Award-winning author Leigh Ellwood offers four delightfully sinful tales of passionate paranormal activity. From amorous fairies to sleek and sensual were-creatures, these stories have bite.
The following titles have been made available individually in digital format. First time in print!
Leading Lady – a cult TV star hooks up with two out of this world fans at a convention, and ends up auditioning for a role that will change her life.
Excitable – A werewolf, cursed and cast from his pack, must find true love in order to reverse the spell. Can he find the right girl before the full moon?
Sweet Surprise – A delivery driver making a stop in an eerie town becomes hostage to an irate, amorous fae seeking vengeance on her employer. Both end up taking the standoff lying down, literally!
Sugar on Top – Spooky Sierra Glade’s top gossip columnist has her cake and eats it, too, when she attempts to crash a secret bachelor party inside the cake.
Publisher’s Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, ménage (m/f/m).
From Leading Lady:
Dina stared at the black-and-white likeness of her younger self and poised a thick-tipped pen over the smooth curve of her photographed bare neck. “Hello, darling,” she greeted the wide-eyed man standing before her. “This is for whom, now?”
He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Thick, dirty blond hair hung in clumps over one brow. A large button covering one breast of his Metallica T-shirt informed the world that his phaser was always set for “stunning.” Dina imagined the collective sigh of relief settling around the room from any female conventioneers having seen that button.
“Gr-Gregory,” he croaked.
“Gregory. Thank you, Gregory.” The syllables rolled off her tongue with seductive ease; she trilled the first R with her trademark purr, the same throaty growl that had sent thousands of Gregorys into euphoric wet dreams over the years. It was the satisfied deep trill that had broken color barriers on television and had proved to a network skittish over the ratings in backwater Alabama that, yes, a black woman had the talent and sex appeal to attract a mass audience. That seductive power, coupled with the skimpy costumes and lustrous fake topknot of flowing dark hair, garnered Dina twice the fan mail of her white costars.
Not to mention all the prime gigs at cons around the world, and the prime fans -- top billing over movie actors, even. This Gregory, looking so young, had to be a recent admirer as opposed to one of the legion of first-generation faithful, a fan who had come to know Mission: Jupiter through endless reruns on cable or the recent DVD releases of the popular 1970s science fiction series.
Either way, Dina thought, he’s here, and so am I. He had forked over his ten bucks admission fee and the five-dollar charge for the glossy photo her assistant distributed from the stack at the next table. His presence paid for at least one drink she had enjoyed last night at the hotel bar.
He was cute, too. Maybe he’d be good for more than his money.
Dina smiled to herself and crossed her legs tighter to counter the sudden desire flooding her pussy, rustling the star field print tablecloth in the process.
“I-I just wanted you to know,” Gregory continued as Dina scribbled a random platitude and a loopy signature on the photograph, “that you’re my favorite character on MJ.”
“Thank you, Gregory. That’s so sweet of you to say.” That’s what everybody called Mission: Jupiter these days. Star Trek was referred to as either Trek Classic, TNG, or DS9, depending on the proper incarnation, and other popular sci-fi favorites suffered similar abbreviation. Dina disliked it; MJ sounded more like an illegal sex act performed in an alley behind a liquor store.
She glanced at the photograph, giving it one final inspection. It was a stock publicity photo of her twenty-five-year-old self attired in her incredibly sexist Mission: Jupiter uniform. She had to laugh every time she saw the action pose of Lieutenant Mayda Moran, wearing a formfitting mini dress and white go-go boots with hoop earrings, pointing a phaser at the camera like she meant business. The men on the show had worn jumpsuits suitable for NASA; the women looked like waitresses at a strip club.
Of course, she was the favorite character of all the Gregorys. Dina studied the photo. Look at the tits on that phaser-wielding wench! This was a woman who had defied gravity and laws of physics merely by slinking past fellow officers along the corridors of the USS Jupiter every Monday night for five years. Never mind that Mayda had been the only officer on the ship capable of rubbing two brain cells together in order to formulate plans to defeat the evil Narciscans, look at those tits. These were the show’s biggest stars, pun intended. That’s what Gregory was addressing as he complimented her, Dina knew.
She sat up straight. The two biggest stars of Mission: Jupiter continued to defy gravity well into Dina’s forties, without the aid of plastic surgery, thank you very much. The quest to remain young for the cameras by way of a sadistic exercise and diet regimen had seen to that, for all the good it did. The body remained fit, the skin as smooth and flawlessly cocoa as ever, but producers saw only a stock character from a campy sci-fi TV show when it came time to cast for serious dramas. To think, with the door open wider for African American actresses now, she could find better roles outside the occasional guest-starring bit on a weekly series.
Thanks for screwing my big-time movie career, chick. She mock scowled at the young girl in the picture and planted a pouty kiss on her rump to the collective gasp of fans clustered around her table. She then slid the photo across the table into Gregory’s trembling fingers. There was no mistaking the delight on the young man’s face; he checked the Internet, Dina was certain. He knew the code.
“Wow. Thanks, Mayda,” Gregory said, and floated away. Dina sighed. It used to bother her to be referred to by her character’s name, but when opportunities for work had dried up, Dina had eventually come to accept her alter ego with the rising demand for her appearance at science-fiction conventions. Mayda was a part of her now, a part she had quickly come to appreciate for its fringe benefits despite her occasional grousing. At the very least, none of her white female costars from the show had been able to break free from the Mission: Jupiter curse to find success in television again, and Dina rarely saw them at cons.
She watched Gregory, one possible benefit of the con circuit, stride confidently to a remote corner of the hotel ballroom, and then turn expectantly back toward her table. He knew now that the legend was true…that a lipstick mark on an autographed Dina Joseph was a special, coveted treasure. He was in contention with other lucky conventioneers to fuck Mayda Moran herself. He held the proof in his hands like a golden ticket to the chocolate factory.
Gregory had a deliciously tight ass encased in black jeans, and judging from the pronounced bulge in the front, he definitely advertised that he was more than just fringe. Perhaps he did pack impressive heat, as his button advertised. Dina smiled at him; there was that pulsing sensation that engorged her pussy lips. Yes, she definitely appreciated these opportunities.
“Jenna, you know the drill.” She craned her neck as she quietly addressed Jenna McCoy, her personal assistant. “Screen test, money shot.”
Jenna smirked and fished through her bulky shoulder sack for a digital camera. “Six we nix?”
“Seven is heaven,” Dina confirmed. “Eight, great, and nine is divine.” The two women giggled over the puzzled look on the next fan’s face.
Dina then watched Jenna approach Gregory and, after viewing a few silent words and restrained hand gestures, smiled to see the young man willingly follow the young black woman with the dark ponytail behind a blue cloth partition. There, Gregory would “audition” by letting down his pants and allowing Jenna to take a picture for Dina to later peruse. Six we nix. A six-inch cock or less was an automatic reject…but seven or more was a definite casting, and Gregory would get the part provided he wasn’t surpassed by another. Dina had seen enough cock in her day to discern size for herself, no tape measure was necessary.
She returned to her audience. She wondered how many of the other men snaked around the convention space in the various autograph lines would be willing to put themselves through the rigorous audition expected of a lipstick-printed fan?
The autograph session dragged, and when three o’clock mercifully arrived, Dina was down to her last original nicety. Her hand cramped from signing, and her pussy ached for want of a young stud’s attention. The myths of sci-fi conventions were just that -- there was nary a pocket protector or taped-up pair of horn-rims to be seen in this crowd. Dina saw handsome young men in T-shirts advertising various fandoms, curvy women in skimpy character dress, and older fans weathering age quite well. A few decades out of the sun, watching the same Mission: Jupiter episodes over and again, was clearly good for the skin.
Despite the collective musk of hormones settling in the room, however, this con proved somewhat of a disappointment compared to others. She had marked only three other fans since Gregory. Surprisingly, all four fell short of the prerequisite. Phasers had apparently been set for dud tonight. Sorry, boys, Dina thought as she bid the last fan farewell, you must be so big to ride.
Jenna helped her close up shop and counted the till. “Not a bad haul,” the assistant remarked, fanning a wad of bills into a metal money box. She counted out the required 10 percent to cover the con’s share and snapped the lid shut.
“Moneywise, anyway,” Dina grumbled.
“Sorry, hon.” Jenna pouted. “I blame these new jeans the kids are wearing. They wrinkle weird. False advertising.”
“Yeah, and here I used to think false advertising meant me endorsing a product on TV that I never used.” She laughed. It hurt, for she was probably going to bed alone tonight. Jenna might have sufficed -- the girl was always willing -- but she’d really wanted a cock.
“Well, you’ll score at next month’s New Jersey gig, I just know it. We’ll need to order more Mayda pictures for that too,” Jenna said. “We should probably get rid of those other ones; I don’t know why you keep them, Dee. Nobody ever buys them.”
“I know.” Dina sighed at the stack of publicity shots Jenna placed into an accordion folder. The photos depicted her in regal dress for her only major film role, an epic that had played to empty movie houses and was never released on DVD. Dina had no way to sell copies if people didn’t even remember the film.
“I didn’t even go see it,” she told Jenna. “About a month of box office, shown on network television once. Now it’s locked in an airless vault with other turkeys.”
“Was it that bad? The costume is gorgeous. Looks like a big-budget flick.”
“Not really, more a labor of love sort of thing for this guy I was seeing. He started out as head writer on Mission: Jupiter before breaking into film. He knew I always wanted to play a queen, so he wrote the script for me.” Dina lifted her chin. A sad smile touched her face as she thought of Alan Widmark. Of all her lovers, he was the only one with whom she would have considered having a long-term relationship or, dare she suggest it in a time where interracial relationships were eyed with scrutiny, marriage. She might have pursued it too, had he not died shortly after the film was released. When Dina learned of the car accident, occurring after Alan had left her house, she couldn’t bring herself to see the film. The tragedy had done little to boost box office or inspire sympathy raves. The film simply died with its director.
“I was always afraid I’d jinx my career if I ever saw myself on-screen,” she told Jenna instead. It was the truth, to an extent, but her life with Alan was her own. “I never watched an episode of Mission: Jupiter, either. Figured if I watched myself perform, I’d never work again. Guess I should’ve done the opposite, huh?”
Jenna handed her a DVD set of the show’s first season. “Never too late. Pop in a disc; maybe Spielberg will call.”
Yeah, like I have no big plans tonight. Dina waved away the package with a smirk. She didn’t have plans, thanks to false advertising. “Please, girl. I haven’t worked for years outside a con, so I wouldn’t know what to do anymore. And I won’t degrade myself by participating in one of those reality shows that feature other one-trick ponies, either.” This was a long-suggested idea she knew Jenna would revisit. Best to head her off at the pass.
“It’s a nice paycheck,” Jenna sang, “and it might bring in offers of legitimate work. It has for other actors.”
“Yeah, it got them other reality shows. It’s not worth the hassle of living in a tricked-up mansion listening to a bunch of other has-beens spout their retro catchphrases. Forget it.” Dina stood and arched her back, working out the kinks. The only reality she wanted to face was a warm tub and a soft bed, seeing as how the added bonus of a hard body to join her in both wasn’t likely. “Let’s get out of here.”
Dina almost didn’t turn her head; few people addressed her by her real name. Even her shrink called her Mayda.
When she snapped around to see the two gorgeous men standing before her dismantled station, she knew instantly that she wouldn’t have minded playing doctor with either of them. Or both.
Each was the photo-negative image of the other -- porcelain white and dark olive, almost Mediterranean -- and both sported soft brown eyes and hair cropped behind pointed ears. That narrowed their possible fandom preference to six shows. Mission: Jupiter had its share of characters with pointed ears and eyebrows, webbed feet and hands, and whatever other physical anomalies the writers concocted while drinking.
The olive-skinned one had blond hair; his otherworldly look well suited the convention. Dina wondered if the man wore makeup to enhance his shading. He sported an Eisenhower jacket and black pants that nicely accentuated his muscled thighs and front bulge. Not a wrinkle to be seen. A leather strap around one shoulder indicated he had a scabbard behind his back; a sword handle protruded from behind one shoulder.