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2.2.09

Eternal Tryst


"He sees her most erotic dreams, shares her most carnal desires, and for a price Dorantes will make them all come true."
Blurb:
A recurring dream takes her to a vast ocean where she swims naked in its inky black waters. Yet this time there is a presence that watches, follows, and becomes an intimate partner. The sex is vivid and violent and when Detective Regina Page wakes to a mysterious phone call - a man who identifies himself only as Dorantes - he reveals every detail of her erotic dream. But he also says he is a witness to a series of unsolved murders, the victims devoid of blood, on the waterfront, a case she can't seem to solve. She agrees to meet him and the nightmare begins.

Dorantes is more than a witness - he is a gifted Grimoire - and he aches for her alone. He distorts her senses, blinds her with mystical sensual words, and hurls them both into the visionary worlds of debauchery and lust. His motives for these lurid revelations are shrouded in mystery until she learns of a horrifying truth one that takes her to the brink of madness.
And only Dorantes can ease the fires of what must become their eternal tryst.

Excerpt:
At the end of the soundless dock was the building where he had told her to meet him. Every window had been broken, cruel acts that had emptied the structure’s spirit, defacing its aged dignity. She peered at each in turn. No lights. This Dorantes obviously liked the dark. But so did she. She smiled, gripped the weapon, and crept through the open door. Pausing just inside, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, the full moon shining through several smashed windows. Shattered glass crunched beneath her shoes. Something scurried past, making her flinch. A rat. The place must be swarming with them. Evil, foul creatures finding homage within destitution. How appropriate. She tried to swallow but her mouth was too dry.
“Hello?” she called weakly. She cleared her throat. “Anybody here?”
Water dripped methodically, mimicking her pounding heart. The interior resonated vastness, the outer edges blurred in murky dreariness. She took several steps, heal to toe, deeper into the stagnant gloom. A silhouette moved. She froze.“
Dorantes?” She squinted to where the blackness had shifted. Except for the dripping water, she heard nothing.
“Ishabella.”
She spun round. Muscle taut, she was coiled like a spring. The source of the voice was nowhere to be seen. Slowly, she reached into her jacket and pulled out the gun. “Talk to me,” she demanded. “I didn’t come here to screw around.”
A wry laughter reverberated all around her.
She made a three-sixty, the gun arm’s length in front, poised. She peered into the vastness that seemed to grow increasingly heavy. Hair on her arms fluttered to attention. Her skin crawled as though the slithering nocturnal creatures explored her flesh. “Show yourself, or I walk.”
It occurred to her suddenly, as she searched the shadow for the elusive form, that she dealt with more than a witness to the recent murders. Like a quick punch in the stomach, she reeled. He was the evil that all else spurned. This was his lair. For the first time in recent memory, she suffered an immobilising fear, and her heart sunk to isolation. Undeniable. He was involved. He’d killed those young men, and he was stalking her!
Dorantes was of the undead.
With such a daunting thought, she felt a paralyzing stress. Her senses were no less acute. However, the registration of what was around her slowed down. So, as her eyes swept the gloom in an erratic slow motion, she missed him, until the arm clamped around her waist, and a hand stifled her scream.
“Let go of the weapon,” the voice purred. “Trust me. I mean you no harm.”
She flinched, a futile attempt to free herself, efforts which awarded her with nothing more than a firm squeeze, like a lover’s frantic hold. She dropped the gun. He didn’t release her. It seemed he enjoyed their locked stance—his chest tight to her back, his groin, hard, pressed against her backside. She suspected that at any second he would lessen his grip, allow her to turn, face his proven dominance over her, but he did not. The palm that cupped her mouth lowered to her breast. The arm around her waist dipped as he stroked her outer thigh. His lips brushed across her hair.
As shocking as this blatant molestation had become, she didn’t refute any of his advances, for they were far from unpleasant. The heat from his hands caused a flash of electricity to surge through her every fibre. A throaty sigh was saturated with desire, and the puff of breath against her hair was like silk. Her breast warmed to his fondling, and her legs slightly parted to permit further intimacy.
“No harm,” he repeated. He swayed, a slow rhythmic dance, the caressing lighter, tender, no less lulling. She drifted, seconds only perhaps, until his voice woke her from a semi-slumber of inability.
“You are more beautiful in my arms than from afar,” he whispered, his full lips wet upon her throat, a wash of thick hair feathered her skin. “Much more beautiful.”She felt the brush of teeth on her skin and stiffened...

1 comment:

Lisabet Sarai said...

Ah, Ellen, you do know how to get the heart beating and the blood racing! Sounds fascinating.