Storm Season: Olympic Cove, #1

By Nicola Cameron

Ian West had his summer all planned out — go down to Florida, stay in his family's beach cottage on Olympic Cove, and work on his science fiction novel. But his plans get thrown for a loop when gorgeous twin sea gods Bythos and Aphros show up in the cove and inform him he's their fated consort.

As if that wasn't enough, something in the Gulf of Mexico is turning mermaids into legendary monsters and gods into demons. Now, Ian not only has to navigate the complicated waters of a ménage relationship with twin sea gods, he also has to stop an insane deity and save the whole damn planet.

No pressure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicola M. Cameron
• Release date: Jun 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463892404

Nicola Cameron

Nicola Cameron is a married woman of a certain age who really likes writing about science fiction, fantasy, and romance. When not writing about those things, she likes to make Stuff™. And she may be rather fond of absinthe. While possessing a healthy interest in romance (and sex) since puberty, it wasn't until 2012 that she decided to write about it. The skills picked up during her SF writing career transferred quite nicely to speculative romance. Her To Be Written work queue currently stands at around nineteen books, and her mojito-sodden Muse swans in from Bali every so often to add to the list, cackling to herself all the while.

Book preview

1

Ian woke with a gasp, staring blindly at the bedroom ceiling as the orgasm slammed into him. One hand was already in his boxers, frantically stroking his spurting cock as warm semen soaked into the fly. He groaned as he pumped out the last few dribbles, his body twitching from the aftershocks.

Fuck, he panted, tilting his head back into the sweaty pillow. Fuck.

A wet dream. He’d had a wet dream, at the grand old age of thirty-nine. Struggling, he kicked off the hotel blanket, staring down at the spreading patch on his boxers. Even half-awake, he was shocked at how hard he’d come, the aching sense of relief in his balls.

What the actual hell? It didn’t make any sense. He hadn’t had sex in the last year since his wife Diana died, true, but he jerked off when he felt like it. There was no reason for his balls to try and turn themselves inside out like that, especially in his sleep.

Although it was, without a doubt, the hottest wet dream he’d ever had.

Wriggling the boxers down, he yanked them off and wiped at the sticky mess matting his pubic hair. On the one hand, he could ignore it and go back to sleep. On the other hand, dried semen was like an organic version of rubber cement.

With a sigh, he got out of bed and trudged across the hotel room to the tiny bathroom. Like the bedroom, it was clean but bland, featuring typical Florida hotel décor of waves, starfish, and other sea creatures. Grabbing a washcloth, he ran it under the hot tap and rubbed the now-soaked terrycloth over his groin, catching a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. Short blondish hair sticking up, eyes swollen and blinky from sleep, buck-ass naked, and wiping nocturnal semen out of his pubes. Yeah, that’s a good look for you, dude.

Smirking at himself, he made a mental note to leave an extra large tip for the maid, in case anything landed on the sheets. At least he was only in the hotel for one night. By tomorrow, he’d be in the family cottage on Olympic Cove. After that, any laundry accidents were his own business.

His sister Angie had inherited the cottage, the vacation getaway for three generations of Wests, from their parents. Normally she rented it out for most of every summer, setting aside a two-week block for family stays, and he’d been surprised at her call offering him full use of the cottage from June to September. Problem is, the economy pretty much tanked the vacation rental business, she’d said. And nobody in the family can afford to take off for an entire summer apart from you. So if you want it, it’s yours.

The tiny sting of envy in her voice still bothered him. The only reason he could afford to spend the summer in the cottage was Diana’s generous insurance policy, which had allowed him to become a full-time writer. Before that, he’d worked as a technical writer for a large telecommunications firm, writing science fiction stories at night and during his lunch breaks. He’d racked up a steady string of sales and was starting to make a name for himself when Diana died in a car accident.

The dull, familiar ache of grief flared in his chest, and he blinked hard. Given a choice, he’d throw the money in a furnace and not think twice about it if it meant having Diana back.

He stared down at the washcloth and the faint pearly smears on it. Another memory came to him, of their wedding night. Diana giggling like a loon as she upended most of a can of whipped cream over his erection before licking it off him with long, deliberate strokes of her tongue. After he’d returned the favor and they’d fucked themselves silly, they’d staggered into the large hotel shower stall to rinse off the gooey trails smeared all over their bodies. Unfortunately there hadn’t been a solution for the now-sticky sheet so they spent the rest of the night sleeping on a stripped mattress, the sheet rolled in a ball and placed in the shower stall with the wet towels. He’d tipped the maid extra that time, too.

You would have loved it here, babe. He had always meant to bring her down here for a vacation, but there never seemed to be enough time. And now he’d never watch her splash in the ocean, wake up in the cottage’s master bedroom, sit on the back porch reading one of her favorite thrillers while he tapped away on his laptop.

He leaned against the sink, trying to let the grief pass through him. The pain of her loss was still there, oh yes, but it had receded from the iron-spiked agony it had been those first few months into something more bearable. He was finally getting used to the phantom limb sensation in his life, the wife-shaped hole in his heart. That return of functionality, limited as it was, had prompted him to finish Greenstrike, the SF thriller he’d been working on at the time of her death. Diana had been unceasingly supportive of his fiction career, so it was appropriate that his first novel would also be his tribute to the beautiful, gutsy woman who’d shared his life for ten years.

He tossed the washcloth over the tub rim and dried off with one of the scratchy hotel towels. Faced with the thought of digging out a clean pair of boxers from his suitcase, he decided against it and crawled back into bed naked. With luck, there would be no more impromptu dream orgies. Hotel laundry costs were a worse nightmare than anything his subconscious could throw at him.

Although that wet dream had been anything but a nightmare.

He floated in the warm water, letting the waves rock him. His eyes were closed, but he could see the red-tinged glow of the sun through his eyelids. He knew if he opened them now, everything would appear whitewashed, dreamlike. He wanted to lie back, float away, never come back—

Beloved.

A hand trailed down his stomach, teasing and stroking the skin there. It paused above his groin, and he groaned a bit at the hesitation. He wanted the hand to move down further, touch his cock, play with him. Make him come so hard he’d scream.

All in good time, a soft baritone murmured.

Another hand crept up between his legs, cradling his sac and rolling his balls in a broad palm. He let his head be tipped back, water rising into his hair. Lips brushed against his, gently, then with more intent.

He gave into the kiss, opening to his unseen lover’s mouth. Warm lips parted his own, and a skilled tongue lured him into a sensual, swirling dance.

Unexpectedly, he felt a second mouth on his cock. He moaned in surprise as an equally skilled tongue swirled around the head, teasing the bundle of nerves underneath. It licked down the shaft, pausing long enough to lap at his balls before coming back up in a long, slow stroke. He could feel the soft prickle of a short beard against his sac, just this side of ticklish.

And then lips tightened around his cock. His second lover’s mouth began to slide up and down, setting his nerves on fire, that wicked tongue slicking along the underside like wet velvet.

As if one lover devouring his mouth and another on his cock weren’t enough, someone’s fingers now circled his nipples, gently tweaking them. He whimpered in pleasure, torn among all the sensations.

The baritone purred against his lips. So responsive. You’re beautiful, beloved.

The mouth on his cock disappeared, replaced by a hand. Not to mention delicious, said a lighter tenor. We’ve searched for you for a long time, love.

Two men. Eyes still closed, Ian squirmed in their embrace, moving so that he could feel their bodies against his. He hadn’t had sex with a man in over twelve years, and he’d never had two men at the same time. Hell, Diana used to tease him about arranging a threesome, claiming that Ian needed more than one lover to blunt his overactive sex drive—

The light dimmed, as if a cloud passed over the sun.

You’ve mourned her for so long, Ian. Let us take away the pain. Let us love you, the baritone said. Plush lips came down again, tongue flickering into his mouth. He sucked at it, hearing the other man groan at the sensation.

The tenor went back to his task, one hand wrapped around the base of Ian’s cock as he lapped and sucked at the shaft. The friction from smooth, firm lips and a deliciously wet mouth became electric, reaching down into Ian’s balls and spine.

And then that tongue (so long, Ian thought, no one could have a tongue that long) dipped into his slit, tasting the pre-come there, sliding under the ridge oh so nicely. The tenor began to work the plummy head with greedy little slurps, his hand sliding up and down the shaft in a fast stroke. And then he sucked hard, cheeks hollowing so that Ian could feel the soft tissue against his shaft—

He cried out, back bowing as his orgasm spurted into that hungry mouth. The baritone cradled him through it, whispering sweetly filthy things against his lips as the tenor swallowed and swallowed, humming and searching for more. Never stop so good need you love you oh God oh God—

And then he’d woken up.

Now he turned over, doing his best to ignore the lingering pleasure in his groin. Forget the fucking dream already and go back to sleep. You’ve got to meet that rental manager in the morning, and then you’ve got to get the place stocked. They’d keep it clean, right? Never mind, I can clean if I have to...

His brain finally took pity on him and he drifted off to sleep. In his subconscious, however, the memory of his dream lovers lingered.

Where is everyone? Ian asked, glancing around the empty beach.

Yes, about that, Marcia Kuttner said with a sigh. The manager of Atlantic Holiday Rentals was a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a deep brown complexion and grey-streaked hair cropped close. Her linen jacket and skirt looked slightly out of place against the backdrop of palm trees, but the flat sandals she wore proved that she was a veteran of impromptu beach walks. I’m afraid we’re having something of a slow year right now, Mr. West. The economy, more people taking stay-cations, that sort of thing. I’m sure we’ll be able to rent out the other cottages in June or July, but at the moment—well, you’re the only resident here.

So I see. Still out of sorts from the dream, he’d grabbed a quick breakfast at the hotel before heading out to meet the manager from the rental company Angie had hired. To his relief, Ms. Kuttner was a competent caretaker and the West cottage, a blue and white Craftsman-style building, looked to be in decent condition. It had taken a few minutes before he realized what was bothering him. Even in early May, there should have been people puttering around their cottages, kids playing in the surf, sun worshipers working on their tans. But except for himself and Ms. Kuttner, the cove was completely empty.

He studied the other cottages now, a staggered arc of brightly colored buildings facing the blue ocean. This seems so weird, he continued. When I was a kid, this place was always packed.

I know. Even a couple of years ago, we had waiting lists for the cottages. Now— She gestured wearily at the empty houses. And of course, it doesn’t help that the cove’s gotten a bit of a reputation.

That caught his attention. For what?

Odd stuff, mainly. Mysterious tracks in the sand, strange fish washing up on the beach, that sort of thing.

Ian scanned the area again. It looked like the same Florida coastline he remembered from his childhood. But no offshore dumping or whackjobs with hatchets, right?

Oh, no. In fact, this whole area is remarkably crime-free. But the cove’s gained a reputation for being somewhat peculiar. The manager gave the cottages an exasperated look. Unfortunately, summer people don’t like peculiar so they tend not to rebook the next year. To be honest with you, I wouldn’t mind having one of those paranormal investigation shows come here and do their thing, as long as they paid the deposit and didn’t trash the cottages. But either they haven’t picked up on it, or they don’t have the budget. In any case, you might not have much company this summer. She suddenly seemed hesitant, as if the news would send him screaming back to Chicago. I hope that’s all right.

He wanted to laugh. Seeing the beach so deserted was bizarre as hell, but being the only resident didn’t bother him at all. I’m a science fiction writer. Weird shit? Bring it on. I like being alone, Ms. Kuttner. Trust me, this is fine.

2

Afew hours later, Ian finished unpacking his bags into the master bedroom’s closet and cherrywood dresser. There was a lot of open space left in the closet, and he found old cedar balls still rattling around the empty drawers. It felt strange, sleeping in what had always been his parents’ bedroom, but there was no reason to sleep in his old room downstairs. Beside, the master bedroom had an adjoining bath with a soak tub and a gorgeous view of the ocean. If he was going to bust his ass writing a book for the next couple of months, he might as well be comfortable while he did it.

Downstairs, all the windows were open so that the breeze could air out the faint mildewy smell endemic to all buildings on the Florida coast, and he’d made a supply run to the local supermarket for basics and beer. A list of to do tasks was now tacked to the refrigerator with a banana-shaped magnet. At the top of the list was CALL CABLE/PHONE COMPANY.

The basic utilities had all been turned on the day before, Ms. Kuttner had assured him. As he quickly learned, however, the definition of basic utilities didn’t include phone, cable, or any sort of Internet connection. I’m afraid your sister had it turned off at the end of the season last year, the rental manager had said. She was worried about squatters. And the phone and cable companies will need a deposit from the renter—or in your case, the resident.

Ian swallowed his opinion about Angie’s frugality and plastered on a smile. Until AT&T and Time Warner could get out there and hook him up, his lifeline to the outside world was his cell phone. A lot of his friends would be frothing at the mouth over the lack of Wi-Fi, but he kind of liked the idea. Being cut off from the twin time sinks of Facebook and Twitter could only be a good thing for his word count.

Speaking of word count...

Shoving the now-empty bags into the closet, he headed downstairs and grabbed a beer from the fridge, then went out to the back porch. His father had screened in the space decades ago, furnishing it with odds and ends from a secondhand furniture store over in Olympic Beach. When Ian was a kid, it had been his favorite place to sit and read.

Now it was a great place to write. Angie had upgraded the tatty old furniture for the renters, equipping the space in comfortable white rattan and cushions in tropical florals. A narrow table now sat under the windows facing the ocean with his laptop on it, open and powered up. The rumble of his cooling deck and the booming rush of the waves were the only things he could hear.

All right. Time to stop farting around. Sitting down, he took a deep gulp of his beer and pulled up the Greenstrike file. Let’s do this.

One hour, three beers, and a blank screen later, he sat back and glared at the porch ceiling. He’d had the damn plot in his head for a good two years year: as bizarre ecological disasters occurred all over the world, a reporter and a climatologist discovered that humanity was in danger of being exterminated by a vengeful Mother Earth. It was a nifty story, and he knew every detail, plot point, and character from the inside out.

Except he couldn’t find a way back into the frigging thing.

He tried another sentence, winced at its triteness, and held the Delete key down until the cursor killed it. What’s wrong with you? You can do this, you know you can.

Or could he? Before, all of his work had been done with Diana’s encouragement. She was the one who had listened to all his story ideas, acting as a sounding board when he got stuck, making suggestions when he didn’t know how to push the plot forward. It was a horrible thought, but maybe he couldn’t write without her.

A snort sounded somewhere in the back of his head. He could imagine her standing there, arms folded as she gave him a long-suffering look. Or maybe you’re tired? You woke up from that damned wet dream, after all, then you got up early to meet Ms. Kuttner, and then you had three beers. Try taking a nap before you decide your writing career is over.

A yawn overtook him, making his jaw ache. Turning, he eyed the white rattan couch set underneath the cottage’s back windows. Another of Angie’s upgrades, it looked comfortable with its thick flowered denim pad and heaped patchwork cushions.

Next time, you stop at the one beer, he muttered as he stood up and shuffled to the couch. Piling the cushions at one end, he flopped down onto the thick pad.

Oooh, nice. His eyes drifted shut. Yeah, I’ll nap for a while, give the old brain a chance to recharge. Then I’ll get up and go back to work…

A warm mouth kissed its way up his naked thigh, pausing every now and then to bite gently at his flesh. The sting was followed by a soothing tongue.

He moaned softly, and someone chuckled. Oh, you like that, do you? a familiar tenor said.

I told you he would, an equally familiar baritone said. Now stop teasing the poor man.

Teasing’s half the fun. But the owner of the lips obeyed, continuing upward until Ian could feel a gentle puff of breath along the crease of his ass.

Wait, didn’t I have shorts on?

He definitely wasn’t wearing them now. The mouth started nibbling, waking up nerves he never knew he had and working inward until he was panting softly. His still unseen lover gently spread his cheeks open, and the tip of a velvet tongue dragged across the taboo flesh there.

No one had ever eaten his ass before. It felt dirty and insanely hot at the same time. Oh, goooood, he said into the cushion, unsure if he was saying God or good.

You’re a newbie, aren’t you? the tenor asked, sounding amused. Lovely. I do enjoy taking virginities. He returned to his task, licking and teasing the sensitive ring of muscle. Each new touch sent a fresh surge of pleasure dancing across Ian’s nerves, and his cock began to throb in time with the attention being paid to his ass.

He tried to look back and see who was licking him so lovingly, but two large, warm hands gently pushed him back down, turning the gesture into a massage over his neck and shoulder muscles. Relax, the baritone murmured. Let us love you. Just feel.

He wanted to say something, ask something, but squeaked as his tenor lover’s tongue tip began to lick into him, easing him open. He couldn’t help wiggling under the assault, moaning incoherently into the couch.

The baritone’s hands stroked along his upper body, soothing him and keeping him still at the same time. It feels incredible, doesn’t it? To be kissed so intimately. Feeling a tongue in such a forbidden place.

Ian grunted in agreement, then whined when the tongue disappeared. It was replaced by a slicked finger pressing against, then through the tightly furled muscle. He felt a momentary burn, but it eased as the finger slid deeper into him, playing along his inner walls. He ground back against it, hissing under his breath. More.

Your wish is my command, the tenor said. Another finger was added, the gentle stretch causing an ache that was equal parts pain and pleasure. His tormentor’s tongue returned, dancing around the probing digits and adding a wicked pleasure to the burn. And then the fingers rotated, searching until they brushed over a certain spot.

Bliss spiked through him, a starburst of pure pleasure. Fuck! he yelped. Oh, God, do that again!

His tenor lover chuckled. Well, since you asked so nicely. The delicious fingers scored his sweet spot again, making him whimper with need. Oh, yes, love. You’re hot and ripe for it.

But first, up a bit, the baritone said, tugging at his hips. Without hesitation he hitched forward, tucking his knees under his body and raising his ass in the air. A large, warm hand slid underneath, palming his cock and dabbling a finger in the steady drip of precum from his slit. Gaia, you’re drenched. You need this so badly.

The fingers inside his ass settled into a steady rhythm, brushing over the small, firm gland and setting off more fireworks behind Ian’s eyes. Meanwhile, the baritone gathered precum and used it as lube for stroking his shaft. Another hand came up and cupped his balls, massaging the tight sac.

Ian pushed his face into the couch pad, keening as he rolled his hips onto the fingers and fucked into his unseen lover’s fist. The tenor pressed in deeper as the baritone added a twist to his stroke, thumbing the head in a delicious teasing slide.

It was too much. Ian threw his head back and howled, liquid fire surging through his cock as he came.

He woke up with a gasp, rutting against the couch pad. This orgasm was even more powerful than the one at the hotel, going on and on, making his thighs tremble with the aftershocks. Once it was finally over, it took him the better part of a minute to get his breath back.

He rolled over and glared at the spreading wet patch on his shorts. His subconscious couldn’t get its ass in gear when it came to writing a book, but getting rimmed and fingered in a dream until he came in his pants? No problem whatsoever.

Jamming his thumbs under his waistband, he yanked off the shorts, using them to wipe off the dollop of stickiness on his lower abdomen. A memory of napping out here when he was a teenager flashed through his mind. He’d had the most incredible wet dream about two gorgeous guys that time, too.

Which is fine when you’re sixteen. He studied the stained shorts in his hand. But at thirty-nine? That’s pathetic. Maybe I need more therapy. Or maybe—

I need to get laid. He heard a Midwestern voice say it in his mind, a nasal accent roughened even more from too many cigarettes. A tall, lanky man standing at a bar, drink in hand as he studied the crowd, unaware that he was about to watch the beginning of the end of human civilization...

Ian’s irritation vanished, replaced by an incandescent glee. Dropping the shorts, he got up and lunged for his chair at the card table, ignoring the scratchy old chair pad against his bare ass as he started typing. I don’t know what’s happening anymore, Jack Marsh thought as he stared around the Hilton’s bar, considering his options. Maybe I need to get laid.

The ecological conference he was covering for MSNBC was moderately better than some of his assignments. At least no one was flinging pig shit at him here. But after a day of listening to scientist after scientist drone on about tipping points and biosphere crush zones, all he really wanted to do was knock back a couple of Scotches and see if he could talk someone attractive into bed for an hour or so.

He eyed a blonde in a conservative blazer and skirt. One of the speakers, she was some bigwig in NOAA with alphabet soup after her name and a lot of expertise in storms. She also had killer legs and no wedding ring. He sidled up to her, waiting until the short, weedy guy she’d been talking to wandered off.

Heard your talk, he said by way of introduction. I never knew that hurricanes were so complicated. I thought they were just big storms.

She gave him a professional smile, eyeing his press badge. That’s not surprising. We’re only now finding out the exact mechanics involved in the creation of a hurricane.

I bet. He held out his hand. Jack Marsh, MSNBC.

Dr. Caroline Hubert. And no.

No what?

I’m not interested. But thank you anyway. Another smile, as crisp as the first one. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I saw my boss and I need to check in before he sends an intern