Some writers complain they can’t torture their beloved characters.
I’m the mean-as-a-snake punk who shoots bottle rockets at people.
In this PG-13 (mild cursing & extreme cheese) excerpt from my romantic fantasy, I’m finally letting my hero and heroine kiss. Let me tell you, it’s a hard-won kiss. But I just can’t let them enjoy it. Not yet. The reader knows from the end of the previous chapter that the third member of the love triangle, a real cherry bomb of a man, has followed them from the party. Their kiss ignites his fuse.
He’d taken her face in his hands, wiped her tears with his thumbs. Calluses ridged his palms, but the sides of his thumbs were smooth and his touch was gentle. She’d seen him fight, knew the strength in those hands, and it made her want to cry anew to know how sweet they could be -- and to think she’d never feel them again.
But his eyes locked on hers and told her not to think such things. Drawing her closer, his broad shoulders engulfed her. His eyelids drifted closed, his lips parted and daubed hers in a small kiss, barely a kiss, but it resonated a thousand times stronger through her.
She had to feel it again. She grazed her nose against his and met his lips with hers. Lingering on them, she mapped in her mind their warmth, taste, how their softness gave way to the rough, hard curve of his chin. He opened his mouth so slightly and she kissed him harder, pressing her lips to his teeth.
He pressed back, and then took his mouth from hers to kiss her chin and neck.
Her hand, poised on his chest, rose and fell with his heavy breaths.
“Can you endure the worry?” he whispered and brushed his lips to her ear. “I can’t forsake you.” He lifted her veil back and laid his face against her hair. His voice, sounding from his jaw into hers, seemed to come from within her. “Can you forgive me for thinking I could?”
Her body was turning into a million particles of shimmering white bliss. That was her answer. She was going to evaporate into pure joy. She had to stay real, had to hold onto him. She reached around his broad back, nestled her chest to his and drew herself tight against his beautiful hardness. Between her legs, the hollow space of her body ached.
She kissed him to quell that pain.
Something grazed her neck. Suddenly,
What was wrong? She opened her eyes.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard,” Donthan seethed. He had his arm crooked around
So, how about you? Are you a punk or a pacifist?Any guesses who my cherry-bomb character is based on? He’s my favorite actor.