Shiloh Walker's Blog, page 26

Dear lovely people

First, I’ve got some of the best readers in the entire world.  Yes, I’ve sent your comments, I’ve gotten messages via facebook.

I’ve gotten emails.

I’ve gotten comments from some friends on twitter.

Right now, no, I’m not fine, but I’ll figure it out. I’m mostly already on the way there.  I just…I don’t want to talk to people right now.

I had already figured out what I needed to do Saturday afternoon and I’d spoken with my parents. Yesterday, the idea was more clear. Some other things finally clarified, too.  My brother is sick, yes. But he’s also just plain mean and he’s not the kid I loved and wanted to protect.  You can protect somebody who doesn’t want it, won’t allow it. So I’m stepping away. Completely, fully. And I feel better. It’s a hard pill to swallow knowing you can’t help somebody you love, but at the same time, it’s a necessary one.

I’m posting this part mainly because I know other people out there are dealing, have dealt or will deal with it.

And it’s okay to step away.  You can’t make somebody accept help, or even accept your love.  It’s okay to let go.  Sometimes, it’s even necessary.

Now I just have to come to grips with it and try to…I don’t know…grieve, I guess. It’s weird grieving somebody who is still here, but isn’t here. But that’s okay, too.  The man he used to be is gone, or he’s just so lost, he might as well be.

I’m stepping back from social media for a while.  I’m going to focus on writing, on me, on my family. I might blog.  I might not.  I doubt I’ll respond to personal messages when I do log back on, mainly because I just to deal with this in my own way, then let it go.

But I’ve seen your comments, your messages.  It means a lot.

Thank you.

 

The post Dear lovely people appeared first on Shiloh Walker.

#bvw17, an apology, life, other assorted bullshit

Not necessarily in that order.

Also, bear with me as I’m doing this from my phone.

This is pretty much the note I sent to Barbara via text earlier.

I’m sharing with my readers as I’ve gotten several messages and emails and I feel I owe an explanation.

It’s complicated & long.

Yes.

I’m dealing with some shit. I’m going to do something I rarely do and that’s discuss some deeply personal matters.

I’m sorry I let people down. I know the organizers likely regret having me here and I am sorry for disappointing people.

Unfortunately, if I said I was sorry I came, I would be lying. Last night was the first time I had laughed all week. The first time I had smiled. I would have been ok, but Kristen’s talk hit too close to home.

I have three brothers. We grew up in a home with an alcoholic father who could be emotionally abusive.

He’s been sober for some years,  which is great for him. Selfishly, it is great for me too, especially as I need him now.

One of my brothers was diagnosed as being bipolar as few months ago. He has depression. He doesn’t take his meds well. He’s an alcoholic and messes with drugs. His marriage is a mess.

The past few weeks, he’s been on a downhill slide.

Tuesday, he sent us rambling texts, indicating he was going to kill himself.

Even tracking him down wasn’t enough. He tried to jump out of my moving car on the way to the hospital.

I ended up having him admitted to the hospital, but clearly that’s not enough drama for him.

My mom called me in a panic Thursday because of my brother….we will call him… Milton. No, that’s not his name, but I’m angry with him and i don’t really like the name…and he would hate it.

He told her if he didn’t some make phone calls, he’d be dead in a few days.

He has borrowed almost two grand from her that he hasn’t paid back.

He’s borrowed nearly a thousand from me. I got maybe half of it back.

My dad who finally got sober after almost 40 years and scrapes by week to week has even loaned him money.

His boss has loaned him money.

Putting this together wasn’t hard, especially knowing his history, although I wasn’t prepared for this eventuality. If he isn’t lying, he owes somebody money. Big time. It’s a worrisome picture.

When he was a teen, he ran with a bad crowd.

For context, one of the guys he hung out with was named Kendrick.

Kendrick was found dead a few years back in the trunk of his own car.

My husband, when we were dating, once got between Kendrick and me. He’d shown up looking for my brother. I was babysitting. My brother had been a jerk and I wouldn’t let him out or kendrick in. Kendrick took it personal and threatened me and I told him to put his money where his mouth was. He was about ready to swing at me.

At some point, he mouthed off to somebody, owed somebody, pissed someone off. He was murdered before he saw 30.

Thursday, the day I found out that “Milton” might be in danger, I went and got his cell phone from his house. His oldest son gave me a key. The kid is 23. He was kicked out a few days after he got between his dad after he came in and found my brother with his hands around my sister in law’s neck. He beat the crap out of his dad. I’d give him a medal.

He got kicked out and my brother was taken into custody until he sobered up. I witnessed the tail end because my niece, his only daughter, had texted me, said my name, then went quiet, keeping the line active. I live twenty minutes away. Cops were called but I didn’t know if I’d make it in time.

Two months, maybe, passed between that fight and another incident. This timr, my brother was sent to the hospital after he’d hurt himself at work, probably intentionally, then put on a psych hold.

This was when he was diagnosed as bi-polar, and having depression. It didn’t surprise me.

I’ve dealt with depression myself for almost 20 years.

“Milton” doesn’t deal. He drinks. He cuts himself. He does drugs.

And at some point, he’s gotten himself into so much trouble that he now fears for his life.

My mother was ready to somehow try and pay this debt.

I couldn’t let that happen.

I kept the phone, disabled location services & turned it off.

He’s been in a rage since, calling my mom, insisting I’m in danger.

Which begs the question… why should she have it?

He can’t. Not while in the hospital. But when asked, he won’t answer why my mom is OK to have the phone but not me..

Friday night, not long after I arrived, my sister in law called. “Milton” called the cops over his phone.

He called the cops because I had concerns over my mother’s safety.

All this shit in my head has gotten in the way. Addicts too easily destroy those around them.

Kristen’s talk hit too close to home and I had to leave the room.

The past week is the most alone I’ve ever felt.

The past week has been the hardest of my life, including the time I lost a child.

I’ve got a great husband. He’s there, but there’s only so much he can help with here.

I needed to get out. For a few days.

Kristen’s talk was beautiful, poignant…but too personal for me. I apologize that my pain made people uncomfortable.

I apologize for over sleeping and being late to the luncheon. There is no excuse for it

For the record, I was not drunk. It was commented that I weaved as I walked. I always do, and it’s worse when I am stressed. Part of it is vertigo. I used to pass out for no discernable reason. An unsteady gait is a much better option. I think some of it might be a focus thing…maybe? I have ADD, but I haven’t taken meds the past few days because I am already too worked up.

Last night, I did get totally wasted but frankly, I’d be lying if I said I was sorry.

I will apologize if I hurt, offended or caused problems, though-I’m sorry for that. I’m also sorry for my murderous headache.

I’m sorry to those I disappointed or let down but I’m not sure I can entirely say I’m sorry because my problems stem something too deep to explain and people shouldn’t have to apologize for pain. It’s part of the reason there’s so much stigma attached to mental health issues.

I don’t expect to be invited back and I understand.

 

 

 

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It’s okay to say it…

Practice it.

N. O.

NOOOOO….

Deep breath.

Try it again.

No.

Sometime, we should even shout it.

Or…just whisper it.  No.

A polite email. A firm shake of the head.

A cute owl.

I mean, it’s a simple basic word, right?

Why in the hell do women have such a hard time saying it when we get asked for help? Extra assistance at the graduation party…a helping hand at this get-together.  In the case of writers, blurbing this book, donating a critique, doing workshops.

For our kids stuff, I mean, we want to help out and I try, but it’s easier on me to make material donations. I’ll go on field trips when I can.  But helping out with parties, helping with being all crafty…my creativity comes out in stories and I don’t think they want me teaching their kids about the birds and the bees, or talking about how I’ve had my heroines kill a bad guy with a corkscrew.

When it comes to the writing world, I want to help where I can.  I suck at critiques. I’d make a lousy editor.  I’m too blunt for some people’s preferences.  Not good for critique stuff.

Blurbs…well, sometimes, but I can be a hot mess about the books I like. Don’t come near me if it’s anything medical or nursing related.  I’ll running screaming our the door.  I want to say yes, because I’m predisposed to wanting to help, but at the same time, I want to cringe and cry and say…NO.

Workshops can be great if I’m close enough and can afford the travel, and the time, but those are one of the options I don’t have as much opportunity to help with as much.

It’s good politics to help out fellow writers, and I’ve gotten help from fellow writers, so I want to pass it forward. But sometimes…well, there’s just so much coming at you.

There’s some urgent family sort of stuff going on. I’ve got two kids graduating (5th and 12th grade) within 5 days of each other, I’ve got somebody I don’t really know asking me to host a make-up party, trying to organize a graduation party and write…

Ever get the feeling you want to pop?

I finally did.

I started saying NO… to everybody who asked for something unless I knew it was essential to me or my family.

I can’t say it felt good, but that pressure gauge in my head felt better.

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It’s your last chance…Want to get in on Damon?

Read the first chapter

Chapter One

“Oh, Damon. Your face…your poor face.” The breathy, little girl voice, sweeter than sugar, really didn’t fit the insane woman who’d just spoken to me.

I’ve have long since grown used to that voice—and her violent tendencies—and didn’t bat an eyelash as she bent over me and stroked a hand down my cheek. Annette, local ruler of the cat clan, ruler of all she surveyed — except me — and batshit crazy psychopath, caught my chin and lifted my face upright.

For a moment, her face faded in and out of focus. The touch of her hand under my chin had bones grinding together. I didn’t make a sound.

Blinking my one good eye, I focused on her face until it stopped swimming in and out. The other eye was still swollen shut, although it was healing bit by bit.

I was the perfect punching bag for a lunatic.

I was big and strong and I healed fast.

In another few minutes, the bruises and bloody wounds would be gone and once I showered, nobody would be the wiser.

Save for me.

Even Annette would forget.

“Does it hurt?” She stared at me solemnly, her lips puckered, touched with a soft, pale pink that matched the negligee she’d pulled on earlier. Even the splattering of blood on her lower lip was echoed in the blood spray on the pink silk.

My blood.

Again.

“Damon, does it hurt?” She stroked a hand down my cheek.

Yes, bitch. It hurts. Mentally, I told her exactly what she wanted to hear—I told her the truth. Out loud, I said, “I’m fine, Lady.”

After all, she’d done the beating, but she hadn’t been trying to punish me.

I had just been handy.

If she’d wanted to hurt me, either I’d be unconscious—or she’d be dead. Because one of these days, I would get fed up and just kill her.

So I just went with the neutral response.

I was fine.

She hadn’t done any lasting damage and I could already feel a dozen, stinging aches where the bones were knitting together, that odd itch was skin was closing itself up.

An odd, avid light gleamed in her eyes as she stroked a hand back across my scalp. “Are you sure?”

It was almost like she wanted me to say something—wanted me to tell her yeah, I was hurting. Or yeah, I was pissed.

But that would defeat the purpose.

I have taken this beating for a reason and that reason was currently standing on the far side of the room, his head hanging low.

The kid’s luck was running out and I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to delay things.

But I’d managed to do it one more time.

Of course, I’d done it at the expense of somebody else’s neck.

I wasn’t sorry, though.

“I’m fine, Lady.”

“Wonderful.”  She beamed at me, but the smile was lost to ice a moment later. “Where is Leon?” She strode over to the makeup table that took up the southeastern corner of her quarters. Since she was no longer leaning over me, I pushed up onto my elbow. It sent a lance of pain through me but I shoved it aside, fully aware that she was still watching me.

Those curious eyes, bright as a child’s, but oddly lifeless, like a doll’s, studied me as I leaned against the soft, pale pink wall at my back. Her rooms looked like they’d been designed to resemble a five-year-old girl’s birthday cake. Pink. Pink. Pink.

It was the color of my nightmares anymore. Not because I was afraid of her, but because sooner or later, I was afraid of what I’d find in here with her. Like today.

My shoulder screamed at me and I moved over to the center column in the middle of the room, bracing the injured part against it. A few seconds later, with lights pinwheeling across my vision, I had my shoulder set back into place.

She had dislocated it, but now that I had it back in place, it would heal up fast enough.

“Leon?” Annette asked again.

Turning, I met her eyes in the mirror just in time to see her lick my blood from her lips. “He’s gone, Lady. Doing his damnedest to stay that way, too.”

“But you will find him, won’t you, Damon?”  She reached for a brush, stroking the silken blonde curls back from her face as she stared at me in the mirror.

Annette seem to have forgotten the kid. Doyle lingered near the fireplace, arms wrapped around himself, head hanging low—and his eyes pools of seething hate that locked on her head.

Just stay quiet, I willed him. Stay quiet.

“I can find him,” I assured her, moving closer so I’d fill her field of vision.

Doyle Hansen, her brother’s kid—her brother’s orphan—should have been living under her roof and if she was any kind of decent, she would have been taking care of him. But her idea of taking care was teaching a child the right way to break a bone. You want a clean break, so it will heal again. Then you can break it again. Our soldiers don’t serve us well if they can’t fight.

I’d taken the kid off her hands one night years ago. It hadn’t been long after his dad had died and what he’d needed was somebody to pay him some attention. That had happened, but the somebody had been Annette and the attention had been a fist to his mouth when he’d had a tantrum. He’d been just a runt of a thing, only days after losing his only parent and she belted him. If he’d been human, it would have killed him. Instead, she laid him up in the medical ward for days.

Shifter kids aren’t all that strong anyway and he’d ended up sick on top of things, alone there in the medical ward.

So I’d taken him. I’d been there for him for ten years.

I’d hope she’d forget about him.

But somebody had pointed him out to her a couple of months ago, mentioned that he looked nothing like his father and he was looking more and more like her side of the family with his blond hair and blue eyes.

She’d been dismayed, then delighted.

When will he change, do you think?

We could look amazing together, that boy and I…ruling this city.

Yes. It was always about her.

Her eyes took on a far-off look and I took advantage of it to give Doyle a dark look. He read it well, very well and in seconds, he was gone.

As the door whispered shut, I eased away from her. It was never a good idea to stay too close. Her appetites were too voracious, be they for blood or sex. She’d had blood from me. I wasn’t inclined to fuck her, too.

“Lady, should I deal with this issue?”

She blinked, lashes falling down to shield her blue eyes.

When she looked back at me, her fractured sanity had returned and she gave me a brilliant smile.

“Together, Damon. We’ll deal with it together. I love to watch you work.”

 

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A release…a short story…a booksigning…life

A little bit of this, a little bit of that…

Hi. Oi.  Why does it seem like the older and the less energy I have, the more I have to do?

Diva graduates from high school in just over a month.  So far, she’s been accepted into a Presidential Leader’s thing… I can’t remember the full name.  The Honor’s Program at her school of choice.  The Honor’s Undergraduate Research Program at said school of choice.  She’s been awarded several scholarships, but we’re hoping for more.  College is murder.  I’m thinking of selling a kidney. She’s selling art commissions, by the way.  If you have a nature lover in your life, or if you love nature… she does amazing animal pics.  Like…

If you’re interested, leave a message or email me. [contact-form]

♦

I’ll be at the Barbara Vey event in Milkwaukee next week… the pizza party and booksigning are open to the public.

Come see me!  Barbara Vey  | Info

♦

Some of you are aware that many of my books are backlisted, but I’ve been working getting them back out to the public.  FINAL PROTOCOL is now available…readers of my J.C. Daniels books might like this one.  She’s an assassin. In space.

♦

Next week, I’ll be reissuing BEAUTIFUL GIRL…

Twelve years ago, Del Prescott was the It girl.

You name it, she had it. Money, charm, looks, personality…and the perfect boyfriend to boot. Then Del disappeared to ‘study abroad’, giving no warning to friends or even Blake, that aforementioned perfect boyfriend.

She’s back now, and not just to celebrate what would have been her ten-year high school reunion.

Del’s come to face down her monsters once and for all…and to see Blake Mitchell, the man she never stopped loving.

♦

For those who haven’t checked out my Patreon, time is running out to get in on the first story. This is a Patron exclusive, so only members of my Patreon will be able to read this short story.

Pledges start at just $1 and that alone gets one access to this story, plus every patron gets a chance to have their name tuckerized into a story.

This story will be sent out to patrons in early May and that may be the only chance readers have to get it.  The story takes place prior to the events in Blade Song, told from Damon’s POV.

A sneak peek.

For a moment, her face faded in and out of focus. The touch of her hand under my chin had bones grinding together.  I didn’t make a sound.

Blinking my one good eye, I focused on her face until it stopped swimming in and out. The other eye was still swollen shut, although it was healing bit by bit.

I was the perfect punching bag for a lunatic.

I was big and strong and I healed fast.

In another few minutes, the bruises and bloody wounds would be gone and once I showered, nobody would be the wiser.

Save for me.

Even Annette would forget.

“Does it hurt?” She stared at me solemnly, her lips puckered, touched with a soft, pale pink that matched the negligee she’d pulled on earlier.  Even the splattering of blood on her lower lip was echoed in the blood spray on the pink silk.

My blood.

Again.

“Damon, does it hurt?” She stroked a hand down my cheek.

Yes, bitch. It hurts. Mentally, I told her exactly what she wanted to hear—I told her the truth. Outloud, I said, “I’m fine, lady.”

After all, she’d done the beating, but she hadn’t been trying to punish me.

I had just been handy.

If she’d wanted to hurt me, either I’d be unconscious—or she’d be dead.  Because one of these days, I would get fed up and just kill her.

So I just went with the neutral response.

I was fine.

She hadn’t done any lasting damage and I could already feel a dozen, stinging aches where the bones were knitting together, that odd itch was skin was closing itself up.

An odd, avid light gleamed in her eyes as she stroked a hand back across my scalp.  “Are you sure?”

It was almost like she wanted me to say something—wanted me to tell her yeah, I was hurting. Or yeah, I was pissed.

But that would defeat the purpose.

I have taken this beating for a reason and that reason was currently standing on the far side of the room, his head hanging low.

The kid’s luck was running out and I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to delay things.

But I’d managed to do it one more time.

Want to read the whole story?

 

 

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Anybody wanna commission…

Diva is now in college-saving mode.  She has been accepted and has some money coming in via scholarships, but she’s also looking to hire herself out for drawings.

Some people have seen her stuff before, but she’s gotten sooo much better…and she was good to begin with.

Here’s an older sketch she drew for me.

Here’s one of Kit, chibi style.  FYI… she hates doing Chibis, but I might be able to talk her into it.

And here’s her one of her latest…

She’s more into animals, as you can see, than anything else, although she does do weirder stuff… the alien from Alien is one of her favorites to draw.

The more time she spends on it, the more she charges, but nothing is over $40-$50.

A sketch like the dog would be $15-20.

More involved pics would be $25-$35.

Something like the bear? About $45.

If anybody is interested, let me know…

 

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Damon

I’m working on the final chapter for DAMON, a Kit Colbana short story that will be a reward for patrons on my Patreon page…access to stories start at $1…

Story will go out in May [that’s the plan].

Want to get in on it?

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Pieces of Me… update

My upcoming romantic thriller, Pieces of Me, is starting to show the pre-order links for the print version…I know not everybody wants to read ebook, so this is going to be available in print, too!

Right now, it’s showing at BN for $9.87 in print.  It’s a trade paperback, so yes, it’s more expensive than the mass markets.  I kept the price as low as I could for the format.

More on the book!

Obsession can be deadly…

Nobody knows that better than Shadow Harper. It seemed like a dream come true when a rich, suave older man noticed her during her second year of college. Stefan Stockman seemed to love her obsessively. He came into her life and swept her off her feet, seduced her, married her…and then slowly, eventually, that dream come true became a living nightmare.br>

Now, three years after she finally escaped him, she’s trying to put her life back together. Haunted by memories, struggling with post-traumatic stress, she spends most of her time locked away in her home on Pawley’s Island, a small town on the South Carolina coast. Her rare moments of joy come from her trips to the nearby beach.

She compulsively checks the locks on her doors, makes sure she has her cell phones—five of them—and if she misses something on her schedule, it throws her into a panic.

When she accidentally leaves a sketchbook on the beach, an anxiety attack seems imminent. Her art has become her salvation, her sanity, and losing even one sketch is like losing a piece of her soul. When she returns to hunt for the sketchbook, already fearing it’s gone for good, she’s surprised to find it still sitting there, saved by a sexy fellow beach lover—the mysterious Dillian Jenkins.

He’s brash, bold, brutally handsome…and gentle. He’s the exact opposite of the man who’d tormented her for years, and Shadow finds herself slowly, almost reluctantly, falling for him. Even obsessing over him.

When her ex-husband once again intrudes on the happiness she’s finally discovering, Shadow turns to Dillian. But will she find shelter there…or another betrayal?

Available in print & ebook in July

Amazon |  BN  |  Play  |  Kobo | Book Depository | iBooks

**I’ve contacted my distributor about getting the title up on Netgalley, so expect that soon.

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A note about my Patreon…

I’ve had some comments about my Patreon and I want to address them. Why am I doing it? Simple. So I can keep writing. Period.

I went from having five publishers to three to…well, none. St. Martins rejected my last proposal. Ellora’s Cave and Samhain are out of business.

My income now comes from ghostwriting and my self pubbed works.

Most of my books are out of print with Samhain and EC shutting down and while I’m reissuing them, I can only do one title a month.

Publishing a book costs money up front- a lot of it. Edits start $500 and go up.

Copy edits cost $$.

Covers cost money.

Even just storing the files of the books I self-publish costs money. I spend hundreds yearly on that.

These upfront costs were easier to handle when I had several sources of revenue coming in.

Now? Most of those sources are gone or they are a fraction of what they once were. That’s why I started ghostwriting. The money I make from ghostwriting allows me to make a living.

I’m no different from anybody else. I’ve got bills to pay, kids to feed, one going to college soon, but the more time I spend ghostwriting, the less time I have for my writing…the less time I spend ghostwriting, the less money I have.

Providing for my family must always come first.

The patreon page is an option for readers who *wish* to help – it’s basically crowdsourcing the funds so hopefully I can spend more time on my projects, and have the funds to pay for them as I finish them so I can publish them.

Those who choose to become patrons are helping me get those books out to ALL readers quicker. The perks they receive are my way of thanking them.

I’ve lost more than half my income with publishers closing/not buying.

I had to figure out something and this was the best option for me.

I’m sorry some are not happy with it, but the bottom line is, without the funds, Kit #6 won’t get published until next year at the earliest. The romantic suspense trilogies a lot of my readers enjoy make be a thing of the past.

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Respect the ladies… Con is here for your reading pleasure…

FC: Con

Book 2

Rule #2…Respect the ladies.

Conner Steele has nothing but respect for ladies. He absolutely adores them and takes more than a little bit of pride in his job—or rather, his former job.

After a run-in with a cop, former male escort Con, along with his brother Riley and best friend Shame, decided it might just be best to hang up their…hats and retire from the business of being paid to pleasure.

After all, they have a profitable business going with their new pub. No reason to ruin a good thing and Con is more than happy to keep pleasing the ladies—just…no longer as a job. Finding a date or company for the night has never been an issue for him, either. He’s been told more than once that he can charm a tiger out of its stripes. But lately a new hire at the bar is turning the tables on him—she is the one charming him, twisting him up into knots and getting him so worked up, he can barely see straight.

In his rather expert opinion, Shawntelle Callahan is nothing less than a queen.

And she’s a queen on a mission, too. Even as tangled up as he is over her, he can see that. First she tries to coax him out of retirement for one last engagement. When that doesn’t work, she sets out to drive him crazy. After finally admitting that she’s a writer who’s looking to do a story on male escorts, Con realizes it will be best to just stay away from Shawntelle. Sure, she says she’s just looking for some hands-on information but he knows there’s more to it than that. There are secrets in her eyes, barely hidden lies and doubt.

Excerpt

“Pardon the shabby chic décor.  It comes with the place.  Which is how I like it when I travel.  Less trouble for me.” She moved farther into the house, stopping to face him when she neared the couch.  Leaning back against it, she smiled.  “All the ruffles and flounces aren’t my thing.”

“I didn’t come to discuss the décor.”

“No.” She curled a finger toward him.

He prowled closer, feeling like she had him on some sort of hook. He didn’t like it.  When she would have kissed him, he averted his face and pressed his mouth to her neck.

She hissed out a breath, her body arching toward his in a bow.

He scraped the sensitive spot with his teeth and felt her shudder.

“I…” She paused a moment.

He took advantage of that and nuzzled her hair away from her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth and giving it a tug.

She shivered.

“You were saying something,” he reminded her, sliding a hand up between them.  She’d worn a white blouse, sleeveless, with five, exactly five buttons that glittered with jewel-like brilliance.  Now, he found the top button and slid it free.

Her breath caught.

Pulling back, he met her eyes.

She was staring at his hand.

He freed another button and moved down, taking his time and giving her a chance to pull back.

She never said a word, never moved.

When he finished with the last button, he circled his finger around her navel, fighting the urge to stare at the lush, sweet curves of her breasts, rising against the white bra.  Her skin, a warm, soft brown, pebbled under his touch as he traced the scalloped edges of the bra.  “This bra drove me a little insane.  I could see this pattern,” he said conversationally. “And I kept thinking about undoing those five buttons on your shirt and spreading it open, staring at you.”

“But you weren’t going to come inside,” she said, a challenge in her voice.

He met her eyes. “Yes, I was. We both know that.”

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