«Gaelic Goddess» by Alana Church

No one grieved for Mick Phelan when he died. The old lawyer
had been a terrible father and a horrible man, poisoning his children with his hate.




But an unexpected inheritance was waiting for his grandson
Thomas. An Irish goddess who Mick had ensnared decades ago showed up on his doorstep, begging him to free her from bondage.




Now Tom and Rhiannon must navigate a treacherous road. Will
their growing attraction for one another allow them to part the mists of time
and release her from slavery? Or will Rhiannon be bound forever, a fate worse
than death for this Gaelic Goddess?




~~~~~  Excerpt 
~~~~~




Tom took a deep breath. “Rhiannon, I ask that you return
your body to the form that most pleases you.”




Rhiannon's head snapped back and she gave a low moan. She
stumbled unsteadily to her feet, hunched around her middle, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch. As he looked on, wide-eyed, a golden glow began to form
around her body, centered on her breasts and her groin. He was forced to turn
away, his eyes spouting tears, the light too bright to face.




Rhiannon gave a sudden shout, piercing and clear, and with a last flash, quick as a bolt of lightning, the light went out, leaving them
again in the dim light of his living room. Blinking, Tom turned to look at Rhiannon.




She was standing by the sofa, a look of astonished wonder on her face. In her hands, she cupped her breasts. But they were not the blank,
featureless orbs of only a few moments ago, as incapable of supporting life as a stone. Instead, they were now capped by pale peaks, the flesh the delicate
pink of coral.




Weeping openly, she stepped into his view, and his eyes were
drawn irresistibly to the junction of her thighs. There, a delicately-trimmed
patch of black hair could be seen, and below it, the lips of her labia, only a few shades darker than her nipples.




“By all the gods above and below, I thank you, Thomas
Phelan,” she said. She sank down onto his sofa and leaned back, one hand softly
fingering the mound of her breast, the other softly stroking her belly, the fingers roaming toward the swell of her pubis.




Face flaming, he stood and walked toward his bedroom door.
This was too intense. Too private. He felt like he had stumbled across a woman
giving birth, or soulmates sharing their first kiss.




“Stop.”




He halted in his tracks.




“Thomas,” she said, her voice low and vibrant.




“Yes?” He said, but did not turn to face her.




“I would like it very much if you stayed here with me,” she
said.




“Are you sure?” he said nervously.




“Very much so. Who better to witness when Rhiannon, Goddess of fertility and the harvest, reclaims
part of her legacy, than the one who made it possible?”