If you haven’t checked it out yet here is the link for National Novel Writing Month. I thought I’d do a little bit of scene practice just to get properly motivated. Three cheers for epic randomness!

Anyway, not really sure what prompted this one. Just kinda running with any idea at the moment.


Heather sighed in irritation and mashed the toe of hiking boot into the muddy ground. A breeze picked up and lifted the hair away from her cheeks and forehead, the chestnut curls blowing back to feather around her shoulder blades. With her spare bandana, Heather scrubbed at the enormous mud-stain on her thigh. Droplets of blood were forming and her leg stung from rubbing the dirt and grit around. Three miles and a rough downhill slide—all for nothing.
          She stood and paced in frustration. He wasn’t even here. On the note in her pocket was scrawled the simple message, “come to the hill at five I have to show you something.” Heather shredded the little piece of paper and ground it into the dirt. She knew she wasn’t in the wrong place. They’d named this spot “The Hill” as children and had called it that ever sense. It was their secret a place to be alone and safe. Odd, Heather thought, It was prettier before. Two years shouldn’t have changed that much.
She sat down on the large rock again. Frustration was beginning to give way to a sense of pain, and rejection. For two years they hadn’t spoken, not after…no, she wouldn’t think about that. Then this note out of the blue, “Come to the hill at five.” Their hill. Then nothing again. The heartbreak she had battened down for so many months began to leak free.

          At seven in the evening—once her silent sobs had dried up—she gathered her small bag and headed back out of the forest.
          Heather walked right past the body, and in her desperation to be anywhere but there, didn’t notice it at all. One other person saw her leave and he left the corpse to follow her home.


Each thud of flesh was both a painful and erotic sound. He wasn’t trying to hurt me but I was forcing him to defend himself even as I knew he was successfully backing me toward the wall. When my heel kicked the stone as I backpedaled, he threw up one palm on each side of my head and locked in place.
          His braced arms and the way he’d pinned me kept my blows from reaching his head, so I pummeled myself dry against his ribcage. He took every hit with his jaw set and gaze fixed unflinching on my face.
          I sucked in ragged breaths as my arms failed and willed myself back out of the hysterical desperation to beg (although for freedom or good romp across the marble floor I wasn’t sure). His hair hung in front of his eyes and just passed his ears, the color of dark liquid chocolate. Luminous bronze skin was pulled taught across his arms and chest beneath a thin film of exertion. And when he spoke, it was like the warm caress of his tongue over bare skin. I folded my arms over my breasts, not so much to appear unconcerned and more to cover their visible tightening through the wet shirt.
          This wasn’t how I liked to fight. First of all, I’m a lover, not a fighter, and when I have to, I fight dirty. Make no mistake, he wasn’t echoing any formulaic strategy, but his movements emphasized the controlled precision of predator. Smooth muscles rippled under flawless skin, and his green eyes were as clear and sharp as broken glass. He was fully capable of beating all hell out of me, and I was aroused. Did I mention I might need therapy?
            “Are you finished yet, hellcat?” He said. His words were sweetly scented and their heat added to the flush already staining my cheekbones. Lips both soft and firm whispered against the skin barely an inch from my mouth, “We can play longer.”
            My reaction was to stomp on his foot and slam my fists against his chest. His response in turn was instantaneous. He buried one thigh between my knees and lifted so that the grind of his hips against mine held me suspended above the floor. My spine arched reflexively away from the cold stone which was a mistake as it threw my breasts against the warmer steel of his torso. We both froze, fear driven momentarily away by the evidence of his arousal jammed against my thigh. I could feel dampness pooling between my legs as his stare raked my front and down my shirt. I was painfully aware of the memory of my bra lying in the trunk of the car somewhere outside. 
            When his eyes returned their torment to mine, it was pure carnal need that looked back. If I wasn’t going to beg him to take me this minute (and despite what the vixen side of my biological conscious said, I wasn’t) I needed out of there right now.
          “No I’m almost finished,” I replied sweetly right before I rammed my knee into his groin. His arms dropped as he clutched himself. I ducked and ran like hell for the kitchen and the open window.