Something Else

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Something Else

Nia Farrell

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Only $2.99 for two smoking hot men and the psychic medium who’s been saving herself just for them.  A MMF ménage BDSM erotic romance.

 

Grace Murphy is the local psychic medium who dreams of her soulmates –Nico White, a bisexual American Indian musician, and J.T. Santiago, an ex-Navy SEAL and former cage fighter with PTSD on top of the guilt that he’s still carrying from other lifetimes that they’ve shared.  J.T. is a dominant, but he’s never had a male submissive and Grace and Nico are a package deal.  It’s a learning curve for all of them, with J.T.’s initiation into MMF and MM relations and Grace’s introduction to BDSM.  With Grace’s yin, J.T’s yang, and Nico’s center balance, the three of them come together as far as J.T.’s PTSD will allow, but forging a future means healing the past, however painful it might be, in an interracial paranormal MMF ménage BDSM erotic romance.

 

 

Sneak Peek

Nia Farrell's

Something Else

 

Six months later, I’m still waiting. I was right, dammit. Nico won’t even finger me. Says if we start that shit, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. So even on those nights in the two-bedroom lakeside cabin we now share, when the rising tide of passion threatens to shove aside the camaraderie that spans millenniums and carry us away, he won’t let it, insisting we’ve waited this long, we can wait a little longer.

How much longer? The question consumes me, every day and every fucking night, lying alone on sheets that beg to be anointed with sweat and saliva and cum.

I’ve had half a year to get to know Nico–Nicolas White–although he’s only one-fourth that. In some perverse quirk of fate, he writes music with my friend Anna, tribal with a twist. Nico claims that my sex goddess slut of a friend is like a little sister to him. Believing meant seeing it with my own eyes, but he truly is like her brother from another mother, only better. He’s always been there for her, even when her own family cut her off after refusing to accept her life choices.

Anna still has Nico one evening a week, on music writing night, but the rest of the time, he’s pretty much mine. He is immensely likeable. Smart. Witty. Intuitive. Charming when he wants to be social. Quiet when he needs to be alone. He’s an artist, after all. Introspective and occasionally riddled with angst. His element is air, to feed my fire and stir my water. Like the atmosphere, and the cosmos beyond that, he has layers and layers still waiting to be explored.

His body and face are things of beauty but his hands are what tempt me, and intrigue me the most. Large, strong, and capable, they are conduits of electricity, tenderness, and talent. Turns out, he made the flute he brought to the Irish festival, a custom order he was delivering to the guy vending Irish whistles near the main stage. Nico crafts, plays, records, and occasionally performs. I love to listen, love even more to watch him dance at powwows. In turn, I do my Irish step-dancing for him, less to keep in practice than in hopes the sight of my bouncing B-cups will crack his defenses and break him free long enough to get down and dirty with me before the wall goes back up.

So far, no luck.

This Saturday, we’re doing a one-day holistic fair at a nearby community center. It’s small, sponsored by a New Age shop whose merchandise will dominate the first bank of tables inside the door. Spaces are at least affordable, allowing us to come away with cash in hand instead of losing money after expenses–gas and hotel and prohibitive vendor fees. For twenty-five dollars each plus ten percent of sales, Nico will have a booth with his CDs and flutes, and I’ll be one of the readers.

Setup takes us half an hour, once we’ve checked in at the registration table and found our spaces. We’ve done this enough to have it down to a fucking science. The weather is a bit cool and the forecast calls for light rain, which means people will be looking for something to do indoors. Attendance is good, and the chair opposite me stays warm. During one reading, I recognize a tune carried by the PA system and smile to hear Nico’s performance. He’ll spend half an hour away from his booth, but the resulting sales are well worth it.

The thirty minute hourglass sands run out, and my client leaves. For once, no one is standing, waiting, giving off vibes of impatience that would disrupt a reading if I didn’t shield my booth. It doesn’t take a witch to do that kind of stuff, just a basic understanding of energy work. I close my eyes for a minute and smile. Indulging myself, for one stolen moment, I get lost in Nico’s music.

I open my eyes to meet his. Intense, curious, bemused, as dark and deep as the winter solstice night. His black eyes are the same shade as the length of his careless mane of hair, the unholy thickness of his long curling eyelashes, and his three-day-old growth of facial hair–the kind of beard that, Anna tells me, is optimum for eating pussy and will absolutely drive a woman wild.

He’s tall. Six-four, I guess, mentally comparing him to a boyfriend from college, who was about as useless as my degree in English. Four years of higher education just to work at a bookstore. At least there’s opportunity to turn people on to good literature.

Right now, he’s turning me on, with his leather biker’s jacket, leather pants, scuffed motorcycle boots, and caramel cheeks still ruddy from his early November ride. He looks part white, part Hispanic. Earthy as a fallen angel and just as elemental, built like a cage fighter and all alpha male.

He stands there for a long, promising moment, opens his jacket to reveal the bag of takeout food he’s smuggled in, and offers a half smile of regret. I’m not big on begging God for anything but all I can think is: Please don’t let him belong to someone else.

A pimple-faced teenager plops in the chair, a rude but timely interruption. I offer my Latino angel a consolation prize. “Later?” I breathe, speaking too softly to be heard above the noise of the crowd and Nico’s music but trusting that he’ll feel it anyway.

Please come back and find me. Find us.

Somehow I make it through the reading. The kid has some serious shit headed his way unless he changes things. His choice, but I gain satisfaction knowing that I’ve given him fair warning. It’s the same thing his parents have been telling him, but where he’s been tuning them out, he actually listens to me. He’s carrying over enough karma without adding to it, although I don’t tell him that. I want to, but a whisper in my ear tells me no, that he’ll learn on his own, when the time comes. Hopefully in a kinder, gentler way.

With the appearance of him, I feel the shift in my own energy, like he’s a generator crystal that’s amplified every sense, common or otherwise. My zipped perceptions are razor sharp, dead on accurate, and delivered with lightning speed. When half hour readings go to twenty minutes, I start giving discounts and the line never ends, not until the ten minute warning that the fair doors will be closing soon.

At five p.m., one of the New Age shop assistants starts walking the aisles, clearing the crowd and the room’s energy with a ringing pair of Tibetan tingshas. I smile my thanks when she manages to herd the last hopeful from my queue. Smile bigger yet when I see that my Latino angel has returned.

“Hi,” I say, sounding rather shy for someone who’s had no problem all day, delving deep into other people’s lives and issues.

His lips tuck upward, and he nods his head toward the back of the room. “I promised my cousin I’d help her. Lena says it’ll take an hour.”

Lena. Pretty face, rocking body, bedroom hair, tats. Amazing silver jewelry and unique leather goods. “I like her.” Actually, I envy her. I have gifts, but Lena has the skills to make her visions a reality. It’s what sets her stuff apart.

“She’s got to get home. Sick kid,” he explains. “Daddy’s challenged enough when Ariana’s a healthy two-year-old. I’ll be free once Lena’s on the road. Will you be around? I can meet you somewhere. We could grab a bite to eat. Talk. If not tonight, then later.”

Déjà vu. Six months ago, I’d said nearly the same things to Nico.

I suggest O’Toole’s, two blocks east. “Do you know it?”

He nods grudgingly, clearly not a fan of the Irish pub. Sensitive to his inner turmoil, I offer an alternative. “Or Jerry’s?” It’s a local bar and grill, edgier than sports and just shy of biker bar.

God, his smile. I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven.

“Jerry’s,” he says. “In an hour or so.”

I’m still processing when Nico comes to check on me. He’s moved our vending van and already has his stuff loaded, and I’ve done almost squat.

“Hey.” He touches me, sliding his darker fingers up my ivory arms until they reach my elbows. When his thumbs start rubbing circles in the bend of each arm, my root chakra kicks into overdrive, and my fucking knees grow weak.

“He’s here,” I whisper, damn close to trembling. “He’s meeting us at Jerry’s after six. Help me pack so we can go get a table.”

That time of night, on a Saturday, there’s usually a line out the door one or two blocks long. I know I have spiritual helping hands at work when we get there and are seated at a booth in the quieter back with only a fifteen minute wait.

I’ve said nothing more to Nico about Lena’s cousin. It occurs to me that I never asked and he never offered his name. We’ll all know each other soon enough, and way beyond a first-name basis.

Just thinking about what’s coming makes my panties wet enough to stick my dress to the worn wooden bench beneath me.

Our waitress, Cherry, slides coasters on the table and sets down our drinks, a bottle of pseudo beer for Nico and a glass of orange juice for me. I don’t want anything, either brewed from nature or crafted in a chemistry lab, to dull my senses tonight. No alcohol. No soda. Juice and water it is.

A menu sits to my right, waiting for him to show. Across from me, Nico scans both sides of the laminated page and sets it down, his decision already made. I take longer, wrestling with my baser meat-loving self when I know I should shun it, but really, where’s the fun in that? I turned vegan once in high school. It lasted all of two weeks, but I stayed quasi-vegetarian for three years. Dairy, eggs, and seafood gave me the protein I craved, but it took cutting out the warm blooded meat to raise my vibration and get it to where I needed it to be. Because that’s when the dreams started. Visions of the past lives we’ve shared. Memories of the three of us.

Poised on the brink of our next go-round, I have to wonder why we keep coming back like this, like frigging musketeers. Is it because we’re stronger together, or dysfunctional apart? Jesus, I’d like to think I don’t need them, but I know how much more, how much stronger I am since meeting Nico. My body thrums to think of what it will be like to have both of them with me.

In me.

Fuck.

When Nico smiles, I realize I’ve let it fly free. It flies again, out of my mouth, towards the door, where Lena’s cousin stands, scanning the room. He feels me. Sees me.

Disappointment flattens his smile when he notices Nico’s head and realizes we won’t be alone. Squaring his shoulders, he comes anyway, willing to share me if that’s what it takes. And it will. It will.

Having the two of them, belonging to them both–how can I settle for anything less?

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Nia Farrell has been writing for pleasure since junior high.  Now that she writes about pleasure, she can share the fantasy worlds she visits and introduce readers to characters who remain with her long after their tales are told.

When crafting a story, Nia draws upon a rich diversity of life experiences, which include singer/songwriter, prize winning needle artist, private pilot, Reiki Master/Teacher, crystal healer, psychic fair reader, jewelry maker, physician’s assistant, factory worker, waitress, genealogist, period reenactor, and children’s author.  If this life isn’t enough, there are plenty of others to choose from.  Otherwise, she devotes hours of research to subjects outside her realm, determined that her stories ring true.

Nia lives on a farm in Southern Illinois (far, far from Chicago, in the heart of “Little Egypt”).  A seventh generation Illinoisan, she is descended from Mayflower Pilgrims, American soldiers from the Revolutionary War to World War II, and Scottish nobility.  She enjoys playing in the past and visits Ren fairs and historical reenactments in period attire, sharing her love of history and her passion for music.  While her husband and two grown daughters may only read her nonfiction work, she appreciates their support in pursuing her dreams, one of which is being published in erotic romance. 

 



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