Taken by the Phantom
I appraise the Phantom of the Opera in shadow and light. For an eternity, he says nothing. Neither do I. There is no barrier between us, yet I can’t make myself move. I’m porcelain shot through with fissures—if he touches me I’ll shatter.
What if I want to?
Finally, he speaks. “Prima Donna.”
I stare at him. His one visible eye is dark, almost black. Set in his white face, against the pale of his mask, it is stark. Of course he is rendered in extremes. For the first time since our encounter here, he is less clothed than I am. He wears a white dress shirt, loose and open. He has a lovely body, finer even than it felt when pressed against mine. He’s more muscular than his tailored suits and sweeping cloaks would lead one to believe, with a sculpted chest, clear lines chiseled across his abdomen.
It’s then that I realize he is also young, probably only a few years older than me. If he were from my world, he might still be a student. He might go to Juilliard; an upperclassman who might tutor me or play me opposite in a musical.
Of course, in my world he probably wouldn’t wear a mask or live beneath an opera house.
He wouldn’t kill.
“I am not the Prima Donna,” I finally answer. My voice trembles, and I kick myself internally for showing even one crack in my facade. Still, neither of us have moved. I can see the hard plane of his stomach ripple when he breathes; his jaw is set, and a muscle ticks there. His hands are closed into tight fists. But he doesn’t move.
“Not yet.” At last: a step. I force myself not to retreat. “But after I am through with you…”
Through with me? Heat licks up the back of my neck. I’m grateful for the darkness. What would he make of me blushing? What do I make of me blushing? “Through with me?”
Another step. He’s framed in the doorway: a beautiful, horrifying portrait. Oils and lust and treachery all painted in broad strokes. “With my teaching.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
He takes another step. We are toe to toe, and it takes everything in me not to run screaming through the Hall of Mirrors. I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking, coming down here? Staying when Charlotte left? Singing for him?
The Phantom looks down his nose at me, lips parted. “Deadly so.”
I snort. Narrow my eyes. “Oh,” I say, “so you’re funny now?”
“I have always been in possession of quite a sense of humor, Krissy Davis.”
“Even while you killed them?”
He cocks his head, eyes flaring. I’ve pissed him off. Good.
He lifts his hand, no longer gloved, but bare and plain as any man’s. Not monstrous at all. My knees shake, and I hope he doesn’t see. He touches his fingers to my jaw, tender as he might a kitten’s belly.
“Especially,” he murmurs, his eyes on my mouth, “while I killed them.”
Title: Seeing Angels
Author: Harmony Lawson
Genre: YA Paranormal Romance/Fantasy
Publication Date: April 19, 2019
Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
Harmony Lawson and her family live in Northern California in the beautiful foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. She is a self-published author and self-taught in drawing, painting, and writing. She is fascinated by angels, Nephilim, and fallen angels. She incorporates her research into her fictional stories.
While she has endured many hardships in life, she believes she learns something new from her experiences. Life has its ups and downs, trials and tribulations, and Heaven and Hell. She believes the bad times are a test to prove a person's worth. Her books reflect on that concept. Writing also helps her heal from past traumas. In the meantime, she cares for her family, loves her pugs, and remains silly through all that life throws at her. Her goal is to be an introverted hobbit.
Author Links: Amazon: https://amzn.to/2HDwBWS
I give him a quick peck on the cheek and open the car door. âSee you tomorrow,â I say. He can relax and go home.
âIâll pick you up.â His touch is soft and electrifying, making my core shiver and pulse race. Iâm halfway out of the car when he reaches out to grasp my hand and I stop to gaze at him. His eyes are so full of emotion and heâs struggling with something internal. When our eyes connect, I move closer to him and touch the side of his face. He closes his eyes and I lean in to brush my lips against his.
His eyes flash open when I pull away. Illuminated passion flares in his eyes, making his hazel tone brighter. His hand rubs the side of my right shoulder as he turns to face me. My left arm goes around his neck as he pulls me in. His chest is hard against mine as our lips dance in a heated kiss that has the promise of forever etched within. I want my soul to melt with his. My breath mingles with his and my pulse is high. Then the kiss slows and we both know this needs to slow down.
âHave a good evening. Again, happy birthday. Thanks for inviting me.â He rests his forehead against mine as our breathing is fast like we ran a mile.
âYouâre welcome and thank you.â Our hands gently pull apart as I climb out of the car and watch as he drives away.
“You wished to speak with me, child?” he asked. Only the fact that he was older than her grandfather kept her from being annoyed by the endearment.
“Yes,” she replied, bowing her head. “I want to know how to get to Annwn. The tales say there’s an entrance somewhere nearby.”
He blinked and sat up straighter. “What business does a young lady have in the land of the dead?”
“Someone I love arrived there recently, and I’m going to get him back,” Nia said, clenching her fists.
The Archdruid sighed. “It hurts to lose a loved one, I know, but it is not for us mortals to interfere in the natural cycle of life and death. The gods have a purpose beyond our comprehension.”
“There was no purpose to Celyn’s death!” Nia exclaimed. A hush fell over the hall, and her face flooded with heat, but she soldiered on. “If the gods have an issue with my plans, then surely they can stop me without your help. All I ask is knowledge. Will you deny me?”
He frowned, and she wondered if maybe she had taken things too far. But then, he nodded thoughtfully. “I will take an omen. If the gods do not wish you to undertake this journey, they will tell us so.” It felt like just a more roundabout way of refusing, but Nia sensed this was the best chance she was going to get, so she nodded.
Nia was led into the chamber behind the main hall, a room dominated by a colossal round hearth sunk into the floor. The Archdruid gestured for her to sit on one of the cushions around the edge of the room. Once she was settled, he tossed a bunch of herbs onto the fire. Fragrant smoke tickled the back of her throat. The shadows leapt and danced in a way that made her shiver with unease.
“This will help us to see more clearly,” he said, seating himself beside her and picking up a pouch that rattled like raindrops on a hollow log. “Close your eyes, and when I speak the words, I want you to tell me what images come into your mind.”
Nia did as he said, though she was beginning to feel anxious. It was well known that druids practiced magic, and though it was fun to hear about magic in tales Nia never thought she’d be participating in it. There’s probably a lot more magic in Annwn, she thought before turning her attention back to the Archdruid. The hollow sounds from the pouch seemed unnaturally loud.
“Journey,” said the voice of the Archdruid, and the images swimming behind her eyes reformed, becoming rain lashing her face while the sounds of wind and water roared in her ears.
“I see… a storm, on the ocean I think,” she said, shivering. Though her family had not been sailors, she knew a storm at sea could be deadly.
“Good.” More rattling. “What about choice?”
Again, visions flickered rapidly before her. “I see… a cauldron, and then… animals? A raven, a fox, others? I’m not sure.”
“That’s fine. One more… what does your heart say about fate?”
At the word, Nia felt like she was swallowed by darkness. In the distance she saw something shining. A thread, golden-white in color, fragile and all alone out in the void. Four new threads appeared. One was a violet so dark it was nearly black, one bright red, one cool blue, and one brilliant green. These threads wove around the original thread, and as a weaver, Nia knew that they were much stronger together. This vividly colored thread spooled upward into a tapestry. It was so intricate and beautiful that she couldn’t form words to describe it. When the vision disappeared the loss felt like a blow. She relayed everything to the Archdruid in a shaking voice.
“Hmmm,” he hummed for a moment. “You can open your eyes now. I am ready to give my judgment, if you are still willing to hear it.”
His words didn’t bode well for Nia in her estimation, but she was determined to see this through. She sat up straight, set her jaw in a fierce line, and nodded.
The Archdruid sighed. “This omen tells me that this journey is important for you, and perhaps for others. You will not, I think, find what seek, but you will find your destiny. Are you certain you wish to enter Annwn?”
Elise De Jong/Sami Ali Book 1
Published: May 2018
Imagine a world where modern governments failed their citizens and long-simmering conflicts escalated into global war. Imagine if its survivors migrated toward those who share the same faith. Imagine the continents are ruled by religions.
When the mysterious death of a teenage girl triggers memories of a similar childhood event, police Detective Sami Ali becomes consumed with solving her murder. Persecuted by the shame of his past, Ali will stop at nothing to find the killer, even if his investigation puts his wife and daughter at risk.
As he follows the clues, Ali collides with another lost soul - a foreign spy. Elise De Jong's official mission in Eurabia involves the acquisition of a priceless item that could shift the balance of power among the theocracies. But she also has a personal objective - to find her last living relative, the little sister whom she hasn't seen since her birth.
To succeed in their missions, Elise and Ali must find common ground despite their religious differences, for they can depend only on each other.
Major Sami Ali knew heâd been assigned the dhimmiâs murder because he was the worst detective on the Budapest police force. And he understood exactly what his boss expected him to do â use minimal departmental resources to conduct a basic investigation, find no evidence of religious cleansing, and bury the case.
Ali knew such a weak effort rendered him a fraud and he didnât care. Pride didnât pay his daughterâs tuition. His job was to follow orders and provide for his family. Also, his father had made him take an oath as a child to hate Christians and Jews for the rest of his life. He didnât give a damn about the dhimmis.
The body had been found at the Matthias Catholic Church, one of only three remaining Christian churches in the section of the city known as Dhimmi Town. Gothic spires decorated with gargoyles towered above a diamond-patterned roof, green and brown ceramic tiles glittering in the sun. Ismael, the crime scene technician, was kneeling beside the corpse near the altar when Ali arrived inside. His friend reminded Ali of a mongoose â unassuming at first glance, but pity the snake who dared to test his mettle.
âFirst comes Saturday,â Ismael said.
âThen comes Sunday,â Ali said.
The salutation had originated in the Middle East during the early twentieth century, long before the third world war, the collapse of governments and economies, and the migration of survivors toward people who shared the same faith.
First weâll take care of the Jews, who pray on Saturday, and then weâll take care of the Christians, who pray on Sunday.
The old prophecy had been fulfilled in Arabia. Then, after Muslims flooded Europe, Sharia law had been enacted throughout the continent. Only the dhimmis prevented the prophecy from being true in what was now known as Eurabia, too.
And now there were one fewer dhimmis.
Ali couldnât see the corpse. Ismael was hovering over it, blocking his view.
âWhat are we celebrating?â Ali said.
âDeath by strangulation,â Ismael said.
âWhat? No machete?â
âNo blood. He strangled her with his hands.â
âNo blood. Youâve got to be kidding â¦ Wait. Did you say her?â
âBruising on both sides of the neck but no actual prints. He must have worn gloves.â
âSigns of struggle?â Ali said.
âNone that I can see.â
Ismael stepped back to reveal a girlâs corpse, a lithe figure with hair the color of sun-drenched wheat. âLook, A. She canât be more than fourteen or fifteen.â
âIsh,â Ali said. The first syllable of his friendâs name was the only sound he could muster because the sight of the girl had taken him to the place he hoped to never revisit.
âWhat a waste,â Ismael said.
Aliâs childhood memories were secured in an impenetrable vault protected by imaginary barbed wire, steel walls, and padlocks. Whenever something or someone prodded the vault, its protective devices tightened. This time, however, its defenses disintegrated and the locks sprang open. Out streamed the vision he loathed so much it made him long for sudden death.
It was all in the past, Ali tried to tell himself, but no one could detect a lie more easily than a cop, even a lousy one. A similar-looking girl was lying before him. And she, too, was dead.
âThe eyes,â Ismael said. He reached over and lifted the dead girlâs eyelids. âYou see the eyes?â
They looked like aquamarine jewels.
Of course Ali had noticed the eyes, as surely as heâd noticed the girlâs oval face, alabaster skin, and golden locks. It wasnât their beauty that shocked Ali and Ismael, but rather their presence in their sockets, because the typical religious cleansing involved their removal. Lower your head â submit to Islam â lest your eyes be snatched.
Ismael nodded for Ali to come closer, then glanced in both directions to make sure the other two technicians taking pictures of the church interior couldnât hear him.
âShe wasnât killed here,â Ismael said. âShe was brought here after the fact.â
âHow can you be sure?â
Ismail lowered his voice further. âBecause there was a witness.â
Ali lost his breath. âA witness?â There were never any witnesses in Dhimmi Town, at least none brave or stupid enough to come forward.
âThe caretaker who called it in. He was here when the killer brought in the body. Point of entry, front door. Point of exit, front door.
âHe saw the killer?â
âHe was taken to headquarters to give his statement and for his own protection. But I donât think itâs his protection your boss will be worried about. Especially not with the world leaders in town for that conference. Think about it. The heads of all four kingdoms â the Buddhists, Hindus, Christians and us â all in the same place. Canât have religious cleansing when the religions are trying to find a way to get along, can you?â
Ali heard the question and understood Ismaelâs point. His boss wanted the case buried quickly. But that mattered less to Ali than Ismaelâs previous implication, that the higher-ups would do everything necessary to make sure the witness was silenced. To Aliâs own amazement, something compelled him right there and then to do everything in his power to make sure the witness was heard.
But was he too late?
Ali told Ismael heâd be in touch and rushed out of the church. As he ran toward his car, the call to prayer sounded. It was the second such call of the day which meant it was just past noon. The sound of the Muezzinâs mellifluous voice always slowed Aliâs pulse, drained him of angst and sorrow, and lifted his spirits. The thought of not stopping whatever he was doing to contemplate the substance of his Islamic beliefs five times a day was unthinkable.
Yet thatâs exactly what he considered doing the moment the initial call sounded. The image of the dead girl from his youth gripped him so tightly that he wanted â no, he needed â to begin a thorough investigation of this girlâs murder immediately. One death bore no relation to the other. More than twenty-five years had past since the first girl had died. The victims merely resembled each other.
Ali realized this but it made no difference to him. To say that heâd failed the first girl was a gross understatement. He couldnât contemplate repeating the mistake. Did he even have the skills to solve a murder? Ali wasnât sure himself. The other cops called him the Dhimmi Lover precisely because he had no love for them. It was a joke well-known throughout the force. What would they say if the worst detective in Eurabia started acting like a real police? The Dhimmi Lover actually trying to solve the murder of a dhimmi? Theyâd all get a laugh out of that one.
When the second call came for prayer to begin, Ali didnât stop to face Mecca. Instead, he climbed in his car, hammered the gas pedal and raced toward the station. Never before had he thought of the streets of Dhimmi Town as his own. Who in his right mind would want them?
But they were his, he realized, whether he liked them or not, just as surely as he was among the few Muslims not prostrating themselves before Allah in the capital city of the central region of the Eurabian Caliphate.
Ali hoped like hell no one recognized him behind the wheel.
About the Author
Orest Stelmach is a mystery and thriller writer and the author of the Nadia Tesla series. His novels have been Kindle #1 bestsellers, optioned for film development, and translated into numerous foreign languages. Prior to becoming a full-time writer, Orest was an institutional investment portfolio manager for twenty-five years. He is a graduate of Dartmouth College and the University of Chicago Booth School of Business.
The Contessa’s Brooch
I stripped off the flimsy plastic gloves that came with the dye and tossed them in the garbage can. Jake was still Jake, but a new and improved version with black hair. The beard might make a difference but would take a week or two to grow.
Still, I stepped back and walked around him to admire my work.
He studied himself in a hand mirror. “I hate it,” he said. “I don’t look like me. But I guess that’s the point.”
“It brings out the color of your eyes.” A little flattery might help. But that gave me another idea. Glasses. “Wait here.”
Like there was any place for him to go in my small apartment. There were several pairs of my old glasses stuck in a drawer. The prescription would screw with his vision, but if they changed his appearance, we could pick up a pair of low-level cheaters from the drugstore.
The first ones I found sported pink frames, bought on a whim, worn two or three times. While they would be a fun joke to play on Jake, I didn’t think he’d find them amusing. I dug deeper. The perfect pair with heavy black frames was in there somewhere.
He slipped them on and grinned. “I forgot how blind you are, Angel.” He squinted in the mirror. “I can’t see a darn thing!”
My eyesight wasn’t that bad.
He slipped them down his nose so he could peer over the top. “Makes me look like a professor.”
Not the ones I had in college. He was better looking. But I wasn’t about to say that out loud and inflate Jake’s ego.
The Rule of Many
Limos and luxury cars line the extensive circular driveway, stuffed with partygoers ready for the welcoming bash. Mrs. and Mr. Cross have already arrived with much fanfare from their son and his doting employees. I wonder if Ciro’s sisters are here.
I hear him get on the microphone, introducing his unwitting parents onto the stage of the overflowing banquet hall, the governor of Alberta and the mayor of Calgary looking on from the front row.
Everything’s falling nicely into place. If only the man of the hour would show.
I look at my watch: 7:30 p.m. He’s late. Ava’s knee bounces furiously, as if she can shake out her anxiety.
“He’ll come,” I say.
From our hideout in the corner of the foyer, shadowed and easily overlooked, we have the best seats in the house. A perfect vantage point to see and be unseen. Ava scans the budding festivities through the glass walls on our left. I keep my eyes on the glass windows straight ahead, seeing past the dazzling flares from the cars’ headlights, holding out for the first glimpse of the president.
A string quartet begins to play, and an electric energy pulsates through the hotel, enlivening the crowd around us with a giddy exhilaration, and I can’t help but feel it too. Eager, I spring to my feet. I pace up and down our tucked-away corner, checking the time, watching Emery from across the room, waiting on her signal.
“Do you hear that?” Ava asks. She stares up at the ceiling. I move beside her as we listen to the muffled roar of whirling blades slicing the air somewhere above the building.
“A helicopter,” Ava says.
We look to Emery, who stands near the entrance, her gaze locked skyward. Guests file past as she removes a headscarf from her pocket, drapes the silk over her distinctive curls, and pulls it into a tight knot at the back of her neck. She folds her right arm over her chest, our cue to move.
I feel, rather than see, Barend steal into place behind us, our long shadow, as we push to the end of the foyer. Pawel detaches himself from the crowd and crosses our path as he follows Emery out the front door. “Lots of luck,” he whispers earnestly. Like luck has anything to do with it. It’s all up to us.
Our target is the oversized clock that consumes the entire wall alongside the vacant concierge desk. Ava stops before the number six, and we slip behind a false door and stride side by side down an empty staff hallway. Three right turns, two left, a final door, and we’re outside.
There are no lights behind the hotel and no people. The night is chilly and moonless, but we find the footpath we were directed to take and make our silent way to the small grove of trees just twenty yards out.
Ten paces in, Ava and I turn from the path and weave through the evergreens until we spot the narrow clearing that is to be our stage. We position ourselves in its center, shoulder to shoulder, and wait. Somewhere to our right, concealed within the trees and darkness, Barend stands guard.
When told of the plan, Emery immediately authorized the private rendezvous. She knows pleading our case face-to-face with the president is the only way. Cameras and screens provide a barrier, Emery said. The media paints you solely as American rebels. Let him see how human you are. With Pawel at her side, Emery is to meet and escort the president here, while Ciro entertains his parents and guests, keeping them safely ignorant inside the banquet hall.
The minutes tick off, and Ava starts to shiver from either the cold or nerves. Or is that me shivering? Ava and I brought no weapons with us, to show good faith. No guns, no knives. Just us, with our naked conviction and hope.
This could be our last stop, a final end to the endless chase. A place to plan and plot and devise our crucial counterattack.
Ava nudges me with a sharp elbow. She points to the trees in front of us. Two distinct shapes emerge, a faint silhouette floating behind.
“Ready?” I whisper needlessly. Ava tightens her jaw, and I ball my hands into white-knuckled fists. I take a big gulp of air and exhale slowly. My breath comes out in swirling smoke, reminding me of a dragon. There’s a fire inside me, and suddenly I feel warm and calm. One look from Ava and I know she feels it too.
The outlines become faces and bodies. Emery appears first, then President Moore, with Pawel a few steps behind. I stare at Moore, transfixed, my eyes glued to the man who can grant us refuge.
He stumbles forward, as if his own eyes have not yet adjusted to the dark. I search his every feature, looking for any hint of surprise, or shock, or understanding. But his face, though startlingly attractive in the starlight, is blank. Indifferent.
“President Moore,” Emery says, “this is Ava and Mira Goodwin.” He looks at us cross-eyed, his round eyes squinting as he takes us in. We all stand motionless, awaiting his response.
“You don’t look identical to me,” the president finally states, his thin voice magnified in the still night air. “One of you’s slightly taller, the other rounder.”
The leader of the free world opens with an insult. My first reaction is to defend my identicalness. Surprising, when all I’ve ever wanted is to be seen as different from Ava.
“Sir—” Ava and I speak at the same time.
The president laughs. “Ah, there it is.” The ground spins as he turns to leave. “This conversation will be moved to a different setting. Just the twins and me.”
Barend detaches from the shadows. Pawel and Emery enclose my sister and me. Ava grabs my arm, her grip tight enough to bruise.
“We do not agree to any change—” Emery starts, but Moore shouts over her.
Everything shatters, all plans and expectations smashed to pieces.
A gunshot rings out, then two more.
“Run!” Emery yells.
The last thing I see is Ava’s face, twisted in fear and fury.
Then something covers my eyes. My mouth.
I’m thrown over a bulky shoulder, the deafening sounds of a helicopter growing louder with every footfall. With every one of my muffled screams.
I’m shoved against something solid. I reach out, arms flailing, but there’s no one beside me. Ava.
I feel the chopper lift into the sky. Two spinning blades taking me higher and higher away from Common ground.
Kingdom of Mirrors & Roses: A Limited Edition of Beauty and the Beast Retellings
Dry Bones: The Valley
She smiles at herself in the mirror. “Now this is a wedding dress.”
And I agree. So different than the one she used to wipe my come off her face.
“But oh,” she says, turning to look at her ass in the mirror. “Panty lines.”
And then, before I even realize what she’s doing, she reaches inside the side slits along each thigh and pulls her panties down, kicking them off to the side.
“This is why I never wear underwear,” she explains. “I need to see if it looks OK without them. Because with them—”
“You are not walking down the aisle with no panties on.”
“Oh, yes, I am. This is a no-panties dress and you picked it out. So you have to live with it.”
My cock agrees with her. Because I’m fully fucking hard now.
She glances down at it, then lifts her eyes to mine, and says, “I hope you’re not thinking—”
“I’m not,” I say.
“—because if you wanted to do dirty stuff in here, we could get caught—”
“Don’t worry,” I say.
“—and Margaret would be so disappointed in us if she caught the best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée.”
“What?” I say, doing a double-take.
“That’s what I told her. It’s kinda hot, isn’t it?”
“No,” I say. “It’s kinda sad, actually.”
“Well, it was a lie, anyway. So that just makes it hot.“
She mouths the words Wild Thing at me, then reaches down to grab my cock.
I push her away, but she backs me into the mirror with a bang.
“Everything OK in there?” Margaret calls from the other side of the door.
“Just fine,” I yell back, glaring at Lyssa.
“Come on,” she whispers. “Wild thing, hold me tight.” And then she giggles.
“That’s not even how the song goes—”
But I stop. Because the next thing I know, she’s on her knees in front of me, the button popped on my jeans, the zipper down, and my cock is in her hands.
“Lyssa,” I groan.
“Tell me no,” she says, then sticks the head of my cock in her mouth, pressing her tongue up against my shaft, before I even have a chance.
“Would you like another dress?” Margaret calls.
Lyssa eases her mouth off my cock with a loud smacking sound and looks up at me. “What do you think, Mason? Do we need to try on another one?”
“No,” I call back to Margaret. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”
“I could wrap it up for you,” Margaret offers, just as Lyssa puts my cock back in her mouth and takes me deep into her throat.
“Uh… we’re not quite…. oh, God… done yet,” I say.
“OK, I’m right out here if you need anything.”
“Great,” I groan. Because Lyssa is giving me a full-on head-bobbing messy blow-job. And against my better judgment, my fingers are now tangled in her hair, urging her on.
She pulls off me, both her hands on my thighs, pushing me back, and then she stands again.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making you choose.”
She backs up against the mirror and whispers, “You know why you chose the dress with two slits?”
I already know where this is going.
“Because I can do this.” She pulls the center portion of material aside and flashes her bare pussy at me. “And you,” she says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me towards her so my cock bumps into her leg, “can put that inside me and I don’t even have to take my clothes off.”
“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I whisper back.
Why not? she silently mouths and simultaneously pouts.
“Because you’re not mine, Lyssa.”
She sighs. Frowning. Giving up. Because she leans back against the wall and wilts. “I want to be yours.”
“You can’t be,” I say.
“Because you’re engaged. And I’m just… I’m just your fucking babysitter.”
She slides her hand between her legs, then withdraws it and places the tip of her glistening wet finger against my lips.
I close my eyes and open my mouth, my cock totally in charge now. I suck on her finger the way she was just sucking on my cock.
“Please,” she whispers. So low, I almost don’t hear her. “I promise to be good in every other way if you just… make me feel loved right now.”
I pull her finger out of my mouth and say, “Lyssa,” feeling sad for her.
“We can pretend,” she says. “Right?” She places both her hands on my cheeks and leans in. Kisses me.
I kiss her back.
I know I shouldn’t. I feel the guilt of a best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée, and I don’t even care.
If her name is Lyssa Baylor then I want to fuck my best friend’s fiancée.
“Everybody pretends,” she whispers past my lips. “It’s all fake, Mason. So who cares, anyway?”
She pulls her dress aside again, reaching for my cock. And when she tugs on it, I do the unthinkable. I take two steps forward and we’re not even two steps apart. So now my chest is pressing up against her breasts, forcing her against the wall. She lifts up her leg and I brush the middle section of satin dress over the side of her thigh to get it out of the way.
And after that, it takes no effort at all to slip my cock inside her.
The one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do.
I would eat her out, and let her blow me. And kiss her, and suck her nipples, and smack her ass, and all that other stuff. And it would be OK if I just didn’t fuck her.
And now I’m fucking her.
In her wedding dress.
Titles: Redemption (Moonchild, #3)
Author: Kate L Mary
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic Futuristic Steampunk
Publisher: Twisted Press
Editor: Lori Whitwam
Publication Date: May 16th, 2019
Hosted by: Lady Amberâs PR
Kate L. Mary is an award-winning author of Adult, New Adult, and Young Adult fiction, ranging from Post-apocalyptic tales of the undead to Speculative Fiction and Contemporary Romance! Her YA book, When We Were Human, was a 2015 Children's Moonbeam Book Awards Silver Medal winner for Young Adult Fantasy/Sci-Fi Fiction, and a 2016 Readers' Favorite Gold Medal winner for Young Adult Science Fiction. Her book, Outliers, was a Top 10 Finalist in the 2018 Author Academy Awards for Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction, and a First Place Winner in the 2018 Kindle Book Awards for Sci-Fi/Fantasy Fiction.
Reader Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/KateLMaryReaders/
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