Excerpt:
"You must have been a work of
love," she whispered, still a bit awed by what stood in the
center of her bedroom.
She couldn't take her eyes off
him. It.
"It's just a statue." But the
sculptor of this one could rival Michelangelo. She'd have
to seriously thank her sister. The find was remarkable.
Suddenly, concern gripped her
heart. "Are you hot?" Could the real owner be searching for
him? She'd have to get on the computer and search for him,
but without knowing the sculptor's name or the name of the
statue, her investigation could take some effort. Still, she
had to try. Why else would someone hide such beauty beneath
something so unappealing? If he was a stolen artifact, she
couldn't keep him. It! She had to be sure it wasn't someone
else's property.
Drawing nearer, she took the
damp cloth and began to bathe the figure, marveling at the
intricate detail in muscles, veins, even the fingernails.
"I hope you aren't." She wiped
off the face, neck, arms and silently chastised herself for
blushing when she cleaned his cock. "I bet it feels good to
be out of that other mold, huh?" She laughed at herself. "I
can't believe I'm standing here talking to an inanimate object,
but at least the house is empty. It'll be our little secret."
Feeling a bit mischievous, she
stroked the hard cock a few more times. "Your creator blessed
you, didn't he? Michelangelo wasn't so generous with his David."
Glancing at the clock, she startled
to see it was well past midnight. She hadn't even had dinner.
Now knowing the time, the hard work caught up with her. Sleepily,
she touched the statue's cheek, felt the cool smooth stone,
and sighed.
"I wish you were real." But then
again, if he were, he wouldn't be standing nude in her bedroom.
He'd be starring in a movie as Hollywood's next heartthrob
or strutting down a runway as a sexy underwear model. He wouldn't
be caught dead letting some cripple feel him up in the Boonies
of East Texas.
She shook her head sadly, then
closed the French doors, silencing the symphony of crickets
outside. With one last look toward the statue, she turned
out the lights, removed her robe and slid between the cool
cotton sheets.
"My sister's right. I do need
to get laid. Maybe then, I wouldn't be lusting after a block
of stone."
[...]
Rajan felt a burning thirst
as he opened his eyes for the first time in...How long had
it been this time?
Lifting a hand, he curved
his fingers as a goblet appeared. Raising it to his lips,
he drank heartily. Some water escaped to drip past either
side of his mouth and coat his bare chest, but he didn’t
care.
He squinted into the early
morning rays which lit the unfamiliar room. The sunlight warmed
his flesh but hurt his eyes, causing him to blink repeatedly.
When he could, he looked around.
The room was strange, long
and wide. Three walls appeared normal, with pictures of landscapes
hanging on them. The final wall was also the ceiling. Made
of glass, it stretched from the ground up until it curved
overhead.
Outside, a doe grazed at the
tree line, making him smile. The lands offered no clue to
his whereabouts. They were lush and green. He could be in
one of any number of forests outside London. Am I still
in England?
Looking for more clues, he
searched the room. At one end, a table sat with what appeared
to be a pile of hardened mud. His smile vanished. Was the
bastard who trapped him in that prison of darkness still around?
Had he released him only to trap him in a worse hell?
Rajan’s muscles tensed
with anger as his gaze scanned the rest of the room’s
contents.
At the opposite end, he spotted
a sleeping woman. White covers with dainty flowers hung off
the bed as if she’d tried to kick free of their confines.
Looking at her, a pleasant voice came to mind.
Are you hot? she’d
asked. Then he’d felt her soothing touch slide across
his body.
He’d lost all track
of time since the last time he’d felt a woman’s
touch. He’d wanted to cry with joy, shout to the heavens,
when he felt hers. When he’d heard that sweet voice
say, I bet it feels good to be out of that other mold.
She must’ve been the
one to free him from that hellish chamber, the cold, dark
tomb that made night eternal and had nearly driven him mad.
With one touch she’d
rescued him, restored his hope.
He remembered the firm grip
of her fingers as they’d stroked him, the tenderness
of her hand on his cheek, the longing in her voice as she’d
made her wish.
She’d uttered the words--the
only words--that could give him another chance to break the
curse that’d kept him trapped in a never-ending cycle
of pleasure and loss. [...]
A sly smile tugged his lips
as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her sleeping form.
As his weight dipped the mattress, she shifted again, cuddling
closer to him. When her small hand touched his chest, the
breath caught in his lungs. A precious whimper slipped past
her lips and ignited a fire in him.
“Oh, Asha.
Will you be the one?” |
