OK, that's an inside joke with Benjy, my 17-year-old, that draws upon my propensity for whining. I list a long string of sad, woeful events and end it with "...and then my leg fell off." For example: "I was writing for so many days, and my carpel tunnel kept me up at night and then I was too sleepy to write any more and got further behind and my book was late and then my leg fell off." I guess that's my joking way of acknowledging my own whininess.
And that's what happened, but really it's "... and then my brain shut down."
I should have been able to get more done today, but my head is tired. So instead of forging ahead tonight (I finished Chapter 24 at about 7 p.m.) I'm editing what I already have. And in the course of doing so, I came up with this little snippet to share.
YES! Another excerpt. Now, remember, Marc, my hero, has been in prison for six years. Before that, he was in the Army. And he's been in love with Sophie since he was a teenager.
From Unlawful Contact:
As they finished the meal, he told her about boot camp and how the meanest master sergeant on the face of the earth—a bastard by the name of Stracher—had kicked his ass into gear. He told her how he’d discovered he had skill with target shooting. He told her how he’d been transferred into Special Forces after 9/11 and deployed to Afghanistan as a sniper, where he’d spent a winter high in the frigid mountains near Tora Bora.
“It must have been very hard.” Her cheeks were flushed, her body relaxed, her gaze focused on him, a dreamy look in her big blue eyes. She was obviously feeling the champagne. “I’m so glad you made it home in one piece.”
“You know what kept me warm at night?” He leaned in closer, brushed a strand of hair from the satin of her cheek. “I kept thinking about this beautiful girl from my hometown. I only spent one night with her—just one night—but it was the sweetest night of my life. She gave me her virginity and told me to shoot for the stars. I tried, Sophie. I tried to shoot for the stars.”
He must have been feeling the alcohol, too, or he never would have said anything like that. Or maybe it wasn’t the champagne. Maybe it was just being near her like this.
She turned her head, nuzzled her cheek against his palm, her skin unbelievably soft, her eyes drifting shut. “Did you really think of me these past six years?”
He ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Oh, yes. I thought about you. Dreamed about you. Fantasized—”
Her eyes flew open, her pupils wide and dark. “About me?”
“Yeah.” Slow down, Hunter. Do you really think a woman wants to know that sort of thing? “Does that bother you?”
She shook her head, the flush on her cheeks going deeper, her lips parting on a breathy whisper. “I was just thinking we could… you know… try out a few of those, um, fantasies. While we have the chance.”
And that right there outstripped any fantasy.
His tried to say something, but all the blood in his body had rushed to his crotch.
“So, Marc Hunter, where do you want me?”
Where did he want her? God, he wanted her everywhere. Against the wall. Spread-eagle on the bed. On her hands and knees. In the hot tub. On the dining room table. In the Jag. Hell, on the Jag.
He searched his mouth, found his tongue. “It’s not so much where I want you, Sophie, as it is how. Nothing tastes quite like a woman, and no woman tastes like you.”
She gave an almost inaudible gasp. “Then you want…”
He stood, reached for her, drew her on to the couch beneath him. “I want dessert.”
He kissed her out of her blouse, suckling her through her bra until she was whimpering and writhing beneath him, her nipples straining against the wet lace. Then he moved on to her pants, drawing the fabric down her long legs, tasting his way down her silky skin, over her sensitive calves to the tips of her little toes. But as scrumptious as her skin was, this wasn’t the taste he hungered for most.
He worked his way back up her legs, nudging her thighs apart with his hands, inhaling the wild, musky scent of her arousal, filling his lungs with her. Yes, that was it, the scent he’d wanted inside his head for so, so long. But now he wanted a taste.
He licked her inner thighs along the edge of her panties, heard her gasp, her fingers sliding into his hair, rough lace and soft skin both sweet against his tongue. Then he drew back and licked his way up the lace where it covered her cleft, the soft folds of her labia beneath. When his tongue felt the tiny bud of her clit, he held himself still, flicking it through the thin cloth, feeling it swell.
She whimpered, lifted her hips eagerly toward his mouth. “Please... Hunt!”
He chuckled. “Sorry, but this is my fantasy, and I’m going to take my sweet time.”
She gave a pained moan. “Is this your ‘torture Sophie’ fantasy?”
“No, it’s my ‘Sophie lets me do whatever I want to do’ fantasy. I’m going lick you everywhere, until your scent is imprinted on my brain, until I can taste you all the way down my throat, until your juices saturate my skin. So settle in, because it’s probably going to take a while.”
He saw her belly contract, felt her shiver, and knew the idea excited her.
“But… what about you?”
“Sweetheart, this is for me.”
Then things heat up from there. Let's just say Marc knows what a tongue is for, okay?
So that's from Chapter 21, I think....
Hope you enjoyed it. Just Saturday and Sunday and Chapters 25-30 plus an epilogue to write. Ain't gonna happen. So I guess this book will be late again. But to have clicked off five or six chapters in 10 days is pretty darn good. Now, hopefully they don't SUCK.