Virtual FantasyCon Spotlight: Award Winning Author Renea Mason - Read Chapter One: Symphony of Light and Winter
Genre: Fantasy, Urban fantasy, Paranormal, Erotica
Adult ContentFor Linden Hill, life was predictable–go to work, an occasional drink with friends, and repeat–until one unexpected night when she finds herself face-to-face with her past–all six-foot-five-inches of sex-god perfection she once knew as Cyril. The problem? He died. Or so she thought.
But Linden’s long-lost love isn’t welcoming her with open arms. Fueled by suspicion and doubt, their turbulent re-acquaintance drives Cyril to desperate acts. The chance at renewing their love is jeopardized, pulling Linden into his war with supernatural rivals hell-bent on his destruction.
Defeating the enemy seems easy compared to surviving each other. With hunger threatening to consume them, and love begging to endure, can Linden learn to accept who she must become to save them both?
SYMPHONY OF LIGHT AND WINTER
Preface
There was no warning. No ambiguous fortune in a cookie, no wrinkled blind woman who answered to the name Oracle, no chain letter in my e-mail predicting the disaster my day would become.
Nothing.
Yet by the end of the day, I would ruin my reputation, doom my career, and be forced to reevaluate my entire existence. But only after being thrust back into a world I had always believed was nothing more than a delusion.
Chapter One
Guest
“Damn! You look like a leprechaun’s wet dream.” Clarence’s slight Southern drawl emerged when he teased. “Are we so far behind you had to take up hookin’?” Gesturing at my far from typical attire, my accomplice, employee, and friend took a seat beside me in the Mezzanine Lounge. The final movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony resonated from beyond the red double doors of the concert hall.
“Very funny. It’s not the goal. It’s the target.” Glancing down at my plunging neckline, I realized the diamond necklace, a gift from my late husband, was the only thing I wore in good taste.
My objective was simple—convince two wealthy businessmen their financial contributions were key to the orchestra’s survival. After weeks of poring through hundreds of files and identifying the perfect prospects, I had selected esteemed guests for the night’s reception.
Clarence reached over and tugged on wispy strands of my hair. “The green shirt really sets off your fiery mane.”
“The lady at the salon did her best to tone it down.” I patted the locks, pinned in a loose bun. My brilliant copper-red hair was inspired by a documentary on South American tree frogs. Their vibrant cloaking cautioned predators to stay away. Fearing I had something in common with the frogs, I broadcast my own warning. Our secret? Venom.
Waking next to a corpse on my honeymoon had been a pretty big omen. I could take a hint.
Unfortunately, this job called for a different strategy. Attraction was essential. I slid a folder toward Clarence.
“So you’ve decided on our final victim, Ms.
Senior Director of Fund-raising.” He opened the front cover. “Martin Willoughby. That explains everything. Well, if anyone can loosen his pockets, it’s you.” Clarence stroked his impeccably trimmed goatee, which accented a hard-to-forget smile.
I glanced at the file and tapped a finger on the cover. “I’ve tried to avoid him, but Willoughby is our best chance. We only have a few more weeks to make our goal.” I looked down and adjusted my shirt. “The outfit ensures I’ll keep his attention long enough to make the ‘ask’, but it’s not without risk. Do you remember what happened to Allison last year?” I shifted on the slippery bar stool and tugged my short skirt, making sure it covered my ample bottom.
“How could I forget? She moaned for days about how hard he pinched her ass.” Clarence laughed, and the lights hanging above the bar highlighted small wrinkles on his smooth-shaven head.
I slapped another folder against the bar, harder than I intended. “Our second prospect is Stanton Overton. He’s bringing a guest.”
“Is Overton the one who wore the black pin- striped James Bond suit to the gala?”
I nodded. “I didn’t get a good feel for his giving potential because he kept refocusing the conversation on me.”
“Linden, the man is so fine he can keep his money. I’ll take his phone number.” Clarence cracked his knuckles as he let out a sigh, but I noticed the blush in his coffee-colored cheeks.
I needed to keep him on task. “I’m depending on you. I’ll get things wrapped up with Willoughby as fast as possible so I can see if Overton’s guest has potential.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s all business.” He winked.
I shot back a suspicious half smile and leaned across the bar, stowing the folders out of sight.
The bustle of patrons exiting the concert hall filled the corridors. A few musicians arrived and assembled a string quartet in the corner of the lounge, adding to the ambience of the evening’s event. I waved to them and mouthed thank you from across the room.
From behind, a large hand snaked around my waist, causing me to slide off the barstool. I stumbled. Martin Willoughby steadied me, and then pulled me hard against his chest. He kissed me first on one
cheek and then the other while his eyes lingered on my cleavage between kisses. “Ms. Hill.”
I stared at him for a moment, trying to regain my wits. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Willoughby. Did you enjoy the performance?”
“Yes.” He pulled back and let his gaze roam the length of my body. “You look delectable.”
I blushed, tilted my head, and flashed a seductive smile. “Thank you. Can I get you a drink? Scotch, double malt, if I remember correctly?”
He beamed. “My dear, you certainly have a good memory.”
I smiled, hiding the truth—the subtle nuances my research had revealed about this man.
“One moment.” I steadied myself in my three- inch heels. When I turned to flag the bartender, Willoughby cupped my left butt cheek and squeezed. Even though I knew to expect it, the pinching took me by surprise. I stiffened.
He probably did too.
Nothing quite like Viagra bravado. He brushed a hand through his graying hair and gave a toothy grin.
I reminded myself how much the orchestra needed the money. Masking a grimace behind a coy smile, I mouthed oh, my. He may have been attractive in his day, but the liver spots and deep-etched lines on his face confirmed years of hard living.
I nudged Clarence, who still stood at the bar waiting for Overton, and motioned for the bartender.
Clarence grinned, then leaned in whispering, “How’s your ass?”
“Screw you.”
He snickered, leaned forward on his elbows, and took a drink.
I elbowed him in the side.
“Two scotches, double malt.” To hell with the girlie drinks. I needed the good stuff.
Schubert’s String Quartet no. 14, Death and the Maiden played as I accepted Willoughby’s outstretched arm and he guided us to a quieter spot in the room. When I offered him the scotch, he snaked his arm around my waist. “So where were we, Linden?”
“The performance.” I didn’t give him time to interject. “Next year, if I can raise all the necessary funds, your seats will have improved acoustics. We’re also adding a few private boxes for our patrons who like…discretion.” I shouldn’t have, but I threw him a tempting smile.
Segueing into the pitch early was risky, but if I didn’t get started, he might need to be surgically removed. Overton would be arriving at any moment. Time was not a luxury if I wanted any chance of hitting up his guest for a donation too.
“Is that so?” He pulled me into a tight hug. “And what would be required to get on the list for one of those boxes?”
I stood several inches taller than Willoughby, and his embrace positioned his face far too close to my not-so-well-contained cleavage. I held my glass in front of me, putting distance between us. “If you are able to make a sizable donation this season, I’ll make sure you are first in line.”
He leaned in, his breath smelling of scotch, cigar smoke, and bad teeth. “Oh sweetheart, you can put me second in line behind you and I’ll show you how sizable my donation can be.”
I grimaced, willing my stomach not to heave as I struggled to laugh at his disgusting joke. Before preparing a forced flirty comeback, I glanced toward the door and saw Overton and his…oh God.
Electricity ignited my skin as the stranger entered the room. The hairs on my arms tingled. My heart halted beating. Words stuck in my throat and mind. My chest tightened. All motion slowed as if the world were suspended in liquid.
Overton’s guest removed a pair of dark glasses, tucked them into the inside pocket of his jacket, and stared directly at me. From the corner of the room the music crescendoed, and his penetrating gaze caused the glass to slip from my hand. The caramel-colored liquid made large wet splotches all over Martin Willoughby’s dress pants. Motionless, I returned the man’s scrutiny.
It was him. Impossible. Ten years ago, I held Overton’s guest as he bled out onto the snow. He died. This could not be real.
“Damn it!” Willoughby’s exclamation and step backward pulled me from my stupor.
“Oh! I am so sorry. Let me get that.” Long, clumsy strides took me to the bar for a stack of napkins, then back. I dropped to my knees and wiped at the amber liquid. Anything to break eye contact. My hands shook, making the task difficult.
I mumbled apologies to Willoughby and looked up to see him staring down at me. The mischievous grin told me he could see down my shirt. From my knees, I ventured a guess at the fantasy running through his head.
I rose to my feet, careful not to look anywhere but at Willoughby. “I’m so sorry. Please let me pay for your dry cleaning.” Sincerity proved difficult when my mind couldn’t care less about the smelly man or his pants, given the new development.
“Nonsense. It’s just a little scotch. It will come out in the wash. Besides the image of you on your knees was payment enough.” He winked.
I faked a giggle and hid my trembling hands. A familiar heat coursed through my body, disturbing and undeniable. I needed a moment to gather myself. “I should probably go freshen up. I got scotch on me too.”
Willoughby grabbed my arm and looked into my eyes with surprising and welcome concern. I don’t know what he found. Fear? Exhaustion? Confusion?
“What’s wrong, Linden?”
“I feel bad about your pants,” I lied. “I didn’t ask you here to ruin your night.”
“I know.” He reached out and brushed one of the strands of hair from my face. As he did, I glanced up to verify the man who accompanied Overton remained in the room. He had not wavered.
Willoughby seemed to pick up on my emotions. “Ms. Hill, we both know what these gatherings are about. As much as we love the pretense, let me make this a little easier. How much do you need?”
I hoped he had a tight grip on his drink when he learned the amount. I gave him a weary smile. “Fifty thousand.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be first on the list for one of the boxes?”
“Yes.”
He paused and stared into my eyes. His gaze then drifted to my cleavage. He sighed. “Done. I’ll have my assistant send over the check in the morning.”
“Thank you so much.” I extended my gratitude not only for the money, but also for the distraction. “Really, thank yo—”
“As always, Ms. Hill, it was my pleasure. My wife is waiting for me in the car. Call me when the box assignments are made.”
“Certainly. Thank you, again.”
He threw his arms around me and pulled me into a fierce hug, which landed his nose between my breasts. After one last squeeze of my bottom, he turned to leave.
Who would have thought I would be sorry to see Martin Willoughby go?
Overton stood at the bar conversing with Clarence, his guest no longer in the doorway. Exhaling a sigh of relief, hoping I imagined everything, I heard his voice come from behind me. Different accent; same tones. Light tremors racked my body as he drew near. Even though I could not see him, the pulsing under my skin alerted me to his proximity. His scent, unmistakable.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Green?” The words slid like velvet from his tongue as he approached.
By some miracle, I managed to respond, “Yes?” My back to him, eyes closed. Michael, my late husband, convinced me I had concocted the man’s entire existence. I had always secretly hoped he was wrong, hating to think someone imaginary had affected me so deeply—that I was still in love with a dream. Wait, he called me by my married name? No one knew I was a widow.
“I’d like to introduce myself.” His words were almost a whisper, and so close his hot breath tickled my ear.
I turned to face him, trembling. Our eyes met, and the intensity nearly buckled my knees.
He extended his hand. “Morgan Peters.” Same blue eyes.
Deep breath. In slow motion, I slipped my hand into his. Electric, just as I remembered. A low voltage ran through my body. His touch simmered my blood and I worried my bones might turn to liquid. He was the nexus. My stare drifted to his hand, large and masculine, tightening around mine, then looked up into his wide, surprised eyes.
My tongue felt thick and dry from anxiety; beads of perspiration peppered my skin. I swallowed hard and exhaled. “It’s nice to meet you…Mr. Peters.”
Cyril Aristin was the man I watched die, not Morgan Peters.
He searched my face, his smile holding a hint of snide satisfaction. “Do I make you nervous? You seem a bit… Out of sorts.”
I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No. Ah…not at all, my apologies. I spilled my drink on someone and I feel awful. Can we start again? I’m Linden Hill. Did you attend the performance with Mr. Overton?”
“I did.” My memory, or imagination, had not done the ocean-blue of his eyes justice. So captivating. “Stanton and I are old friends. We’ve conducted many business transactions over the years. He told me of the superb orchestra you have in this city. Since I’ve never had the pleasure, I decided to accompany him tonight.” He took my hand in his once more, raised it, and kissed the back of it. “And what a pleasure it has been.” Even though the contact with his lips was only a quick passing, the sensation branded my skin with delightful heat.
When he released me, I instantly longed for his touch. I breathed in a scent that brought memories of teenage fantasies.
Attempting to reclaim dignity, I cleared my throat. “Di-did you enjoy the performance?”
“Yes, very much. Stanton told me you are undertaking quite the renovation project. Is that true?”
“Yes, we’re updating a lot of the original features, adding the private boxes, and remodeling backstage to help attract better touring companies.”
His brow furrowed and eyes narrowed. The intensity in his gaze frightened me. His hand rose toward my face.
Turning my head toward the bar, I pointed, and in the process dodged his touch. Unsettled by his expression, I broke the silence. “Can I get you a drink, Cy…Mr. Peters?”
“No, thank you. I must be going. Stanton told me on our way here tonight that you made a promise to make sure he upholds his obligations to the arts. He’ll be in touch.” He shot me the first true smile since our introduction.
“I look forward to speaking with him.” I smiled back, hoping my anxiety didn’t show.
“Again, my pleasure, Mrs. Green.” He brought my hand to his lips, but paused before touching my skin. He inhaled and released his breath with a long sigh, and it blew hot across my skin.
Dumbfounded, I managed nothing more than a stunned stare.
Placing his lips lightly against my hand, with deliberate slowness, he lingered. I hoped he didn’t notice my shiver, but the sly smile pulling at the corner of his mouth told me otherwise.
He released my hand and tucked his behind his back, gave a slight nod, and walked toward Overton.
I watched as Peters whispered something to him.
I didn’t move.
Overton glanced at me and placed his drink on the counter. “Peters” stole one last look over his shoulder. His brow furrowed one last time when our gazes connected. Finally he turned, and they made their way down the hall to the exterior doors as the musicians completed the final stanza.
I watched him until they were out of sight. I moved to the far wall and slumped on the red leather bench.
I needed Clarence’s confirmation. Or Olivia’s. I refused to cry over a delusion. My closest friend, besides Clarence, and the daughter of our wealthiest patron, Olivia spent a lot of time hanging around the office. I thought for sure she would make an appearance. She loved crashing my gatherings.
Clarence took a seat beside me. “So, how’d you do? Did you land Willoughby? What about tall, dark, and dangerous? That man should be illegal.” Clarence tried to hide his grin, but failed.
That confirmed he was real at least. “I don’t want to talk about it. Have you seen Olivia? I thought for sure she would drop by.”
“I saw her in the lobby before the performance.
She said she was going to stop by to see you.”
“I haven’t seen her, but I really need to talk to her.”
“She came with her dad. It’s possible he had to leave. He is a busy man, with City Council and the company.”
“Yeah…you’re probably right. What about you?
How did you fare?”
“Overton seemed distracted. He told me Peters is a business partner. Said he’d donate something, but he kept watching Peters. I’ll follow up with him midweek.”
In the corner, the musicians packed their instruments. I waved. “Thank you for the beautiful performance.” A few free hands raised in acknowledgment.
“Well?” Clarence prompted.
I put my face in my hands and spoke through widespread fingers. “I got the fifty thousand from Willoughby.”
“Fabulous news! You didn’t have to get naked!”
I moved my hands away from my eyes enough to glare at him. “But I did indulge his oral sex fantasy while on my knees wiping scotch from his pants.”
“You’re lucky he didn’t ask you to help him take them off.”
I cringed.
“Did you get money from the Peters guy?” “No. Long story.”
He shot me a puzzled look. “What’s wrong, Linden?”
Taking a deep breath, I tossed my head back and stretched my neck from side to side. “Nothing. I’m tired. Go ahead and take off; I’ll close up here. We can talk about everything on Monday. Have a good weekend, and be careful on your way home.”
Giving a sympathetic smile, he patted my shoulder. “You too.”
I willed myself not to cry. A long night’s sleep was in order, courtesy of the sleeping pills Clarence gave me after a bad string of nightmares.
Exhausted from dealing with Mr. Undead, I removed my shoes, letting the plush carpet comfort my tired feet, and made my way to the restroom. The concertgoers and staff were long gone, making the hall eerie. Under normal circumstances, I would be reveling in the fortunate events of the evening, but encountering Cyril—rather, Mr. Peters—caused an old wound to fester. I wondered what the hell he was. A ghost? Long-lost twin? Or had I finally gone crazy?
I reached behind my neck with both hands and unclasped the necklace irritating my skin. Using my behind to bump open the bathroom door, I slipped inside.
The restroom was left over from a time when women escaped from overbearing men to powder shiny noses and gossip about how much other women gossiped. The walls were covered in a garish color best described as grandma-was-a-whore pink. I placed the necklace and my shoes on one of the worn sea-green velvet benches as the door on its pneumatic hinge creaked closed.
I shivered from a resurgence of the strange current that radiated through me earlier. Maybe Cyril wasn’t the cause. Maybe I was getting si—
He held me against the wall with such strength my feet no longer touched the ground. Supported by the crushing force of his body, the compression caused my breasts to escape an already bulging
blouse, and mashed my nipples against the horrid paint. His chest rose and fell against my back. He spoke, not with the same American accent he tried to deceive me with earlier, but rather the tones of the British Isles mixed with something ancient and familiar. “Who are you?” His breath, hot against my ear, and a soft, rich voice contrasted with the violence of the leg wedged between my thighs.
He restrained my hands above my head in the steel grasp of his fist. I attempted to answer him, but couldn’t force enough air into my lungs. He growled. His chest rumbled.
The intense heat of his body was a dramatic contrast to the cold wall on my exposed skin. My nipples hardened to painful peaks. He brought his free hand to my throat, cradling it in warning. The next moment he spoke in low, punctuated notes. “Who…the…fuck…are…you?” The words reverberated, sustaining the menace.
I managed only a whimper, too shocked to form complete words. His grip loosened, but he did not release me. I swallowed hard. “Lin—”
“I know your name, Mrs. Green. Don’t take me for a fool. Now tell me why you have seen fit to steal from me?” He inhaled a sharp breath. “How dare you take what was not freely given. Do you have any idea what you have done…” His last words were uttered on a groan as he lowered me, shifted, and then rubbed his swollen arousal against my ass.
The friction of his body did strange things to me.
My head clouded with images of our earlier life
together, making it difficult to form rational thoughts. Flashes of a fantasy I once had of him where he took me against the glass wall of his cabin penetrated the fear.
I mustered as much air as possible and issued my indignant response. “You don’t have any right to complain about things that aren’t freely given.
Hypocritical of you given our current position, isn’t it?”
He growled and moved his leg, still seated between mine, in a slow and rhythmic friction against my sex. It was a dare. He was egging me on. He wanted me to defy him again; it was evident in his every movement.
I groaned and slammed my eyes closed, trying to ignore the heat building in my stomach. Another deep inhalation made it easier to speak. “What exactly do you think I stole from you?”
He moaned as he slowly licked my neck from nape to ear and whispered, “Everything. You, my little thief, need to convince me that I shouldn’t take it back.”
Never had anyone touched me in such a way, and my traitorous body couldn’t care less about right or wrong, good or bad. It was need. The need to be touched. To feel alive. The need for him. Damn the consequences. I shivered as his breath blew cold across the wet trail his tongue left on my searing skin. He shifted, wedging his clothed erection firmly into the cleft of my ass, while his heat penetrated every place he touched.
He grabbed my chin with the hand he once had at my throat, and turned my face. In the mirror, our reflection was a disturbing yet erotic sight. Seeing myself pushed against the wall made the vision terrifying, but at the same time arousing.
As his body blanketed mine, a voice in the back of my mind whispered, Surrender. His height, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and well-defined muscles were all discernible through his custom-made black suit. His hair framed the sharp angles of his masculine face—straight nose, square, shadowed jaw, and full, sensual lips.
My red locks had fallen free from the pin, and my skirt had worked its way around my waist. With three small freckles exposed, the lacy strap of my thong highlighted my bare ass.
His body cocooned mine, but it was the ever-so- slight swirling motion of his hips rubbing his cock between my cheeks that precipitated my groan.
I raised my eyes to make contact with the brilliant pools of blue. Finally he broke the silence, but not his gaze.
“Are you going to start explaining, or do I need to find other means of persuasion?” He thrust his hips in warning.
I moaned. Somewhere deep in my mind, beyond the fear and intense lust, I knew I should start talking, but another part of me wanted to feel, more than anything, what it would be like to be fucked into submission—to be possessed by him. I had been cold and alone inside for so long. He was life, sex, and death in one dangerous package.
Fortunately, the sensible side of me won the battle. I forced myself to think as clearly as possible. “Cyril, I…I…mean Morgan, ah…shit… Whatever your name is, tell me what it is you want. I’ll give it to you.”
He laughed, low and mocking. “You can’t give it back. Did you not consider the consequences?” He lowered his face to my neck and nipped gently. “Was it your goal to weaken me? I will not suffer weakness!” He bellowed a whisper, his mouth close to my ear. “The Awakening was wrong. I thought it might have been the ritual, wondered if the magics were incompatible. Then I felt you tonight and all the pieces fell into place. Your attempts to compromise me will not work. The question now is what to do about it? Perhaps I should kill you?” He blew a soft stream air into my ear, sending shivers through me. “Or I could take my time and savor you first?” He paused and ran his nose along my throat. His rough stubble scraped my skin, leaving behind a sinful burn. “Oh, the possibilities. I bet you’d even thank me for it.” He placed a kiss under my jaw. “But before I decide, I need to know how you did it? Are you one of Myghal’s? Tell me!”
I had no doubt about his conviction. He was dead serious.
I trembled. Wetness flowed freely from my eyes as anger consumed me. Like a woman possessed, I couldn’t stop myself. Sealing my fate, I rambled, “What about me, you bastard? How dare you demand answers? It’s been ten years. I watched you die! I would have given my life to save you.” I panted. “What are you?”
He shifted and his grip softened.
My body shook. I sucked air through my teeth. “They found me covered in blood, with no explanation. The police thought I staged everything for attention, assuming it was a suicide attempt, because all evidence, including your body, disappeared. The only thing they saw was my sliced wrist. If not for Michael, they would have taken me to the psych ward.”
He showed no emotion, but his attention remained focused on my lips.
“The coma lasted seven months. Not one doctor could explain it. A psychotic break, they called it.” Tears cascaded over my cheeks and landed on the tops of my breasts. “Michael tried to convince me you didn’t exist. I suffered your death in silence. No one believed me, but in my soul, I knew you were real.” A sob caught in my throat, but I choked it back. My body stiffened, steeling my resolve. “So, fuck you! Go ahead. Kill me. I don’t care. Because what you did to me makes dying the lesser of two evils. You cursed me. Anyone close to me dies. You stole my future, you son of a bitch.” I tilted my head to give him better access to my throat.
He inhaled a shaky breath.
Rigid, I awaited his response, wanting it to be over. “Take what you want because the only thing I own is my regret at ever meeting you.”
He didn’t move and remained expressionless. “But I should warn you, if you fuck me, it might
not end so well. The last man didn’t live to regret it.”
He said nothing while watching my cleansing tears expel grief, anger, and regret. My chest heaved with rapid breaths, bracing myself for his strike.
His hold loosened, releasing my hands from above my head.
My arms hung limp at my sides in defeat. He bent, placing tender kisses along my neck. He grasped my chin, turned my head, and captured my lips. His kiss started soft, but built as he rocked against me. He kissed me like a long-lost lover, the lover I had always wished him to be. There was no doubt about it now. He was Cyril.
His kiss was nothing like our first. Full, soft lips laced with electric sin traveled straight to my depths. I had dreamed of experiencing him as much more.
Not the chaste kiss he placed upon my lips while dying, but rather a man desperate to affirm life.
I inhaled. His scent intoxicated me, clouding my head and igniting the liquid heat between my legs, welcoming him.
He paused and tilted his head as if listening for something, then resumed his kiss. His teeth tugged gently on my lower lip as he caressed the edge with the tip of his velvet tongue.
His mouth met my lips, neck, cheeks, and shoulders, in a shower of passion-filled caresses.
I expected sharp teeth to pierce my skin at any moment. Instead, he ground his erection against me. He moaned, sighed, and panted rhythmically in my ear. His knee seated between my thighs became saturated with my arousal as he rubbed sensitive flesh, keeping time with his breaths.
His thrusts against my body suggested the need for release. Thinking of his impending orgasm brought me closer to the edge. I closed my eyes, feeling the escalating warmth. To feel him shudder and groan from absolute pleasure would be too much. “Oh, Cyri—”
A loud female gasp stunned me. Margie, the orchestra assistant, stood with her mouth gaping at finding me nearly naked and pressed against the wall by a commanding stranger. It didn’t help that Margie had the well-earned title of office gossip.
He peeled away and turned me to help right my clothes, positioning himself between Margie and me as if to shield my modesty. I tried to steady my breathing. Slapping his hands away, I peered around him to glare at Margie, who remained frozen in place. I tucked in my breasts, pulled down my skirt, cleared my throat, and attempted to speak through gritted teeth. “Something you need, Margie?”
“Oh… No. Sorry, Linden.” She headed for a stall.
Wait. She wasn’t leaving? Bitch!
His disheveled appearance, accentuated by a light coat of sweat and a large wet spot on his right knee,
made my breath catch. His pupils dilated and his breathing labored as he stared back with eyes ringed in sapphire.
I blushed and shook my head to dislodge the lust. I stared at him and whispered, “I guess you’re going to have to kill me quietly or increase the body count?”
His gaze raked over my body before he bent to place a light kiss on the top of my head. Searching my face for a moment, his lips pulled at the edges in a wicked smile.
He bent, speaking close to my ear in an overly formal tone. “Mrs. Green, nice to make your acquaintance. It certainly has been a pleasure meeting you. Good evening.” He turned and left, his departure a blur.
Too stunned to follow, I stood transfixed. Margie vacated the stall, pushing past my motionless form, and began to wash her hands. I
wanted to slap her and thank her at the same time. Exiting the restroom, she appeared rattled, but the smirk didn’t go unnoticed.
Standing still, trying to gather my wits, my body trembled from overstimulation and fear. So much deserved contemplation, but my mind kept repeating the same words over and over again.
What the fuck?
AWARDS & RECOGNITION
2nd Place – Best New Paranormal Series of 2013 – Paranormal Cravings’ Battle of the Books 2013
3rd Place – Best New Paranormal Romance of 2013 – The Paranormal Romance Guild’s Reviewers Choice Awards 2013
2nd Place – Erotica/Romantica – Write Touch Contest – Wisconsin Romance Writers – Romance Writers of America Chapter
Finalist – Paranormal – The Passionate Plume Contest – Passionate Ink – National Romance Writers of America Chapter
Finalist – Best First Book – National Excellence in Romance Fiction Award – First Coast Romance Writers- Romance Writers of America Chapter
Finalist – Paranormal Romance – Aspen Gold Contest -Heart of Denver Romance Writers of America – Romance Writers of America Chapter
Purchase Links
The Audie Award-Winning team of Renea Mason, Erin deWard and Noah Michael Levine share their experiences and ideas on indie audiobook narration, publication, production and marketing. This self-help and reference guide for authors and narrators, promotes collaboration, communication, understanding and encouragement as foundations for approaching or refining a career in the fastest growing sector of the publishing industry—audiobooks.
Other Books by Renea Mason
"Sexy, fun and so creative it makes my head spin! I'd read the damn phone book if Renea Mason wrote it."
-NYT and USA TODAY Bestselling author ROBYN PETERMAN
About the Author
Multi-award-winning and bestselling author Renea Mason writes erotic romances which challenge the definition of conventional love. Whether it be contemporary or paranormal, the author of the 2016 Audie Award-Winning Curing Doctor Vincent, prides herself on bringing readers unique storylines, memorable characters, and top-notch audiobook performances in her tales of love, lust, and mystery.
When she isn't crafting sensual stories which stimulate the mind and body alike, or providing the latest management and process guidance, she spends time in the Laurel Mountains of Western Pennsylvania with her beyond-supportive husband, two wonderful sons and two loving but needy cats.
She loves connecting with readers. You can find her on all major social media platforms.
It's one of my favorites too. Renea is an excellent storyteller.
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