Silk's Vault Press
Do you believe in love before first sight?
Buy Trail of Feathers here!
Amy O'Brien had little love for her father, an eminent but absent anthropologist. His student Karl certainly makes her crazy with lust, but he too proves less than perfect when he uses her to further his work. Soon she is stuck in the Amazon on the trail of lost Inca treasure with Karl and his ruthless and fame-hungry partner Dominic.
As she dreams of ancient and erotic tribal ceremonies, Amy is captured by Richard, a pirate, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the man who disturbs her sleep. Richard is keeping even more secrets than everyone else in her life: he killed her father and fell in love with her from diary entries. Even as they both fight to save themselves from Inca sacrifice, they find themselves drawn even deeper into love.
Trail of Feathers is an Indiana Jones-style adventure, with romantic and erotic action spanning both sides of the Atlantic.
Amy stood very still, waiting.
There was a lull in the cacophony around them, a sudden dimming of the sound, and she found that every nerve in her body was straining to listen for him, to hear what his next move would be. She caught her breath, sharp in her throat, as she heard the whisper of heated air cut by a blade; and then, before she could move or speak or even think, he was behind her.
The leading edge of the sword glittered as it slid past her dazed eyes to rest, half-teasing, half-threatening, against her throat. The blade was keen, honed finely by an expert hand; but she had no desire to test its sharpness.
Instead she tried not to tremble. She failed when he leaned down and murmured in her ear, "So you like to watch, do you?"
His voice was smoky and rough, amused and wicked. It did funny things to her insides, and she shivered. "When the view is – is nice enough," Amy replied breathlessly. "S-sorry."
Now she could feel his warmth, sensed the power and strength of his body behind her, although all she could see was the sword. "You're not sorry at all."
His hair brushed her cheek and the side of her neck, leaving a damp trail across her skin, and her shiver turned into tiny tremors as he nuzzled at her ear. His breath was warm and ticklish against her neck, and Amy squirmed inwardly, hoping that he wouldn't notice her reaction.
His tongue flickered over the softness of her earlobe, catching her earring in a brief tug that brought a muffled moan to her lips; then he nibbled gently at her ear. Amy fought against the rise of arousal that flooded through her at this simple, complex touch.
"You mustn't do that," she said weakly.
There was the slightest scrape of stubble over her neck as he moved his head against hers. "Why not?"
"Because -" Amy remembered Karl and clung to the thought of him, "because my – my boyfriend is, uh, um, really close by and he's… jealous - and he's big. I mean tall."
She felt his lips curve in a smile, and his voice was huskier when he said, "You're a bad liar."
"Usually I'm a very good liar."
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich and deep. "Then something is distracting you, my sweet."
Amy coughed. "I wonder what that could be."
He angled the sword so that it brushed her skin lightly. "One of two things, I imagine…"
He lifted the sword away from her throat, and she breathed freely for a moment as she heard the hiss of the steel sheathed in its scabbard. "That leaves but one," he continued, taking her arm and turning her around.
Amy let him do it, curious to see what he looked like up close. His body she knew already; had committed its sleek, muscled lines to memory to feast over in her mind's eye at leisure. It was his face, his expression, that she wanted now. She looked up. He was tall, taller than Karl; slightly broader too, and she tried not to stare at his naked chest as she let her gaze wander upwards.
His features were fine and sharp, his nose and chin gently pointed and his brows dark and heavy over his eyes. His hair tangled thick and black over his forehead, apart from a single stripe of silver-white that ran from peak to crown, recording the evidence of the injury that had also damaged his left eye.
Amy knew it was dreadfully rude to stare, but she couldn't help it. His right eye was pale blue; the left was white and milky. A thin scar ran from his hairline into the eye socket, and then glanced away off his cheekbone. She had no idea how recent an injury it was, but the fact that the scar showed as a tight seam of whiter flesh against the gold of his skin suggested that it was at least a few years old.
Bizarrely, it was the scar that saved him from being too beautiful; instead, it made him look dangerous. Amy liked dangerous men, even if they were usually hazardous to one's health and happiness. The turmoil was always worth it. She found herself wondering who had so nearly cleaved his head in half, and what had become of them. He had been remarkable lucky to survive such an attack; either that, or he really could use that sword he'd held at her throat with idle grace. Perhaps a combination of the two – fortune favoured the brave; and no matter what else he was, this man did not look like a coward.
She realised that while she'd been looking at him, he had been studying her with just as much fascination, although there was something in his expression that made her wary.
Amy took a step back, watching his amused smile turn distinctly wolfish as he moved forwards, regaining far more ground than she'd yielded. She jumped as he slid his arms around her waist and brought her towards him; and then she jumped again at the feel of damp naked flesh beneath her hands.
Why the hell am I touching him? Amy puzzled for a second as she stroked his ribs and then inwards to the dark stripe of hair that led down beneath the hastily fastened leather trousers.
His skin was wet; the leather was wet; now her fingers were wet from touching him, yet still she couldn't stop herself. Something about him reminded her a little of Karl: they both had a body that expected, demanded, caresses. She turned her hand and slid it lower, under the waistband, her palm tickled by the soft hair on his stomach until her fingertips brushed wet, crisp curls and then solid heated flesh. Almost of its own volition, her hand wrapped about his cock, cradling him with the sort of awe that still had her gazing up at him, unsure of what or who he was.
His good eye sparked at her, amusement and lust reflected there, and he said, "You're a little – forward, aren't you?"
Amy blinked at him. "Who, me?"
"Just how forward are you going to be?"
"Maybe this is a form of self-defence," she said, tightening her grip on his erection in warning. He laughed, delighted. "But I am defenceless in your hands, sweetheart."
Amy blushed. "Don't be – don't be so clever."
"Clever? Hmm." He wriggled his hips slyly and she clenched her hand tighter as his cock pumped through her fingers, hot and hard. "In this situation, my dear, I bow to your… superior wisdom…"
And he lowered his head and kissed her, absolutely sure of her reaction. Amy supposed it was rather a given, considering where her hands were – but still, his certainty gave her a thrill of wickedness. He knew what he wanted; and at that moment, so did she.
He tasted of cigar smoke and the sweetness of chocolate; his mouth was hard and bruising, and the kiss was nothing like Karl's kisses. This was primal, urgent, a mating of spirit rather than reason.
Reason played little part in anything, Amy decided helplessly as he pushed her back against a straggling liana; his arms still wrapped around her. His knee nudged her legs apart, one long, muscled thigh sliding between. She moaned against his mouth, arching her back to press into him, rubbing herself along the smooth leather and feeling his cock twitch in response in her hand.
He broke the kiss to breathe her in, his tongue licking delicately at the beads of sweat that made her hair cling to her neck and shoulders as it worked free of the plaits. One hand stroked the curve of her waist; the other slipped down the back of her linen trousers, chasing the trickle of perspiration lower into the crease of her buttocks.
Amy gasped, squirming in his arms as if trying to escape such an intimate exploration; then she sank back against the tree as he kissed her again, his hand moving from her waist to unlace the ties on her trousers. Then, deliberately mimicking her earlier action on him, he turned his hand and slid it over her belly, beneath the thin lace of her panties, and between her thighs.
He paused, head cocked to one side in enquiry, his hands still and warm on her trembling body. Amy wasn't sure why she'd stopped him; maybe to heighten the glorious roar of anticipation that had made her wet for him the second he'd held the sword to her neck; maybe in the hope of rescue, or maybe -
"I don't even know your name," she finally said, when she could no longer bear the itch to have him, and when she couldn't bear to question her motives further.
He smiled - a naughty smile that had a malicious edge to it. "You can't tell me that you've never fucked a perfect stranger before, Miss O'Brien."
Perfect stranger. Yes, she thought; that's what he was… Then, with a snap of fear, she stared up at him. "How do you know my name?"