Sinful Sunday Sin

In-the-Land-of-Sand-and-Stone-fullFrom the WiP, In the Land of Sand and Stone

Sometimes it takes more than a glance to establish interest.

Follow along, ten chapters are now available.

Excerpt:

The dull intake of breath gave her away. That, and dark eyes piercing my shoulder blades like shurikens, slices so precise, so beautifully perfect and deadly you barely registered the penetration into muscle and bone.

They flirted into ebon, silver-tinged in certain light, those eyes. I’d first noticed them at an odd moment, shoulder and hipping her out of my way in my mad rush to grapple with the first cup of dark roast of the day. It hadn’t sent up the usual flags, cautionary waves of what the fucks and there’s no such thing as co-incidence…

Same time, day after day after day. A week, then two. Shoulder, hip. Move, bitch.

And still no warning, other than feeling flush with resistance, building the barricade because if I didn’t, no one else would.

And then she pushed back. It’d been so unexpected, so delightfully arrogant and aggressive and assertive. My space. Make me. Wait your turn.

“Blondie.” She muttered it sotto voce, all of her five-five and change, my space, your space.

I had nowhere to look but down, down down down, intoround orbs, almost childlike with deceptive insouciance, taking my measure. She reached for the cup. My cup. Her cup. Ours. And the first step balanced and rocked—heel-to-toe and back—the stray streaks of platinum framing her face slip-sliding fore and aft.

Stretching, knuckles fleshed, blue-rimmed, oddly imperfect … she fisted possession and in that moment the ache began in the one place I could never again go.

The barista stood, slack-jawed. He was unwilling to referee the smackdown as I advanced, palm flat, bitch-slapping the contours of the vente, just enough for flesh and heat to come to an understanding.

The line behind pressured with anxiety.

“Get a fucking room.” The disembodied voice echoed, hollow and irritated, from the pressure wave building behind us.

Soft lips, pouty and full, pursed, accenting her annoyance. She flicked a glance back at the suit with ’tude and a potty mouth. Her finger twitched in salute. If he saw, it didn’t register. She’d netted him, same as me, two floundering guppies gulping air for all we were worth. His bulge pronounced his acquiescence as a Greek chorus of impatience hemmed us hip to cock.

Dark Eyes bracketed the suit’s left, the cup forgotten, leaving me to sweep it across the imaginary line of defiance. Advantage, Finna.

Small victories require celebration. Angling my shoulder back in the suit’s direction, my free hand cupped the straining fabric, content to savor the smooth slip of an expensive wool blend. He lifted the briefcase infinitesimally, looking to shield my movement, and sucked air. Not loud. But enough to let me know I had his undivided.

I had height and wingspan, and the shelter of curves and sister-in-arms. The barista had line-of-sight to the full frontal attack, my thumb and forefinger impinging on a cock set to detonate. I rocked the zipper, pinched and prodded and swept turgid flesh against thin, silk boxers and the seeping, weeping, uncut splendor of a cock I owned completely.

The devil with rounded hips and luscious lips locked eyes with mine. There was that glint again, this time less a dare, more approval.

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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