Eros & Nymphe E-Book

Isabelle Noir

• Herausgeber: Isabelle Noir
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 75

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Let yourself be seduced into a world of passion and desire! Eros & Nymphe: Aphrodisiac Novellas whisks you away on a sensual journey through exotic localesfrom the sun-kissed beaches of the Côte dAzur to the icy heights of Antarctica. This collection of 13 tantalizing tales promises moments of pure ecstasy that will set your senses ablaze.Join men like Erik, who experiences a night of devotion at McMurdo Station, enveloped in soft Angora and the warmth of a fur blanket. Feel the tension as silk caresses skin in a Tuscan villa or champagne teases the lips above the clouds of Madeira. Each novella is a dance of the sensesfrom nylon fetishes in Munich to passionate encounters in the Kornati Islandsinviting you to explore the boundaries of lust. With a touch of elegance and a spark of the forbidden, this collection offers pure erotica for the discerning reader. Dive into stories that bring the night to life and discover how far desire can carry you. Perfect for men eager to ignite the fire of passion. Highlights: 13 aphrodisiac novellas brimming with sensuality. Exotic settings from Tuscany to Antarctica. Fetish elements like Angora, silk, and champagne. Crafted for men who love lust and fantasy. Buy now and set the night ablaze!

Leseprobe

Eros & Nymphe

Aphrodisiac Novellas

Isabelle Noir

Prologue: Whispers of Desire

The night is a whisper, calling to the bold. In the Tuscan hills, where wine kisses longing, in the icy nights of Antarctica, where auroras caress the skin, or above the clouds of Madeira, where champagne enchants the senses—passion burns everywhere, soft as angora, fiery as a stolen promise. I am a traveler, caught in the magic of desire, a man chasing forbidden pleasures. How far, you wonder, can lust carry you?

Each of these stories is a spark that shatters the cold. In a Tuscan villa, silk clings to warm skin; in a Viennese snowstorm, leather boots gleam; at McMurdo Station, a cream-colored angora top becomes the vow of the night. The world is a playground of the senses—a drop of champagne dancing on the tongue, a fur blanket caressing the skin, a hint of sandalwood filling the air.

These novellas are more than words; they are a dance of fantasy, a call to the longing within you.

Do you feel the pulse of the night? Can a kiss in the ice ignite the stars? These stories invite you to cross boundaries, to savor moments where time stands still and desire reigns. Dive in, let go, and discover how far the night will carry you.

Waves of Surrender

The Amalfi Coast sparkled like a jewel under the midday sun as the Aurora, my 60-meter yacht, docked in Porto Cervo’s harbor. For weeks, I had planned this voyage—not just to escape Rome’s bustle, but to draw closer to Amara Laveau. She had been by my side for only three weeks, a perfumer whose creations sent Paris’s elite into ecstasy. Her amber eyes gleamed as she stepped onto the Aurora’s deck, her raven hair dancing in the sea breeze. “Rafael, this is… incredible,” she whispered, her voice a promise.

The yacht’s handover was routine—Porto Cervo’s staff knew my tastes. A light rain drove us to a harbor restaurant that first evening, where we savored oysters and champagne under twinkling chandeliers. Exhausted from the journey and the electric tension of our budding liaison, we retired to separate cabins, the Aurora’s mahogany walls enveloping us like a cocoon.

Morning greeted me with the aroma of freshly brewed espresso. Amara had set the sundeck table: croissants, orange marmalade, a pitcher of chilled juice. She wore a light linen dress that highlighted her bronzed skin, smiling as the sun chased away the night’s rain. “Look, Rafael—the light on the water!” Her enthusiasm was infectious, and my heart raced. We had kissed, but I hadn’t yet crossed the threshold to more. Today, I sensed, everything would change.

After breakfast, I handled formalities while Amara washed dishes in the galley, her movements graceful as a dancer’s. When I returned, she stole my breath. Her emerald-green bikini hugged her curves, her hair cascading in soft waves over her shoulders. “Ready to cast off?” I asked, my voice rougher than intended. She nodded, a mischievous smile on her lips.

With 12 knots of wind, we set sail, the Aurora gliding out of the harbor toward a hidden cove off Capri. Amara listened, rapt, as I explained setting the mainsail and jib, her fingers brushing mine as she checked the lines. The sun blazed, the sea shimmered, and her nearness set my blood racing. For three hours, we sailed, talking of the sea, life, art—but her glances, her fleeting touches, spoke another language.

In the cove, we furled the sails. I handed Amara a cocktail—gin, lemon, a hint of rosemary—in a crystal glass. “To freedom,” I murmured, her eyes locking onto mine. Suddenly, she pulled me close, her kiss a storm breaking the silence. Her lips were warm, demanding, a promise of more. A hot shiver ran through me, my arousal barely concealed as her fingers grazed my arm.

My hands found her neck, slid over her shoulders, down her back to the edge of her bikini. She sighed softly as my fingers brushed her thigh, then her flat stomach. The bikini fabric was gossamer-thin, a hint of her arousal glinting in the sunlight. Her hand slid over my thigh, grazing the bulge in my swim trunks. I flinched, a soft moan escaping me.

Emboldened, she deepened her touch, her fingers deft, insistent. I kissed her neck, my lips gliding over her bronzed skin until I reached the soft swell of her breast. With a gentle tug, I untied her bikini top, her breasts bared in the golden light. Our eyes met, a silent agreement. Her hand guided mine to her center, where the heat of her desire pulsed.

The yacht rocked gently as I slid her bikini bottom aside, her glistening folds betraying her longing. She trembled under my touch, her breaths quickening. My fingers explored her—gently, then more insistently—until a shudder coursed through her. She pulled me closer, her hand gripping my hardness, stroking with a mix of tenderness and resolve. Words were unnecessary—our bodies spoke.

I laid her gently on the sundeck’s cushioned pillows, the sea lapping against the hull. My lips traced the inside of her thighs, nearing her core. My tongue grazed her most sensitive spot, her moans echoing over the water. Her hands tangled in my hair, her legs wrapping around me as a wave of her ecstasy coated my lips. Her body arched, a soft cry escaping before she collapsed, her eyes brimming with surrender.

Amara pulled me up, kissed me, tasting herself. Her fingers found my hardness, guiding me with a blend of tenderness and urgency. She sat up, laid me on the pillows, and knelt over me. Slowly, she lowered herself, taking me in, a moan escaping us both. Her movements were a dance, synchronized with the rocking waves. I couldn’t hold back, crying out my release as I spilled into her, her rhythm enveloping my senses.

Exhausted, she collapsed onto me, her breath warm against my neck. A gust—the wind had shifted. Laughing, we adjusted the sails, steering toward the cove. The sun dipped, painting the sky in red and gold. Amara sat beside me, brushing a kiss on my cheek. “That was… more than I ever dreamed,” she whispered. I wrapped my arm around her as the Aurora dropped anchor.

Fire of Tuscany

The serpentine road wound through the Tuscan hills, jagged cliffs to the right, a valley shimmering silver in the morning light to the left. Matteo Valenti steered his Tesla Model S Plaid with calm precision, the curves a familiar game. The seats, upholstered in exclusive Desserto vegan leather made from cactus fibers—a deep red, soft fabric that felt like a second skin under his fingers—reflected his passion for sustainable luxury.

He had set out early to escape the August heat, bound for his Renaissance villa above San Gimignano, a sanctuary he’d impulsively bought a decade ago. With marble floors, ancient frescoes, and a terrace overlooking vineyards and cypress-lined avenues, the villa was his haven—especially after the failed love that had cloaked him in solitude for six years.

After an overnight stay in a Kitzbühel chalet, Matteo had savored the drive, stopping at a small winery near Florence to buy a bottle of Brunello and fresh figs. By noon, he paused in Cortona to stock up. The heat shimmered over the asphalt, but the supermarket’s cool air greeted him. He grabbed truffle oil and burrata when a voice in German asked, “Do you speak Italian?”

Matteo turned to meet emerald-green eyes framed by auburn curls dancing in the light. Freckles dusted her nose, her smile a blend of mischief and charm. “Well enough,” he replied, a smile tugging at his lips. “How can I help?”

“I need a taxi to La Dogana,” she explained. “My car’s in the shop, and the driver doesn’t understand me.” She was Clara Moreau, 32, a wine critic from Bordeaux, en route to Apulia until a radiator failure derailed her plans. “I’m Matteo, architect and art collector from Rome,” he introduced himself. “La Dogana’s on my way. I have a villa above San Gimignano. If you’d like, you’re my guest until your car’s ready.”

Clara hesitated, her eyes studying him—curious, with a hint of challenge. “You’re alone in a villa?” “A retreat, not a palace,” he smiled. “Come see. If you don’t like it, I’ll drive you to a pension.” He gestured to her suitcase and carry-on. “Clara, from Bordeaux,” she replied, offering her hand. “Deal.”

The drive to the villa was a dance of curves and conversation. Clara spoke of her love for Tuscan wines—Brunello, Vino Nobile—while Matteo navigated the gravel path, the Tesla gliding silently. At the villa, her breath caught. It lay like a jewel above the vineyards, the infinity pool mirroring the sky, cypresses standing sentinel. “This is… a dream,” she whispered, her voice soft as velvet.

“No dream, just stone and passion,” Matteo said. “Split the cost of dinner, that’s enough. The well provides water, the solar panels power.” He showed her the villa—the courtyard with its fountain, the private winery, the bedroom with a silk-canopied bed. “The north room’s yours,” he said. “Cool, with a view of the valley.”

Clara was overwhelmed. The room, with antique furniture and stone floors, was a haven. “This is too much,” she murmured, her eyes gleaming. “If you don’t like it, I’ll drive you back,” Matteo said warmly. “I just want company for dinner.” Her smile reassured him. “Thank you, Matteo. I’ll stay.”