Tag Archive: Rian Sheridan



In which Rian Aodán, kidnapped as an infant out from under the nose of his mother the Queen of the Demesne of Fire in the Fae Realm, is introduced to Purgatory, Washington, D.C.’s hottest all-male club.

Chapter Six

            “You are so fucking lucky I’m forbidden to kill a Fae.” Cuinn could feel the magick thrumming in his hand as he brought it back down to his side, the magick he’d been about to use to stop the heart of whoever had interrupted him.

            Tiernan, the bastard, didn’t so much as twitch. “One of these days, I’m going to remember to ask you just who has the balls to forbid you to do anything. But not right now.” The blond wasn’t really paying attention to Cuinn, his eyes were all for the naked Fae who moments earlier had been daring Cuinn to take what he wanted.

            Daring him. Daring. Him.

            Fuck, yes, he wanted Rian Aodán. Or whatever the hell the Prince Royal had been calling himself for the last twenty-one years. Wanted him badly enough he’d been ready to take him, give him exactly what he wanted without caring who saw. Though he’d paused, just for a heartbeat, as a shiver that wasn’t cold, or even lust, ran through him. Delight. He shivered again, now, remembering it. Fucking addictive. He knew enough to know this was the scair-anam bond at work. Already. Shit. I’m not ready.

            “You can quit staring now, your Lordship.” Or I can sandpaper your eyeballs, he barely managed not to add. SoulShare jealousy. Which he needed right now like he needed a third testicle. In the middle of his forehead. “Lord Tiernan Guaire, of the Demesne of Earth, meet Rian Aodán, Prince Royal of the Demesne of Fire.”

New year, new series — here’s a bit (unedited, of course!) from tonight’s work on Chapter 3 of Blowing Smoke. The Broken Pattern books pick up at the end of Firestorm (SoulShares #4), and I suppose the series title is a tiny bit of  a spoiler…

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Twinklebritches? And aren’t you up early?”
“Who says I’ve been to bed?” Conall was out of breath, and a little hoarse.
“Well, I suppose it could have been the kitchen table, or the sofa, or the middle of the dining room floor, but my money’s on the bed.”
Rian appeared in the bedroom doorway, grinning broadly and then pantomiming the insertion of a ball gag. Cuinn waved him off.
“Shows what you know, we were up on the roof.” The mage sounded not the least bit apologetic–he had three hundred years of involuntary celibacy to make up for, and he didn’t really care who knew it. “But we came down because I noticed something I thought you and the Prince might like to know, and I needed my phone. Didn’t want to give you an inferiority complex by Fading in unannounced.”
Rian’s smirk was almost too much for Cuinn to bear. You’re begging for a paddling. The thought was accompanied by narrowed eyes and pursed lips, though a true pout was more than he could manage at the moment.
Shite, I thought I was going to have to engrave you an invitation.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Cuinn’s comment to Conall was almost an afterthought.
He could almost hear the mage’s spring-green eyes rolling. “Look, I can always go back to what we were doing. Josh and I are learning yoga, and there are uses for a Sun Salutation undreamt of in your philosophy.” Low laughter sounded in the background; it always struck Cuinn as strange that the easy-going Josh took such delight in Conall’s randy nature. “But I just picked up on a disturbance in the Pattern, and you did say you wanted to know if that happened.”

I thought I’d celebrate the upcoming release of Deep Plunge with a taste of Book Four in the SoulShares, Firestorm. This is a bit from Chapter Two, where we meet Rian Sheridan, a Belfast lad with an interesting hobby. Just remember, this hasn’t been edited yet… Oh, and warning — just a little bit of adult content…

Feargal grunted, and let go of Rian’s hair to grip his shoulder. Which was a bit of a disappointment, but Rian couldn’t spare time to think about it just now, not when he couldn’t fecking breathe and the drumbeat in his cock put the Lambeg drums to shame. Sweat poured down his face, down his chest, over the trail of stars inked into his flesh that spiraled from shoulder to abs and pointed straight to his throbbing erection. In and out, slow and massive. Rian’s low moan felt like it started at his toes, and the burn was as close as one such as he was ever going to get to Heaven. Even better, this pain was touching the buried place that craved the hurt. He never knew when he’d catch that wave, what new or old torture would start that rush. This was going to be one of the magical times. Each slight movement of the clenched fist in his ass was bringing him closer, not to one release, but to two. Bliss, pure and uncut.
Until the movement stopped.
“Jesus feckin’ Christ, finish what ye started!”
The response wasn’t what he expected.
“Get that arm out of him unless you can live without it.”
The voice was not Feargal’s.