Sunday, June 9, 2013
Sunday Snog: Keep reading you get to the kiss...*ish* bit
A Sunday Snog Snippet from Bittersweet. One of my first longer length works, I put out. I still love my Deacon. He's a bit rough around the edges, but has a wonderful gooey center.
For more Sunday Snogging go HERE to Victoria Blisse's site. Cheers!
Rayka’s just looking for a peace offering for an offended client when she goes into The Good, The Sweet, and the Yummy. What she finds instead is a very intoxicating man. Deacon James is more sinful than the candy he sells, and
Rayka soon finds out that he can push her farther than she every thought she could go. Mentally, creatively, emotionally and yes–sexually. Rayka must remember it’s okay to let him have her body, let him test her limits, but she can’t let him have her heart. Besides, he’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want it anyway…
Sunday Snog Excerpt from Bittersweet (keep reading you'll get tot he kissish bit):
Deacon pulled into her driveway. Rayka’s house was small and white with black shutters and a porch swing. Two rather large oaks flanked the front walk, and a small garden was planted at the bottom of the front porch. He took a deep breath and walked up the steps. Deep inside of himself he knew what he really wanted, and it was definitely not dinner at Frederick’s. He wanted to walk her backwards into the house the moment that door opened and he wanted to drape her over the nearest available surface. Didn’t matter. Sofa, butcher block, armchair, anything that would hold her stable while he stripped her bare and then slid into her. Entered her. She’d be wet, he was sure of it.
“Jesus,” he said, and his breath puffed out a little cotton ball of smoke in the cold air. “Get a handle, son.”
His boots sounded like cannon fire going up her wooden steps. He hadn’t dressed up. Frederick’s was casual to say the least. He hoped Rayka had, though. He wanted to see what kind of clothing came to mind when she thought of him. It said a lot. Cotton said less than silk. Wool not as much as satin. Soft and slippery and colorful said, ‘Touch me.’ An invitation she would not have to extend twice.
Deacon ignored the knocker and rapped the red wooden door with his fist. The door was cottage style. Wide planks of wood, rounded at the top. It was painted a cranberry. He expected Little Red Riding Hood to answer his knock. She did.
“Hi, you’re early!” she said blushing. Her dress was red, and she was draping a red, hooded cape over the spectacular garment that hugged her every curve.
Deacon swallowed hard. His throat felt stuffed full of cotton, and his head felt muddied. All he saw was red fabric, lush curves and now, peaked nipples. She was watching him watch her and reacting physically to his gaze.
“Drop the cape,” he managed.
She untied the small black ribbon at her throat, and the draped fabric fell to the floor with an intimate whisper.
“Turn around,” he growled.
She spun without a word, like a ballerina in a music box. His cock grew hard at her obedience. She practically panted to submit, but did she know? Was she aware? She would be by the end of the night.
She was barely breathing. He watched the slow, shallow breaths move her rib cage in and out. He pushed her mass of honey-blond hair to the side and watched the nape of her neck pebble with goose bumps. Anticipation and excitement radiated off of her in waves. So did anxiety. She was uncertain. He placed his lips at the very base of her neck. She smelled like warm cinnamon and sweet flowers. He nipped her lightly with his teeth and she let out a small, surprised sound and jumped.
“Shhhh. Just a moment more and then we’ll go out.”
Rayka settled just a bit but he could feel the tension in her body. He liked it. On guard but excited. He slid his fingers over her shoulders, listening to his calluses rasp on the smooth fabric. Touch me, her outfit said. So he did. He slid his tongue down the side of her throat into the hollow above her shoulder. She moaned.
“I like that sound. I like when you lose it for me. Like last night on the phone.”
He heard her suck in a little puff of air. Embarrassed, he was sure. Her cheeks would be a lovely shade of red, her eyes downcast. His hands traced the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, and then she sighed, long and low. He winced as his cock grew harder still. This would be the longest dinner he had ever endured, he was sure of it.
“What’s this?” he said and he let just a bit of steel creep into his voice.
Rayka jumped and said nothing. Her moans and sighs and happy sounds had deserted her. Deacon snapped the thin elastic band with his fingers. The sound, even muffled by the dress, was sharp. The strike of elastic on skin sounded painful.
He snapped it again, harder, and she yelped. She moved to step away from him, and he clamped a hand on her shoulder and steadied her there. She stilled. Rayka didn’t fight him or protest. She simply stopped in her tracks, panting for air.
“I told you no panties,” he said directly into her ear. Her back was ramrod straight, her breasts rising and falling briskly. He could almost smell the worry coming off of her.
“I didn’t think that—”
“I was serious? I would care? Really. Come now, Rayka, tell me that to my face. Tell me you thought I was joking. That I’d be fine with you disobeying me.”
Deacon spun her to face him and there they were. Those twin blotches of color on her cheeks as if she had been smacked. “I didn’t feel okay. I felt weird. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Whatever you want to call it.”
“Scared? Unsure?” he rasped.
She nodded. Eyes downcast, hands worrying at her sides.
“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes.”
“Do you want me to fuck you? After dinner. Like we both know is planned?”
“What? Speak up. You what?” Now he let the animal out of its cage. He didn’t pull any punches or soften his voice. He let her see how he could be when he wasn’t pleased. He would never hurt her, but he would put her in her place. She had to know that now.
“Yes. Yes, I do.” She dropped her head, studied her shoes.
Deacon bent and hiked up her skirt. No preamble or warning. He lifted it briskly and didn’t allow himself the distraction of a long, tanned thigh or the small triangle-shaped shadow beneath the nearly translucent thong. He doubted the scrap could even qualify as panties. He grabbed one slender band and yanked. The elastic snapped with a small pop. Then he ripped the other band and the thong slid to the floor without a sound.
Rayka watched, eyes wide, and then silently stepped over her ruined panties. Her black heel caught briefly, and she kicked the scrap away. “I’m sorry, Deacon,” she said. Her lips looked bruised from biting them.
He kissed her roughly and then dropped to his knees. He planted his mouth over a small welt where the broken elastic had snapped back against her pale skin.
Rayka sucked in a breath when his tongue touched her skin. Deacon could tell by the way she shifted her thighs that she was wet, ready. That she was fighting the rising urgency. He knew because he felt it too.
Deacon kissed gently over her hipbone for just a moment and then smoothed her dress down over her naked body. He kissed her neatly trimmed pubic hair though the fabric and fought the primal urge to drag her to the ground and fuck her right there. Not now. Later. He could wait and she would have to.