Marcel Conway is fresh on the market for a new year of the Mating Season: a sex auction masquerading as a Peace Trade to keep the packs from going to war. But she's gritting her teeth and digging her heels in, determined to come home to her small bu...
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That night triggered something in me. I tried to justify it with sleep deprivation and when that didn't work, I began to chalk it up to a twisted form of Stockholm syndrome. Whatever the case may be, it led me to where I was right now.
Coffee mug in one hand, curtain clutched back in the other as I stared out the window into the early spring morning garden.
I'm just investigating the garden...yeah, the peonies look especially beautiful today...I couldn't even twitch a finger, I held so still. The hydrangeas are blooming strongly...very strongly...
However, it was the deity in front of the hydrangea bush that I was captivated with. I was consciously aware that my mouth hand long since went dry in efforts to bite down my silence. Every movement his long, lean form made was fluid.
Donovan appeared to be rehoming plants to healthier soil, using a shovel to plow a particular area of the garden. He was covered in dirt and soil, his shirt was stained liberally and clung to his body with sweat from his laborious work.
He stopped, and for a moment I thought I had been discovered. I held my breath, not daring to even move a millimeter. And then something absolutely offensive happened. This deity gripped the hem of his ruddy shirt and pulled it over his head.
My eyes could have popped out of my head and rolled across the floor.
Sweet Moon Goddess on a stick...I bit down on my bottom lip to avoid vocalizing these thoughts. He was quite literally the embodiment of sin...
His warm, caramel skin glistened in the early morning light, my eyes tracing each tantalizing curve of his marvelously cut muscles, from his broad shoulders to his trimmed hips. I felt myself grow light-headed. Did I forget to breathe?
I was so close to the window now I could see my breath fogging on the glass, staring at him with bated breath as he tirelessly threw the shovel down and then carelessly ran his long fingers through his dark hair... He wore his agitation like a damn model, his face slightly creasing with annoyance.
I was no longer appalled by these wild outlandish thoughts that plagued my mind. My fingers itched with the need to run them over his skin, to feel the softness of his hair on my fingertips, to hold him closer... Instantly, I became acutely aware that I was on the verge of drooling now, feeling the frustrating desire to taste him on lips, longing to sink my teeth in that perfect dip of his collar bone and mark him.
"S-Shut up, Marcel," I chastised myself as I felt my face burn. My mouth was pooling with anticipation and I felt my hands grow slick on my mug and the curtain.
Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed the presence of a particular elderly woman entering the room, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before she stopped in her tracks to stared at me with a bemused smile on her wrinkled lips.
