The Countdown Is On...
So, it's almost time. It's almost here. Six stories. Six reasons to get excited. Six reasons to stay up late. Six reasons to get lost in a book. Blame It On Fate is releasing on November 6, 2017. Six stories for $.99! But that price won't last long. After November it's going up to $2.99 and then $4.99 as of January 2018. Get it while it's less than a dollar, but know that at any price, it's worth every penny.
(Click the picture for the buy link)
As for my faithful followers, Claiming Emerson, will get it's own cover on January 1st and will be released as book one in the Emerson Series. The cover will be revealed in my next newsletter, so stay tuned. But until then...here's a taste of book one. Enjoy!
Pierre was in New York.
I could feel my caged heart rattle behind the steel bars.
You belong to me.
I shut my eyes and let the memories flood back. I’d loved him since – forever.
“Comment va ma belle rousse aujourd’hui?” How’s my beautiful redhead today
Pierre asked, standing before me, regal and forthright. The picture of grace and charisma with his perfectly crooked smile, white teeth, and sun-kissed olive skin.
He wasn’t masculine per se, but not feminine either. He was model material with shoulder length brown hair that was pulled back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. The strands around his forehead and face were loose, and hung haphazardly and free like the lazy wisps of a young maple tree. His verdant eyes dazzled like emeralds, and his lips were full and succulent. Pierre Deniau was quite simply – gorgeous.
Back then was the summer between graduating from the perils of high school and starting University. I worked at La Patisserie by morning and volunteered at the Louvre Museum in the afternoons. One paid little, the other paid nothing. One I did to please my mother, the other I did to please myself.
I quickly learned that rich friends, powerful connections, and good looks, could carve a potent dynasty. Even as a child, I knew that people were just stepping stones to obtaining my every desire. I coveted my extremely select friendships with the discriminating enthusiasm of a would-be investor, selecting only those that met my stringent requirements of honesty, integrity, and discretion. I played my life close to the vest, revealing little, and letting very few in. My need for friends paled, as my desire for success and power rose. I was a young woman with an agenda, driven to see my life fulfilled in every possible way – personally and professionally. I aligned myself with greatness – with those whom had it and those who knew how to access it, wielding my beauty like a mystic snake charmer to manipulate my outcome. The art of persuasion was a skill I’d mastered. My mother taught me well.
But those lessons came at a high price. I wasn’t always the user, but the one being used. I couldn’t always persuade, but was often persuaded. The rules of the game were always being changed. But I played to win – then and now.
My beautiful redhead, he’d said. I adoringly looked at Pierre and swallowed the sexual intensity that billowed between us, letting it move like a drug through my veins. Desire warmed me from the inside out. No man ever sparked such emotion from me like Pierre. He’d carved such a path in my life, that it never felt like it was truly mine. It was ours. I wiped my powder sugar laced fingers down the black apron that covered my dress and beamed under his veneration.
“Fabulous!” I stated, untying the string at my back and sliding the apron over my head. “Shy of smelling like a butter infused croissant filled with chocolate, I’m good!”
Pierre grabbed over his heart and swooned. “Don’t tease, Eme. My heart can’t take it. You, croissant and chocolate together are my dream. Oui, and naked.” He winked, letting the unfiltered words roll off his tongue. His English, while masterfully delivered, held the flirtation of his native French accent. Each word stroked something deep within me, musical musings of the best kind.
We weren’t exactly boyfriend and girlfriend. Despite outward appearances, we were somewhere in between. We were best friends, bonded by time, love and understanding.
God, I loved him. He was my everything.
Outside of gazing endlessly at the works of Rembrandt, Monet, and Degas, loving Pierre was my favorite pastime. The thought of his lips devouring me gave me a profound reason in life; it gave more to life than the air I breathed.
My mouth watered, my tongue teased my bottom lip with anticipation.
I was still a virgin, but I didn’t doubt that Pierre had lost his at twelve or thirteen.
He seemed a sexual god, and – well – he was a Frenchman. He didn’t follow the same social conventions as me. American by birth, but French since I was seven, I was somewhat of a prude by European standards, still clinging onto my virginity like a grail of protection for my heart. I wasn’t shy about my sexuality or my body, just the opposite. I was an ever-curious, voyeuristic, purveyor of all things sexual and willing to test the boundaries. Pierre indulged my need to taste, touch and feel, educating me with the skill and finesse of someone twice his age but was ultimately left begging to fully claim me.
He wanted not just my body, but my heart and soul.
My past and my future.
What he never understood was that he always had it even without my hymen. It was long gone between his fingers, tongue and my own self-gratification. What was the importance of my virginity when he owned my soul? How much more could I love him? How much power could one person have over another human being?
Every beat of my heart would belong to him.
I remember asking myself if I could own him, as well.
“Acuna Louvre aujourd’hui veiled mon amour. Joon’s.” No Louvre today, my love. Let’s play. The mischievous glint in his explicit green eyes spelled trouble. The kind that lead to someone losing their clothes. I walked around the counter to meet him, keeping time with the heightened beat of my heart. Pierre quickly wrapped his arm around my shoulder, pulled me into his chest and kissed the side of my head.
“I can’t today,” I said, gazing up at temptation. His eyes tightened with the tilt of his head, as disappointment took hold. I shrugged and turned into him, needing his approval as much as I needed his warmth. “I have a school tour I’m leading. How about tonight? Dinner?”
It was a shoddy second to basking in his love for the rest of the afternoon, but it was the best I could offer. I never shied away from my commitments. My word was my bond, and I lived by it. I wouldn’t be influenced by his charm and magnetism. At least not today.
“Oui, mon amour.” His breath was a hair lick away from my mouth. The warm heat of his words sent a shiver down my spine. I could scarcely breathe. “Dinner at my house at six o’clock. I will pick you up at the museum.” He laced his fingers between mine, pulled my hand to his mouth and pressed a tender kiss to the top. The gesture sent a jolt of electricity straight up my arm, wrapping itself around my heart like a gilded promise. This time, it was me who swooned.
Here's What I'm Drinking:
2 ounces rye whiskey, bourbon, or Canadian whiskey
1 ounce sweet vermouth
2–3 dashes Angostura Bitters
Cherry for garnish
Pour the ingredients into a mixing glass with ice cubes.
Strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
Garnish with the cherry.
Here's What I'm Listening To:
by The Head and the Heart
I can't thank you all enough for the love and support in life, in writing, in reading, in believing. It's an honor and a privilege to be able to do what I love. Life is short and executing dreams is never wasted effort.
As always, stay tuned in and turned on.
Heather M. Miles