Maggie consumed Duncan’s face with voracious hands — the fleshy cheeks, the bold nose, the mouth and eyes lined by a robust maturity. Her hands devoured every feature, as if she could draw meaning from mere form, ecstasy from mere touch. His masculine terrain provoked her with its potent solitude, as if a secret were stirring.
Charlotte’s gaze was pale and volatile, like tinder awaiting a spark. Though her perceptive eyes hid nothing, they used a vocabulary I would never know. They spoke a language of the soul. By nature and training, she was a spiritual director, but she lacked the centuries that might have allowed her to embrace my paradox. She didn’t see the tightrope I walked. She didn’t believe in vampires.
Preparing to feed, I realized I could simply walk away, or disentangle her will from mine and allow her to fight. I found I had options, but no choice. After all, I was one of those visceral, sensual killers, addicted to the taste of pulsing flesh, and the only I way I knew to overcome temptation was to give into it.
In time, she returned her attention to me, taking my face as if she could draw her whole life from my mouth, and I welcomed her as if I had it to give. She pressed kisses to my forehead, eyes, and cheeks, and then her lips explored my mouth, penetrating and devouring. Her hands raked over my skin as her kisses grew passionate. We spent hours kissing this way beside the sea, and the fire-rush of the waves cascaded into my awareness only after we finally lay apart, staring into each other’s face.
What I wanted was to unravel the moments weaving this pleasure into history. Losing myself in lust would leave the blaze of touches and smells and sounds little more than embers in my memory. The paradox of losing control in order to find it left me wanting every moment to remain a flame, even when the heat was gone. There are those who say love doesn’t fail through denial but through excess. Still, there was no stopping a waterfall.
Much could be understood from a woman’s attachments, and Lillian maintained the cottage as if it were a museum, displaying artifacts from her childhood, some unmoved since her parents had lived there. The house was an anchor, stranding her against a familiar shore, and Raphael decided he would have to find a way to free her.
Raphael dunked his teabag and watched the routine. How odd it seemed to him that two such isolated people should possess this gentle affinity, especially when they refused to acknowledge it even existed.
As Advent begins, the angel Raphael arrives to answer love’s unspoken prayers. Copyright © 2006 Teresa Wymore. All rights reserved. Heart of the Rose is a fictional work of erotic romance.
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Third Week of Advent
“What’s that?”
Charles looked up in surprise. Raphael stood at his office door. “Nothing. A book of art.”
Raphael took a seat. “What kind [...]
Copyright © 2006 Teresa Wymore. All rights reserved. Heart of the Rose is a fictional work of erotic romance. As Advent begins, the angel Raphael arrives to answer love’s unspoken prayers.
~~~
Fourth Week of Advent
After receiving a phone call, Charles drove fifteen miles to the hospital in Maquoketa. Lillian had been under observation without any serious injuries, [...]