Possess Me


In the Big Easy, the spirit of passion is alive…

In the Big Easy, there’s a legend women long for: a sexual voodoo spirit who can fulfill their darkest fantasies.

And in these three steaming-hot novellas, he helps three New Orleans couples achieve the ultimate satisfaction…

“Steamy sexy and true emotion? So rare. So lovely. So addictive!”
         “Alexander brings her brilliant story-telling and her knack for the wickedly sexy to the table.”
                                                                                         “I love Bone Daddy!”

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***Finalist in Passionate Plume for Best Erotic Paranormal/Time Travel 2010





***Nominated for Best Print/Electronic Erotic Novel  P & E 2010

In Release Me, Allegra heads down to New Orleans to heal her wounds, but she never expects to lose her heart to such a quiet, troubled man as Rousseau. She’s even less prepared for the scorching, sexual spirit within him-and what he can do to her…

In Reclaim Me, Ben has loved Michelle as long as he can remember. But his beautiful artist has a way of running away from life-and what the pair could be. Leave it to the infamous spirit to help Ben prove to Michelle where she belongs: in his embrace…

In Redeem Me, it’s All Saints’ Day, the one day the voodoo spirit can walk the world in the flesh. When he bumps into Bethany, she might just be the reincarnation of a girl he once loved. Passion ignites, but can the couple overcome past mistakes and have a real chance at love?



“Him? Oh, baby girl, are you sure? Haven’t you heard the stories? What they call him? The man is trouble. By that I mean I’d do him, and you know what bad taste I have in men.”

A few curious tourists eating at the table beside them raised their eyebrows at Michelle’s overloud reaction to her plan, and Allegra grinned in spite of her nerves. She probably shouldn’t have invited Michelle out to lunch at their favorite po’boy shop to ex- plain it.

Witnesses wouldn’t save her from her roommate’s vocal, if humorous, disapproval. At least the food was comforting. And filling. She pushed away from the table, half of the giant seafood sandwich left uneaten. “Personally, I can’t believe you haven’t.”

“What? Done him?” Michelle held her hands up and shook her head, chocolate curls bouncing with her vehemence. “He’s easy on the eyes, true enough, but that man has a monkey on his back. A giant, climb-the-Empire-State-Building-and-swat-at-airplanes kinda monkey.”

Allegra snorted, her sweet tea nearly going up her nose while Michelle shuddered dramatically. “No. He’s not for me. And I don’t think he’s for you either, Allegra. No matter how big a risk taker you are.”

Allegra smiled again. This was one of the reasons she’d moved to New Orleans. She needed her friend, even if they disagreed. She needed a little laughter in her life. Someone to tell all her secrets to. Okay. Most of her secrets to.

Since the accident, her family back in Houston acted as though she were an invalid with one foot in the grave. She wasn’t their Allegra anymore. To her it seemed they could barely look at her, and they spoke in those hushed tones reserved for terminal patients and funeral homes. It was like a never-ending wake.

Michelle, on the other hand, treated her the same way she had when they’d shared a dorm at the University of Texas. Back when Allegra was a wild, carefree youth who wasn’t afraid to take chances, to live. Back when she was whole. So when Michelle called and mentioned her roommate had moved out and taken a job in North Carolina, Allegra jumped at the chance to start again. Before she let her family’s concern overtake her determination to heal. To have a life again.

Michelle was right about one thing; he did look like trouble. Lucifer the fallen angel himself. Too beautiful not to be a sin. Celestin Dias Rousseau. It was a mouthful of a name for the mouth-watering man who owned the small coffee shop across the street from her and Michelle’s apartment.

The man she was going to seduce. Luring men into having sex had never been one of her pastimes, even before the accident. But for the last few months Rousseau had become Allegra’s obsession.

Who was she kidding? She’d been hooked from the first morning she’d laid eyes on the man.

Her physical therapist in Houston had left her with strict instructions not to overdo, but not to let her leg muscles weaken any further from disuse either. So as soon as she’d arrived in town she’d taken to walking through the French Quarter early in the morning. Oh there were still people milling about, there always were, but in the morning it was a different crowd.

Workers unloaded trucks to replenish the bars and restaurants that had been drained dry by the influx of tourists and business- men. Artists, psychics, and performers staked out their places on the sidewalk, ready for the crowds that were their bread and but- ter. Crowds that, according to Michelle, were finally coming back after the nightmare of Hurricane Katrina.

Allegra had pushed too hard that morning—had it only been six weeks ago?—leaning heavily on her ridiculous cane, her skin covered in sweat as if she’d run a marathon rather than walked a few simple blocks. She could see the apartment. She only had to cross one narrow street and climb one steep flight of stairs. It might as well have been Mount Everest.

She’d lowered herself carefully onto the curb in front of a shop that smelled of espresso beans and chocolate. It was as good a place to live as any, she’d thought, closing her eyes and focusing on slowing her heart rate. All she needed was a cold drink and a pillow, and she’d pay whatever curbs were going for these days.

“I have an extra iced coffee with your name on it.”

The voice had slid down her spine like a rough tongue, instantly making her think of late nights and sweat-soaked sex.

Sultry, with just enough edge to put her hibernating libido on red alert.

Allegra fanned herself dramatically. “Don’t lie to a dying woman.”

They’d laughed softly together and she shielded her eyes with her hand, looking up with a friendly smile at the warrior god who was handing her a coffee.

He was perfect.

Light cocoa skin and full lips framed by a closely trimmed goatee that saved his face from being too pretty. His body, however, was all male; thick thighs, lean arms roped with muscle and tribal tattoos, the hand holding the to-go cup so big she actually shivered. And those eyes. Hazel, heavy-lidded, long-lashed. The writer in her was inspired. Smoky eyes. Bedroom eyes. Brooding. Unless you wrote romance, how often did you get to use those words?

His hair fell in thick dreadlocks to his waist, tied back loosely with what looked like an extra apron tie. Allegra nearly melted into the concrete at the sight.

In high school, when her friends had all gone insane for the rock-and-roll hair bands, she’d never understood it. No male should have prettier or longer hair than she did. But he’d done it. This stranger had made long hair—knotted hair—sexy. She’d wanted to grip it and pull his lean, broad-shouldered body closer, to study every line of his face and the tattoo she noticed peeking out from the neckline of his white T-shirt. To kiss him, before he’d even told her his name.

He’d handed her the coffee, free of charge, and they exchanged a few sentiments about the weather before he abruptly left her to go back inside, the line at the cash register grabbing his attention.

The next day there’d been a small table and chair beside the café, just for her. It had quickly become a ritual between them.

She, sweaty and wrung out from her morning workout; he, cool and devastatingly attractive, if distant. But every day she came back, hoping for more. For conversation. For flirting. For some- thing. She’d never drunk so much coffee in her life.

Like Michelle said, she’d heard the talk. Noticed that his morning crowd was mostly made up of women. And those women would speak in loud, giggling whispers about him as they walked by her table. They would say he knew the right words to heal, and his touch could melt even the coldest heart. And sex with him? Sex with him was a blessing from Marie Laveau herself. According to them, he was the love doctor of the Big Easy.

Bone Daddy.

That’s what they called him. A walking, talking, well-hung plea- sure factory who, with a few easy orgasms, could bring you what- ever your heart desired. Your boyfriend would propose, your boss would give you a raise. Rumor had it he could even heal your scars, inside and out. If you satisfied his lust.

The conversations were confusing, since they didn’t seem to jibe with her own observations of Rousseau. With her, Rousseau was solicitous but shy. And always respectful. Maybe she wasn’t his type, though sometimes she thought she saw something in his eyes. Lust. For her. And it gave her hope.

She could be mistaking desire for pity or heartburn, but she didn’t think so. She couldn’t be wrong. Her feelings were far too intense to be one-sided.

Yes. He was trouble. But it was exactly the kind of trouble she wanted. After a year of being resigned to the life of a shut-in, the wild thing in her wanted to come out and play.

And it only wanted to play with him.