The Sea Devil: Erotica Under The Waves


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Dusk and Her Embrace

Now the bright-eyed mockery was on full display. I could not imagine how Keane had been able to bear him as a flatmate. Sorry for the hit to your inheritance, old boy. Seth Keane has made a mistake.


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He mocks a vampire, and just when he thinks he has managed to evade the monster—he knocks on the door of another. Yet there are horrors worse than death. Insanity can dine on human flesh as hungrily as any vampire. Fever Nights is the second volume in the Wound of the Rose Trilogy , a gay romance and paranormal adventure series.

A man was bending over a flowerbed. I blinked several times at him through the shimmering of fever. He straightened and looked at me as if I had said his name aloud. Long grey hair, a tall hat with a wide brim.

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Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up. Next to him was a wheelbarrow filled with clumps of dirt and greenery. Ravenshaw had been weeding his garden. For a moment, I was too shocked to move at the sight of this monster performing such a mundane chore. My hand came up like a spring, and I fired straight at his chest. The report nearly deafened me. My second shot struck his head. I could have ripped him apart with my hands for those words.

A spatter of blood flew out of his head and Ravenshaw spun around, landing on his face in the flowerbed. I nearly flew into the air. That had not been a sound to the ears, but a voice sent directly to my mind.

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Slowly, Ravenshaw lifted himself into a sitting position. He stood, then turned to face me. I could see the wound right where the bridge of the nose meets the brow, just above the eye socket. The bullet must have passed into his brain. Another messy wound was in his chest. He drew out his handkerchief and daubed at the injury while his other eye gave me a look of glaucous hate. In Victorian England, two young men cross paths in a public house.

Maurice Fitzpons, disgraced army officer and semi-professional rake, is in between careers. Both men are on the prowl. A chance meeting becomes a carnal night, and then a love. This is a tale of three vampires. One lusts for men. The second desires knowledge.

Cradle of Filth - A Gothic Romance (Red Roses for the Devil's Whore) Lyrics | SongMeanings

The third demands power—and slaves. Maurice and Seth find themselves targets, and to outwit these monsters, they must learn the shocking and unwholesome lore of the supernatural. His comment was not the sort I cared to hear in my delicate condition. The walls were hung with a masculine red tartan, bright and blaring to my tender, blinking eyes. We crept around each other painfully, our bare feet whispering on the wooden floor, washing our faces and hands in the basin and bumping into each other and groaning. I had to borrow a hairbrush and straight razor from Maurice.

Maurice was changing his shirt for something less slept-in, and he wrinkled his brow. My razor paused against my soapy throat, just under the chin. For an instant, I was tempted to use it for another purpose. This was awkward. Awkward beyond awkward. I was glad I was hungover. It helped dull the emotional blow.

I lost a bet with you at pocket billiards. You glided into that room of vultures like a swan. Finish your shave, Mr. Paris, the late 19th-century. Revolutionaries and Monarchists fight in the streets, and the painter Martin Grandjean joins the ranks of those hoping to re-establish the Old Republic.

He meets a mysterious young man called Ari and falls in love, only to see Ari taken prisoner. Everyone turns against Grandjean; his friends, his family, and even the government. But Grandjean is determined to find Ari, win his love, and make a life with him.


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Though a promising student of business, he has weak grades in his theology minor, and he needs to wow his professor with a dazzling fieldwork project for his Spiritual Formation class. Either he can do some counseling at a local hospital—or he can perform an exorcism. Naturally, Mark chooses the latter. Rating: Evening minuetto in a castle by the sea A jewel more radiant than the moon Lowered Her mask to me The sublimest creature the Gods, full of fire Would marvel at making their Queen Infusing the air with Her fragrant desire And my heart reeled with grave poetry From grace I fell in love with Her Scent and feline lure And jade woodland eyes that ushered in the impurest "Erotic, laden fantasies amid this warm Autumn night She lulled me away from the rich masquerade And together we clung in the bloodletting moonlight" Pearled luna, what spell didst thou cast on me?

Her icy kiss fervoured my neck Like whispering waves 'pon Acheron's beach In a whirl of sweet voices and statues That phantomed the dying trees This debauched seductress in black, took me In a pale azured dawn like Ligeia reborn I tore free of my sleep - sepulchre On the sea misted lawn where stone figures, forlorn Lamented the spectre of Her Bewildered and weak, yet with passion replete I hungered for past overtures The curse of unrest and her ardent caress Came much more than my soul could endure I, at once endeavoured to see Her again Stirring from midnight's inertia Knowing not even her name On a thin precipice over carnal abyss I danced like a blind acolyte Drunk on red wine, her dead lips on mine Suffused with the perfume of night For hours I scoured the surrounding grounds In vain that we might meet When storm clouds broke, ashened, fatigued I sought refuge in a cemeterty Sleep, usher dreams Taint to nightmares from a sunless nether Mistress of the dark I now know what thou art Screams haunt my sleep Dragged from nightmares thou hast wed together Lamia and Lemures Spawned thee leche To snare my flesh Portrait of the Dead Countess Deep stained pain that I had dreamt Flaunted demise, life's punishment Leaving little strength to seal this wretched tomb But poised nectar within my stirs Up feverous desire and morbid purpose to search Through cobwebbed drapery to where she swoons Goddess of the graveyard, of the tempest and moon In flawless fatal beauty her very visage compels Glimpses of a heaven where ghost companies fell To mourning the loss of god in blackest velvet Enrobed in their downfall like a swift silhouette "Fleeting, enshadowed Thou art privy to my sin Secrets dead, wouldst thou inflict The cruel daylights upon my skin?


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Dost thou not want to worship me With crimson sacrifice So my cunt may twitch against thy kiss And weep with new-found life? Dark angels taste my tears And whisper haunting requiems Softly to mine ear Need-fires have lured abominations here Nocturnal pulse My veins spill forth their waters Rent by lips I cherish most Awash on her perfidious shores Where drowning umbra o'er the stars Ebon's graves where lovers whore Like seraphim and Nahemah "Nahemah" Pluck out mine eyes, hasten, attest Blind reason against thee, Enchantress For I must know, art thou not death? My heart echoes bloodless and incensed

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