of big-muscled nudity and bashful expression.
She divested herself of her overdress and skirts.
He made the most delicious huffing noise when she cast herself, swanlike, on top of him. Well, perhaps more beached-sea-mammal-like than swanlike, but it had the desirous upshot of plastering most of the length of her body against most of the length of his. It took him a moment to recover from several stone of wife suddenly settled atop him, but only a moment, for then he began a diligent quest to rid her of all her remaining layers of clothing in as little time as possible. He unlaced the back and popped open the front of her corset, and stripped off her chemise with all the consummate skill of a lady’s maid.
“Steady on there,” protested Alexia mildly, though she was flattered by his haste.
As though influenced by her comment, which she highly doubted, he suddenly switched tactics and jerked her against him tightly. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he took a deep, shuddering breath. The movement lifted her upward as his wide chest expanded. She felt almost as though she were floating.
Then he rolled her slightly off him and, incredibly gently, pulled off her bloomers and began stroking over her slightly rounded belly.
“So, a soul-stealer, is that what we’re getting?”
Alexia wriggled slightly, trying to get him back into his customary, rather more forceful handling. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but she enjoyed it when he became enthusiastically rough. “One of the Roman tablets called it a Stalker of Skins.”
He paused, glowering thoughtfully. “Na, still never heard of it. But, then, I’m na all that old.”
“It certainly has the vampires in a tizzy.”
“Following in its mother’s footsteps already, the little pup. How verra charming.” His big hands began moving optimistically in a northward direction.
“Now what are you about?” wondered his wife.
“I have some further reacquainting to do. Must evaluate size differentials,” he insisted.
“I hardly see how you could tell the difference,” pointed out his wife, “considering their oversubstantial nature to start with.”
“Oh, I believe I am more than equal to the task.”
“We all must have goals in life,” agreed his wife, a slight tremor in her voice.
“And to determine all the new particulars, I must apply all the available tools in my repertoire.” This comment apparently indicated Conall intended to switch and use his mouth rather than his hands.
Alexia, it must be admitted, was running out of both token protests and the ability to breathe regularly. And since her husband’s mouth was occupied, and even a werewolf shouldn’t talk with his mouth full, she determined that was the end of their conversation.
So it proved to be the case, for some time at least.
Look out for HEARTLESS,
The Parasol Protectorate:
Book the Fourth,
coming in July 2011.
extras
meet the author
Ms. Carriger began writing in order to cope with being raised in obscurity by an expatriate Brit and an incurable curmudgeon. She escaped small-town life and inadvertently acquired several degrees in higher learning. Ms. Carriger then traveled the historic cities of Europe, subsisting entirely on biscuits secreted in her handbag. She now resides in the Colonies, surrounded by fantastic shoes, where she insists on tea imported directly from London. She is fond of teeny-tiny hats and tropical fruit. Find out more about Ms. Carriger at www.gailcarriger.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed BLAMELESS,
look out for
TEMPEST RISING
Book One of the Jane True series
by Nicole Peeler
Jane True, small-town Maine bookstore clerk, always knew she didn’t quite fit in with so-called normal society—but she didn’t realize she had a supernatural heritage.
I woke up to the sensation of something warm and wet lapping at my face, and I was overwhelmed by the smell of fresh toothpaste. My eyes weren’t quite functioning and all I could see was a large, fuzzy shape looming above my head. As my pupils slowly started to focus, I figured out that something was licking my cut clean. It felt incredibly soothing, until my brain restarted and I realized that the tongue in question was attached to the fanged mouth of the black hound of hell that had just been chasing me through my woods. I moaned with fear, trying to sit up and scramble backward at the same time. All I succeeded in doing was to bring my face closer to the dog’s enormous teeth and to make my head bleed again.
Good strategy, Jane, I thought as my world spun and I collapsed back down with a thump.
Another face swam into my vision. This wasn’t the dog, or the