My Novella: LoveWanderLust


Here’s a little excerpt to whet your appetite :)…

I once thought I knew the face of my love. I dreamt of her so often that I thought that when I felt her caress it would be like a brand upon my skin. But that was years ago, in a different city, and now I’ve lost the thread. My search wanders now…it’s easily distracted by warm, wet invitations from any pretty face with a pouting lip that softly whispers my name in my ear the same way she did. I often wonder if it was some sort of spell. Was she some Haitian voodoo priestess who worked the root on me so that every time I make love to a woman I will believe that it’s her mouth that I kiss, her silky brown legs wrapped around my waist?

I contemplate this while standing naked over this woman, whose name I can’t remember, in a dirty, drafty, leaky, loft apartment in what looks like the East Village. I know I should leave before she wakes up. But instead I just stand here, naked and staring; goose bumps crawling over every inch of my skin as I attempt to see what it is about this woman that made me think she is anything like the one who haunts my dreams. There is nothing in her that is even remotely the same. She has a dirty, used up look about her. Her hair is limp and stringy and her lips are permanently stained from cheap red lipstick.

I know I should leave…but instead I wait for her to open her eyes. I’m curious to see if they are like hers. She stirs, moaning softly and then turns toward me and opens her eyes. In the darkness I can’t see what color they are, but I know they aren’t close. The shape is all wrong and they have none of the intent.

“Joaquin…are you slipping away in the night again?”

I puzzle at the word ‘again’, as I do not know this woman. She rises to embrace me and the sheet slips away exposing taut, pink nipples and skin much too fair. My eyes travel down her belly to take in the dark shadow of what must have brought me here in the first place. Her hand, small like a child’s, reaches up to caress the curve of my neck, and I feel my desire awakening for this strange woman. I may not know her but my body seems to.

“Joaquin…” she whispers, and it sounds almost right. The fog descends again. Am I so vain as to fall victim to any female voice that whispers my name? The hunger in my loins says yes. And then she says yes, over and over and louder and louder until it echoes against the walls in this cold, damp place.

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Don’t forget to check out Scarlett Greyson’s new novella Slipping Time available on Smashwords.

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