Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith (extract)

lust-in-tooth-and-claw-final-coverI am delighted to say that my latest novella, ‘Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith’ has been published in Lust in Tooth and Claw, the third volume of the ‘Lust’ paranormal erotica series. I’m completely thrilled to find my Sidhe sitting alongside steamy stories by Devi Ansevi, Essemoh Teepee and Katherine Nevitt.

The other exciting bit of news for readers, regarding this particular book, is that it’s available for PRE-ORDER AT JUST 99c (because we’re a nice bunch of authors, really, despite all our fictional fangs and claws that dig into luscious flesh…!)

It takes quite a lot to make me blush, as I’ve mentioned previously, but I received this lovely review of my novella from Lurv Spanking (poor thing read it over the weekend; the stuff I get people doing when they’ve got a spare minute – or even when they haven’t – I just drive them nuts!). I’ve been granted permission to include it here, and I’d love you to read it (while I find some ice cubes for my cheeks), because it contains a superb synopsis of my story:

Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith is a deeply erotic horror novella from the brilliant imagination of the renowned author Ina Morata. The story opens with Andy Marshall deposited as a half-drowned scrivener on the shores of an Irish isle out of legend. He received an offer to be writer-in-residence the last week of October, and, like many a man who fell victim to lust, has been led through the lashing rain not by his pen, but by his throbbing erect sword. Andy dreams of glory and fame and ‘Miss Leanan’ is offering both sight unseen. When he arrives he meets the carver-in-residence and is taken aback by both his talent and his haunted pallor. The carver tries to explain that She is everything but Andy spies Eleanor in the glow of the fireplace casting no reflection and he is instantly ensnared by her feral eroticism. For Eleanor is the Leanan Sidhe and Andy Marshall has been lured to witness the ancient rituals of sex and rebirth in exchange for every written masterpiece and wanton fantasy locked inside his mortal soul.

 Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith is an arousing literary retelling of the classic human desire for fame and fortune at any cost. Only the reader can determine for themselves whether the price paid was worth the journey to the windswept mansion that lies a portal away from fairy fantasy.

Lurv Spanking, I can’t thank you enough for that! (still kind of hiding my red face inside my clothes). 

I have an extract for you, which comes from the chapter in which my poor wordsmith, Andy, first meets Eleanor:

As I continue to hold her long, pale fingers, she leans forward and I catch a glimpse—maybe a bit more than a glimpse—of two pretty, full mounds pushing out of the top of her dress. She knows I’m looking; I can tell by the way she flashes her green eyes at me, giving me one of “those” beautiful looks through her eyelashes. The heady combination leaves my poor cock unable to do anything except throb hard and strain against the material that holds me together, and I squirm at the start of a damp patch that I know will continue to grow under her gaze. She smiles, pursing her lips in a stunning, knowing smile, and I wonder just how often a man has sat opposite her and wanted to fuck her on the spot.

She uncrosses her legs, and the firelight stops glowing on the tempting curve that forms the top of her thigh, and instead illuminates her dress in the valleys disappearing into the crevice of her legs. A shadow of triangular darkness winks back at me, and the delicious possibility occurs to me that she might be sitting there, looking at me, minus her panties. Maybe she’s wearing no underwear at all. As if she can read my mind, her hand flicks her tresses back over her shoulder, revealing her frontal curves. As the back of her hand brushes against the material, the firelight illuminates the dark circle of her areola, and I let out an involuntary breathy moan.

A row of beautiful, even teeth shine with her smile, lighting up her face, half in shadow, half glowing with the flames; she is fully aware she’s teasing me. Tilting her head so the flickering beams caress her face, I watch her play with her nipple until it stands hard against her dress, and the amalgam of the firelight and dim surroundings casts a little shadow across the tip of her breast. Tiny, but I notice. And I’m pretty sure that I’m meant to.

“So you’re the one? The poet?” She licks her lips, and I wish it was my tongue that was running across those two fleshy pieces, so I could explore a little further, entering her mouth, tasting what she has to offer.

“Yes, I am. Well, writer. I write other stuff, too. I—” I’m not quite sure what to say now. It’s difficult to blow your own trumpet when there’s not enough work accepted for publication to create a puff of wind big enough to blow up even a piccolo. Maybe I could tell her about the truckload of poetry I have in the flat that comes back in return envelopes and fills my email inbox. There’s plenty to talk about, there. Or the novel. Oh fuck. Yeah, the novel. But she stumps me.

“I’ve seen your work in magazines. I saw your very first poem—that one, “Falling”. Very erotic.” Her lips part a little, and I have to gulp back my breath, before it turns into some kind of desperate grunt. Her mouth, over mine, while she presses her white dress against my naked body, and I slide it off her, letting it drop to the floor… “I enjoyed it so much that I always seek out your new pieces. I wish you’d publish more. Maybe you should start a blog or something.”

For a wordsmith, I am a disgrace. I literally have no words.

“Have you got a lot of work ready for publication at the moment? What are you working on? I know it’s cheeky of me—” She slides onto the edge of the seat, her dress riding right up on her legs, until I have absolutely no doubt that she’s not wearing panties. With knees apart, her fluff peeks at me until I have the urge to run my fingers through it and grab hold. I remember a woman who loved it when I tugged on her hair while I nibbled on her clit. And the tip of Eleanor’s little nub winks at me now. She must know. She must see what she’s doing to me. It makes my entire body burn, and I don’t know which ignites it more, my embarrassment, or the urges that well up in me. My cock looks like a rod and my hands are sweating. I could drop off this chair, down on my knees to her, and rub my thumb on her button. I could worship at her feet while she lays back on her throne and I offer up my gifts to her folds, licking and flicking until she demands everything I have to impart, and I yield to her entirely, pumping into her every last jewel of cum I have to give.

“Erm…well…right at the moment…”

She stands, her dress remaining somehow clinging high around her thighs, and steps over to me until the toe ends of her shoes are touching mine.

“Are you a little bit—” She presses her legs up against my knee. “—stuck?” Her waist is level with my eyes; she curves inwards, then blooms outwards as I look at her. I could bury my nose in the underside of her breasts from here. I imagine what else I could bury myself in while I’m writing. Stuck? Interesting concept. Her, stuck, drawing my cum from me drop by drop, while I write—creating images in the air with a pencil of dreams about being stuck—how she can’t get off until she’s extracted every drop of essence from me, each one sucked inside and turning into words that run from her, dripping around her sweet little cunt, and forming a trail that trickles on the inside of her thigh and onto my hand. And, once they run down my fingers, she has release, while I drop the words onto the page, tasting the excitement at this thing I have created. At this thing she has created.

It takes all my effort not to grab her fleshy rounds that press tightly into the dress at the back, not to pull the front of that dress to my mouth so I can chew on her through the material. I’ve never known anything like the sudden craving I have, now that she is standing so close. The urge to write it down is so intense that it hurts my bones. I try licking my lips, but the only wetness I have is the sweat on the palms of my hands. They are soaked, just as if my thoughts have dripped there. The hunger for it invades my mind, and I have to push her back, my balls electrified by my hands on her hips and my chest brushing against her pussy for a brief moment. Thrusting my hand in, I grab my biro and notebook from my pocket. The paper’s dry inside; only the cover got a bit damp.

“Actually, no. Absolutely not. Not stuck.” I look up at her, and the whimper of a desperate man falls from my lips. She opens her green eyes wide, circling me and coming to rest on the arm of the chair, pressing herself up tight against my shoulder. I can feel her breasts pushing into my back, the flesh of her collar bone playing upon the nape of my neck before she lowers herself, her mouth resting alongside my ear.

“So, what are you doing right now?” Her words brush against sensitive nerves. A shiver reverberates through my body, and my head whirs like it’s gripped in the heat of a fever. I’m scribbling my thoughts on the paper, muddled and haphazard, but so tasty, delicious words better than anything I’ve had in a long time. Clearer. I know what I want them to be. She touches my shoulder and her fingertips set me alight. “Why are you writing so fast? You’re going at it some. I can taste the energy you’re creating…”

Her mouth is open; I feel her breath near the corner of my mouth…I almost…my lips nearly…her mouth is on my neck. My body aches in exquisite pain. My neck…

I did also mention a while ago that I would share an image that inspired me to write erotic-bed‘Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith’. I don’t, unfortunately know the source, as it was found on Google images and wasn’t credited to anyone. If you know where it came from, please let me know. This is the bed that inspired the entire story – the hotel Andy visits, the voracious work of the carver, and is the object that fires my wordsmith’s imagination, as it did mine! I mean, look at it! It’s an erotic writer’s dream. Some interesting things happen on this bed in my story… I will share another extract – containing the weird bed – on another day. I think you might like it! 😉

If you want to see Lust in Tooth and Claw for yourself, in its entirety, you can find it here.

One last thing: if any of my blogger friends would like an Advance Review Copy of the book, I have them available in epub and mobi format. Just get in touch. All reviews on Amazon or Goodreads, or indeed on a blog, are always appreciated.

Thank you for bearing with me on this post – I’m just a little bit excited to find myself published in two anthologies within a week! Lust on the Wing was only released a few days ago! I know I’ve written two novellas in eight weeks, and not won an Oscar, but… I have a very special thank you to make to AC Elliott, who knows more about the Sidhe than anyone else I know, and without whose pom-pom waving I may never have completed both novellas in time (okay, so now I’m going to wrinkle up my nose and cringe, waiting…he’ll LOVE the idea of waving pom-poms…). And none of it could have happened without the incredible work of Devi Ansevi, who project-manages these anthologies like the star she is! All the authors in the ‘Lust’ series, I know, would like to say a big thank you to her. Do check out her blog. She’s amazing!

And now I’ll get on with the task of writing you some fiction… x



15 thoughts on “Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith (extract)

  1. lurvspanking says:

    Blushes???? Somehow, upon reading your ‘juicy’ prose, I can’t imagine you being flustered by my review – every word true – of your gorgeous novellas. You are precise and detailed w/o being clinical and I enjoyed reading this. Thank you for allowing me to peruse ‘Leanan Sidhe and the Wordsmith’ in advance. Now… about those pom-poms…

    Liked by 2 people

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