Annabelle lusts after her boss, the quintessential tall, dark and dreamy, but after six months, Mr. Smith still calls her Miss Fortier. A Halloween party changes that. Seeing her very formal boss striding toward her wearing nothing but war paint and a skimpy loincloth which leaves nothing to her imagination on a body that is her personal wet dream, Annabelle can't say no when he backs her into a secluded corner and reveals the savage lurking under that sinful smile. Until she hears the real Mr. Smith's irate voice asking, "Miss Fortier, what are you doing?!"
Blindfolded, telling the two men apart takes some ingenuity, but it's the beginning of a night of erotic mischief. When Halloween is over, what will happen at work the next day?
Tantalizing Treats -- Print Anthology that includes Mischief Night.
“Mischief Night by Cris Anson is atomic fireball hot and I loved every word of it.”
— 4 lips, Lindy, Two Lips Reviews
“Steamy and more than a bit naughty, this little quickie will stimulate your imagination and leave you asking for more.”
— Lori Ann, RRT Erotic
“An erotic Halloween night to be sure. Highly sensual atmosphere and light bondage with a ménage twist make this a scrumptious tale.”
— Aris, Alternative Read
“This fast-paced erotic read was a fun look at a haunted, or is that an erotic, house and mistaken identity. The author is also superior at separating the personal and professional lives of the main characters. I thoroughly enjoyed Mischief Night and hope to read more from this author in the future.”
— Tanya, Joyfully Reviewed
“Cris Anson has me hooked yet again on another extremely sexy read! MISCHIEF NIGHT is Halloween at its most alluring!”
— Blue Ribbon Rating 4.5, Sarah W., Romance Junkies Reviews
“Whew, this story is hot and steamy! You need a long cold shower after reading this one. Although Mischief Night is a quick read, it certainly packs a punch. Great characters and witty, fresh dialogue is a great reason to add this one to your reading list.”
— Matilda, Coffee Time Romance
“Lowell Smith positively oozes sexuality. Annabelle’s introduction to BDSM under his masterful tutelage left me needing a cold shower. Though I am not always a fan of the genre, I do appreciate a touch of BDSM and this book gets it right. Readers wanting a bit of erotica to curl up with in celebration of Halloween would do well to read MISCHIEF NIGHT.”
— Misa, Fallen Angel Reviews
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An Excerpt From: Mischief Night
Copyright © CRIS ANSON, 2007
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
Pivoting on one stiletto, she managed to grope her way down the hallway, through a couple of twists and turns in the pitch-blackness until she stumbled onto a small sign, lit by a night-light, that proclaimed, “This way out.”
Relieved, but with a touch of regret, Annabelle grasped the doorknob and walked into a dimly lit room that looked like a solarium. Glass walls, glass ceiling, large plants and ferns and tropical trees in huge pots, wicker furniture with plump, brightly colored cushions. Men and women in all kinds of costumes standing in small groups and holding glasses. A bar, a bartender.
Just what the doctor ordered.
She sauntered—she hoped that’s what it looked like—to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic, tall glass. Some of the men looked at her with avid interest, some of the women nodded or smiled, but no one acted as though she had a scarlet letter pasted on her chest.
Annabelle felt as though she’d passed some kind of test. She took several gulps of the refreshing drink.
And saw Mr. Smith approaching her.
But holy Hannah, not in her wildest imaginings did she visualize the pagan god striding towards her. His black hair, untamed and curling down to his neck—he must use a gel to keep it in place during work hours, she thought—was somewhat held down by a beaded Indian headband. His face and muscular, hairless torso were decorated with streaks of white, ochre and several other shades of a powdery substance. As to a costume, the only thing covering him was a tan leather loincloth held up by another beaded band riding low on his slim hips. She could see the unbroken line of his golden olive skin from chest to hip to thigh to moccasins on his long feet. She gulped. No tan line.
He was magnificent.
And he was standing in front of her, devouring her with his eyes.
“Mr. Smith,” she whispered, the awe in her voice evident.
“You are a goddess,” he responded, and bent his head down to brush a kiss on her unresisting mouth.
She opened her mouth, her mind, and her body language to him. Accepting her unspoken invitation, he deepened the kiss, delving delicately with his tongue. She felt the glass being removed from her hand then he pulled her to him, breast to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, and wrapped strong arms tightly around her. He smelled like fine cognac mixed with leather and earth and man. It intoxicated her more than any liquor she could imbibe.
A tiny part of her mind wondered briefly if her costume was dry-cleanable, as the war paint on his chest was probably transferring itself to her dress—after all, she was rubbing against him like a cat. Then feeling the impressive bulge of his cock under the leather loincloth, she forgot all about the complexities of clothing. She did that to him! To the untouchable, unemotional Mr. Lowell Smith.
She felt herself being waltzed backward. Blinking her eyes open for an instant, she realized he was steering her behind a thick patch of bamboo, in effect screening them from other guests. She closed her eyes and just let herself feel.