Today’s SS topic is description.
Ever wonder how we writers do it? When we start writing, we learn tricks like closing our eyes and imagining the world our characters live in. What do we see, smell, feel, hear? Then we practice, trying not to overload the reader with too much description, but interspersing it in our scenes so that the reader’s experience is natural. We all want to be swept away, right? The example below is one of my favorite descriptive scenes. Click on the cover if you want to read more…
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“…STONE’S EMBRACE is a wonderfully descriptive story…The mix of Greek mythology with Christian elements is intriguing and adds to the subtle layering of eroticism and exoticism…this story is fantastic and a super-hot read!” ~ 5 Angels, Fallen Angels Reviews
“…The sex in the book was off the charts hot!…It was a wonderfully different story with a strong characters and a fun plot that left this reviewer breathless!” ~ 5 Stars, Just Erotic Romances
Lust trapped them in darkness…only love can free them…
A Captive Souls story.
Petra Pedersen has lived as a recluse all her life thanks to a genetic double whammy—a strange deformity and a shameful power inherited from the father she will never know. The power to incite lust in men and women with just a touch.
Exploring the garden of the mansion she’s just inherited, she comes across a fascinating stone gargoyle whose raw, passionate expression draws her to caress its broad chest. Her imagination follows her fluttering fingers. As she closes her eyes and gives herself up to the arousal, something shifts beneath her touch.
Long ago, failure to stop a demon battle trapped Octavius in a prison of stone. Freed by the woman’s incendiary touch, he doesn’t hesitate to unleash his pent-up rage and desire in a blistering fury. Yet once the haze of lust clears, he discovers he isn’t really free after all.
They are both trapped in another realm where he must choose between his last chance for redemption or returning Petra home…
Warning: Sex with inanimate objects, lusty m/m/f ménages with gods…it’s all good when the reward is freedom.
Octavius rammed his shoulder against the heavy oak door. The lock and hinges gave and the door crashed backward with a satisfying thud, raising dust that sifted through the air like silver-gilt fireflies in the moonlight. Wary, he stepped across the threshold. Inside, the house was dark, the air thick—too heavy to be natural.
He knew, without reeling in the psychic tether that kept him chained to the Grigori, that Bacclum was here. That the bastard had found the demon. He prayed he wasn’t too late to save Bacclum from his own insatiable lust for power. The consequences of his failure would mean his own end.
He should have known that Bacclum planned mischief that night. The mixed-blood angel had been too eager to see Octavius take a rare walk among humans, encouraging him to attend a masked ball at a wealthy residence inside the French Quarter.
While Octavius had enjoyed the rare opportunity to mingle among sweet-smelling women, secretly laughing as he pretended a lever inside his vest controlled the movement of his wings and thrilling to the many strokes of soft hands along his ribbed folds, Bacclum had snuck away. But not before he’d assured himself that his watcher’s vigilance had been dulled by the herbs stirred into his drink. If Octavius hadn’t noted the uneasy glances of the sloe-eyed woman who’d gulled him, he might have drunk the full measure. As it was, his head still swam and his loins throbbed with unabated lust.
The sound of crashing furniture and the low rumble of a masculine voice drew him up the staircase and down a hallway toward the sliver of golden light, fanning outward from a partially opened doorway. Sliding his back close to the wall, he gently pushed open the door and peered around the corner into a room lined with shelves of books.
Bacclum’s dark head was bent toward his chest, his thighs braced around the demon, his hands wrapped around a straining throat.
I’m not too late, thank the gods. “Let go, Bacclum!” Octavius growled as he stalked toward the Grigori steadily strangling the demon he clasped.
“Not until he gives me what I want.” Bacclum grunted, his face screwing into a fierce grimace. “I want all of it.”
Octavius stepped deeper into the library then felt a slight, telltale rumbling beneath his feet.
Bacclum seemed unaware of the heightening danger, so intent was he on murdering the demon and claiming his power for his own.
Octavius cursed beneath his breath. He should have suspected what Bacclum had intended when he’d entered this demon’s realm. The angel’s thirst for power was unquenchable. The council had warned Octavius long ago of Bacclum’s unrelenting quest, but he’d believed the core of the creature squeezing the life force from the demon was good and honorable. He’d believed that Bacclum understood the uneasy balance that had to be maintained between the forces of light and darkness. In the end, he’d misjudged him, underestimating his need for vengeance. Now it was up to him alone to set this right.
Octavius folded his wings forward, scraping the leathery tips against Bacclum’s slick, hot skin, intending to wrap his wings around Bacclum’s face and smother him into unconsciousness. The rumbling increased, fed by the faint chanting echoing inside his head. The demon was far from vanquished.
“Let go, Bacclum,” he roared, leaning closer to pull Bacclum back, but something lashed around his own wrists. Invisible bonds tightened then jerked him off his feet.
He landed on the floor on his knees and growled. The air around them grew dank and humid like a demon’s breath, and the voice chanting in an ancient tongue inside his head grew louder and stronger.
The house shivered violently. The wood flooring creaked. Windows rattled then shattered. Glass shards, like silvery projectiles, peppered his wings and back and shredded his clothing, drawing blood from hundreds of cuts.
Bacclum’s head jerked back and canted to the side. At last, he’d caught the chanting voice and had to know he’d awakened the demon’s inner fire.
The breeze sweeping through the shattered window intensified and swirled around the room, tightening into a devil wind that picked up more slivers of glass and jagged bits of shattered furniture that pinged against the paneled walls but sank into tender flesh.
Octavius’s chest, back and wings were flayed, scraped raw. He reared back, fighting the phantom manacles holding him. Suddenly he was wrenched from the ground and held still inside the fulcrum of the whirlwind.
With only a moment to suck in a deep breath, he was flung forward, forced to ride the arc of an invisible whip, then shot backward like a cannonball through the gaping window onto fragrant grass.
Frogs croaked. Crickets chirped. Moonlight silvered the damp grass. He shook his head clear and ripped off the ragged clothing hanging from the belt at his waist.
Freed at last, he knelt, breathing deeply and gathering strength. He flared his wings and dug his knuckles into the turf. He pushed upward—but his feet never left the ground. His wings never caught the wind beneath their leathery folds.
Frozen, first by horror, then irreversibly by magic, he could only stand there, his terrified gaze watching as his body was slowly consumed, inch by inch, by stone.
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