As an apology for disappearing from this blog for many moons, here's a small-ish excerpt of my work-in-progress for Graydon House. I'm all into this story, Peeps. But my problem is that until I get the beginning absolutely right, I cannot move ahead on the rest. I think I may have got it. Crossing fingers.
He began to rain kisses on my face. He nipped my jaw, teased my ear, licked my collarbone. His face was ruddy with satisfaction. And love. The scar on his chin that he’d gotten as a child had turned a dark red where I’d bit him. The rest of him glistened, and I felt my pores open too. His blue-blue eyes watched me with humor and a good doze of fatigue. He was tired even if he didn’t say it. I was glad I’d decided against going down to dinner. I wanted to take care of my man. I ran a hand through the jet-black thickness of his hair, which tended to curl just above his shoulder. Just four years and yet he was as familiar to me as my own face. Every freckle, every scar, every hair follicle, so very dear. I’d missed him so much this past week, especially since we’d parted on a lie. My lie.
“I lo...,” I began to whisper, to correct my mistake, and ended up incoherently shrieking the rest of my words as the room phone screeched into existence. My heart, beeping with love and affection a second ago, slammed against my chest like the Hammer of Thor against bad guys. Wild with fright, my eyes fell on the culprit—a quirky 1980s-style phone on the nightstand.