Excerpt of Mona Lisa Three by Sunny

It was the beginning of December in Manhattan, smack dab in
the Christmas season, and we were shopping. But not for
presents. Oh, no. For something far more practical—clothing.
In a couple of days time, we were heading to Louisiana, my
new territory.

The men had insisted that I meet my new constituents dressed
like the Monère Queen that I was. Well, three-quarters
Monère, at least. That last quarter was comprised of human
blood, making me the first Mixed Blood Queen ever; I’d just
been officially recognized by the Court. But given that most
Monère considered Mixed Bloods to be mutts, mongrels, and
the like, I could see my men’s point that I dress like a
Queen. T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers wasn’t quite the image
of authority they were used to. Oh, well.

The Monère, my guys included, were quite backward in their
tastes, actually. Long dresses and loose hair for their
women. The plan was to break them in slowly, gently. If I
had to wear a long black dress, I could do that. For now.

But since they’d insisted on torturing me, I decided it was
only fair to torture them right back. I made them get new
clothes as well. For Gryphon, well, the torture was more on
my part. He was a vision of masculine beauty with ebon-black
hair falling to his shoulders, his long, lean and delicious
build, the white alabaster purity of his skin, and the red,
red brightness of his cupid-bow lips. So beautiful that you
wanted to reach out and touch him, prove that he was real.

He was the first Monère I’d ever encountered, the first man
I’d ever loved. He’d come to me a few weeks ago, injured,
alone, fleeing his Queen. In saving him, I had really saved
myself.

He was my heart. And that vital organ that he claimed
pitter-pattered within me as he stepped out of the fitting
room dressed in the black Prada slacks I had chosen for him.
The vibrant blue shirt he wore brought out the stunning
cerulean richness of his eyes. Devastatingly lovely.

Another fitting room door swung open and Amber emerged, the
other man who held my heart, roughly handsome in a
mahogany-brown dress shirt. His straight chestnut locks
looked tousled as if he had run a careless hand through it,
and his deep sea-blue eyes were narrowed in a fierce frown.

Huge was the word that best described Amber. Big and brawny,
bounded with muscles, he was toweringly tall, majestic like
a mountain. A mass of bulges and mounds—bulging biceps that
strained the cloth, a mounded, muscular chest, a hard flat
belly, powerful haunches, and thick-muscled calves. With his
harsh features bold and craggy, Amber was beautiful in his
own unique way—in his great warrior strength, in his
unexpected tender care of me. He’d saved me. Brought me back
from the brink of death.

My two warrior lords. My two lovers. It was hard to believe
that I wouldn’t have to give up one or the other. That I
could keep them both. That they would share me, as they put
it, alternating in my bed and in my body.

Other sighs were heard around the store, not only mine.
Looking at the two of them, one with the grace and beauty of
a fallen angel, the other menacingly big and brawny, with
the strength of a towering oak…who would not sigh, given
this vision?

“The pants are too tight,” Amber muttered, redness darkening
his broad cheeks.

Actually, he filled out the tan-colored slacks quite
nicely—impressively. I circled him slowly, front to back,
appreciating the snug fit that showed off the leanness of
his hips, the powerful heft of his thighs, and the tightness
of his lovely muscular butt, among other things.

“I have to disagree. I think they’re perfect,” I murmured,
unable to resist stroking a discrete hand down the enticing
curve of his bottom. Beneath my light touch, his buttocks
tensed to rock hardness, making my heart skip a beat. Oh, my.

“What do you think, Chami?” I asked, turning to the third
man with us. Chami was one of the three other men recently
sworn to my service. The deadliest among them. My assassin.

He was tall like Gryphon, almost six feet, but with whipcord
leanness, slender like a Greyhound. Sprawled on the couch in
limber disarray, dressed in the light green cashmere sweater
and olive pants I had chosen for him, with his soft curly
brown hair waving across his smiling blue eyes, I was
sharply reminded of how deceiving appearances could be. He
looked nothing like the deadly killer that he was.

“I agree with Mona Lisa,” Chami said, a smile tugging the
corner of his mouth. “The clothes show off all
your…masculine attributes to nice advantage.”