m a lifelong Londoner and I swear I’ve never heard of the place.”

Lord Caldwell shrugged.

“From what I understand it is a low profile theater owned and maintained by the troupe,” he explained. “They do seem to be a small and mysterious company, but certainly well endowed.”

“Well endowed?” Moira squeaked, eyes flying wide.

“Indeed,” Totally missing the “point,” Lord Caldwell once again gestured toward the papers in Moira’s hands. “They are offering us a substantial stipend to produce ‘The Phantom Lover’ as a full-scale ballet production.”

Moira nodded.

“Well that’s very kind of them.” Still distracted and more than a bit aroused, she struggled to focus on the contracts in her hand as images of Ian still haunted her psyche. “I just want to insure that they respect the integrity of my work.”

And that they find someone delicious enough to play Ian
, she added silently.

Aloud she said, “I’d be more than pleased to attend their show and meet the troupe.”

“Excellent!” Lord Caldwell clapped his hands together, adding through gritted teeth, “Although I warn you, lass, you may want to take an escort to the show.” He stroked his chin. “Something about these people seems just a bit,” he paused, “unseemly. Bizarre, even.”

****

Ignoring Lord Caldwell’s paternal advice, Moira ventured alone the next evening to Theater Satine; first adorning herself in a rarely worn red silk dress lined with tiny diamonds on the front. A shiny pearl pin held her unruly mass of ebony hair firmly in place, accentuating her wide dark eyes and ivory complexion. A pair of sleek red satin slippers completed the costume, which was not in keeping with her usual mode of dress.

I guess I’m not quite myself tonight
. She smiled as she hopped into the hired coach that would whisk her across the city; delivering her at the front entryway of the magnificent Theater Satine.

The theater, it turned out, stood as a small but impressively structured building on the outskirts of London.

In her estimation the theater seemed something out of a fairy tale; or, at the very least, a captivating study in contrasts. Its exterior was a rich confection of ivory stone arches, stained glass windows painted in grand fashion with all the colors of the rainbow, cast iron gates and—flanking these gates--statues of sweet winged cherubs who smiled in greeting.

Yet once she stepped through these gates, slipping also through the stained glass double doors that fronted Theater Satine, she entered a world of dark beauty that stole her breath.

It turned out the building’s brilliant windows provided it’s only light; illuminating the polished cherry wood furniture placed in the club’s sitting area, setting visual fire to the rose brocade wallpaper and scarlet-hued seat cushions that also distinguished this space.

The windows also lent a curious light to the unique oil paintings that lined the walls of Theater Satine. As she drew closer to them, Moira’s eyes flew wide as she realized that each of the paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.

Either that
, she pursed her lips at the glorious backgrounds and intricate paint strokes that comprised each portrait,
or they just collapsed on top of one another when they saw the price of the painting.

“Like what you see, Ms. Bentley?”

Her thoughts disrupted by a soft feminine voice that nonetheless purred with power, Moira turned to face a short fiftyish woman of generous proportions, much like her own. Clad in a foot length dress of sleek black satin, her keen blue eyes assessed her visitor with a strength and clarity that made Moira wince.

“How did you know my name?” Moira stepped forward to take the woman’s offered hand, immediately noticing the long fingernails that protruded from her ebony lace gloves.

“Somehow,” the woman smiled, “I just knew.”

Releasing Moira’s hand, she made a broad gesture that seemed to define and encompass the whole of their surroundings.

“I am Bethelyn Castor, the owner and proprietor of both Theater Satine and Ballet Noir,” she leaned forward to plant a daring kiss on the cheek of a stunned Moira. “And you, dear Moira, have written a brilliant book that is sure to make a beautiful ballet; our first full length production.”

“Why thank you.” Moira took a seat in a latticework chair at a table near the front of the club; watching as her hostess claimed a seat beside her and motioned for a nearby waiter. “I greatly look forward to tonight’s performance.”

A handsome young blond server presented her with a gold-hued tankard that brimmed with what appeared to be a rich red wine; then handed a second cup to her smiling hostess.

“I know that you will enjoy our show, Ms. Bentley,” she nodded with confidence. “I hand select the best dancers for Ballet Noir.” She arched her eyebrows, taking a deep sip of rich red wine. “And they just happen to include some of the most handsome young men in the city.”

“Really?” Moira felt her curiosity peak. “Well now I truly can’t wait to see the show.”

The two shared a girlish giggle as Bethelyn nudged her guest with a conspiratorial elbow.

“You are a truly unique young woman who always speaks her mind, I sense it through your writing,” she praised Moira. “I have a feeling that you and I will get on very well.” She leaned forward, retrieving Moira’s golden tankard and placing it in her hands. “And I have a feeling that you will love tonight’s performance, Ms. Bentley.”

“I’m sure I shall.” Moira took a deep, fortifying drink of the sweetest ruby hued wine she’d ever tasted; a brew with a fruity, herbal taste that both soothed and aroused her senses. “And do call me Moira.”

Turning her attention to the front of the club, she marveled at the sight of a tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain; and bordered by a gold framed mural of ethereal cherubs in flight.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, taking a second sharp gulp of wine.

“Oh my dear,” Bethelyn giggled, gracing her with a second sisterly nudge, “You have seen nothing yet.”

As if on cue, the curtain lifted to reveal a stage decorated with endless bouquets of ebullient florals: roses red and gold, pearl pink carnations, and lavender water lilies gathered in golden urns that bordered the stage on all sides.

Standing center stage were two dancers, a male and a female, who themselves had floral attributes; both, Moira noted, were tall and willowy beings with exquisite lean forms and luxurious long hair.

The golden haired couple wore brass trimmed uniforms that shone ivory in the lights of the stage. The young man, an angelic being with carved bronzed features and bright azure eyes, wore an elegant tailored suit that could befit a prince.

His partner, a stunning young woman with keen green eyes and blonde hair that fell to her waist, stunned in a gauzy, floor-length gown that swept the floor as she walked.

This luminous couple met center stage as the music commenced; filling the atmosphere with the surge of violins and the rich timbre of a grand piano.

Moira gaped as the couple moved in perfect synch with this airy, ethereal tune, their arms entangling as their feet seemed to float on air.