The Question

NummieMansion_CandleThe wall sconces flickered, leaving ghost images as he passed behind the chair, raising my hackles, the scent of musk and danger invading every pore. I fidgeted with a fork, avoiding the knife. That kind of confrontation would only please him.

This was a dream, it must be, the blush of heat, the whispered breath stroking the hollow of my throat. My imagination running wild, again.

Chuckling softly he braced his weight against my shoulders, the thrill cascading along my spine. Long, elegant fingers would soon find my throat, thumbs pressed tight, denying me, us.

Desperate, I wanted to ask, why, why now, why am I here?

Damien’s voice thrummed, the words indistinguishable from my own, laughing, an echo why why why. It came from nowhere and everywhere, as he sucked air from the room. The knowing, that first flush was an ache that rampaged, veins pulsing hot, bone brittle fracturing shards piercing from the inside out flesh skin a mask…

Oh God, what are you doing to me?

What would you like me to do…  

About Nya Rawlyns

Nya Rawlyns doesn’t write typical romance. She writes emotion as a contact sport, rough and often raw. It need not be pleasant, heart-warming or forever after. What she seeks is what lies beneath—a dance of extremes, the intersect of need and desire, and the compromises we make when pain and pleasure become indistinguishable. ***** She has lived in the country and on a sailboat on the Chesapeake Bay, earned more than 1000 miles in competitive trail and endurance racing, taught Political Science to unwilling freshmen, and found an avocation in materials science. ***** When she isn’t tending to her garden or the horses, the cats, or three pervert parakeets, she can be found day dreaming and listening to the voices in her head.
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One Response to The Question

  1. mo883mpetersdesires says:

    So chilling … I love it!


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