As she slips into the water with me, Amanda’s breasts bob, floating to the surface. Being in here is like no other moment we spend together. Explaining what it’s like to be in the water with her is like trying to describe a kiss. You can do it, but why? Unique expressions of who we are don’t translate.
“It’s so warm,” she tells me, delight floating across her face like sunshine between the leaves of an oak tree, the water and light in the cocoon of the lap pool spinning magic.
“I turned up the heat. I know you like it warm.”
“Doesn’t that make it impossible for you to do laps?”
“No. I’m not competing anymore.” I reach for her, hands enjoying the slippery magic of her skin. She kicks toward me, one hand on the pool’s ceramic-tiled edge, the other on my shoulder, pressing down. My feet are on the bottom but the feel of her next to me, weightless as she moves in for a kiss, makes all my boundaries dissolve.
We are the water.
Dipping under the surface, she runs her hands down the length of my legs, first skimming the outer edge of my thighs, then skimming over knees and calves. She slides an appreciative hand up between my legs before breaking the surface, her hair wet and flat against her scalp, her hand leaving me to wipe her face.
“Tease,” I say.
“I’m a sure thing.” Kicking her legs, she smiles at me. “Thanks for turning up the heat.”
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Julia Kent writes romantic comedy with an edge. From billionaires to BBWs to new adult rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every contemporary romance she writes. Unlike Shannon from Shopping for a Billionaire, she did not meet her husband after dropping her phone in a men’s room toilet (and he isn’t a billionaire). She lives in New England with her husband and three sons in a household where the toilet seat is never, ever, down.
Title: Your Vileness Author: R.R. Orange Genre: Young Adult Fantasy Romance
Amandine Klinghoffer is a daring young detective working on her first independent case in the fabled kingdom of Glamwein.
Was there a murder in the royal palace? And if so, who stands to benefit from plaguing the prince with ghosts?
Prince Ivan, the lazy, cowardly, good-for-nothing embarrassment of the realm is hiding something.
He would rather profess his undying love for Amandine than give her any useful information. He is obviously using romance to distract her from finding the truth.
As Amandine investigates with Ivan’s “help” she begins to suspect a plot that threatens the fate of the entire kingdom and its magical beings.
The staircase terminated in a heavy wooden door that concealed whatever lay ahead. It looked like an ordinary door, but she sensed foreboding and gloom as if they were etched into its wooden panels.
Amandine pushed it open.
A rush of cool air caressed her face, bringing the scents of burnt sugar, oranges and gingerbread treats the spectators were enjoying below. She stood in a broad, open-aired gallery just below the belfry—the rope dangled down through an opening in the ceiling, and she could have reached for it to ring the bell.
Without wasting another moment, Amandine drew the pistol from her left pocket and fired a bolt of energy behind and above her. The crackle of electricity was brief, but as she turned around and beheld the octopus-like limbs of the Strangler writhe wildly and fade into nothingness, the piercing scream of the ghost went on for quite a while until it too faded along with any traces of its physical existence.
“In broad daylight,” she muttered, “the nerve of it.”
Then she remembered someone else had quite a nerve.
“You knew this was here,” she stated, facing Prince Ivan, who stared at her with his big blue eyes, dumbfounded.
“That was impressive,” he finally said, his charming smile returning.
“You led me here on purpose,” she continued.
Stranglers were not dangerous and technically, being incorporeal, could not really strangle anyone. They did like to wrap their tentacles around a human victim, instilling a sense of dread, misery and damp coldness. No one had ever died from it, but some people had been known to faint from sheer terror.
“Damn, Klinghoffer,” Ivan said, evidently forgetting his resolve not to swear and walking into the dark corner where the spectre had been moments ago, “You destroyed it without a trace.”
“I should hope so. The electrical charges in this weapon are strong enough to unbind the faint energy keeping ghosts in our physical world. And it’s Mademoiselle Klinghoffer to you. Actually, I don’t even feel like speaking with you after you lured me here, hoping to embarrass me.”
“Just another test of your skill,” Ivan said, looking completely unconcerned by her anger.
Her face moved of its own volition into a cynical smile. “Your surprise at my success tells me you expected me to fail.”
“But how did you know where to aim?” he asked, ignoring the accusation, “You fired the shot without even turning around.”
She shrugged, trying not to be softened by his admiration for her skill. “After a while, you develop a sense for these things.”
Amandine did not feel hurt exactly but perhaps slightly saddened by the fact that he was just as predictable as her schoolmates had been. Even his ruse of luring her into a haunted church proved fairly weak and pathetic.
“I wonder what sort of thing died to create that?” he asked.
“It’s not one thing but two or three people whose fates were intertwined in unfortunate ways. If they’re unlucky enough to die at the same time or in fairly close succession, the resulting ghost is a Strangler.” Amandine explained. “Anyway, I shall make my way to the royal palace now. I don’t suppose you actually brought me up here to see the Fairy News.”
“Of course I did. Come on!”
He made to take hold of her hand, but Amandine dodged his grasp. She had little interest in being led about by this royal manipulator. He looked hurt, or pretended to.
“Oh, come now,” he coaxed, “haven’t you ever heard of letting bygones be bygones?”
“A very Glamweinian sentiment,” she remarked, standing aloof and folding her arms close to her body.
“True, we don’t like to hold on to grudges. We like to say, ‘if you look back, you get a smack.’ Isn’t it a wonderful tradition?”
“Sounds a little violent,” Amandine said, “I think it’s wise to look back and learn from your mistakes, especially when the most recent incident only happened a few seconds ago.”
Ivan kneeled down on the grey stones, opening his arms dramatically.
“I beg your forgiveness, fair Klinghoffer,” he said in a solemn voice, his lips quivering as he suppressed a grin, “and I promise, no more pranks while I show you the Fairy News.”
“All right,” Amandine said coldly, “Please rise up. You’re being ridiculous.”
He leapt up and rushed to the edge of the gallery where a tall arch framed his dapper figure. “It’s already started!”
R.R. Orange has a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing. She has worked as an English and Creative Writing instructor, a marketing writer, and a dog walker. Although she loves dogs, she is not a dognapper, unlike some of her characters.
Fun fact: she is also fluent in Russian, French, and intermediate in Portuguese.
Title: Merry Ex-Mas Author: Elizabeth Janette Genre: Contemporary Christmas Romance
It’s been ten years since Delaney Silverman last stepped foot on the Silver Bells Christmas Tree farm her family owns and operates, but when her father dies, she has no choice. Even if it means mending fences with her estranged mother. The last thing this reformed wild-child-turned-Manhattan-marketing-pro has in mind, though, is a second chance at first love. But after life brings her face to face with the sexy, ex-fiancé neighbor boy, she realizes he’s everything she never knew she needed. Travis Harper knows two things to be true: 1. It’s time to adopt his foster daughter and build a custom home life for themselves, and 2. Laney Silverman is the last woman he’d ever trust with their hearts, even if she is everything he’s ever wanted. Especially since she has a bad habit of walking away from him. Will twelve days be enough to give two former lovers a Merry Ex-Mas?
She peered up at him, watching him approach with wariness in her eyes. He hated to admit it, but the caution was justified.
“Dance with me? For old time’s sake?” The smile he offered was intended to be charming and disarming. Or at least that’s what he hoped he portrayed rather than the ball of nerves that tumbled around inside.
When she finally rewarded him with a shy smile and placed her hand in his, part of him wanted to leap for joy. The other part clanged with warning bells, sensing impending doom. He ignored the alarms and led her to the dance floor. What could be the harm in one dance between old friends?
The moment he gathered her in his embrace, arm resting on his shoulders, hand in his, he knew he’d made a grave mistake. No matter how scorched she left him, one touch would never be enough.
Not with her. Not for him. He knew that now. But gracefully extricating himself from the situation would be difficult. All eyes were on them as they swayed in time to the melody.
“I’m sorry. About what I said yesterday. It was uncalled for.” He offered a rueful smile, forcing his eyes to stay trained on hers, and not dip lower to the smooth skin of her elegant neck and exposed shoulders. To ignore the thrum of her pulse that jumped when he tightened his hold on her or brushed his hand across the small of her back. The one that matched the beat of his own heart, pulse for pulse. And he absolutely did not heed the call when his lips ached to taste hers.
Born to parents who loved to read, it’s no surprise Elizabeth Janette’s lifelong love of literacy led her to become both a teacher and a writer. In fact, writing about getting RIF’d from her teaching job in the 2008 recession is what led her to publish an essay about the experience. From then on, she was hooked. Now days, when she’s not teaching sassy 5th graders, Elizabeth Janette writes romance that both sizzles and thrills. And when she’s not teaching or writing, she works for her local chapter of the National Writing Project teaching teachers how to teach writing. Visit www.elizabethjanette.com to connect and sign up for her newsletter.
