He unwound the pearls one round at a time, rolling them against her tender skin, then let them fall in a loose line down toward her belly.
“Jase…” Her voice was thready. She couldn’t keep up her end of the conversation. She didn’t even remember what they’d been talking about.
His hand pressed against her shoulder yet again.
“Not yet,” he repeated.
He moved the line of pearls down to the darkness at the juncture of her legs. A rush of desire rang in her ears and thudded along her veins. “Now, Jase, I’m ready! Now! Now! Now!”
His voice was a soft whisper. “That’s the idea, baby.” He separated her weeping folds with one hand and lifted a single shining pearl with the other. “This is for you, Laurel, only for you.”
He moved the bead against her, pearl on pearl until, with a high-pitched, sobbing cry, she spasmed into his waiting arms.
Then, with the hard line of the pearls still rolling between them, he entered her.
And they were one.
About the Author
Jeanell Bolton is an active member of the Austin chapter of Romance Writers of America. She has three children, one husband, and one dog. She lives on five glorious wooded acres in the boondocks of Georgetown, Texas. In past lives, she has been a teacher, an activist, an artist, a journalist, and a chorus director, but she is now settled into writing about deep, dark romances that end up happily ever after, which is how it always should be.
Learn more at:
Facebook.com/Jeanell.Bolton
Look for Jeanell Bolton’s next novel
WHERE THE HEART LEADS
Available Spring 2015
Chapter One
Moira drove into the asphalt lot across the street from the yellow brick building and swung her six-year-old Toyota into a marked space.
Panic crawled up her spine.
It’s just another audition, she told herself. You know the routine—you’ve been auditioning since you were a kid. No big deal. You either get the part or you don’t, and if you don’t, there’s always another audition around the corner.
But this wasn’t Hollywood or New York—it was small-town Texas, and she wasn’t a kid trying out for a role as the main character’s tagalong little sister anymore. She was an adult, twenty-six years old, and she was auditioning on a three-month trial basis to be herself, Moira Miranda Farrar, with no safety net whatsoever. The Bosque Bend Theater Guild had hired her to direct their upcoming production, and if she could pull it off, they’d keep her on permanently.
And if they didn’t? No, that wasn’t an option. She had to keep this job. Everything depended on her success, not only for her, but also for her family, just as it had since she was four years old, when Gramps had discovered she had a freakish memory and a gift for mimicry. With his disability pension stretched to the limit, she’d become the major support of the family, although Kimiko, her mother, occasionally sent a check to help with expenses.
She draped her arms on the steering wheel and stared at the gold building gleaming in the bright October sun. It looked like an old high school, but Pendleton Swaim, her contact with the theater group, had called it the town museum and said the board met there.
She glanced at her stylishly oversized wristwatch. She was early, which gave her time to get the lay of the land before she met with her new employers.
She’d been hired, sight unseen, at the recommendation of Johnny Blue, who’d starred in the last show she’d worked in before she’d met and married Colin all those years ago. Well, it wasn’t entirely sight unseen. All of America had watched her grow up as an assortment of third-banana little sisters on TV sitcoms, and then, when she was too old for the bangs-and-pigtails roles, as Johnny’s robot assistant. Of course, now that he’d moved on to films, Johnny was on the showbiz A-list, while she wasn’t worth a Z.
She rubbed the scar on her upper left arm and compressed her lips into a determined line, then opened the car door, stood up, and smoothed the skirt of her belted safari-style dress. Even now, a member of the theater board might be looking her over from one of those dark windows in the yellow building. She glanced down at her sensible pumps. Was she dressed conservatively enough for a small Texas town?
Just in case, she adjusted her portfolio under her arm, segued into her no-nonsense persona, and, despite there being no traffic, waited for the light to turn before she marched across the street. As she walked up the wide front steps of the yellow building and through the imposing front door, her heart pounded with fear and excitement, just like it always did before a performance. There was no turning back. Now to locate the meeting room before anyone arrived.