Bedtime, Playtime: Ellora's Cave (Paperback)

by Jaid Black (Author), Ruth D. Kerce (Author), Sherri L. King (Author)

Editorial Reviews

Product Description

In these three sensual tales of passion and pleasure, bedtime always means playtime....

Jaid Black

Warlord

While in Scotland on a business trip, tawny-haired, voluptuous Janet Duval suddenly finds herself transported back into a distant time, enslaved by barbaric, muscle-bound men. The piercing, commanding eyes of Janet's dark-haired captor reveal that he will have his way with her -- no matter how much she protests. But Euan, a fierce warrior, feels a genuine heartfelt passion for his stunning prisoner. And without warning, Janet is consumed with desire for her godlike lover.

Ruth D. Kerce

Adam 483: Man or Machine?

Porcelain-skinned beauty Tyree Samou, a senior officer aboard the mineral freighter HCS Jenway, has had several attempts on her life while in the line of duty. So her brother, the Ambassador of Jenway, assigns Adam 483, a security robot, to guard her every move. But Adam is more man than machine. Strapping and handsome, he is skilled in much more than security -- and can satisfy all her needs. Although Tyree is the one used to giving orders, now Adam is in command -- and ordering her to let him fulfill her most erotic fantasies.

Sherri L. King

Bachelorette

After a hurtful betrayal in college by her best friend and the man she thought she loved, brazen bombshell Catherine Stowe swore she'd never trust anyone again. But years later, as a makeup artist for a soap opera star, she meets Gideon Fevere -- a CIA agent turned bodyguard hired by her employer -- and everything changes. The moment Gideon lays eyes on Catherine, he vows to seduce her into a night of all-consuming passion. And a little lust may be just what she needs to believe in love again.

Step inside Ellora's Cave, where passions run wild and the sexiest fantasies come true....

www.EllorasCave.com

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Prologue

The Isle of Skye in the Scottish Highlands, 1052 AD

Euan Donald watched dispassionately as the decapitated body of the Hay fell lifelessly at his feet. Blood oozed out from where the laird's severed head had been but moments prior, pooling around him in a river of dark red.

Sheathing his sword, the Donald's dark head came up, his black eyes boring holes into the anxious faces of those Highlanders surrounding him. None would rebel. None would second-guess his decision to execute the Hay chieftain. None would dare.

'Twas not bravado on his part, not even ego. Not really.

'Twas simply the way of things, the territory that came with being the Lord of the Isles, the king of the Highlanders, a god unto himself. Euan's word was law, as it had always been, as had the word of his father, as had the word of his father's father, and so on.

At the age of five and thirty, Euan had been chieftain to the Donalds and Lord of the Isles for over fifteen years. The price of being the master of all he surveyed had been paid in full.

His six-foot-six-inch body was heavy with muscle and riddled with battle scars. The harsh angles of his face were chiseled into a stone-like façade and hinted at no compassion, no mercy for any who would come up against him. His eyes were as black as his hair, calculating pools of obsidian that broached no argument and conveyed no emotion at all.

To come up against the Donald was to die. This fact was one that kinsmen and Outlanders alike understood well.

Today, as he did on most days, Euan wore his plaid of muted blue and green, a large emerald brooch holding the material together at his shoulder. 'Twas a fitting banner for the man who ruled the Highlands with an iron fist and who dwelled on an island many said was close to the heavens themselves, for it was surrounded on all sides and in all views by a formation of impenetrable clouds.

"'Tis done then." Graeme Donald, youngest brother to Euan, nodded toward a bevy of soldiers, indicating 'twas time to remove the Hay's bloodied carcass from the great hall. Turning to scan the nervous faces of the clan chieftains behind him, he waved a hand toward them and bellowed, "Will another amongst ye dare tae steal from the Donald?"

Murmured nays floated throughout the great hall, all eyes shifting from the Hay's remains to Euan's stoic form.

Graeme's upper lip curled wryly. "Weel then, 'tis time tae make merry, aye? Ye came fer a feast and a feast ye shall have."

Oppressive silence filled the chamber for a suspended moment. None were certain what to make of such an odd declaration. They had come for a wedding feast, every last one of them. They had journeyed from the protection of their respective keeps to witness marriage rites betwixt the Lord of the Isles and the first-born daughter of the Hay.

Not a one amongst them had ever fathomed the possibility that Tavish Hay would refuse to deliver the Donald's betrothed to her own wedding. Not a one amongst them would have credited the notion that the Hay would have been daft enough to allow Moira to break her sacred agreement and run off to the northlands with the brother of a Viking jarl.

For that matter, not a one amongst them would have been lackwitted enough to deliver such news to the Donald himself. Nay. They would have run hightail in the opposite direction. But then the Hay had never been renowned for his thinking abilities.

At last the laird of the lesser MacPherson clan broke the uncomfortable s