Cinders

By Noelle Roan-Ashe

Emberly Brandon's father has just passed away and she now finds herself not only the sole breadwinner, but also the sole caregiver of her dying stepmother while her stepsister Michaela lives it up as a carefree, single woman.

Lonely and depressed, Emberly agrees to attend a company party with her coworker and best friend, Tish. It is there that she meets Wade Kim, whose dark looks, hungry stare, and tantalizing kisses fills her with an unimaginable desire and incredible yearning. But then life tears her away from the fantasy and throws her headfirst into reality which, she is about to learn, is much more deliciously terrifying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crystal Quill Publishing
• Release date: Nov 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301892495

Book preview

Cinders

Book One in the Fairy Dark Erotic Tales Series

Noelle Roan-Ashe

Cinders

A Fairy Dark Erotic Tale

© 2012 Noelle Roan-Ashe

All rights reserved.

Published by Grimm Erotica at Smashwords

All of the situations and characters in this novel are fictional and occur between two consenting adults. Any similarities to actual people or situations are completely coincidental and wholly unintentional.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover by Daisyfly Designs

Cover image by Cathleen Tarawhiti

Noelle Roan-Ashe

Chapter One

The way the winds whistled through the trees sounded much too familiar, like keening. I felt like covering my ears to the drill of noise, but my hands were filled with flowers and cards and all of the other useless things that people seemed inclined to give you when they can’t express any sympathy. I stared at the casket; the plain brown dome covering my father’s cold, skeletal body would be the last door he would ever close on me.

An icy breeze whirled around me, the icy fingers quick to find the hem of my skirt and creep up my thighs to chill the warmest parts it could find. I shivered at the intrusion, my skin flaring into tiny bumps, my breasts firming as my nerves adjusted to the sudden chill. I tried to ignore how the sensation made me feel, how with just one puff of air, my palms became sweaty and my breath quick as each short intake of breath forced my now alert nipples to rub against the rough fabric that lined the cup of my cheap bra.

Another breath; more subtle friction, and then the hint of dampness appeared between my thighs.

I moaned.

I’m so sorry for your loss, a woman said politely. Like a whip, my head snapped in her direction, but I sighed when I saw that her comment was not directed at me. Immediately my body stilled and relief swept over me when I realized that no one had heard me.

Thank you. He meant so much to me; he was the only father I’ve ever known. I don’t know what I’m going to do now that he’s gone, a voice replied with sweetly tinged sadness.

I turned to my left and bit back a frown. My stepsister Michaela stood beside me dressed all in black in a formfitting suit that took advantage of her lush and generous curves, appearing as dutiful as a vulture with her lace-gloved hands holding flowers and cards of her own, her posture hunched with the weight of false depression. But on her face, she wore the most beautiful smile; I couldn’t help but think that she seemed far too happy to be mourning the loss of her step-father.

But I knew why she smiled. I knew why, despite her attempts to appear the somber daughter, she seemed almost…gleeful.

Michaela had heard the last conversation that Lloyd Brandon had with me, his only child. The words had been short and the content clear to anyone listening. He’d asked—no, begged—me to care for his ailing wife, my stepmother Yvonne. He made me promise to take care of the woman after his death and I, not wanting to turn down the wishes of my dying father, agreed. This freed Michaela from that responsibility. She nearly whooped with joy and offered her condolences afterward, though it wasn’t hard to question her sincerity when she did it while grinning.

Your father was always such a kind man, Emberly. He’ll be a great loss to the neighborhood board meetings.

I looked at the woman who now stood in front of me, the sound of my name coming from her lips sounding strange. Up until that moment, I had simply been Lloyd’s daughter, Yvonne’s step-daughter, or Michaela’s stepsister.

Now I was Emberly Brandon, responsible adult…and caretaker of the invalid.

Thank you, Mrs. Silva. He always spoke of you kindly, too.

The line went on and on as people filed by the casket while Michaela and I stood dutifully in front of it until finally the last card had been given, and the last hug had been doled out. Soon, these people would be crowded around a buffet spread filled with food and beverages that I couldn’t afford to buy, but had done so anyway at Michaela’s urging. They’d stuff their faces and then leave, forgetting the purpose for being there in the first place, too full to care about anything save their beds.

Ugh, thank God that’s over. Look, I’m going home; I’m beat. You can tell everyone that I wasn’t feeling well, all right? Tell them I’m just too…too saddened by Lloyd’s death to converse with people. Thanks, Em. You’re a peach. I watched Michaela walk away, watched as she dropped the flowers into a nearby trashcan and keeping the cards, knowing that there was probably some cash in them that could’ve gone to pay for the funeral. Instead, they’d now go to paying for her next handbag or pair of shoes.

With a sigh, I carried my own burden with me to the awaiting black car that had been provided by the funeral home. It would take me to my father’s home, alone, like some kind of macabre chariot of death that conveyed me from one morbid scene to another.

It should have been a hearse. At least it was the right color.

Never had I imagined when my father remarried ten years ago that I’d be stuck caring for his widow. The stroke Yvonne suffered shortly before I graduated from high school had undoubtedly sealed all of our fates, whether or not we cared to admit it. Her inability to walk, talk, or even feed herself became Dad’s main focus, which in turn became a sore subject for all of us; especially after Michaela and I had moved out. And now, six weeks after Dad’s death, she was entirely mine.

Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself, I said quietly to my reflection in the window glass. It could always be worse.

Those words were the hallmark of my father’s parenting skills. It could always be worse, he would tell me whenever we found ourselves in trouble. When our car was stolen; when he’d lost his job two years ago and had to sell our old house and buy a shitty one story with only one real bedroom on the other side of the neighborhood; when he learned he had cancer ten-months ago; when he finally stopped treatment three months ago, it was always followed by those five words.

But as the car pulled up to the tiny house Dad had left to Yvonne in his will, with the peeling paint and the weed-filled front yard, the cracked cement walkway and the pitching porch, I couldn’t really imagine anything worse.

Thank you, I said to the driver, who left me standing in front of the rusted chain-link fence without so much as a goodbye.

Strange cars were parked out on the street, and the sound of a dozen different conversations drifted down to me as I stared up at the porch and through the door that stood wide open. The people inside were all crowded around the lone table, their hands filled with paper plates and cheese cubes, fruit wedges, and small servings of ham. They spoke of the faint memories they had of my father, the thinly veiled murmurs of a tragic life weaving through the mingling bodies until they reached the front door where I stood.

Just a few more hours, I said to myself before plunging headfirst into the crowd.



I know you’re probably hungry. I saved you a plate. It’s got fruit, ham, and cheese. I sat beside the hospital bed that was situated in the only bedroom in the house that wasn’t filled with old furniture or boxes or something else that had been packed away. The lone window in the room allowed the remnants of daylight to pierce through the yellowed curtains and the dirt-covered glass, bringing more to the room than just the smell of bedpans and bandages.

I carefully placed a small piece of ham onto my stepmother’s lips, coaxing the tiny sliver through and then sighing when the mouth began to chew. I know it’s a little salty; it was the only one we could afford, I’m afraid. Here, drink some water. I brought a straw to the woman’s mouth and held my breath while she slowly sipped the clear, cold liquid.

Dad’s funeral was exactly the way he wanted. All of the guys in the bowling league came. Mrs. Silva from next door came, too. She brought a pie over, if you want to try it later. I think she used the peaches from her tree. Michaela went home after the burial. She said she was too sad to come, so she went back to her apartment in the city. Maybe she’ll come by tomorrow.

The bedroom door creaked open and a head popped in. Emberly, I’m going now. I’ll be back in the morning.

I looked up to smile at the nurse who spent her days caring for Yvonne while I was at work. Thanks, Julie, for staying with her after hours. I really appreciate it. Have a good night.

The door closed and I returned to feeding Yvonne, continuing to talk as I did so to fill the quiet around us. I put Dad in his favorite suit. You remember the one; you bought it for him about five years ago. It was gray, and he wore it for his promotion meeting. I didn’t use the same tie, though. He wanted to use the burgundy one, but it was all torn from the last wash, so I had them use the navy one with the cream pinstripes. He looked handsome and relaxed.

Yvonne began to choke and I quickly put the plate of food down. I grabbed her by her shoulders and pounded on her back, the hollow sound making me flinch with each thump. Her whole body shook with desperate gasps that wracked her with violent spasms, each quake wringing out another breath from her already spent body. It took everything I had not to allow the vibrations to push us both off of the bed; at last on the floor, I could hold her more rigidly.

When the coughing subsided, I eased her down and groaned at the dark red hue her face had taken on. It contrasted starkly with her short, dark hair, while the puffiness the medication she was taking caused her made her look like a bloated corpse.

I don’t want them to put that breathing tube back into you, but if this continues, we might have to. I’m sorry, Yvonne.

My stepmother’s pale blue eyes widened, but she was unable to say anything, not that I needed to hear her objections. I knew her emotions all too well. I’ll have Julie call Dr. Paulson over tomorrow to see what we can do. If it means having to change your diet, then we’ll do that. I don’t want you to suffer, Yvonne. Dad wouldn’t have wanted that.

Satisfied, Yvonne closed her eyes, exhausted. I stood up and wiped her mouth gently before removing the plate and stepping out of the room, remembering to turn the light off before closing the door.

The small living room was littered with paper plates and empty plastic cups; some food had fallen to the floor, negligent feet crushing them into the worn wood. I walked to the kitchen, removed a large black garbage bag from the small pantry and shook it open. I also grabbed a broom and dustpan, as well as an old rag that sat by the sink. I swept the floor and wiped up the residue of grease before working on the rest of the trash, stuffing it all in the bag in disgust.

When the last plate and fork had been removed, I carried the bag outside to the metal trashcan sitting at the curb and groaned when I saw that it was already full.

I didn’t want to fight with the trash so I just left the bag on the cover and headed back into the house. My back hurt from standing for so long, and my feet felt cramped after being stuffed in shoes half a size too small for hours. I needed a bath. I stretched and headed to a small closet near the front door; inside sat my tiny dresser. I removed a simple oversized t-shirt from the top drawer, as well as a pair of old, white panties that would have made even my grandmother shake her head in embarrassment.

I grabbed the towel that hung on a hook attached to the door and then closed it before heading to the only bathroom in the house. It was the only place I felt any real peace, any real quiet since moving back three months ago. The old iron tub sat on clenched claws, like a hungry beast ready to pounce, the back of the tub high, with an inviting curve that promised to cradle me and help soothe all my aches.

With several turns of the faucet handles, the tub began to fill. Hot water flowed out in angry bursts, while the swirling liquid below it began to greedily accept the small capful of liquid soap that I poured in, the white foam quickly forming and piling one atop the other, the soft white cloud looking so inviting, I almost forgot to undress.

The dark, wool dress that I had worn to the funeral was heavy, and I took it off eagerly. The old white undergarments beneath them came off next, the outrageously old-fashioned panties and uncomfortable bra falling to the floor unceremoniously. Naked, I stared at my reflection in the small mirror oval that hung over the sink.

My dark hair was pinned up in a severe manner, tight around the sides and even tighter in the back. I pulled the pins out and sighed. Oh God, that feels too good. I ran my fingers through the strands, the ends falling past my shoulders and stopping below my breasts. My brown eyes were dark, my pupils dilated as I took in the sight of my naked form.

My hands covered the small, round breasts that hid beneath the black curtain of my hair, the pink-brown nipples still soft against my palms. Once, before we’d both moved out and were still living in my father’s first house, Michaela and I had