It’s January 2nd, and you know what that means…almost kisses! Those tension-laden, will-they-or-won’t-they moments where the hero and the heroine find themselves lock in place, inching toward that kiss…and then they don’t. Because we writers are sadistic like that 🙂
There’s a bunch of blogs participating, and you can find them all below, but first, you get a sneak peek at Nora and Declan’s story. Fracture releases April 21, 2015, and I am so very excited to bring it to you, in all its bloody, sexy glory (yes, it’s bloody and sexy).
I wander over to the couch and plop down in my spot. “How’s your wrist?”
He rotates it, the bandage hampering the movement, but he still winces. “Stiff.”
I can’t stand this, seeing him so uncomfortable, his body protesting and trying to drag itself back together. I gesture to his wrist. He holds it out and I unwrap it, running my fingers over the bones. Swollen and, as I press down, his mouth thinning, likely tender. I keep the pressure light, working the tiny muscles and ligaments.
“Think you can do that for my shoulder?”
I nod, and withdraw my hands. His sweater comes up, inch by inch, revealing his stomach, his chest, his shoulders. Angry splotches of purple and red, the edges a sickening yellow, cover a lot of it, his flesh a grotesque canvas.
It hurts to look at him, to see injuries so similar to what Ryan must have suffered, yet Declan’s alive and Ryan is not. Sucking in a breath, I lift my gaze to his face.
There’s no trace of emotion on his. Utterly flat. And there’s comfort in that. “Scoot forward.” I stand up, and he complies, propping his broken leg up on the coffee table. He’s given me a few inches of space behind him.
I kneel behind him, thighs pushed up against his back. He groans as my fingers dig into his shoulder. My breath catches. “Too hard?”
“No,” he rasps. “Keep going.” I do, working my way up his back and over, the heat of his skin burning through my jeans, through my sweater, and his head tilts to rest against my breasts. The massage gets softer, becomes faint circles over his pectoral, hands brushing along the line of his shoulder. I could do it. I could lower my mouth to his, slide around and straddle him, and the temptation of it shocks me and makes me want to whimper with needs long buried.
He shifts away abruptly and grabs his sweater, pulling it on. Well. That tells me. I climb off the couch and resume my usual spot, avoiding his gaze.
Want more close calls? Check out these other authors:
Liv Rancourt | Margo Bond Collins | Becky Flade | Jami Gray | D.R. Graham | Holley Trent | Mindy Hardwick | Angela Quarles | Susan Arden | Debbie Christiana | Synithia Williams | Ashlinn Craven | Juli Page Morgan | M.M. Jaye | Nicole Evalina | Ines Johnson | Aldrea Alien | Athena Marie | Isabel Bandiera | Amalia Dillin | Elise Vancise