GIA BRUNO impulsively books a vacation to Italy to escape her unfulfilling New York City routine. As she wanders Hadrian’s ruined estate near Tivoli, Gia becomes inexplicably lost. She takes a break beneath an ancient olive tree, hoping to regain her bearings, but is soon lulled into a deep sleep by a satyr.
OVIELLO THE KEEPER weaves powerful dreams to ensnare the woman who has trespassed into his grove. He carries his captive to a secluded grotto deep in mythical lands long forgotten in the hopes that she can reverse his people’s ill-fated demise.
Gia is spellbound by Oviello, a lover beyond her wildest fantasies. Caught in a world between myth and reality, Gia’s fears and inhibitions are challenged. Is her enigmatic captor the man of her dreams or her worst nightmare?
Oviello the Keeper grinned, watching the girl from a distance, emerald eyes roaming along her sunlit curves. He had trailed her for over an hour as she wandered the ruins, waiting for the right opportunity to lure her closer to the veil that obscured his kind from humanity. Oviello knew the dangers of such a breach, knew full well the risks involved in joining with a mortal but, like the rest of his ilk, he was prone to throw caution to the wind.
Slowly, he approached the slumbering girl, his cloven steps silent. He moved with the dexterity of a predator, his muscles rippling beneath sun-bronzed skin. Oviello knelt beside her, his long, black braids streaming forward to tickle her upper arms. He lowered his face to hers and paused, his mouth inches from parted lips. Taking a deep breath, he inhaled hers, fully drinking in the scent of her skin–lavender and rose, sweat, desire. She was salty and spicy, aroused by the wicked dreams he weaved for her.
Shamelessly, he hopped over her, the mahogany fur of his haunches grazing her hips as he squatted over his slumbering prize. The girl’s leg was bent, exposing the creamy skin of an inner thigh. The thought of burying himself between her legs stirred him beyond measure. Oviello lowered his hips until the moist tip of his aching erection pressed hotly against her flesh. “Dream of me,” he whispered in his ancient tongue, his voice husky and low against her ear. Beneath him the girl shifted, her breaths quickening. “Dream of me,” he repeated, more softly, fueling the spell with his scorching lust.
The tiny, desirous gasp that escaped her parted lips thrilled him. Gia’s chest rose and fell, the hard tips of her nipples pushing against the sheer fabric. Hair framed her flushed face in a ring of honey-spun gold. Her fluttering eyelids and quickening breaths spoke of dreams.
Satisfied that she was ensorcelled by his spell, Oviello reluctantly eased up. Slipping his powerful arms under her, he stood. She was but a feather in his arms, tiny and precious and all his. With a wicked smile he strode away, carrying his captive deeper into the grove.
Only in certain places did the lands once ruled by Bel meet the mortal world. The site of Hadrian’s ancient villa, once a meeting place for his kind and theirs, where the ancient magic was still strong, was one of them. The ancient gods had all but been abolished by the one god–the bleeding man upon the cross of sticks–and since then everything had changed. As man gave up old ways, the children of the laughing god began to fade along with their playgrounds. Oviello’s people were but a fading memory, forever relinquished to friezes and statuary, tales and dreams. They were creatures of legend and myth, mere figments of overactive imaginations–or so men thought.
They lived on in scattered pockets where the energy of the land was pure. Only during certain times of the year, during festivals that still secretly venerated their kind, was the veil between worlds thin enough to allow passage. It was during these times that his brothers and sisters took the form of men and women and ventured forth into the vastness of mortal existence for a few days at a time to revel and sow their seed.
Through the ages they had sired many children of Bel’s blood, who, in their own unexpected ways, kept the dream alive. The woman in his arms was such a creature, as it would have been impossible for him to spy her otherwise. Oviello had been quietly contemplating his grove when he saw her as clear as day, map in hand, walking in the noon-day sun.
Ducking under a low-lying branch, he wondered whether to tell his brothers of his discovery. They would be furious if he did not share. He gazed down at the beauty in his grasp and smiled. There would be time enough for proper introduction, but he had no intention of sharing her just yet.
Oviello hadn’t had the pleasure of a mortal woman in several years. Sure, there were maenads, dryads and nymphs, but their tiresome games wearied him. They preferred mortal men and the price to pay for a good rutting was steep. Furthermore, mating with one of his kind was nearly impossible. They needed the fertile seed and wombs of mortals to continue their species, that or goats and the prospect of a goat was not entirely appealing.
Strong, muscled thighs clambered upwards along the hillside to his home. The thought of mating with a doe turned his stomach. No, with any luck the girl in his arms could serve him and his brothers well, maybe even–––He shook his head. No. He had just poached her from the world of the waking. Oviello would consider himself lucky if she still wanted to mate with him after realizing he’d tricked her into crossing into his world. Perhaps it was best to keep her dormant, he thought, mulling over the situation. With each step his thoughts became more troubled as he crossed the threshold of his home. Would she be horrified?
Two pock-marked columns of parian, swallowed by the hollow trunks of twin oaks, marked entry to his grounds. The trees had grown side by side, two rare giants in the glorious countryside of olives and vineyards. Flanked by a plentiful river and boasting a spectacular view, it was the perfect place for a home. Oviello had been quite happy to stumble upon the ancient nymphaeum, whose grottos were fed by a bubbling mineral spring.
While they were lustful, wild creatures, Bel’s brood were not altogether lacking in ingenuity or skills. Using clay from the nearby river banks Oviello crafted wondrous urns and amphorae, decorating them with lively paintings to pass the time. When the time of harvest came, everyone clamored for his wares, trading meats, cheeses and other staples for his pottery. It was a peaceful existence but the Satyroi were few. Without offspring, their kind would fade away and eventually die.
Children. The thought made his head ache. He didn’t want to think about the little ones, but as a Keeper it was his responsibility to see that his brothers mated. The laughter of children had been absent for too many years. His father had sired the five of them and was at the sunset of his long life–wallowing in despair. None of his sons had found women. Only his sister, Daniella, had mated and long since left the sacred grove. She had left their ways behind, choosing to remain in the body of a human female, and as such had met an early death. With the decision to leave Bel’s lands Daniella had also forsaken her long life. It had been a shame, but not so uncommon for his kind. Eventually even all the wine in the world could not ease the pain of loneliness.
“Loved it, keep writing!” –Zoegem +Read More
“Loved this book. The setting was romantic, the erotica was sensual, arousing, yet done with beauty and fit well into the story.” –Dorianna +Read More
“A thousand cold showers haven’t done anything to chill the fire Narcisse has lit.” –Lord B. +Read More
“Narcisse Navarre weaves an enthralling and sensual tale within her steamy novella, the Olive Grove. The frustration and desire that all women eventually encounter is perfectly painted by Gia’s story of wanderlust and escape from the mundane. The Olive Grove will most definitely satisfy its reader, yet leave one delightfully desirous of more.” –Desiree +Read More
“I have never been so turned on by erotica in my life. The author has an unprecedented way of keeping her readers “dripping” with anticipation.” –C. Lawrence +Read More
“It is not often enough we find an author so willing, with a richness of language that invokes the ancients, to forge the beauty of a powerful woman, without pause or reservation…I cannot recommend ‘ The Olive Grove ‘ enough. Take Gia and tuck her away for a long look out Narcisse’s smoldering windowed world.” –E. Rinaldi +Read More
“Gia, the tale’s heroine, opens her soul to let the male reader glimpse a woman’s mind at work, while a female reader will certainly relate to the core of those thoughts. Sensibility will lead both to enjoy the carnal moments, while wondering how such fantastic events will end.” –Laet O. +Read More
“If you wish to meet some creatures of fire and love, searching the underworld of seduction, this book is what you are looking for.”–Daywood +Read More
Inspiration at Hadrian’s Villa
Read what inspired Narcisse Navarre to write The Olive Grove
Unraveling the Mystery
Find out what makes Narcisse Navarre tick in this insightful interview by Keri Lake, author of Somnium.