Erotica Fantastica

When Rhiannon came to, the sky was growing dark. She quickly tried to gain some sense of her whereabouts. She'd fallen about five feet, as deep as she was high, into a peat bog. Her leg was pulsing with pain, as was her head. She thumped the earth with her fist, incensed. She'd pulled something in her calf, a sprain, at the very least. Glancing down she struggled to see in the gloom. The fabric of her combat pants was ripped to shreds around the painful area and up as far as her knee. Her shirt was torn too and her chest was exposed and badly scratched. Blood darkened the rip in her pants and she swore again. She needed medical attention, but how was she going to get out of this bloody ditch?

Raw fear hit her. She was out on the moor and dusk was fast turning into night. The folklore witches were probably the least of her worries. Who knew what madmen were out here? Never mind the UFOs, more recent reports of big, wild cats preying on the local farms had hit the news. The tradition of the dark moor had called to her regardless, that fatal attraction of fear and desire latching her to the place, beckoning to her relentlessly. It was no one's fault but her own, whatever happened. Hot, futile tears stung the back of her eyes. She'd strayed from the path today, and she'd found the rock marking the lay lines. It felt significant, and she was afraid.

The sound of footsteps focused her. She recalled the sound from earlier. Had she dreamed it?

"Hello?" It was a feeble effort that caught in her throat. There was someone else out here, but she wasn't at all sure if that was a good thing or not. Friend or foe? That's what they called out during the war. Halt, who goes there, halt, friend or foe? As if any fool would say "Foe," and get shot on the spot. So she didn't ask if it was friend or foe, she just hoped, and prayed to a god she didn't believe in.

A dark shape blocked out the remaining light—a figure looking down at her.

Fear built into a solid wall at her back. Looming and silent, its posture suggested a creature about to pounce. It made her think of the local TV news, a man scared witless by what he thought was a big cat, an escaped panther the reporter had suggested a few weeks back. Was she going to find out why that man had been so afraid?

The figure moved across her line of vision, squatted and leapt—on all fours. She gulped for oxygen, her heart hitting panic rate, and her mouth drying. It thudded down into the ditch, the dark shape moving toward her, but as it did, light spilled behind it, haloing it. Moonlight. Had she been out that long?

"Please, don't hurt me." Her voice was barely audible.

The creature, whatever it was, started to move towards her leg, where it was hurting so badly. Oh, no. She could feel it touching her, moving against her, nudging up the torn fabric of her combat pants. She writhed when she felt the flap of torn fabric lifting and then the rasp of a hot, damp tongue over her sensitized flesh, broad and wet.

Healing you now.

The words shot through her mind as her hands grasped at the earth.

When she tried to rise up the creature moved, swift and sure, and began to run his nose along the length of her leg, toward her groin, like a wild animal in heat. Vulnerability and humiliation suffused her. Every nerve ending was wired, her blood rushing. She had to do something. She lifted up on her elbows and as she did, she came face to face with him.

He — undeniably he — was feral, wild as the moor itself, but she recognized him as the man she had dreamed about. He was strong and he captured her easily, his body squatting over hers, as fit and feral as a big wild cat, pure feline. His eyes glinted black in the moonlight, his hair long and unkempt shrouded his face, his clothing covered in a long cloak making his shape indistinct. He cocked his head on one side, and opened his mouth, breathing in her scent across his tongue, audibly rasping it in. Never had she felt so much the object of someone's attention. Someone, or something. His face, to all intents and purposes was human, and yet…

"Edgar?" The question came out of somewhere deep inside her, and she reached out and touched his shoulder, instinct driving her.

His head lifted and he nodded at her. That simple sign sent relief flooding through her. His eyes glistened with some secret inner power. The spirit of the moor? The suggestion whispered around her mind. Was he the truth behind the big cat reports, this feral, half-man creature? "You are Edgar, and you are in my dreams."

A sense of calm descended on her, briefly.

He growled low in his throat, his hands clutching at her arms roughly, as if pleading for more, her recognition affecting him visibly. Then his head dropped back, and she saw his strangely handsome face in the moonlight. His lips lifted back and he bared his teeth.

When she saw the fangs, her blood pressure dropped away to nothing.

She was jolted back again barely moments later, because he hauled her body over his shoulder and lifted her. Rhiannon was afraid, but clung to him instinctively. Am I dreaming again? No, the thud of his booted feet on the ground reverberated through them both. He moved fast, scrabbling out of the ditch with her body easily latched over his shoulder. His strength seemed superhuman. He half-ran across the moor and she clutched at the cloak on his back, jolting, pain and fear coursing through her.

Eventually the path became easier and he wound his way between outcrops of jagged rock. He paused, then mounted steps and kicked open a door. Rhiannon clutched at his back, twisting her head from side to side to catch sight of their whereabouts. Dark as it was, she recognized it. It was the house from her dreams, and he had taken her inside.

The long, ostentatious hallway was covered by several of his easy strides. Agile and fast, he climbed the stairs and took her to a large bedchamber where he laid her out on a bed. Candles flickered in sconces on the walls, but he pulled open heavy velvet curtains and she found herself in the spotlight of the moon.

When her eyes flashed shut for a moment, she knew she had been here before. Strange memories fled through her mind. Memories of waking in this bed, waking in her lover's arms, happy. The house was well lit and furnished, a happy place filled with love and laughter. And she saw him, Edgar, as he had been. Handsome and powerful, dark eyed and determined as he wooed and seduced her.

This is my room, my home.

How could it be? She forced the strange images away, denying them. When her eyes opened, a cry was lodged in her throat.

The light filtered through his straggling hair, outlining his form. She swallowed hard when she realized how vulnerable she was. Then he bent over her and lifted the hem of her shirt, hauling it up and off, baring her flesh as he cast it aside.

Rhiannon shivered under his scrutiny, her hands instinctively reaching to cover her bare breasts. There was no hiding from this man, if that is what he was. His wild aura was powerful and demanding. There seemed no one else to help her, no voices came from beyond the walls of the room, and the ghostly candles offered the only sign of movement beyond him. Did he live here alone, way out on the moor?

"Please..." Even as she whispered the plea, she was not sure what it was she asked for. His presence had affected her strangely. The pulse point deep at her center thudded violently, stimuli from this strange encounter weaving its own spell upon her baser instincts. I should be afraid, I should try to escape, but I cannot.

There was an undeniable lure between them though, a sense of need so primitive and powerful that it would not be quelled. Rhiannon reached out and touched the side of his face. The brusque rub of his stubble sent a charge through her fingert

ips, startling her. He let out a gruff sound in response, turning to kiss her fingertips, his hand enclosing hers where it touched him. His actions set lose a strange yearning deep within, and memories of the sexual release she had found in her dreams flooded her, making her body grow hot and tremble.

"Mine." The single word he uttered was barely audible, delivered in a deep, unearthly rumble as it was. His hands arrested her waist as he said it, and he narrowed his eyes. His head lifted, his nostrils flaring as if seeking the source of a scent on the atmosphere nearby. With one hand he tugged at her fly, pulling her pants open.