North Parish Book Tour with Rohn Federbush #Giveaway

Today, as a Buy the Book Tour participating host, I’m welcoming Rohn Federbush as she tours with her new release, North Parish. I was initially drawn to this book by it’s gorgeous cover and title, then after reading the blurb, knew I had to showcase it. Please welcome Rohn as she shares her background, writing process, and what inspires her creativity. There’s also a Rafflecopter giveaway link at the bottom, so be sure to enter!

Tour banner for North Parish by Rohn Federbush~ooOOoo~

I lived on farms in Illinois until I was fourteen. Those wind-swept plains can’t compare to the storm-free, surrounding hills of my adopted state of Michigan. I’m dyslectic and uncomfortable in crowds. I’m happier in my old-age than I ever was in the riotous, experimental years of youth. Who hasn’t wanted to know everything about everything?

I first realized I wanted to be a writer when I was sixteen. My sister’s baby died after not completing a day of life. Her name was Diane Thaddeus Schultz. I was shocked because my high-school English class remained unaware of my family’s loss, or the world’s. So I wrote a poem and eulogized my niece, hooking me forever on the potency of catharsis and the power of adding to the remembrance of a lost child. What gave you your first clue that you were one of us, unable to stop putting words on paper?

How long does it take you to read a book? My first writing draft is finished in about three months, but the editing takes even longer. I’m usually at my writing desk by 9:00 in the morning. I outline. I use Elizabeth’s system from “Write Right” and Michael Hauge’s “Six Stage Plot Structure,” which is a furtherance of Debra Dixon’s “Goals, Motivation, and Conflict” structure for characters. I put the finished outline, which includes one-sentence scene descriptions into the body of my manuscript and start writing the Rough Draft. Nothing is ever final, the outline, the sequence of scenes, etc. But the skeleton exists. The next day’s scene can be reviewed before bed and embellished in the morning. If I get stopped, I interview the characters to find out where we’re going.

I’ve been writing full time since 1999, when I retired from the University of Michigan as an Administrative Assistant. Of course, I take breaks, and lunch. However, I try not to stop until I have ten new pages or 4:00 arrives. My completed books are piling up, but I am still happiest and better balanced when new work is created. It is tempting to market full time, but the writer work-ethic in me rebels.

My ideas for books follow my curiosity. How does it feel to be this character or that one? Could I live in this place or that climate? What if I had lived in those times, in that war, or among those gardens? What if my goal had been to be a race-car driver, or a ghost-hunter, or a forest ranger? While I yet live, the wonder of life keeps me intrigued.

When I’m not writing, I paint cartoonish pictures in oil and even watercolors. I love the control over colors. I paint in primary colors, heavy on the brush. After fifteen years of steady fictional work output, my family has pretty much resigned themselves to the fact that I’ll be writing on my death bed. One sister-in-law thought I might have missed a career as a painter, but she received one of my better oils.

I’ve completed 15 novels. The three historicals about Michigan and Ann Arbor history are my favorites. But the one I’m working on, editing or writing new scenes, always claims my heart. When an idea presents itself for a story, the title usually comes first and then the resolution. I think we all write with a purpose. Sure to entertain is required, but to last in the world of more books than people, the need to share an understanding of how life works and my belief in a Higher Power, Our Father’s presence in our lives motivates me.

Hiring my GirlFriday, Florence Price, has saved me from frustrating chores I don’t have the patience to learn. Such as my website design, promotion ideas and an increasing number of tasks I ask her to undertake.

I like being married better than living alone. Of course, I am married to the best man in the universe. I’m also thankful for moderate good health in old age. My grandchildren are perfect and my children claim every ounce of affection I own. Isn’t this  every woman’s dream?

Have you read any of my books on Amazon, yet? I’m on Linkedin and have two               Facebook pages. Feel free to contact me at rohn@comcast.net. My website is             www.rohnfederbush.com

NORTH PARISH BLURB

An Ann Arborite, Professor Silas Douglas, became the first president of Michigan’s Historical Society. He was a teenager who witnessed the 1818 Maumee River treaty signing by seven tribes for President Monroe’s Erie Canal. The names of the tribes and the individual natives have been preserved in the Ann Arbor Public Library.

North Parish follows the diplomats around the Great Lakes.

* * * * *

Book cover for North Parish by Rohn FederbushParish North is the blonde adopted son of a Huron native, and with his manhood-quest completed in time for his father’s trip with a Jesuit bishop, he’s allowed to participate in the efforts to secure powwow agreements from seven tribes around the Great Lakes for the building of the Erie Canal. During the trip, Parish recognizes his vision temptress in Dorothy Evans.

Hoping to join the delegation, Dorothy Evans dreams of escaping duties as her mother’s cook-helper at Fort Detroit. Exciting windows to the wider world open for the girl in the Fort’s Jesuit library. Two centuries worth of European books convince her everything good and pure comes from nature. And when Dorothy meets the blond native, Parish North, she feels her heart quicken when he smiles in her direction. She’s positive Parish is half of her future.

When a bishop assigned to the trip persuades Dorothy’s mother to allow him to chaperon her intelligent daughter on the trip to facilitate her education, Dorothy’s mother accepts his kind offer with the comforting knowledge that Dorothy is under the protection of a man of the Church. But the Bishop’s intentions may not be as pure as they appear and Dorothy’s virtue is in danger. Will the Bishop’s unholy plan succeed?

EXCERPT:
Fort Detroit, Fall, 1817

Cheers from the fort’s crowd drew sixteen-year-old Dorothy Evans to the river’s shore. Two high-ended Algonquin canoes from Lake Erie and a smaller French trapper’s canoe advanced toward them on the Detroit River. With each new shout, more yellow aspen leaves tumbled to the ground, crushed under the feet of soldiers and civilians rushing along the riverbank. The sober clothing of the throng clashed with the riotous colors of the maple trees.

A Chippewa runner had arrived the night before to warn, or rather to assemble the fort’s population for Bishop Pascal’s arrival. Father Sebastian, the Jesuit pastor, rose on his tiptoes to peer down river. Dorothy and her mother stood on either side of the nervous priest. Elizabeth’s short, plump figure advertised her success as the rectory’s cook. Dorothy considered herself a competent but reluctant cook’s helper.

Preparations for meals left little time to think, to read, to dream. She hurried through her daily chores to escape into the priest’s extensive library. For more than a hundred years, the Jesuits at Fort Detroit had collected Europe’s finest literature. The tomes whetted her appetite for adventure and romance.

As Dorothy waited for the Bishop, histories of Florence, its free thinkers, faces of popes and red-garbed cardinals swam in her head. The band of young and seasoned soldiers from the fort held no interest. They smelled, and treated her as the stuck-up cook’s daughter. She was only someone to hand out an extra cookie or two when their buddies weren’t around to tease. But in her secret heart, Dorothy was a mysterious spy, an adventurous temptress, a princess waiting to be rescued.

No hint of cardinal reds were in the approaching crafts, only more drab brown and black clothing. Dorothy sighed, breathed in the cool, tannic-scented air and prayed for patience as the ceremonies began. Her chores awaited and her fingers itched to re-open the Italian history she had set aside.

After the first boat emptied its passengers, a sergeant among the troops yelled, “Attention!”

The thirty or so men lined up, tucked in their shirts and squared their shoulders. The newly arrived, tall, mustached officer with soft gray eyes under menacing bushy eyebrows introduced himself to the sloppy, disgraceful bunch. “Lieutenant C. Louis Cass.” He returned their salute and marched past them taking time to point out an unbuttoned tunic, dusty boots, or straighten a jauntily placed cap. “Where is your commanding officer?”

“Abed.” A young private in the rear yelled without fear of detection.

“This way,” Father Sebastian motioned for the Bishop to follow the troops on the half-mile trek back to the fort.

Dorothy’s mother gestured for her to follow, but Dorothy shook her head. Elizabeth delayed and tidied her hair until Dorothy relented and drew closer for what she thought would be a reprimand. Her mother merely whispered. “They’re going to take more land from the natives. Mark my word.”

“Not again. Where will they let them farm now? Is that why the Bishop came?”

“Father says the seven tribes around the Great Lakes will be affected.” Elizabeth tucked a loose black strand of hair behind Dorothy’s ear. “I guess the Bishop thinks a missionary is needed to persuade the tribes to attend the new treaty powwow.”

Dorothy shook her head. “What chance do the natives have to survive, if they disagree?”

“Hurry back to help me.” Her mother scurried away to catch up to Father Sebastian.

Dorothy wandered closer to the river. Dark clouds threatened to stop the sunshine’s play with the sparkling waves. The second smaller canoe purposefully tread water in order not to be drawn ashore. Dorothy examined its crew. A tall, straight-backed Huron sat in the front of the boat. Behind him a younger native caught her eye. The shifting sunbeams highlighted the man’s blond hair. His face seemed lit from within.

His eyes dreamily swept the shoreline past her, then sharply returned as if he had been startled into remembering something. Something important.

Me, Dorothy thought. He’s looking at me. For a moment her breath seemed to stop.

She couldn’t help rushing forward to mingle among the native men helping the two pull the boat onto the sandy shore. The natives nearly bowed before the tall Huron. He spoke kindly to each. Did he personally know their families? Then he introduced the younger man to them, “My favored son.” The older man inclined his head proudly in the direction of the blond young man, whose ethereal bearing evoked the capability of walking on water.

Noticing Dorothy among the group, the older man said, “They call me Ponthe Walker.”

Dorothy nodded but could not keep her face turned away from the infinitely more interesting younger man.

“And my adopted son, Perish North.”

“I’m…I’m,” Dorothy was sure she’d never remember her own name. “Dorothy Evans. My mother is Elizabeth, the rectory cook.”

Perish stepped forward. “A pious believer then?”

Dorothy gained full use of her tongue. “More of a favorite doubter of the Lord’s. Like Saint Thomas? You know the one who had to put his hand in Jesus’ side before he would believe in the resurrection?”

Ponthe seemed to lose interest, but Perish didn’t move.

“I’ve just returned from my vision quest,” he said.

Dorothy believed he grew an inch before her eyes. She slipped a glance down to his boots to see if he’d stretched up on his toes. As she brought her gaze up, she noted his waist adornments, his broad shoulders covered in buckskin. His light blue eyes seemed bleached by the sun, or his vision.

“The manhood rite,” she said, trying not to check. A stiff breeze lifted her hair, cooling the nervous sweat on her brow.

“You’ve heard of the Midewiwins?” Perish took a step closer.

Dorothy could smell a scent of juniper. “I have, but aren’t you too young?”

Perish laughed.

A thrill passed through her at the clear, rich tones of his voice.

When his father began to lead the natives back to the Fort Detroit, Dorothy boldly pulled at Perish’s elbow. “Walk with me.”

Perish slowed to stroll beside her.

Dorothy smiled as winningly as she knew how. “Tell me.”

“I can only share Orenda’s vision message with family.” His face was serious but his eyes were friendly.

“Adopt me,” Dorothy said, then raced ahead of the group. Aware of her silliness, she knew her mother would be needing help.

*

Author, Rohn FederbushABOUT ROHN FEDERBUSH
Rohn Federbush retired as an administrator from the University of Michigan in 1999. She received a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing in 1995 from Eastern Michigan University. Frederick Busch of Colgate granted a 1997 summer stipend for her ghost-story collection. Michael Joyce of Vassar encouraged earlier writing at Jackson Community College, Jackson, Michigan in 1981. Rohn has completed fourteen novels, with an additional mystery nearly finished, 120 short stories and 150 poems to date.

Connect with Rohn Federbush at:

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Google+ 

PURCHASE NORTH PARISH FROM:
Amazon | Barnes & Noble

THE GIVEAWAY:
Enter Rohn’s Rafflecopter drawing to win
$15 Amazon Gift Card
Winner’s Choice of North Parish ebook
a Rafflecopter giveaway

Rosanne Bittner: RIDE THE FREE WIND Book Tour

A Vector Comic Book Explosion Background with StarsToday, I’m pleased to showcase another book by Rosanne Bittner who is touring with her historical western romance novel, RIDE THE FREE WIND. A short while ago, I had the pleasure of featuring book 1 of the Savage Destiny Series, SWEET PRAIRIE PASSION. Rosanne continues the story of Zeke and Abbie in RIDE THE FREE WIND.

BLURB:
Book 2 of the Savage Destiny Series

Abigail Trent Monroe abandons the only life she’s ever known to live among the Cheyenne with her half-breed husband, Zeke. Together they face peril and enjoy a passion most never experience. Their love is so strong that no amount of danger or rugged living can come between this man and woman so devoted to one another.Against the backdrop of a magnificent landscape and during a time when freedom meant everything to the Native Americans, Zeke and Abbie cling to one another for courage and strength.

EXCERPT:
Clinging to Zeke tightly, Abbie pleaded. “Don’t let go! Don’t ever let go!”

“It’s all right, Abbie-girl,” he told her quietly. ……

He gladly kept his arms around her, and she kissed his neck, breathing in the wonderful, manly scent of him, running her hands across his broad, strong shoulders. He moved his lips back to her own in one long, lingering, hungry kiss, then he swung her up into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and asked no questions. … It did not matter at the moment where he had been or why. All that mattered was that he was here now. …

~ooOOoo~

Buy RIDE THE FREE WIND from Amazon
This book is exclusive to Amazon

~ooOOoo~

Portrait 1AUTHOR BIO from Rosanne Bittner:
I’ve been writing for nearly thirty years and to date have had 57 novels
published, all about the American West of the 1800’s and Native Americans. I
write romance, but not the typical bodice-ripping adventures. My stories are
deep love stories, often family sagas told as a series. It is the hero and
heroine’s love that holds them together through the trials and tribulations of
settling America’s western frontiers. I absolutely love the Rockies, the Tetons,
the Sierras, and the wide-open plains, prairies and desert land west of the
Mississippi. In my books, I strive to tell the truth about the settling of the
West and how it affected our American Indians, as well as the gritty depth of
what our brave pioneers suffered in their search for free land and a better
life.

I am a member of the Nebraska and Oklahoma Historical Societies,
my local southwest Michigan historical society, Women Writing the West,
Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America (treasurer) and the national RWA, and a local charity group called the Coloma Lioness Club. I help run a family business
and love doing things with my three young grandsons. If you visit my web site at
www.rosannebittner.com, where all my titles are listed as well as a page that lists all my many writing awards; or you can visit me on Facebook. At either site you will learn news of new books to come as well as reprints of many of my past titles soon to be published in trade paperback and as e-books! I also have an author site at Amazon.com.

Look for Rosanne Bittner at the following haunts:
Website
Blog
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads

Deborah Brown: CRAZY IN PARADISE Book Tour

A Vector Comic Book Explosion Background with Stars

Looking for a breezy fun read? Check out the debut release, CRAZY IN PARADISE, from author Deborah Brown!

BLURB:
Dying in the middle of the summer in the Florida Keys is sweaty business.

Welcome to Tarpon Cove.  Madison Westin has inherited her aunt’s  beachfront motel in the Florida Keys.  Trouble is she’s also inherited a  slew of colorful tenant’s – drunks, ex-cons, and fugitives.

Only one problem:  First, she has to wrestle control from a conniving  lawyer and shady motel manager.  With the help of her new best friend,  whose motto is never leave home without your Glock, they dive into a  world of blackmail, murder, and drugs.

7722162EXCERPT:
I tried to speak to Dickie about the arrangements when I first arrived  in town. He told me firmly that he only took instructions from Tucker  Davis and he wasn’t allowed to discuss any of the final details. I  wondered why the secrecy, but he was so nervous I didn’t ask any more  questions. He told me not to worry; he had worked hard to make  everything memorable.

I appealed to him, “Don’t family members usually participate in the planning?”

But he was very clear; Tucker Davis’ approval was the most important thing to him.

I took a deep breath. Later, our family would create a lasting tribute  to Elizabeth showing how much we had loved and respected her, and how we  would deeply miss her. But for now, this would have to do, I guess.

I glanced up and saw a man who looked to be in his 60’s walking to the  podium. He was well-worn, beer-gutted with dirty looking grey hair, and  dressed in jean shorts and a tropical shirt that looked as though he’d  worn them for several days.

“Hey, everyone,” he said into the microphone. “My name is…” he paused,  “well, all my friends call me Quattro.” He held up both of his hands in a  two-handed friendly wave.

He was missing his middle finger on his right hand and his thumb on his  left hand. Brad and I glanced at one another and laughed. I mouthed  “Quattro” at him and waved four fingers. He turned away, biting his lip.

“I told Dickie I’d speak first because he worried no one would come up  and say anything and it wouldn’t look right. I told him don’t worry so  much.” Quattro slowly scanned the crowd. “I reassured him there were a  few people here who could think of something nice to say.” He ran his  fingers through his hair and scratched his scalp.

“Elizabeth was a great old broad. Too damn bad, she died so young. She  seemed young to me. Hell, I’m only a few years younger. You know she  checked out in her sleep, and in her own bed. How much better does it  get than that?”

I looked around. A few people were nodding their heads in agreement.

“Now that she’s kicked the bucket…” He paused. “Well, everyone knows  there’s no bucket involved.” He laughed at his own humor. “Have you ever  wondered what the reward is?” He waited as though he expected an  answer. “Hmm, I’ve no idea either. Damn, it’s hot in here. You’d think a  funeral place would turn on the air conditioning.”

“Yeah, I’ve got sweat in my shorts,” I heard someone say. A few others voiced their agreement.

“Keeps the smell down and all,” Quattro continued. “I know when it was a  drive-thru the air worked good and sometimes the place was downright  freezing.”

I saw a few people sniffing at the air. Were they sad? Or were they disappointed they couldn’t smell hotdogs and fries?

Dickie Vanderbilt stood off to the side, staring at his shoes, and  picking at his rather large tie tack in the shape of a flamingo.

“But back to Elizabeth. I called her Betty once and, boy, she got mad.”

Mother sobbed loudly, which I knew was actually laughter. People turned to stare.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Mother, please. This funeral is bad enough.”

Her body shook with laughter. I gripped her tightly. “Oww,” she whispered.

“Behave yourself, or I’ll keep squeezing.” I shifted again on the bench,  having a hard time sitting still when my legs kept sticking to the  wood.

“Elizabeth was good to a lot of people,” Quattro continued. “Too bad she  won’t be around to do any of us any more favors.” He looked around and  rubbed the end of his nose.

I stared wide-eyed at him wondering if he was about to pick his nose.

“The truth is, I’ve run out of stuff to say. I know she wouldn’t have  wanted to die so soon, but the problem is we all think we’re going to  live forever, and we don’t. So, ‘God Bless’.” He waved and walked away  from the podium.

~ooOOoo~

Buy CRAZY IN PARADISE from Amazon
(This book is exclusive to Amazon)

~ooOOoo~

Author PicAUTHOR BIO FROM DEBORAH BROWN:
Crazy in Paradise, is my debut novel, a Florida Keys mystery, which makes the reader laugh, cry and cheer…

My personal ad would read:

Since all great journeys start with a single step, I’ll have on a cute pair of shoes.

Crazy.  Ice cream loving.  Redhead.  5’2″, long legs.  As an avid  exerciser, I get to the gym every five years or so.  I hate being  tricked by that stinking raisin in the oatmeal cookie when my heart was  set on chocolate.  And it’s totally acceptable for me to be mildly  annoying when it makes me laugh.  South Florida is my home, with my  ungrateful rescue animals, where Mother Nature takes out her bad  attitude in the form of hurricanes.

You can find Deborah at the following haunts:
Website
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads

WEATHERING ROCK by Mae Clair: Post Christmas Blog Tour #Paranormal #TimeTravel #Romance

A Vector Comic Book Explosion Background with StarsHello friends! I hope you all had a wonderfully Merry Christmas with many blessings, family, friends and good cheer. Today is the launch of my post-Christmas WEATHERING ROCK blog tour. Please join me, Caleb and Arianna as we roam the blogosphere from 12/26 to 1/2 to ring in a New Year!

Today’s stops are:

December 26, 2012 – You Gotta Read Reviews
December 26, 2012 – Real World on Writing
December 26, 2012 – Romance Writer Sara Walter Ellwood
December 26, 2012 – Melissa Keir- Sexy Between the Covers

Happy Holidays!

~ooOOoo~

December 27, 2012 – It’s All About The Romance
December 27, 2012 – Janna Shay’s Fair Play
December 27, 2012 – TheWormhole
December 27, 2012 – TBQ’s Book Palace
December 28, 2012 – Paranormal Opinion
December 28, 2012 – Book Junkie
December 28, 2012 – Writerly Ramblings
December 28, 2012 – Just One More Chapter
December 29, 2012 – Jennifer Lowery
December 29, 2012 – Krystal Shannan – Where Love and Destiny Collide
December 30, 2012 – Romance Me
December 30, 2012 – Author Jinni James
December 30, 2012 – Let’s Get BOOKED!
January 1, 2013 – Books, Books The Magical Fruit
January 1, 2013 – Author’s Café
January 1, 2013 – Books Complete Me
January 2, 2013 – Have Novel, Will Edit
January 2, 2013 – Evolved World
January 2, 2013 – Cheryl Yeko, Where Love Always Win

Javier A. Robayo: THE GAZE Book Tour

A Vector Comic Book Explosion Background with Stars

Buy the Book Bookmark Blitz Tour

Blurb
As a sophomore in college, Samantha Reddick meets Tony Amaya, a brokenhearted young man, whose written words she keeps as a memento of a weekend long affair. The words, written on the back of a paper placemat, become her only solid ground during a tumultuous decade that nearly destroys her, leaving her searching for answers at the bottom of the bottle.

Haunted by guilt and the constant menace from a man she once loved, Samantha searches for Tony and inserts herself into his life through an online friend request to his wife, Gwen. Mutual curiosity opens the door to an unexpected friendship that becomes the catalyst of an inner battle between the better woman Samantha longs to be, and the Samantha who despises her own gaze.

Excerpt
Tony didn’t look nervous at all. Meanwhile I was awash in uneasiness at the prospect of bringing him into my dorm.

The story, all I want is the story and to find out what motivates such passionate writing, that’s all. Just the story…

Liar…

I felt shaky while he walked. In contrast, his breathing was even as though he was so comfortable with the situation. I suddenly wondered if this particular situation was familiar to him.

We took the stairway to the second floor. Our footfalls echoed loudly, the sound joined only by the faint buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights.

I unlocked the door with trembling hands that jangled the keys. Somehow, I found the light switch and chased the shadows away, revealing a second hand living room set on cheap flat carpeting. I peeled off my denim jacket and threw it across a chair in the kitchen nook. When I turned, I was surprised to see him leaning against the door, held back by uncertainty.

I held the paper placemat between us like an amulet to ward off his intensity. “Do you mind if I read it?”

He fixed his eyes on me and nodded before glancing away, his chin coming to rest on his chest.

untitledI started reading. It was far more intense than I could have ever imagined. It was nothing but raw fury and passion, a determined declaration of love. It read of this girl that had become the center of his thoughts, the very core of his being. I could feel my heart breaking as I was overwhelmed with the strange notion that I wanted to be this Gwen of his. I wanted to know what it was to feel such passion, such love. Tears sprung in my eyes and I cried for him, for this fortunate girl…

For me…

He didn’t ask what was wrong right away. He simply stared just past my shoulder while I made a futile attempt to dispel a sob. I muttered that this was beautiful and he gave me a sad, crooked smile as a tear rolled off the corner of his eye before he turned his face away.

I don’t know what it was about that tear, but it made me go to him like a magnet to steel and place my hands on his face. His skin was burning. There was a little stubble that only made me too aware of his masculinity.
“Kiss me,” I whispered into those confused brown eyes of his. “Just kiss me.”

His hands found my wrists and his eyes stayed on mine. Need became a force as tangible as the strong winds that fuel a storm.

I knew he was thinking I was crazy. I knew he thought of all the reasons why he should stop this crazy bitch in heat and go away. Bloody hell, I was thinking I was crazy.

A tiny voice in my head was screaming all sorts of warnings but just when I felt rejection eating away at me, his eyes fell on my lips and after one breathless moment, he leaned down and kissed me.

Molten lead would have frozen my insides in comparison. I was trembling and when I felt his breath stutter, I opened my lips in invitation. He pulled away and a disappointed moan escaped my throat, allowing reason to slowly take root in my brain. I kept my eyes on his.

His hand held my face as delicately as a summer breeze. His thumb brushed away the tears I finally tried to blink away. His eyes seemed to glitter as they searched mine and time seemed to stop its endless march in perfect silence.

Was this wrong? I let out my pent up breath slowly in a sorrowful sigh as electricity crackled between us.

In one swift motion, his hands brought my face up at an angle and he kissed me so hard, I lost what little restraint I had left.

He loves someone else…

He loves her…

Stop this!

I felt weightless. His touch was firm yet gentle. The kiss grew needier and heat traveled down into my body, setting my abdomen aflutter. My hands found the flat planes of his chest and then ran down his sides to his hips. On their way back, they pushed his shirt up. His hot skin sent a pang of need that had my heart hammering in my ribcage.

My tickling fingers forced him to shift and pull away for a breath. I answered his smile with a lustful gaze as I brought his hands to the buttons of my uniform shirt.

His hands ventured over my abdomen and moved up to grace the underside of my breasts, making my head swim. I shrugged the shirt off and his t-shirt joined it on the floor within seconds.

We engaged in a stumbling waltz as we somehow made our way to my bedroom. Our clothes kept pooling on the floor, marking our passing like bread crumbs on an unknown trail. I was almost sick with need as the coarse hair of his chest made contact with my skin. When I felt him rigid on my thighs, I pulled hard on his neck, bringing him on top of me as he braced his fall with his arms on either side of me, never breaking from the kiss.

“Wait…” he panted. “I… um… I don’t have anything.”

It took a few seconds before I realized what he meant. Shame colored me a shade of red I thought would make me glow in the semi darkness. “It’s okay, I promise…” I said breathlessly.

He gave me a dubious look that I hoped to eradicate with more kissing. His lips found my throat, my face, my shoulder, and I curled driving my hips up to meet him. He was being gentle, too gentle, I thought in frustration, when all I wanted was for him to go right through me. I grabbed hold of his hips, and then thoroughly enjoyed the feel of the muscles on his back as I pulled him into me. The sudden fullness forced me to bite my lip to keep me from crying out. It had been so bloody long…

“Kelly…” he whispered almost breaking the spell, but I was too far gone to care.

A thin wisp of rational thought told me he was probably thinking about someone else. I wondered if he called out Kelly only to remind himself that he wasn’t with the girl behind his writing. It didn’t matter. My body overrode my mind as he moved within me. I held on tighter, needing the closeness, if only physical.

…I’ll be no more than a transient thought in her mind, a small measure of time, insignificant. No more than a barely familiar set of notes to a song seldom remembered…

The lines of his writing flashed through my head as my breath grew shallower.

…No more can I feel the soft warmth of her kiss and its absence becomes me in the form of a living death…

All I could do was accept this moment and quell my own thirst for that kind of love with what little he offered me. The kind of love he obviously reserved for the girl from his writing.

His muscles grew taut under my touch while I held my breath as the inevitable rush of heat converged into my center from all corners of my body. I parted the kiss and screamed my ecstasy, burying my face into his chest while he grew impossibly large in me before collapsing, his own conclusion reached. We held onto each other, our breath ragged, both of us feeling each other’s tremors. If this was the one and only time I was to feel this way, then I’d go into the grave smiling to the high heavens.

View the book trailer for THE GAZE here

502741_origAuthor Bio
Javier A. Robayo is the author of THE GAZE and THE NEXT CHAPTER. He immigrated to the United States in 1988 at the age of 12 from Quito, Ecuador. He began writing as a way of learning English throughout his high school years, and studied at Slippery Rock University in Pennsylvania. He lives in Connecticut, with his wife, and two daughters, where he is currently at work on his next novel.

~ooOOoo~

Look for Javier A.Robayo at the following haunts:
Website
Facebook
Twitter
Goodreads

Buy THE GAZE at:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Smashwords