Welome to Sunday Snog.
First things first - congratulations to the winner of last weeks competition. Mel, your copy of Stockholm Surrender is winging its way over to you.
Today I couldn't decide what snog to post, so I've opted for two. A sexy moment in the library at Oxford University, starring Penny and Ty from Stockholm Surrender, and then a hot kiss from my work in progress.
A bolt of fear shot through me as he whipped out a lethal-looking knife from his back pocket. The handle appeared to be crocodile skin and the sharp blade was curved like a macabre smile. He held it up between our faces.
“Oh god, no, please, Ty,” I squeaked through the tight channel of my throat. “I want to help. You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
His intense gaze captured mine. “I won’t hurt you, Penny, if you keep quiet and still. Really still.”
Shit. Why hadn’t I screamed a few minutes ago when I’d had the chance? He was crazy. A madman. I should have known. Oh, why had I been having all these delusional fantasies about him coming back for me? I was a fool, a hopeless, romantic, sex-starved fool and now I was going to die for it.
A whimper of fear escaped my lips.
“Penny,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you. I just need a lock of your hair.”
My eyes were filling. “My...my hair?”
“Yes, if I was a real bad guy I would take a finger or a toe to send to your father, but a lock of hair will do.” He clenched his jaw. “Now keep the hell still.”
He released my wrists and fisted a chunk of my fringe.
“Ty,” I whispered, my feet nailed to the spot.
“Shh, don’t move.” His long, lean legs trapped my thighs and his pelvis knocked into my hipbones. The shelves behind me dug into my back and the crown of my head was squashed against book spines.
I gulped as the knife slanted and glinted over my forehead. The roots of my hair complained as he tugged his fistful of fringe and sliced, unnervingly near to the roots, with the sinfully sharp blade.
“That should do,” he said, showing me a big clump of my pale-blonde hair. “And he’ll definitely know it’s your hair when he sees that.” He nodded at my head.
I raised my hand to my hairline. There was at least a two-inch square patch of soft stubble. “Oh crap,” I said with a frown.
He poked the lock of hair into a small, clear plastic bag and shoved it in his front jean pocket, then re-sheathed the knife before tucking it away. All the time his body kept pressed into mine, and as much as I was monumentally pissed about having a bald patch, the feel of him, his closeness, the sound of his breathing and the scent of his skin were like a drug to me—all I could feel was lust.
Am I crazy?Probably.
“So what now?” I asked.
His gaze harnessed mine and he cupped my cheek with his gloved palms, the wool scratchy against my skin. “Now I send that to your father, just to let him know I can still get to his precious little girl even on the other side of the world. He needs to listen to me. He needs to give James’ case attention, soon.”
“How is James?”
He frowned. “I stopped over on my way here and after a lot of paperwork and hanging around I saw him. He’s thin, thin and scared, but typical James he’s trying to be positive. Although how he’s managing it I don’t know. The place is hell on earth.”
“It must be awful.”
Ty narrowed his eyes and nibbled at his full bottom lip. “Yeah, it is. I’ve got to get him out, there’s going to be a retrial but it could go against him, there’s talk of the death sentence.”
“Shit, really? God, that’s awful. I want to help.”
He tipped his head a little nearer to mine and I traced my fingertips over the rise of his collarbones to the hollow of his throat.
“Do you really?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I’ve brought it up with my father several times.”
“So bring it up again.” His voice was steely.
“I will, I have. Trouble is, he’s so pissed that you kidnapped me back in Oz that he flips into a blind rage whenever the subject is raised.”
“Well, he’s going to have to get over that. Maybe when he gets the message that you’re going to be taken again he’ll come to his senses.”
“Aren’t you taking me now?” He shook his head.I shifted against him. He didn’t budge.
“So when are you going to let me go?”
He curled his lips into a devilish smile. “In a minute.”
I swallowed and wondered what it was about that smile that sent hot fiery fingers of need speeding to every erogenous zone in my body.
“Right after I’ve done this,” he murmured.
In a sudden rush, he claimed my mouth in a hot, hungry kiss. I opened up and let him in, releasing a small moan of pleasure as his arms circled my body and pulled me close. Damn, the man could kiss. His mouth communicated desire and strength, passion and danger and I lapped it up like the starving, reckless woman I was.
He chased for my tongue and we began a wild, slippery tango. As if we couldn’t get enough of each other.
I slotted my fingers into his thick hair and urged him closer.
“Ah, fuck, Penny,” he gasped, trailing supercharged kisses over my cheek. “If only...”
I tipped my neck as he explored behind my ear with his mouth, making me shiver in bliss. “If only what?” I asked breathlessly, barely controlling the delicious shudders rippling up my spine.
“If only circumstances were different.” He was exploring with his hands too, the thin material of the gloves sliding beneath my sweater, over the base of my ribs to my breasts.
I trembled as he cupped me through my bra and tweaked my nipple. “Different?” I managed. My brain was struggling to work. He did this to me, Ty, made me forget everything and all sense.
“Yeah, if only we’d met like two ordinary people.” His voice was low and husky. “Instead of this crazy situation. We could have been so hot together.”
“We are hot together.”
“Fuck, I know, but there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Buy link for Stockholm Surrender
The above picture of the delectable David Beckham is a clue to my wip. With Euro 2012 just around the corner and being a mad football fan myself (soccer to you US girls) I'm already in a frenzy of excitement and decided to write 'football for the girls'.
I can't tell you much about the novel yet other than it has a working title of SCORED and this is a scene from early on in the book featuring sports journalist Nicky Thomas and Lewis Tate, captain of the England team, having an encounter in an elevator!!
The doors opened and the chlorinated air from the pool seeped in. But that barely registered in my mind, because standing in red trunks with a white towel slung around his neck was Lewis. His hair was mussed up and his skin dewy and damp. Fuck, the guy just got more gorgeous every time I saw him. It wasn’t a case of getting used to his stunning looks, they just bowled me over anew.
“Hello, Nicky,” he said, stepping in next to me.
“Hi.” Seriously, how could he act so cool? How could I be expected to act cool when he looked like every dirty dream and carnal fantasy rolled into one?
The doors slid shut and I pressed the button for level three. “I presume you’re going to your room and not to the lobby dressed like that?”
I glanced up at him. His eyes were narrowed and he was gnawing at the inside of his cheek. His shoulders were raised and tense and he was staring straight at me with a sharp glint in his eye.
“Great game, congratulations.”
“Thank you.” His words were short and clipped.
“What?” I asked, feeling unaccountably off kilter. Was he angry with me? What had I done? I hadn’t told anyone that he’d been in my room for tea. I hadn’t even told anyone we’d ever spoken outside of the press conferences.
“You told me…” he said. “That…”
“What?” Okay, now I was really nervous. His eyes were thin slits, I could only just make out that perfect shade of deep-ocean blue through his lashes. “What did I tell you?”
“That you weren’t seeing anyone.”
He stepped toward me, big and brooding. His sudden indomitable expression more than a little disturbing.
I backed up and my shoulders hit the cool mirrored wall.
He followed, penning me in. He was all acres of perfect flesh, toned muscles and steely determination. My stomach somersaulted, my heart rate rocketed and I gripped the brass bar that lined the elevator. I’d never felt so physically small in my life.
“So who was the guy who thought it was okay to wrap his arm around you after the press conference?”
“That was just Phil.” My voice was a little squeaky, but I wasn’t complaining, I was surprised I could even speak. Why the hell would Phil matter to Lewis?
I nodded. “Yes, just Phil.” I could smell Lewis now, a combination of chlorine, soap and raw maleness. As he spoke his sweet breath breezed warm onto my cheek and sent a sizzle of awareness shooting down my middle, tickling my nipples and creating a buzz in my clitoris. This man did seriously dangerous things to my body, like letting it think it was in charge of my brain.
“So he’s not your boyfriend?”
“No, definitely not. Phil is a work colleague who gets a bit flirty now and then. But I hardly know him really.”
I wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing because a small muscle flexed and un-flexed in Lewis’ cheek and his nostrils flared.
“Really, there’s nothing between us,” I said. “I’m free as a bird, no one to answer to no one to—”
“Stop talking, Nicky.” He glanced at the elevator dashboard and then turned his attention back to me.
“Because I want to test a theory.” He nipped my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilted my head and dropped his face until his lips were just a hair-breath from mine.”
“What theory would that be?” I whispered, wondering if my knees would continue to hold me up for more than another few seconds. Damn he was so close. I felt completely consumed by him.
“The kiss-and-tell theory.”
“Oh, well I—”
My words were cut short as his mouth connected with mine. Smooth pliant lips and a softly probing tongue taking possession, owning and controlling.
A small whimper mewed up from my throat. Fuck. Lewis Tate was kissing me. And not only that he was one hell of a kisser. Gentle but firm and he tasted delicious; fresh and sexy and perhaps a hint of mint.
I opened up and let him in. Searched for his tongue with mine and allowed him to set the pace and depth. Surely I was in the middle of a fantastic dream. How had I got so lucky to have such an incredible man kissing me?
He kept a tight hold of my chin as he pulled away. “You’re so sweet,” he murmured, his downcast gaze searching my face. “So please don’t prove my instincts wrong.”
“What instincts?” I was struggling to catch my breath, control the tremble in my belly.
There was a sudden ping, the elevator jolted to a stop and the doors slid open.
Lewis backed up rapidly, gripped the ends of the towel that was still around his neck and squared his stance.
A waiter holding an ice-bucket stared in at us.
“Good evening,” Lewis said, stepping out and past him.
I followed, tightening my bag over my shoulder and avoiding the waiter’s curious stare. Surely he hadn’t seen Lewis pressing me against the wall and kissing me into oblivion. He’d stepped away by the time the doors slid open.
I couldn’t ask him because our corridor was not deserted. Two maids were re-stocking trolleys and as we walked past them a guy in an England tracksuit bolted out of a room.
“Ah, there you are, Tate. I was just coming to look for you. Do you want me to do those Achilles stretches now.”
“Yeah, that would be great. I’ve just had that post-match swim you suggested.”
“I thought that’s where you were, come on, let’s go in my room and get it done while the tendons are still loose and before it gets any later than it already is.”
He re-opened his door and ushered Lewis in.
Lewis didn’t give me a backward glance.
Have a wonderful weekend.