Here is a tempting little teaser from my current WIP, La Bonne Soeur. I hope you enjoy. XoXo London
TRINITY WINSLOW’S BREATH CAME HARD. Her chest heaved with the effort as she ran around the house to find the back entrance. She turned the knob, slowly opened the door, and snuck down the back hallway. She could not give herself away; he could never know she watched him. She backed up slowly and allowed her body to fall within the shadowed corner of the downstairs hall. He always stopped in the kitchen before making his way upstairs so he would walk right past her.
For the past two years she watched him, dreamed of him, longed to touch him, but today was different. He would leave soon. She had to burn his image into her mind, fusing it with the desire she felt, the love she felt, the need for him which she knew would go unattained. Even within her fantasy, deep down inside, Trinity knew the truth. All she ever had was her wanting of him, yet she wished for the impossible. To be the kind of woman who would turn his head. She wanted to be the woman who would make him feel the burn for her which she felt for him.
Footfalls echoed off the tiles of the kitchen floor, followed by the slight suctioned groan of the refrigerator door open then close. Trinity heard the sound of him lobbing something into the trash.
“Score!” he yelled.
She held her breath. He’s coming closer. As she figured, he walked right past her, his black hair tousled and wet with sweat.He had been jogging, something he does every day. She envied his freedom, his strength. Trinity admired his sense of adventure, his boldness, and as always she admired his body.
With wide appraising eyes Trinity hungrily watched him scale the impressive staircase, taking the steps two at a time until he reached the top of the stairs where he slowed. In a fluid forward motion he ripped off his dark blue Adidas T-shirt from over his head. Her breath hitched. Her knees shook.
Light sparkled out in the color of a kaleidoscope from the stained-glass window on the landing of the second floor. As he passed, the colors shimmered over the curve and cut of his muscular back. Brilliant, bright, illuminated, these facets of colors fell across the side of his face.Blue-green hues danced off the sweat glistening on his forehead, framing his features like artwork.
Trinity momentarily closed her eyes. She knew lines of his face, even in her dreams, having memorized them. The sharp slash of his cheekbones. That perfectly straight line of his nose. The square strength to his jaw. The jet of his Adams apple. And those tempting lips. Lips in which she wished to feel upon her body, on her mouth, caressing her secret places. She shuddered with thought of those lips.
She slowly opened her eyes, reminiscent of waking from a dream. He shrugged up his shoulders. His muscles flared with the movement. She stood in the shadow, completely taken in by him.He bowed his head to wipe the sweat from his face into the crook of his arm.He moved with deliberate precision and with a fluidity which intrigued her. He combed his hand through the moist strands of his hair. One piece black, coal black, fell over his right brow, teasing her. Trinity wanted to scold herself for allowing herself to be teased. She should not be doing this, watching him, but she found it impossible to look away.
Desire flashed, wound into a tight coil within her stomach. He stood still for a moment and twisted his T-shirt into a ball. With a quick flip of his wrist, he whipped it out in front of him before lashing the garment over his glistening bare shoulder. In the next moment, he moved from her view.
Was he mad, tense, anxious?He’s usually so calm, so controlled, so devastatingly smooth. Curious, Trinity waited, listened. Slowly, she moved up the stairs on the balls of her feet. Her delicate hand rode the handrail. She felt the polished rich mahogany beneath her palm glide all the way until coming to the landing at the top. She stopped, worried her lip with her teeth, but heard nothing except for the quickened beat of her own heart. She made her way down the hall to find the door to his room open. Trinity paused before she peeked around the oak incased doorjamb. She did not see him, however, she did hear the sounds of the shower turn on. A thousand thoughts skipped through her mind. The least of which she could be caught.But her need to see him outweighed all the conflict, all the fear floating through her thoughts, through her shaking body.
Don’t do it Trinity. How many times had she told herself this over the summer?
She looked down at her hands only to find them twisting tighter into the hem of her shirt. Her heart sped with the thought of doing it, of walking in, of seeing him. The sound of her heart as it raced pounded in her ears, a deep drum-like throbbing. She froze, only to realize her breathing was harsh, as if she had ran a marathon. Small beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. She may have a panic attack.
The sound of the grandfather clock made her jump when it began the call of four. Trinity glanced up to see the late afternoon sun. It beamed onto the floor in front of her as though calling her, as if to say follow. She let loose of her shirt, stood straight, sucked in a large breath and placed one unsteady foot in front of her. Two steps later, she stood inside of his private space, inside the room in which she once witnessed her older sister enter.
The metallic tone of the last strike echoed within Trinity’s ears and lingered, DONG...
A breath. A step. A pause.
She recalled how she felt that night, the night he loved her sister. How she wished it were her. She wanted him to love her, kiss her, touch her, not her sister. Those feelings overwhelmed Trinity as she heard the moans of pleasure emanate from behind the then closed door. Trinity remembered how she touched her breasts, feeling them swell and heave. How her nipples hardened while she listened to him pleasure her sister. She brought to mind the slow burn across her skin. She thought about the moans. Those shouts of pleasured bliss. The banging of the headboard as it hit the wall in rhythmic beats.And when she heard him call out her sister’s name in a gruff, hungry shout, Trinity pretended it was her name instead.
Trinity closed her eyes to take in the atmosphere of his room. Ticking of a clock. The beep that emanated from his laptop indicated he had email. The sound of the birds perched within the tree outside his window. The cool breeze brushing across her bare legs when the air conditioner kicked on.
She opened her eyes and stared down. At her feet, were the clothes he’d been wearing. In the air, the lingering scent of his sweat mixed in with his cologne. Tempted to pick up his shirt, she held back, but Trinity crossed a line here today of which there would be no return.
Her gaze fell toward the large bed and roamed over the black steel bars of the headboard, the dark gray comforter, and all the puffy black pillows which were strewn across where he slept. His jeans along with a studded leather belt hung lopsided off the foot of his bed. She picked up a pillow, placed it to her nose, and inhaled the scent of him. She knew she probably lost her mind. What are you doing? she scolded herself.
Along with the knowledge she was indeed crazy and acutely aware she should not be doing this, Trinity was still unable to stop. She lightly skimmed her hand over the magazines lying on the bedside table, only to pick one up. This magazine sat open to an article about a new art gallery. The New York artist D’Ante would open a second gallery in Hollywood. Trinity studied the black and white photograph that accompanied the article.
Upon the glossy page a light haired woman, probably blonde, with long spiraling curls laid sprawled out in a provocative pose on what looked like a mirrored floor. Her body curved sensually and appeared completely nude. However, most of her body was covered by a well muscled black angel who knelt between her thighs. He wore black leather pants and nothing else. The buttons on the front of his leather pants were undone, showing off the side cut of his hip.
Trinity’s fingertip traced the photograph, outlining the woman’s hair which splayed across her face, flowed along the mirrored floor, and sprawled over the dark angel’s shoulder. Trinity noted the hair obscured the woman’s face, except for the tears. They flowed down her sculptured cheek. Next, Trinity’s attention went to the chains around the woman’s wrists, her arms above her head, her body arched as within the throws of pleasure. The angel’s head bowed at the beautiful woman’s throat, so his face remained obscured. Waving thick black flaming tattoos spilled down his defined bicep, while his blackened wings arced overhead. One of the angel’s hands held the woman within the arch of her back. The other hand broke the chains which bound her. The word FALLEN indicated the title of the artwork.
Trinity placed the magazine back where she found it. She walked forward and stopped at the dresser. She found condoms scattered about the top, Trojan Magnum Twisters. She picked up one of the small square golden packages, considering…then she glanced over to a hand written note. It looked like a travel list, places to see, and it sat next to his passport. She reached out, touched his black leather corded necklace and sighed. She twisted the metal barb charm. Trinity liked this necklace. He’d been wearing it the day she saw him come out of the swimming pool.
To be inside of his room was like learning portions of a long hidden secrete, and she wanted to learn so much more. She noticed the bathroom door ajar. Her stomach did flips, her breath increased, her heart pounded with the knowledge of what she was about to do. Trinity swallowed hard, moved to the bathroom door, tilted her head…
He stood behind the clear glass enclosure of the shower, wet and glistening like a golden god. His chin tucked toward his strong hard chest. The water beat down onto the back of his neck and shoulders while hot steam wafted upward, around him. His left hand braced the strength of him and rested, fingers splayed, against the crisp white and blue tiles above his head. In all of her imagination she could not have come close to envisioning the splendor of him, taking in the whole of his creation. His body, kissed by the sun, bronzed, and golden.
She followed the lines of his wide shoulders to see the cut of his shoulder blades, curve of his spine, the dimples at the small of his back, the round smooth tightly muscled ass which sat atop his long muscular legs. Her gaze followed the strength of his hamstrings, the cuts in his calves.
He shifted, rolled his head and neck along his shoulders. Trinity held her breath, but she continued her vision quest until she saw the cut of his oblique muscles, and the trimness of his waistline which narrowed into the curve of his hip. His stomach hard, tight, and rippled in more than a six-pack called to her. Then she traced the line of dark black hair which started at his navel and flowed down into his…
Holy heaven she stared wide eyed, unblinking. An almost audible intake of breath eked from her lips. Trinity bit down hard onto the curve of her thumb to stop the sound from escaping. His manhood hung semi-hard between his thighs. She knew when fully erect, it would be magnificent. Her eyes narrowed, lingered for a moment then followed the lines of water which trickled down his body in multiple weaving shapes, tantalizing her thoughts. The way the water sparkled and glistened as it ran over the length of him enticed her. Trinity’s nipples harden beneath her sports bra and two cotton shirts.
He reached for the body wash, squeezed some of the creamy soap into his large palm then began to lather his body in bold swooping strokes over his shoulders, his neck, his broad hard chest, his arms, his stomach, his…she found it hard to even think the word, cock. His hand lingered there and stroked almost involuntarily. She wanted to come unhinged. Trinity bit even harder onto that thumb wedged between her teeth. She could not believe she was seeing this, seeing him, seeing all of him.
Trinity studied his movements which transitioned into long strokes. He twisted his wrist over the broad head of his dick before sliding back down to the base of his erection and gripping.He was hard, fully at mass, long, wide, strong, and beautiful. Her eyes focused in on every lovely inch. She studied the broad head, the silky skin, the veins which became more prominent as he became much more eager in his pleasure. His biceps flexed. The cords in his forearms moved. His fingers strained tighter as he stroked himself while his face became serious, carving his chiseled good looks into a hard as granite pose of concentration. A crease formed on his usually smooth brow. It furrowed deeper when his strokes became harder. His eyes closed. His jaw flexed. The line of his lips tightened.
She stood, memorized by him as she watched him bring himself pleasure. Trinity would commit this to memory. Sear his movements, each stoke, each flex, each sound into her heart. She would learn him, the reactions of his body, of his muscles. He pumped harder, faster, driving his fist over his massive cock. And surly it was massive, although she had no point in reference. He pressed his hips forward into his fist, groaning….
He seemed driven. Her gaze shot up to his face. The expression, hard and unyielding. The set of his jaw tight. She watched his respirations, his breath as it came hard, his need flaring higher. Primal hunger ripped over his body. He made one last guttural growl.
Release. Liquid shot from his body in three hard burst as his hand gave the final jerks to his cock. His head fell forward. His hand stopped. The water beat upon his body and washed the burning liquid of his essence away from him. She wondered what it felt like. Would it be creamy? Silky? But guessing his come would be hot. It had to be hot. Trinity wondered what it would taste like, unable to render a guess.
Did all men do such things in the shower? And then she wondered…Why? What drove him to pleasure himself to completion in such a way? It was almost brutal. Why?
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Paris Hutchison walks the veil between two worlds, light and shadow. What some see as a blessing or a gift, others see as deception. And Paris, well, Paris sees her "gift of sight" as a curse. She is loved by someone who protects her, but while she is human her lover is not. Those around him seek to enslave her, use her gifts. And if they cannot, they will endeavor to destroy her.
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I am pleased to have author Lorraine Nelson here with me today to talk about her new book, Zakia And The Cowboy.
With a stalker following her every move, Zakia has no choice but to flee the city. Her options limited, she runs to the only place she's ever felt safe...the Thunder Creek Ranch and her ex-husband, Lucas.
Will he protect Zakia from the stalker? And if he does will either of them be able to ignore the feelings that have simmered for so long, ready to explode... before danger either draws them together or pulls them apart.
“Sorry, Darlin’. Always a cowboy,” he apologized.
He sat on the edge of the bed and struggled to remove his cowboy boots, then disposed of pants, briefs and socks. When he looked up and saw the still smooth, silky skin of her upper torso and full breasts partially covered by her beautiful, long, blonde hair, he had to ask himself how he got to be so lucky. Déjà vu was very much in existence as he admired the woman standing before him. Zakia was still every bit the exquisite, sexy woman she’d been on their wedding night, only now she was trying hard not to giggle.
“What’s so funny,” he asked with a grin as he reached for her.
“Just a little touch of déjà vu going on.”
“I was thinking the same thing. You’re just as beautiful now as you were on our wedding night,” he stated as he pulled her back into his arms.
“Well, I was thinking it funny that you said those exact same words on our wedding night.”
“What words?” he asked, curious and trying to think.
“Sorry, Darlin’. Always a cowboy.”
“Ooohh, those words. It’s true. A cowboy doesn’t go too far without his boots.”
“Did you mean it, Luke?”
“That you still think I’m beautiful.”
“Do I need to install mirrors on every wall in the house?” he teased.
“Yes, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and sexily built. Now, shut up and kiss me.”
“Oh, I so like a man who knows what he wants,” she cooed.
When she reached for him, pulling him down for a kiss filled with all the passion he remembered, his heart soared. Gone was the polite restraint they’d held to since her arrival. He kissed her back, longing for more, aching for the promise her lips delivered.
His hands moved to her breasts, rubbing and tweaking the nipples to turgid peaks, then massaging the silken softness until she moaned against his mouth in pleasure. Breaking the kiss, he took one rosy nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping lightly before transferring his attention to the other one.
He worked his way down her body, one kiss at a time, having to keep a tight rein on his control as she breathed his name over and over again. Her body writhed beneath him as he reached her sopping pussy, her unique scent driving him wild as always. He parted her lips and kissed her, rubbing tiny circles on her clit with his thumb. His other hand reached beneath her to fondle her ass as he began sucking her, his tongue laving and prodding her wetness until he could take no more. Rising up, he coaxed her legs apart with his knees and positioned himself. As he looked into her desire-glazed eyes, he moved, pushing into her with one hard thrust.
Then he stilled. It had been as tight as their first time. “Did I hurt you?”
“Uh, uh.” She shook her head as her body began to move, encouraging him to pull out and push into her warmth again.
She grabbed his hips, pulling him closer, deeper, and they fell into a rhythm that told of their familiarity with each other. It was as if he’d gone back in time, back to the days of love and laughter, caring and sharing their lives, completing each other. He thrust in and out, faster, harder, seeking the rapture he’d only found with the woman lying beneath him.
Thought took a long, slow ride after that as they concentrated on catching up on years of lost loving, and he was pleased to note, she still had that deep, husky, pleading note in her voice when she screamed his name.
What was it about these characters and their story that appealed to you?
Luke and Zakia just seemed so right together. I’ve always enjoyed reunion and/or second chance love stories, and these characters spoke to me from beginning to end. During NaNo, 2009, their story seemed to fly onto the page. It was one of those times when I couldn’t type fast enough. Lol Gotta love those days.
Zakia is an interesting name, how did you come up with it?
I work at a call center and run across original names all the time. When this girl called in, I had an instant, vivid picture of what she’d look like and the story sprouted from there.
In regard to Zakia And The Cowboy, is it a stand-alone story or part of a series?
Zakia and the Cowboy is Book 1 in my Thunder Creek Ranch series.
What genre/genres do you write in?
I write mostly romantic suspense, some of them scorching hot (as in Zakia) but have also penned sweet, inspirational and historic romances.
What do you find particularly appealing about that genre?
I’ve been an avid romance and mystery reader for many years. To combine the two and write viable, entertaining stories is a dream come true.
How long have you been writing?
It seems I’ve been writing all my life, children’s stories, poetry and the like. As to adult fiction, I started writing seriously during the winter of 2008.
You and I have a lot in common.I too have been writing all my life and only became serious about writing a couple of years ago.
How would you describe your writing style?
LOL!!! Eclectic! I have a sarcastic sense of humor at times, which is sometimes reflected in my characters’ dialogue. I love dialogue!
When you write do you go by an outline or just jump right in and start?
I’m a pantser! If a name or setting sparks an idea, I’ll mull it over for a day or two, or three, then jot down pertinent details on a GMC sheet and start writing.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
There are so many… Danielle Steel, John Grisham, Nora Roberts, James Patterson, Mary Higgins-Clark…
Super authors :D
What are you reading currently?
When away from my desk, I’m reading A Question of Impropriety by Michelle Styles. I’ve also started reading Carolina, an ebook written by Heather Matthews. I don’t have an ereader yet so I read those ones at my desk.
I always like to pick a question I have been asked and pass it on.So, what advice can you give to those who are hoping to get their own work published?
I think Michelle Styles, who writes for Harlequin Historicals, says it best: “It takes desire, determination, dedication, discipline and perseverance.”
Might I also add patience and a thick skin? You also need to find a good critique partner or partners, someone who will give you an honest critique of your writing, whether you’re ready to hear it or not.
What can your fans expect to see from you in the near future?
I’m currently working on Books 2 and 3 in the Thunder Creek series. Trying to end the series there but the characters keep popping up and giving me ideas for more. LOL
I’ve written a couple of Christmas stories for which I’m venturing into self-publishing. His Christmas Wish, a 6,000 word novella, goes on sale at Amazon on October 15th at $.99. Mistletoe and Mr. Hoe, is a story of love and hope with a bit of suspense included. At 50,000 words, it goes on sale (hopefully) November 1st at Amazon.
Price to be determined.
Where can we find out more about Lorraine Nelson?
I love to have visitors and talk about writing, reading, family, whatever. You can find me: