Found an old beginning...
As I wait for my next book to be polished (yes it'll be out soon!) I've been cleaning up my computer. I found the beginning of a weird story that I barely remember writing... I'm a bit intrigued as to what the hell I was thinking and where I was going with it... It's unedited so don't go yelling at me for mistakes--I make a ton of them.
Standing, shivering in front of his door in the greyish overcast shadows of the afternoon, my belly flutters low with rolls that would outshine the thunder that rumbles across the sky. Cool rain slicks dark strands of my hair to my neck and plasters the thin cotton of my shirt across my breasts. Fat drops of rain cling to my eyelashes and stream down my cheeks.
The need to see him consumes me. I’ve tried to make a conscious effort not to end up here, in front of his door, but he has spread his poison in me like a growing disease—purging everything that’s me and leaving only him behind.
When the light from the door stretches a long shadow of my body behind me I shiver harder against the cool droplets of rain that have now seeped into the white cotton of my panties.
He steps to the side and jerks his head harshly, a hard raw greeting. As I pass I can feel the heat rolling off his skin and the predatory look in his eyes makes my throat dry. This is my dark place, where fear stands tall, and love and obsession have a thin blurry line that I can no longer see.
Dripping streaks of rain across the floor, I let my bag slide off my shoulder and fall into the growing puddle beneath my feet.
His long legs stride past me, and he grabs an open beer bottle from off the kitchen table bringing it slowly to his lips. He doesn’t offer me anything. Not even a goddamn towel to dry myself off with.
Dark eyes travel slowly up my body until they lock onto mine. “Name,” he demands.
“And…Scarlett…to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Morbid curiosity,” I explain.
“You’re soaking wet,” he smirks.
“You have no idea,” I whisper.
He’s on me before I can see him move. My back slams against the door and as he cups his thick hands under the flesh of my skirt, he lifts me off my feet sliding me against the wood grain of the door. Lips devouring mine, tongue tasting me deeply, teeth biting roughly, I hook my legs around his waist to get closer.
“You should be terrified of me, Scarlett,” he says, pulling roughly away from my mouth.
“Oh Gunnar,” I offer up a little chuckle. “Is that what you call a threat?”
He runs his lips along my jaw, slowly sliding them up against my ear, “Why, Scarlett is this a challenge?”
The thick fingers holding me against the door are now digging deeper into my flesh. “I wouldn’t play games if I were you.” The dark rasp of his threat lay just beneath his lips despite the hint of a smile that peeks out. His hands tighten. Painfully.
“Wasn’t playing a game,” I say in the calmest voice I could gather.
The grip on the back of my thighs squeezes my flesh tighter, his fingers dig in along the trim of my panties, teasing what lay underneath. His weight leans into me more, crushing me against the wall. I want to wiggle, to move just a little to try to get those fingers to slip further into where I want them.
“Don’t try and struggle now, pretty little Scarlett. You can’t get away,” he says, grinding his hips in between my thighs, rolling his arousal against the heat.
“I’m not trying…” I hiss as his rough fingertips dip under the damp material.
“Shut up.” Gunner circles his hips again, and then again, and fuuuck, again.
Despite us both being totally clothed, the movements are obscene and so damn arousing.
Then as abruptly as he pounced, he quickly releases his hold on my legs, taking a step back causing me to slide down the door and hit my ass to the floor hard. His shirt had ridden up, his long hair snarled and tangled from my fists; he looks every bit of breathless as I felt.
“Leave.” That’s all he says.
Clawing my way to my feet, I stand unsteadily by the door.
Walking back into the kitchen he removes another beer from the refrigerator, biting off the cap with his teeth, and spitting it to the floor. Reaching out his arms, fully colored tattoos dance above the movement of his muscles, he graba a flat black gun off the top of the counter and shoves it in the waistband of his pants.
“I said leave. You’re too easy to fucking break,” he growls.
“You got that wrong Gunnar. I’m already broken.”
But I leave anyway—walk right out the door. Because I know. I know when he realizes who I am—when he realizes what I am—he won’t be asking me to leave. He’ll be fighting for me to stay.