Bio:

Devyn Quinn lives in the scenic Southwest, though she has called several other states home. She is a huge fan of dark gothic literature, and read tons of books on history and biographies. She especially enjoys reading books on Hollywood before the 1960's. Now divorced (happily so), Devyn lives with her cats, four ferrets (yes, four!), and Shih Tzu, Tess.

Devyn debuted as a Kensington Books author with Flesh and the Devil in March 2007. Though she writes in both the contemporary and gothic genres, lately Devyn's attention has turned to very dark erotica. Most of her full length novels focus on the struggle of the ordinary person to accept extraordinary happenings in their lives-usually from a supernatural source. It is why she has recently tagged her writing "goth-erotica" and where she will focus her attention on her next single title releases with Kensington's Aphrodisia line. She currently has 7 more releases in the pipeline, including her Kith & Kynn books, Sins of the Flesh (Oct 07) and Sins of the Night (April 08).

Forthcoming titles:

Eros Island Anthology(Feb 08)
Sins of the Night (April 08)

FLESH AND THE DEVIL

By DEVYN QUINN

KENSINGTON BOOKS

Copyright © 2007 Devyn Quinn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780758216533




Chapter One

Taste the forbidden. The hunger was there.

The game he was playing was dangerous, but Brenden Wallace couldn't help himself. Part of the thrill of working undercover vice was the ability to live out the erotic fantasies he'd never risk trying in real life.

Brenden hardly dared to move. He didn't even breathe. Closing his eyes, he relished the smooth glide of silk circling his wrists. The soft bite of the fabric into his skin sent a chill whispering down his spine.

The touch of a fingertip tracing the curve of one ear caused the fine hairs on the back of his neck to rise. A voice of smoky rich timbre drawled, "Too tight?"

Brenden licked parched lips. "Tighter, honey. I want to feel the burn."

A tug on the scarf answered. Tightening. Binding. "Better?"

Arms stretched around the back of the chair he sat in, Brenden tested the strength of the knots. They held, solid and unyielding. The material chafed, a not-so-unpleasant sensation. "Yes."

His captor reappeared. The woman was a paid escort, hired for the evening. The service she worked for charged three hundred dollars for the pleasure of her company. He knew her business, didn't know her name, but by the look of her, she was worth every penny.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His penis stirred, cramped in the confines of his tight jeans. How far would this one go to entertain a lonely man? Having kinky sex wasn't illegal in Louisiana. It was only criminal if cash traded hands for erotic favors. Then it was prostitution.

And someone had to get arrested.

Looking at her, his thoughts veered from professional to personal. Tall and slim, she wore a tight, red dress, clinging to every lush curve and perfectly matching her bright red stiletto fuck-me pumps. No longer tied up with the scarf matching her outfit, her black hair cascaded around her shoulders like the spread of a raven's wings.

That scarf was around his wrists.

Taste the forbidden. To play his role believably, Brenden had to live it.

She smiled. "You like playing dangerous games?" Her parted lips revealed perfectly white teeth. The cuspids were slightly elongated and came to neat points, enhancing her hovering feline quality even more.

Heavy awareness pulsed through his veins. "It's part of the thrill that makes life worth living."

His words seemed to amuse.

She bent, parting his legs. As if lit from inside, she radiated heat that practically screamed wanton female. Screamed it loud enough to arouse the male animal in him to an unbearable degree. She wasn't wearing a bra and the thin fabric of her dress clung to her nipples, outlining their prominence.

Her warm palms moved up his inner thighs. "Maybe. Maybe not. The things we think are deadly sometimes really aren't." She guided the tip of her tongue to tease an incisor. "And the things we think safe are sometimes most deadly." Her words were menace cloaked in crushed velvet.

The intimate contact jarred. She was so close Brenden could smell her heat, the scent of her arousal. Potent and mysterious, the cloying odor was enhanced by the addition of some exotic oil. His erection pressed, thick and hard, against his tight jeans. Closing his eyes, he shifted in his seat, letting a ragged breath escape. Say one wrong word, make one false move and the entire investigation would be blown.

Concentrate, asshole.

Brenden opened his eyes, ready to take the plunge. It was all or nothing. "I'm willing to take that chance."

Pleased, she moved closer. Eyes the color of the sea shimmering under a midnight sky drew him in. Her fiery cinnamon lips were just inches away, slightly parted, moist and utterly enticing. "Are you really?"

"I'm ready for anything." He imagined her teeth raking down his most sensitive flesh. He had the feeling she could cause a lot of pain, and make it last in the most delicious of ways.

She glanced toward his crotch, his obvious arousal. "Do you want me?" Her hands were close, but not close enough to make contact. She was playing the tease for all it was worth.

"God, yes ..." Why lie? His body betrayed him. He'd already gone too far, torching every rule in the book. The lines between legal and illegal were blurring, the raw and open connection between them growing personal. What was wrong was beginning to feel too enticingly right.

She leaned in closer, pinning him down with an intensity that caused his skin to prickle. Brenden felt as if he was not just being probed, but explored. Every breath he drew singed his lungs. "I know what you crave." Her fingernails dug into his thighs, marking him as her own. "That secret desire gnawing at your heart is unsatisfied. I feel it inside you, waiting to be freed. Your soul is crying out for a fulfillment you dare not ask for."

Her words were spellbindingly, achingly true.

Feed the fetish. Aching with the need to climax, the notion was there. Hovering. Tempting.

Beckoning. Taste the forbidden. His own secret mantra thundered through his skull, pressured by the painful hammering of blood driven by lust. Body shuddering with excruciating sensitivity, he lost his grip. Want exploded into need. There was no turning back. "Show me how."

"You start like this." Her lips brushed his, tongue sliding easily past his lips, melding them together.

Protest died an easy death as control slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

Lost in the liquid pleasure, Brenden parried her thrusts, enjoying the tangle of mouth on mouth. Who was kissing or being kissed, he didn't care. No matter the consequences, he knew he'd wanted this to happen since she'd walked through the door, wanted this woman more than anything. Even his career.

Her tongue speared again, claiming and conquering, exploring every crevasse.

Brenden's cock surged, all molten heat and devouring hormones. Penetrated to the core. Pleasure gripped and squeezed him. Given free reign, carnal desire overrode his sanity. Everything missing in his life suddenly solidified into one defining thought: he needed this woman. He made the decision, prepared to sell his soul for a single night in her bed.

His hired escort wasn't buying. Murmuring something against his mouth, she ended the kiss. Warm lips trekked across his cheek. Her fingers brushed his long blond hair away from his ear. Her sharp tone shot a quick barb. "The only one getting fucked tonight is you."

Astonishment struck a sledgehammer blow. His stomach clenching around icy shards, Brenden's heart plummeted. Anxiety tied him into knots tighter than those around his wrists. Oh, Christ. Surely she hadn't ...

She had.

Brenden forced himself to meet her steady stare. Her face grew rigid, a smile of bitchy amusement frozen on her lips: half mischief, half naughty dominatrix. "The next time you want me to tie you up, Officer, ask for it on your own time."

Brenden sat for a moment, stunned, struggling to make sense of her words. When they finally did sink in, he started to rise. The chair came with him. Muttering a curse under his breath, he sat back down. Game. Point. Match. He'd been bested by a pro.

Stepping back, she pivoted on one slim heel. Claiming her purse from the nearby bureau, she walked to the door where she paused and turned. Her nose crinkled and a smile edged around the corners of her mouth. "I believe you have my number."

SINS OF THE FLESH

By DEVYN QUINN

APHRODISIA BOOKS

Copyright © 2007 Devyn Quinn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-2017-2

Chapter One

Warren, CA, Present Day

Once again, the night had come to its end. Dawn's grasping fingers had seized the earth's horizon, refusing to let the darkness have one more hour than necessary. Pale pink lashings began to illuminate the edges of the night's sky. All too soon the merciless sun would rule again.

Sprawled across a chaise lounge, Devon Carnavorn swirled the last of the sherry in his glass. "Another night gone," he muttered under his breath. "Wasted."

Clothing askew, reeking of sexual musk, he glanced around his den. A proliferation of naked bodies filled the space around him. The odor of bodies in motion fused with the cloying scent of sandalwood incense, burned in such quantity the air hazed. The sexes not only seemed mingle, but merge. Though no music played, several danced together in rhythmic slow motion. Others more engrossed in pleasure had commandeered sofas, chairs, even the floor to engage in heated lovemaking. Locked in intimate embrace, hands and mouths explored every inch.

Devon signed, frowning in displeasure. "It's getting to where I can't tell one night from the last." His life had turned into a big blur. He wasn't even really living. He simply existed.

Disgusted, he stood up, nearly tripping over the naked woman sprawled on the rug at his feet. Vague recognition registered. He'd fucked her. More than once, anally, orally, and in every other position he could think of.

Closing his eyes on a memory he didn't care to recall, his mouth twisted into a grimace of displeasure. The sight of her nude body did nothing to arouse him. He wondered what he'd seen in her beyond a tool to sate his hunger.

A low growl broke from his lips. "Nothing, damn it. Nothing." Instead of feeling satisfied, all he felt was hollow. The woman meant nothing, had made no impression. He didn't even know her name. In a few hours he wouldn't even remember her face. "God forgive me." A mean, grating laugh escaped him. "I never thought I'd be bored with immortality."

A bitter utterance, but true.

Devon's lips flattened into a hard line. Everything that should have been right in his life was wrong. Seriously wrong.

Feeling the closing of the walls around him, the pressure of too many living, breathing bodies, he needed to get out. If he didn't he'd start screaming. And never stop.

Pausing only to refill a glass emptied with alarming regularity nowadays, Devon wove his way toward the French doors leading into the back gardens.

Stepping outside, cool air scented with a fine morning's dew filled his nostrils. His head cleared a bit. Only the smallest of headaches remained.

Sipping his sherry, Devon watched the day begin its advance, wiping away shadows with a cruel hand. The quiet hours before the rest of the world awakened were the times he felt the loneliest, felt the emptiness inside the soul he'd pledged to the darkness. Soon, he'd have to seek shelter. During the day, his energies and paranormal abilities waned. As long as he stayed shielded he could move around with a fair amount of freedom, dashing from car to building unscathed should he have to venture out.

Lately, though, he'd toyed with the idea of not seeking sanctuary from the day.

Suicide tempted, but he'd always held back. Not because he wasn't strong enough. He didn't have to be strong to walk into the sun's light. He'd just walk, until the flesh had burned from his bones and his skin crumbled to dust. Such a death would be painful. Perhaps even a well-deserved penance.

Ariel had died, and he had survived.

Devon took a step forward, then a second. He couldn't take a third.

He stopped. Shaking the idea of self-immolation loose from its moorings, he stored it instead in that

secret place in the recesses of his mind. The Kynn were few and far between. The Amhais, the shadow stalkers, operated effectively. Driven by religious fanaticism, the vampire-hunters simply wouldn't let up or back off. He'd had one too many close calls himself. The human assassins were expert and all too willing to die for their cause.

To the Amhais, a vampire was a vampire. And vampires must be slain.

Air vanishing from his lungs, Devon felt his throat tighten. An icy shiver slid down his spine. Almost a century had passed since he'd lost Ariel to those ignorant fools.

Though hardly a man to weep and gnash his teeth in grief, he was given to days of deep depression, often seeing only futility in the long existence he now considered to be a curse. Immortality meant nothing when the time was spent alone, making his sire's loss no easier to bear. He thought he'd moved on since that time. He hadn't.

Devon closed his eyes. Just thinking of how Ariel had died made his head throb, the glass in his hand tremble. Fearing he'd faint, he lifted ice-cold fingers to his eyes, pressing hard against his lids. He and Ariel hadn't been together long, but the mark she'd left on him was indelibly etched on his brain like acid on glass.

Ariel had been his sire. His lover. She'd been everything.

They'd planned an eternity together. They'd had less than a decade. He'd never found another female who even came close to replacing her. The women who came into his life nowadays were just faces-bodies really. Drifting through, leaving no impression on his mind or his heart.

Once a hedonist in the fullest sense, there had been a time in his life when he couldn't restrain himself from seeking out sin. It was his nature. Life was meant to be enjoyed, the temptations of this earth too many.

Time had passed, though. Times had changed. Humans aged, grew old, died around him. Technology had changed, geography had shifted, cultures met and merged. Keeping up had never been a problem.

Until now.

At some point Devon couldn't quite identify, entropy had set in. The rot had wound around his senses and woven its poisonous vines around the very fibers of his being. The twin beasts of lust and greed had finally turned on him. Too much of a good thing didn't enhance. It decayed. Thirty-four when he'd ceased aging, he was barely through the first half of his second century. The life he'd once vowed to seize now bored him stiff.

Well, hell. Everything seemed wrong and nothing felt right. Were immortals supposed to have a mid-century life's crisis? Somehow he didn't think gold chains and a Lamborghini would solve this one.

Devon eyed the dangerous sun. His stomach suddenly felt queasy, his knees weak. So hot a moment ago, he now felt stone cold. Perspiration soaked his shirt, dotting his forehead. "You and I may yet be meeting again."

A voice from behind broke through. "Sir?"

Devon turned. Simpson, his manservant and closest confidant, stood behind him. Discrete and utterly reliable, Simpson could be counted on to do his job, his eyes open, his mouth shut.

Devon swallowed hard. Whether in relief or disappointment he couldn't be sure. His meeting with the glowing golden eye wouldn't come today. Tomorrow, perhaps. But not today.

"Have they gone?"

Grim faced and unsmiling, Simpson nodded briskly. "I've cleared them out."

Devon nodded. He hated nothing more than a house full of deadbeats hanging around. Orgy over, he wanted to be left alone. "And the young lady?" he asked, meaning his own recent fuck.

Simpson frowned. "Has been paid and sent on her way." His words simmered disapproval.

Devon sipped his sherry, hating what he had to say. "Suppose I shouldn't be dragging in all these strays." Not a question.

Simpson's lip dropped lower. "If I may say so, sir, it's dangerous to keep exposing yourself to the riffraff. Your reputation isn't highly regarded. One of these days-"

Tension knotting his shoulders, Devon cut him off. "I'm going to stumble, I know." Discretion had come to mean little lately.

Simpson snorted, eyeing him with more than a little annoyance. "A little more, ah, restraint on your part would go a long way toward salvaging your reputation. Word does get around about the goings-on here."

Brow wrinkling, Devon shrugged, unable to protest. Truth, all truth. Attempting to salvage his reputation would probably prove futile at this point. As one of the Kynn, he'd chosen not to limit his proclivities for sexual adventure. Quite the opposite. He'd exploited the vampire mythologies by founding a string of successful Goth-themed nightclubs. In doing so, he'd remade his fortune several times over. If problems arose, he employed a rich-man's solution: money.

One thing money couldn't buy was his peace of mind.

Or love.

Something I haven't truly had since Ariel was alive. He'd begun to doubt he'd ever have another chance at finding a second mate.

Thrusting the idea from his mind, Devon emptied his glass. The emptiness was eating him up inside. "I don't want to hear any more right now." His words ended the conversation then and there.

"Of course, Lord Carnavorn." Simpson only used Devon's title when displeased.

Lips pressing tightly, Devon pawed at his pounding temple. Oh hell. Let the old bugger be pissed off. Better pissed off than pissed on. His headache had taken on fresh strength, banging behind his eyes, which felt like they'd pop out of his skull. He'd drank too much, fucked too much, and felt like shit. Exhaustion had crept up on him, and he hadn't even realized it. Instead of feeling invigorated from his recent feed, he felt like concrete. Heavy, dull, and lifeless.

A touch of the sun on his skin sent him back into soothing shadows. Simpson followed. As if aware of his master's earlier thoughts, Simpson drew the blinds. They closed with a brisk snap, shielding him from the outside world but not his thoughts.

Devon wished he could simply close his eyes and go on to no particular destination, just quietly exist in limbo forever.

Simpson stood across from him, keeping his distance deliberate. "Are you all right, sir?"

A ridge of muscle tightened Devon's jaw. A painful sensation began to work its way through his neck and shoulders. "I'll be fine."

At least he hoped he would be.

Feeling the pressure of the night's exertions, Devon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Perhaps if he rubbed hard enough he could obliterate every brain cell in his head. Stop thinking. Stop breathing. Stop being.

Thinking of the empty bed waiting for him only depressed him more. He'd slept very little lately, mostly because he hated facing that desolate expanse of cold sheets. Despite the bevy of beautiful women he'd recently had at hand, he'd be going to bed alone.

Again.