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Showing posts with label deceit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label deceit. Show all posts

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Lotus Petals Excerpt

Warning: This is a rated-R book. Please read the following excerpt at your own discretion.


Lotus Petals
By Brantwijn Serrah
Paranormal Romance/Lesbian/F-/F



Aijyn, human slave to a ruthless vampire Lord, would never dare do anything to incur his wrath. Then, she fell in love... with his bride.

Excerpt:

"Rhiannon-sama," she began again, well aware she might be broaching a subject Rhiannon would easily wish to avoid, even to the point of sending her attendant violently away.

"Hm?" the vampire murmured.

"Your bodyguard...she likes to see you in pain."

Rhiannon waited a long time before she answered.

"Perhaps I like pain, mortal."

Aijyn did not argue...but she had seen the expression on Rhiannon’s face when Sölva had tormented her.

"You must hide the scars from the daimyo," she chided gently. "And you cannot allow her to leave any more marks on you, if you do not wish to anger him."

"And if I do wish to anger him?"

"Do not be petulant," Aijyn scolded.

"Does he believe his bride will be untouched? That his kin-born bastard bride will not have experienced acts of the flesh? I am over half a century a living birth-child. Does he realize how most kin-born are meant to earn their keep in demon houses?"

"He expects you will be untouched for him," Aijyn said. "Whatever has gone before, now you are his. And Gohachiro is not a man to share his treasures."

"Doesn’t he like to use pain?" Rhiannon asked. She rolled over under Aijyn’s hands, lying on her side and reaching out to touch the scar she herself had left on the courtesan’s wrist. At the light caress of her finger, a delicious tingle of pleasure ignited under the skin, making Aijyn shiver as the vampire had a moment ago.

Rhiannon pulled Aijyn closer, and lowered herself over the wound to kiss it a second time. The warm arousal intensified, and Aijyn caught her breath as her body awoke to the sensation, nipples stiffening under the soft silk of her kimono.

"Here," Rhiannon whispered, reaching up to brush the dark strands of hair from Aijyn’s shoulder, revealing the tiny, neat scars of bites past. Scars that would never heal the way the vampire’s did, white little lines and half-moons, memories of Gohachiro’s affections.

"Doesn’t he give you pain…" Rhiannon said, following their contours with light but deliberate pressure.

"…so he may turn it into pleasure?"

"Rhiannon-sama…" Aijyn murmured vaguely. One hand had dropped into her lap; the other rested on the vampire’s warm, lean arm. Strange awareness filled her: the touch stirred up the first bloom of eagerness in her loins and the pit of her belly.

"Pain is what we are, courtesan. Pain, hunger, pleasure, death. We are the undead. I am just over half a century old, more than twice your age, and I have been Sölva’s for longer than you have been alive. There are scars you will never see, all over my body: the marks of her fangs, of her whip, the cut of her blade, the pierce of steel needles. And every one of them sings when she touches me, screams when she hurts me...and it is ecstasy."

"Rhiannon-sama…"

Aijyn realized with some dread she had made a mistake. The vampire’s touch brushed against her, terribly light, terribly fleeting, but her voice...soft, beautiful, rich, like strong liquor.

Rhiannon’s hand came to rest on the back of Aijyn’s neck. She gently pulled the courtesan closer, resting forehead-to-forehead and searching deep into Aijyn’s wide, dark eyes.

"You do this for him, too?" she whispered. "You...perform anma for him? You touch his body with such delicate affection?"

"Yes," Aijyn whispered.

"And does it make him want to fuck?"

Before she could think better of it, Aijyn lifted up a hand and slapped her.

The strike was not a hard one. At least, to Rhiannon it would not have been hard. Aijyn’s palm stung as though she had struck it against solid rock, and she quickly pressed it in her other hand, hissing with pain.

Rhiannon did not strike back. She remained perfectly still, her expression unchanging. After a moment, once Aijyn had collected herself, the vampire leaned closer and pressed her mouth against Aijyn’s own.

"It makes me want to fuck," she said. Then she stood, one smooth, languid motion, and retreated to her coffin to at last submit to her daytime sleep.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Adoption: It's never Over

Adoption

It’s never over
How our issues become our characters’ problems
By Julie Eberhart Painter
In every one of my books, adoption is an issue. It’s part of my life; it is my life, and the many sides: being given away, giving away, and watching our grandchild being given away are woven into our family’s history, and thus, secret baby style, into my romance and mystery novels.
As an adoptee, it has fueled my imagination. Who am I and who were they? It’s fired my passion to examine my written characters’ motives. Such life experiences make for inflammatory prose. The adoption issue creeps into my work like murder into crime novels and love into romances.
The most recently published example is Mortal Coil, now in paperback from Champagne books, May 2009. In Mortal Coil, the main character, Ellen, a nursing home administrator, has a compassionate heart. She and her first husband adopted a child, but didn’t tell the child that she was adopted. This loving omission becomes a problem for Ellen when her husband is killed in a car crash.
Secrets ignite violence. Murders in Ellen’s nursing home strike a match under an unlikely pair who would never have met without the afore-mentioned deceptions and murders.
In June 2010, Champagne releases Tangled Web. A seduction scene drives the plot that leads the reader from 1935 to 1951. It’s my projection for my birth mother, Catherine’s, life as I hope she lived it.
Illegitimacy and adoption were tremendous moral issues during the 30s through the 60s, a time of change in our country’s mores. With war on the horizon and women reaching beyond their domestic roles to find careers and help support their families, Catherine becomes stronger. She learns that the powerful do not always win.
In my unpublished memoir, I describe adoption as being Naked in Their Gene Pool, or in the case of our lost grandchild The Lost legacy. With adoptions, it’s never over. Many adoptees feel like abandoned puppies, searching every car on the road to see if their family has changed its mind and come back for them.
I once told a perfect stranger, "I’m Julie Eberhart Painter; I’m adopted; I come with a disclaimer."
Disarmed by my subconscious honesty, she answered, "I’m Jane and I can’t have children." We both had an issue-issue.
I was only nine months old when I was taken from a succession of foster homes and placed with my adoptive family—permanently. My first word was "home," not Mommy or Daddy. At four-years of age, I remember hiding when people came to the house. I ran from cars passing on the dirt road out front. In 1998, I petitioned the court to get my "story." The non-identifying information stated that at three months of age I was friendly, alert and able to stand up for myself—not fearful.
No, it’s never over. A 95-year old resident in the nursing home where I worked asked me, her volunteer: "Do you think I’ll finally meet my mother?"
Life and fiction are one when you’re adopted. It’s never over.