Solstice Spell

Mechele Armstrong

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A Druid cursed Rupert Donaldson into a half and half existence. By day, he’s white stag with an enormous rack. By night, he’s a man. And he has to make a woman love him by this year’s Winter Solstice or he wil...
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A Druid cursed Rupert Donaldson into a half and half existence. By day, he’s white stag with an enormous rack. By night, he’s a man. And he has to make a woman love him by this year’s Winter Solstice or he will remain trapped this way forever.

When newly divorced Gillian St. Charles moves in nearby, Rupert thinks he might have found his mate. Gillian is enchanted with the white stag, who hangs out in her yard, but wary of her mysterious neighbor. Still a gorgeous naked man is a gorgeous naked man and they share hot times in her hot tub.

Gill’s brother wants to bag the deer with the trophy-quality rack. If Rupe can’t make Gill fall in love, he might just end up venison.

Excerpt
The lights on the deck illuminated it enough so he could see. He took two steps closer. She was probably inside watching some TV or screwing a Mr. Blond. No way this goddess would be single.

A noise caught his attention. A splash.

He maneuvered to get a better look at the hot tub.

A head poked out, leaning back on the side. Blond hair shimmered in the lights. Had the hot tub not been raised, he never would have been able to see her.

The phone rang.

He heard the muffled curse and a long sigh. She lifted her head, then her whole body, to get out of the tub. And what a body it was. It had been spectacular hidden under clothes today, but nothing compared to the uncovered vision he saw now.

His blood froze, stopped rushing around his body, then kick-started and pumped faster than before. It heated to about the temperature of lava. Most of it swelled into his cock, which reminded him it had been over a year since it had seen action beyond his hand. His balls tightened into his body. Blue balls, oh, God.

Her hair hung in long golden ringlets. She’d had it up earlier, but it swept down almost to her waist. The body before him, tanned and firm, had “lickable” written on every rounded curve. No skinny supermodel, but a lush woman, hurried out of the tub. Her breasts hung heavy, bobbing as she stepped down from hot tub to deck. Her nipples were a rose color, dark and inviting him to suck them. His eyes focused on the place between the swells of her hips. A true blond. Sinking into her depths would be one screaming orgasm without the liquor.

He swallowed, took a step closer, then stopped. What the hell was he doing? She didn’t know him and probably wouldn’t appreciate a horny stranger.

She disappeared into the house, filling him with disappointment.

It fled when she strutted back out, not having covered up at all. She sat on the edge of the tub and poked her feet in the water.

Unable to hear the conversation, he watched. Not a bad way to spend the evening. His cock twitched, reminding him that while his eyes were feasting, other parts of him weren’t getting much.

She was beautiful. He’d been right when he’d said it.

Punching a button on the phone, she tossed it into a deck chair. A sigh rose and fell in her chest. One hand came up to run down her body. It stroked along her breasts, making several passes.

Oh, to be that hand.

A silent groan escaped his lips. Her skin would feel as if it were satin. She’d taste like a fine fruit, juicy and tangy. Her nipples would harden under his fingertips. Her hair would be silken as he held it in his fingers.

Her hand skirted down over her tummy. Craning his neck, he saw where it went. Where he wanted to go.

His hips shifted, rolling as breath swooshed out of his lungs. Her arm moved as she masturbated in front of him. If only he could see into the spot where her hand worked the flesh. She’d be pink. Wet. Hot. Her clit would lift in his fingertips. She’d be tight around his digits, then his cock.

Copyright © Mechele Armstrong

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