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The Reprobate
Fiddle-playing Royce O’Bannon, and Cleantha Arnaud, the lonesome,
Broken music teacher break conventions rules.
Excerpt:
He pulled her onto his lap and held her tight. Feeling
the warmth and weight of her firm little bottom on his thighs
instantly did things to his manhood—his blood pooling in his
groin.
God, he wanted to lay her back and kiss the hell out her.
Using all of his restraint, calling upon his inner reserve of
control, he held himself in check.
“Now, tell me what this is about? All week you wouldn’t
even look me in the eye. Are you mad at me because I picked
you up and carried you down the steps in front of your
father? I had to—don’t you understand? I had to hold you. I
thought I would die out there in the wind and snow. I kept
warm by thinking of you in my arms. When you came out
that door, I had to, Cleantha—I had to touch you, feel your
body against mine.”
She sniffed and confessed, “I wanted you to hold
me…never let me go.”
For a moment he couldn’t speak, his mouth had gone dry,
his mind drew a blank. She wanted him too, but still, what
they felt for each other couldn’t be right or even possible.
Doomed. Right this minute he wanted to peel off her clothes,
lay her out on the rug before the fire and plunge himself into
her quiver. He wanted to taste every inch of her, make love to
her, take her breath away, leave her limp and begging for
more. Knowing that, he also knew he would hurt her in more
ways than one, and she would rip his heart out, leave him
bleeding and hating himself. He also believed Cleantha
Arnaud to be the most amazing person he’d ever
encountered. If she was angry, or in pain, he wanted to be
there for her. Suddenly it occurred to him that maybe this
great sense of discovery, of wonder and aching passion,
finally explained why he’d been born. At last, maybe he had a
reason to exist.
With that revelation planted in his mind, Royce set his
desire aside and took it upon himself to ask, “Why are you
drinking, Cleantha? What’s happened?”
Looking up at him, her eyes wide, she looked like a little
girl. His heart melted. Her eyes were full of turmoil and
misery. Her lips quivered when she spoke. “I feel so
worthless. My father’s thinking of getting married. I’m too
stubborn to die and get out of the way.”
He nodded and asked, “So, we’re talking about Mrs.
Tatom?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t like her?”
She shook her head and surprised him, saying, “Margret
Tatom is a lovely woman.”
He liked it that she sat content on his lap, with her head
resting on his shoulder. She sighed, her breath smelled sweet
with the fragrance of the elderberry wine and felt warm
against his neck. The temptation to kiss her lovely lips
distracted him from what she was saying. With a tilt of her
head to look up into his eyes, she foiled his opportunity to
make his move.
“I like Margret, but—she treats me like I’m…I’m a cripple,
not only in body but of mind. Worse, I think my father would
like to get me out of his way. He wants to build on a parlor
and a bedroom for me on the other side of the house.” Her
words had tumbled out in a rush. She trembled within his
embrace. “A room with its own entrance,” she said, lifting
her head from his shoulder to look up to his eyes. “A room
where I could have my own fireplace, a room where I could
be put out of the way when he marries,” she blubbered, then
laid her head back on his shoulder, ”A room away from his
new family, his new wife, his new daughter.”
Nodding with understanding, he murmured with real
sympathy, “Ah, a pity drunk, the worst kind.”
She slugged him in the chest and wiggled to get off his
lap. “Go away, you…you thug. I realize you’re the expert on
what kind of drunk I might be. What’s your excuse?”
He chuckled and tightened his hold while she made a
half-hearted attempt to get free. Once she settled back down,
her body stiff, arms folded across her chest, he answered her,
“It’s been a few weeks now since I’ve had a drink, but I’d
guess I drank to punish myself.”
She pulled back, giving him a saucy smile to ask, “For
being a prize pig?”
In fun he jerked his chin up, taking the hit, then
answered her in all honesty, “Yes, as a matter of fact. For
being a Goddamned prized pig. A pig is selfish and rude, and
that would be me,” he said without shame.
“Did getting drunk help you feel better about being a
pig?” she asked, her eyes soft, full of pity. He’d never had
anyone look at him with such tenderness, such empathy, and
it took his breath away.
“No.” Her eyes demanded the truth. “Drinking made me
feel like hell. That’s the punishment, you see.”
Relaxing, Cleantha put her head back on his shoulder. “I
think you’re a beautiful pig.”
“I think you’re beautiful, too.” Without thinking, he
kissed the top of her head. Her hair beneath his lips felt silky
and smelled of oranges and roses.
“Drinking makes me feel like shit,” she admitted on a
whimper. Royce laughed and gave in to his need to feel his
lips on her mouth, to taste her, feel her.
My blog: http://dabellm3.wordpress.com
To purchase: http://freyasbower.com
The Reprobate:
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17731707-the-reprobate?from_search=true
Amazon: [amazon_link id=”B00C6Q8AC6″ target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]
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The Cost of Revenge
Amazon: [amazon_link id=”B00FEMQ9DQ” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]
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Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18499893-the-cost-of-revenge?ac=1
Thank you, Sarah for hosting me. You have a terrific blog, looks beautiful. I really appreciate your help, DAB