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The Witching Hour

The Witching Hour

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The Witching Hour

5/5 (1 rating)
40 pages
31 minutes
Oct 28, 2016


Tasha is a witch, imprisoned by a spiteful warlock for over three centuries. Her curse prevents her from leaving her house on all but one night - All Hallow's Eve. From dusk to dawn she can indulge in the pleasures of the flesh, draining poor mortals with her appetites and trying to satisfy herself after entirely too much deprivation. When she finds herself mysteriously drawn to a handsome stranger during her revels, she may have finally met her match. But will her endlessly tasty new treat end up being a trick that she never anticipated?

Oct 28, 2016

About the author

Britt DeLaney lives and writes near Philadelphia. In her spare time she watches too much Netflix, eats too many Pop-Tarts, and is currently writing her ass off.

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The Witching Hour - Britt DeLaney

The Witching Hour

Britt DeLaney

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Britt DeLaney

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Trapped

Chapter 2: March 1643

Chapter 3: Revelry

Chapter 4: Debauched and Delighted

Chapter 5: Revealed

About the Author

Other Books by Britt DeLaney

Novellas by Britt DeLaney


This one is for Tasha. You cast a spell on all of us, my darling. Whatever that undefinable thing is, you’ve got it in spades.

Chapter 1


Tasha checked herself one last time in the large, oval mirror that hung in her foyer. She wasn’t disappointed. Three hundred and twenty-three years, and she still didn’t look a day over twenty-five, which, of course, is when she’d stopped aging.

Her honey-blonde hair was still lustrous and thick – long enough that when she was astride a man, he could feel it tickling his thighs as she rode him. Her legs were still long and lean, her stomach flat but soft, her backside curved and shapely enough to make a man instantly picture himself behind it. Her breasts were still lush and firm, and her face was radiant and unlined. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast to the deep mahogany of her eyes, so brown they were nearly black, sitting atop strikingly high cheekbones and a delicately sloping nose that led down to the fullness of her lips, slightly turned up at the corners now as she gave herself a nod of approval.

I’ll do, she said, glancing up at the pendulum on the clock, willing it to tick-tick-tick the remaining minutes away.

Come on darkness. . . she murmured.

The witching hour. Her one and only escape from this madness. At sunset, the spell would drop and she could open the door and walk free – but only until daylight of the following day. The terms of the curse were very specific about that. The moment light streaked the sky over the horizon, she would be instantly transported back to this dark, drafty old house, sealed into it like a tomb, never to feel that sunlight on her skin, or sample the pleasures of warm skin and wet mouths for

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