Tag: Short Stories

Writing; Show Don’t Tell Exercise #1:

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The difference between ‘Show‘ and ‘Tell ‘is that ‘Show’ invokes from the reader a mental image of the scene/emotion. In contrast, ‘Tell’ is a statement of an action/emotion. The goal in your writing is to provoke a reaction in your readers, for them to feel the emotions your character is feeling. It sounds easy, but it is a difficult task. Once you get it, telling your story will flow. It’s probably the most challenging maxim to grasp, and it was for me, but once I did, I could not believe how connected I became to my writing. It was like a sensory awakening.  
 
Read what you have written and circle every telling word :
Then write down specifics for each. Then circle every emotion word such as Sad, Happy, Angry, Excited, Giddy, Anxious, Terrified, Disgust, etc.. and look at how you can Show that emotion rather than Tell.  
Below is an example from my blog, Eventide Love: Chapter titled Before: 
I first wrote this paragraph: 
‘I loved the sea and my early morning swims. In the beautiful blue sea, I felt at peace.’
This is a real example of tell not show. so I circled each word, tapped into my senses, and wrote this:  
“At that time of day, the sea would seem to belong to me. I would revel in it, hearing the sounds of distant traffic muted against the notes of wind and water, and losing myself in the changing shades of blue, turquoise, deep green and grey until sometimes I thought I might dissolve too, lose my body.”
Which one do you think sets the scene in a more engaging way? 
Circle, Circle, Circle, tap into your senses and rewrite those sentences. 
Use the character’s five senses sighthearingsmelltaste and touch: Take the reader to the scene through . …
1.Use strong verbs. …
2. Avoid adverbs. …
3. Be specific. …
4. Use dialogue. …
5. Focus on actions and reactions

Rather than Telling that your character is angry, Show it. You do this by describing his face flushing, his throat tightening, his voice rising, his slamming a fist on the table. When you Show, you don’t have to Tell.

Tired? He can yawn, groan, stretch. His eyes can look puffy. His shoulders could slump. Another character might say, “Didn’t you sleep last night? You look shot.” When you Show rather than Tell, you make the reader part of the experience. Rather than having everything simply imparted to him, he sees it in his mind and comes to the conclusions you want.

Show, Don’t Tell,” in essence, encourages writers to tell stories via the use of immersive thoughts, actions, and descriptions most often filtered through the lens of a point-of-view character.

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Stay Safe, Stay Positive, Don’t Despair, Create. 

 

 

For more information I have included a link below.

Show, Don’t Tell: How to Show Not Tell in Writing With Exercises

Fuel Your mind with Creative Writing

Hi everyone, it’s a while since I posted on my blog. Wow what a time we are going through with the Covid 19 Virus. It’s like living in an sci fi movie. Isn’t it?

Well since I last posted I have being doing a lot of writing courses and workshops. I have finished my book Eventide Love and wrote short film script that was about to go into production but had to be postponed because of the virus.  So as I self isolate like so many of you have to do for all sorts of reasons,  I thought what a better time than now to share  everything I have learnt and my experience of writing.  Let’s put fingers to the keyboard or pen to paper  and let the words spill out.

Olliepop staying Close

Olliepop minding me as I write in bed in self isolation.

Let’s start to write that story that has been percolating in your brain but you never had tome to take on. Or you might want to write about what you are going through right now. If you need inspiration or want a few quick tips to help keep your words flowing onto the screen, you can dip in.  Anyone, Anywhere, Anytime. I will be posting on instagram every day so you  can follow for the latest tips. This is all new so it will take a little bit of tweaking as we go along. Let’s create together and get though this together. Let’s create not despair.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” –Anaïs Nin

 

Before

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Before

Looking back, can anyone ever find the moment their world turned? The minute, the second – even, when the time before tips over into the time after, and you realize that even though you didn’t see it then, everything has begun to go irrevocably, disintegratingly wrong? Thinking about Chris and me, I can’t help but wonder if that moment isn’t usually when the sun is shining at its brightest and when you seem to hold life like a glowing ball of possibility in the cup of your hands.

If you had seen me that August, in that Ibizan Villa, perched on a hill above its own private rocky cove, there for six weeks to relax with my husband, Cian, and our friends, you’d have imagined my life was perfect. And in truth, perhaps I’d thought so too. I relished my morning swims, before the others had opened their eyes, usually gritty from late night wine, and ignoring Cian’s requests to be careful out there on my own. Frequently ignoring my own cut feet too – the rocks were sharp, but the ocean always more exhilarating in that place.

At that time of day, the sea would seem to belong to me, and I would revel in it, hearing the sounds of distant traffic muted against the notes of wind and water, and losing myself in the changing shades of blue, turquoise, deep green and grey until sometimes I thought I might dissolve too, lose my body. That usually signaled something in me, telling me it was enough, and then, carefully timing my exit against the dash of the waves on the rocks, I would slide myself out, and climb back up to the terrace for my morning latte.

“She’ll never be told,” my husband, Cian, would say to our friends, different couples from our set, who would come and go over the summer. “What will we do with her?” Sometimes I felt like answering him, and sometimes, as a result, epic fights would ensue. But other times I would fight the urge to break the morning’s peace with the observation that there was nothing to be done with me, that my life wasn’t his to tell. But to be truly honest, I didn’t know either, because beneath my tan, and behind the veneer of my various bikinis in every color under the sun, the sheer evening kaftans, the condensation clustered light evening glasses of ice-cold rosé in expensive marina bars, I was well and truly bored.

That morning, I padded up the steps, leaving a trail of fast-disappearing salty footprints, evaporating in the morning sun. The villa was quiet, everyone still sleeping, abandoned glasses and overflowing ashtrays on the terrace testament to the night before. They seemed jarringly unclean against the freshness of the delicate pink bougainvillea, which grew over a trellis to drop confetti petals on the surface of the pool. Why do we always end up making everything we touch dirty? I wondered, starting to clear up.

It hadn’t taken long for that bite of boredom to catch at me. I had only been back in Ibiza for two weeks, only just settled down into the relaxed rhythms of the holiday island after the fractured strain of what seemed like the last days of the Candidate’s broken campaign in Ireland.

None of us had seen it coming. There were tensions amongst us volunteers – all working to make our candidate the first openly gay President of Ireland, that’s undoubtedly inevitable, but we were drawn together in our belief in this human rights campaigner, a larger than life hero.

And it was going well. Public support was high, the poll ratings were up, and financial pledges rolling in. My role as fundraiser seemed almost easy, I knew all the right people, and they were keen to contribute, wanting to be part of the history we felt we were making. I told a good story, but the story was there anyway – we were backing a maverick, and the public loved it. I made promises, depending on what people needed to hear, knowing the value of being at the heart of things. Then, rumors emerged, like little wisps of mist at first, then thickening smokily, turned into flame with speculative newspaper articles. Mutterings became accusations. Were certain letters written by the Candidate in existence? Could he confirm their content? Would he like to make a comment: come on Sir, the public have a right to know… In the absence of clear fact, the story grew, and in the first days of August, the Candidate withdrew from the race. Quoting Beckett, it may have been his finest hour: Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Listening to him then, his rich voice rolling the words around the crowd, an instinctive orator, a born performer, I wanted to weep.

I stood beside the campaign manager, outside of the range of the pointing, thickly clustered cameras, and microphones, I wondered if the rumor mongers, the scandal merchants, the tabloid columnists felt any twinge of regret about what they had done. The campaign had felt like it was ours to lose and yet they had created what appeared to be Everything out of the hint of what wasn’t even quite Something. A few words knitted together to weave an implication, a few implications intensifying into innuendo. In the process they had orchestrated the Candidate’s downfall in the name of news, playing with lives to get their story. I wondered angrily who they’d go for next.

“Come back to Ibiza,” said Cian, when I told him on the phone. “You don’t need to be there. Alex and May have just arrived, and the Whites fly in on Thursday. Everything can be done from here,” he added when I demurred, mentioning the loose ends that needed to be tied up, people who should be thanked, books that had to be balanced.

“You don’t quit just because it’s over,” I said. “Well, don’t quit here, with us,” he said. “I worry about you.” And so I went, and now, two weeks later, here I was, in the bright, sleekly modernist living area of our luxury villa, surrounded by the debris of everyone else’s night before, and suddenly jolted out of my reverie by the sound of my ringing phone. I ignored it.

And yet there was still that boredom. The phone rang again. Something told me to avoid it, so instead, I walked up the steps from the lounge area to the chic and sleek kitchen, where nothing seemed to work correctly, and every appliance came with far more switches and dials than must have been strictly necessary. I poked at various buttons on the impossibly complicated coffee maker.

“Will somebody get that bloody phone?” yelled a voice, dense with sleep and irritation, from down the bedroom corridor. That would be Alex, our latest guest who, by day four had already overstayed his welcome, as far as I was concerned. Cian liked him though, and so while I contemplated letting it ring some more, just to annoy him, I decided against precipitating a day of veiled remarks from Alex, coupled with plaintive looks from Cian. Usually, I’m not one to shirk a scene, but we’d had one just last, although for the life of me I can’t remember what had kicked it off. Keen, for once, to keep the peace, I went to ferret the phone out of my bag.

“Kim? It’s me. Can you talk?”

There was something about Brian O’Neill that had always made me impatient. Slight, with delicate features that made him appear younger than he actually was, he had blondish hair inclining to red, thinning-ish at the temples. Everything about him was ‘ish,’ and he wore suits that didn’t quite match his aspirations. He was cocky with no substance, a fast talker with little to say, inexperienced in politics yet utterly convinced of the rightness of his opinions. Was he entirely to blame for what had happened? A sense of fairness made me admit that there were others at fault, and yet he was the kind of man that blame seemed to want to zero in on and attach itself to.

I sighed, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear, prepared to half-listen while I tamped coffee into the metal holder, wedging it into place. I certainly couldn’t handle Brian without, at least, a latte.

“The Candidate is thinking of making a comeback.” That caught my attention. I put the spoon down and walked back out to the terrace. “I couldn’t let it go,” he said. “I knew I could bring him in again. I commissioned a couple of polls, we’ve been collecting signatures, there’s massive public support. Ten thousand people have signed, they want him. Kim, they want us back.” Somehow I wondered if it had indeed been Brian who had made this happen. Maybe it had, I knew the campaign had quickly become his whole life, and his devotion to the Candidate had come to border on the foolish, like an adoring puppy keen to please. Brian had a wife to whom he seldom alluded, and who we never saw. I got the impression he had married her before his ambitions had made him grow, in his own mind at least, but sometimes, when I caught a glimpse of one of his glances thrown in the Candidate’s direction, it looked a lot like love.

As I listened to Brian’s renewed enthusiasm, the shoreline and sea in front of me seemed to dissolve, and I had the strange impression of being out of my body, transported back to Dublin, even the scent and substance of the air around me somehow changed to incorporate exhaust fumes, city dust, the urgency of hundreds of thousands of people making space for their separate lives within its confines. Part of the reason I had been keen to come to Ibiza for so long had been to escape entirely, from all that dirt and noise, and from the incessant badgering of people, both in politics and the press, who had wanted the inside scoop on what had gone wrong with the Candidate and his campaign. Yes, I had been right inside, but no, I wasn’t going to dish the dirt, not then. “So can you?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I apologized. His words had run through my head without stopping to be heard, and I dragged my attention back.

“Can you be here tomorrow? We’re meeting. At the Candidate’s house…” Even the way he said that made it seem like a special treat, a school outing to some place of magical importance. “He wants you there. I want you there,” at that his voice dropped a little, a note of anxiety creeping in. “There’s a new PR guy, the Candidate’s brought him in. I don’t like him. Please come, I need you there.”

“Who was that?” Cian asked, emerging onto the terrace, wearing a white toweling bathrobe and holding a perfectly made foamy latte out for me, last night evidently officially forgotten. Even after two decades of marriage, I was frequently surprised by how handsome my husband was. Tall and dark, with green eyes and a habitually intense expression, he had the build of a rugby player – the game was one of his passions – and a schoolboy sense of humor that I rather liked. He had been only the second significant relationship in my life, he made me feel cared for, looked after. Every morning that we had lived together he had brought me a cup of tea in bed. It didn’t matter whether we had ended the evening in companionable calm, or whether I had been ranting and raving over something that had driven me and my Greek temper mad, or whether he had been out on the tiles with his friends; he was always solicitous of me, sometimes to the point where I wondered how capable I would be without him. And he hadn’t made love to me for more than ten years.

“Brian. I need to book a flight.” His face fell. But if there’s anything that twenty years of marriage can teach you, it’s when to back down. I went along with Cian’s plans in many things, usually because they tend to chime with my own, but I have a look that I keep in reserve, it’s the one that says: don’t argue with me on this one. It goes a step beyond determination, and it came out now. He was about to speak, thought better of it, put my coffee down on the terrace table, and went back inside exuding his thankfully silent disapproval. When we were first together, our fights were wild and explosive, and, if I’m honest, I found them rather thrilling. Now he mainly didn’t bother. I would still push his buttons to see if I could ignite something, but just as often I didn’t bother, and neither did he.

So the next morning found me back in Dublin, alone in the tall townhouse Cian and I had shared for most of our married life, its walls somehow stiller without the bustling presence of our two dogs, fluffy Shih Tzus, little hurricanes of energy, who ruled our lives and were my major love, Cian’s too perhaps. They were currently presiding over my parent’s house, it had been too late to pick them up when I’d got back in, and to be honest, I didn’t see myself staying too long. Check out the new PR guy, placate Brian, see the Candidate, and then bow out gracefully had been my plan.

But that was before I saw Chris Kennedy.


Please follow the blog for latest on book release and special launch offer.

My Blog to Book is about completed. It’s been hard getting here. I have left behind the person that I once was, I have changed from the person I once knew,
I’ve wasted days and nights on rotten love.
I’ve traded happiness for sad, and trust for paranoia. But I believe as I complete my pilgrimage it will come right again. This is the story of emotional abuse as a psychological thriller.

 

Eventide Love #10/1 – Dark Wildness

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I kissed him like he was my God, and I his protector. I kissed him with a desperate, dark wildness. I kissed him hard with my tongue, my teeth in utter abandonment. A storm built in both of us as he laid siege to my desire, his hands sliding down my body, clasping my ass, entering me with a savage drive. At that moment we became lost in our universe as two uncomplicated fucking beasts. In that flash instant, he intoxicated me in a frenzied desire for his sheer physical strength, for his passion, for his stimulation, my life fueled by his breath. I convulsed from the savagery of his kisses, his fucking, penetrating with callous intent and right then I knew I could never be without this man in my life. My intellect captured, frenzied lust exploding as he pummelled me I clung on fucking him as if my life depended on it. It was the one fuck of a lot of fucks.

What I did not know then is that my life would become depending on his fucking me. In my longing for the euphoria that his passion leads me to, I gave him every piece of myself, every thought, every dream, every fear, my sheer physical strength, my soul. And with the bones of my life exposed to his carnal desires, no longer protected by skin, my life in the heart beat of the craving disintegrated like a rotting skeleton. He was hard and skillful and persistent and had a mortal heart. Even with all my super powers, I was never going to survive his prowling presence.

Eventide Love #10

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London
6.15pm

I am in a black hole my life moving slower and slower through time as I approach the phone, pick it up and start to dial the number. Transit through time as I have come to live it will halt, as my horizon fades completely from view torn and crushed.

The constant fear and muddled emotions like a blue frost caught me. As ‘She’ answered “hello, hello’ I freeze, dropping the receiver. Maybe I could wait until tomorrow, hold on to another day with Chris. I am desperate for him not to contradict me, not to swear ‘She’ does not exist but admit that the ‘non-entity’ as he describes her is in fact, his constant companion. At least then he would show me a gleamer of truth, of honest love.

I am frantic not to believe I am paranoid and crazy as he insists. Like some supernatural presence, I can sense ‘Her‘ being in his life, in our life. I am struggling to surface from a limited perspective of my one-dimensional life with Chris. My life is falling apart; I am fading like a dying bulb into darkness. I am terrified of the future without Chris but even more terrified of my life with him.

My constant knot of anxiety tightens, wrenching my gut, retching I rush into the bathroom, grab hold of the sink, turn on the tap and splash water on my face in an attempt calm myself down. My body is shaking uncontrollably. I lean against the cold stone of the basin and slowly raise my face to the mirror. I appear opaque. A dark shadow of myself. Suddenly, terror-struck at the ruthless solitude of my situation. My body swooned as I realised that no food had passed my lips all day, I was weak, tired and sick. My mind filled with one thought. Oh my God, Chris was a plotting profligate–a base and low rake who had been simulating undying love, to draw me into a snare he deliberately laid to strip me of my dignity, rob me of my self- respect and capture my life. A sharp pain in my chest caught my breath, and I struggled for air. He swore to me that ‘She’ was not his partner, that I was paranoid, jealous and ridiculous. I now know my time is limited and that exposing him and his lies are the only thing that will save me. But I am not ready for this right now. I know deep down that the moment will come, in which I will make that call that will explode my life.

7pm

I look all around, the darkness shrinking in and the sidewalk trees standing over me like an army of guards. The Skyscrapers like a jungle shielding the tears falling from the sky. The city is not just buildings and people. It feels like a battlefield of my losing fight.

For a second I wonder should I just give in. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Chris. I find myself off balance for a moment, and then my mind instinctively shifts back to the present moment. I answer the call.

“Hi, How are you? I miss you. I hate you being in London and me all alone in Dublin” he bellows sounding full of the joys of life.

“I am okay darling.” I gasp. I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “I am walking to the Frieze Art Fair opening. It’s lashing, can I call you when I get into a dry, quiet place.”

“Okay, but make it quick. Don’t keep me waiting. I want to talk to you. Love you loads.” and Chris hung up.

A frigid gust of wind sweeps up; I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I quicken my step to Regents Park where Frieze Art Fair is based.


This is story of Eventide Love.

We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, psychological, erotic thriller based on the Presidential Election set in Ireland 2011/2012.

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

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Eventide Love #8/4

Thursday Oct 27

 Joe Webb- ANTARES AND LOVE XI @JoeWebbArt

Joe Webb- ANTARES AND LOVE XI @JoeWebbArt

With a press embargo on the day of voting, Chris suggested we take the day off and go for a drive and have lunch at Marfield House in Gorey, Wexford.

It was a dull day and bitterly cold. I voted at my local polling station and Chris at his. I popped to my house to make sure everything was okay. The place felt so empty since I met Chris, and once again, my husband was away. I was forming an adverse feeling to going home. I had a bag of washing I put in the washing machine, then I went into my walk-in closet, situated off the hallway on the ground floor. I loved fashion and, as a result, had an extensive collection. I pulled a few bits and pieces and packed them into my weekend bag. I packed a Marni dark-green short fitted jacket for the count center the next day. I would wear it with cream fitted trousers, a fitted cream silk top and my signature high platforms.

Chris collected me at around twelve pm from the house. We exited the city, hitting the highway to Gorey. Chris drove with confidence, his grip light on the steering wheel. I watched him adoringly, fascinated with the way he multitasked as he drove, answering his mobile, one eye on his emails and texting. When he needed to text, he asked me to watch the road. It was crazy, but hey, wasn’t that the nature of our relationship? He looked tired and preoccupied. I put my hand on his, asking him if he was okay.

“I need to tell you something,” he replied gently.

My stomach tightened. It sounded ominous. He glanced at me, assessing me.

“Do I really need to know what you are about to tell me?” I asked.

He sighed and said nothing. I waited.

“I love you. You know that?” He went silent, waiting for my response.

“Well, what do you want to tell me?” I asked with trepidation.

“I am only telling you this because you are good at sensing things,” he continued, and I swallowed hard.

“It’s Jen. The young girl I met with you at the Mansion House. Are you fucking her?” I asked, my voice quiet and emotionless.

“See, I told you you’re good at seeing things.”

“Are you fucking her?”

“I did, just one night. It was in the very early stages of being with you.”

I said nothing. I took in his words, wondering why he was telling me this now. And why on a drive, when we couldn’t get away from each other. “Only one night?”

“Yes, I promise. I don’t know why. We had a couple of glasses of wine. She came on to me, and it just happened.”

“Chris, she is a twenty-five years old.”

“I know. I need to tell you something else. I had a relationship with her aunt a couple of years ago. It ended badly.”

“And I need to know that for what reason?”

“We have something really good going on. I don’t want to ruin it by keeping things from each other. I don’t want to lie.”

Now I was confused. Lies?

“What lies?”

He took my hand, and his lips twitched, almost as if he found my confusion funny. I didn’t see the humor, and pulled my hand away.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Chris.”

“I have never told anyone this before.”

“What?” I asked, my mind in turmoil.

“I am not your normal guy.”

“Well, I know that,” I said with a smile.

“I am fifty and single out of choice. I could have been married ten times over. I have never been good at relationships. It’s different with you. I feel for the first time I have met someone I want to live with forever. I feel we have a future together. I don’t want to lose you,” he said with a tinge of loneliness.

With that simple statement he blew me away. My heart was beating. He put his hand on mine, pulling it to his lips. I saw a broken little boy in his eyes, a damaged soul. I longed to fix him, to give him the love he needed. And anyhow, he only fucked her once, and before we became hooked into each other. What difference did that make to us? No difference. As for her aunt—He fucked her aunt, I thought, aghast—well, that was a long time ago. The whole thing sounded sordid. Though reeling from the entire conversation, I somehow believed him. Believed that he loved me with such depth he could trust me with the truth. Believed him when he said I was the first person he wanted to share his life with. We were true soul mates. That was in the past. We were the future.

We both remained relatively quiet for the rest of the drive, simply commenting on the phone calls coming in, or news comments from the radio in the background. Chris took my hand and placed it between his legs, rubbing it against his dick. He held my hand like that for most of the drive. Every now and then I nibbled his ear, kissed his cheek.

An hour and a half later, we pulled up outside the grand Marfield House. As we climbed out of the jeep, Chris suggested we take a little walk around the garden before lunch. We had a gentle, romantic walk, passing an ornamental lake, stunning flower, vegetable and herb gardens. We were in a haven of tranquility, with peacocks, hens, dogs and ponies greeting us along the way. Entering the hotel, we made our way to the restaurant for lunch. It was like walking into someone’s elegantly cozy country home filled with fresh flowers, gleaming antiques, mirrors and period paintings. We sat on a couch in front of a blazing fire. We kissed and talked about us, about how we thought the Candidate would do. We reminisced on the craziness of the whole campaign. We each ordered a light chicken salad and shared a half bottle of white wine. We whiled away the day. We were so relaxed that we would have stayed the night, but Chris was due on a primetime television panel at 9.30 pm to analyze the campaign once the press embargo was over.

I tossed restlessly in bed, hankering for Chris to arrive home and be beside me. I heard the front door open and close and his footsteps coming up to the room. I stretched out on my back, my arms and hands out in anticipation of Chris. He walked in removing his tie and then shook off his jacket.

“You were brilliant on the TV,” I croaked sleepily.

“I love doing it. I want to do more TV. I am good at it,” he said, elated.

He undressed quickly, throwing his clothes on the back of the old brown leather armchair in the corner. I threw my arms around his cold body, hugging him hard. His cock instantly thickened and lengthened.

“I missed you,” I whispered, gently biting on his bottom lip.

“I love you,” he whispered back. He kissed me softly, caressing my back, reaching my shoulder blades, cradling my neck in his hands. I drew him in with my tongue, eager for a more passionate kiss. His softness faded as I sucked his lips. I ran my hand over his shoulder, feeling the tautness of his muscles, then traced his neck and the back of his head, embracing him tightly. He kissed me with the same intensity I felt coursing through my body. He softly moaned as his hand moved slowly down my back, his lips moving across my cheek and neck. I arched my head back as I felt the smacks of his kisses on my throat.

“You feel sooo good, Chris,” I sighed.

“I know. I can sense it.” He dragged his lips along my shoulder blades, moving from one to the other, slowly, deliberately kissing me. My body was enthralled with his mellow loving, shuddering with each kiss.

“You’re amazing.” I could barely get the words out.

He returned his lips to mine.

“Let’s see if I can be more amazing,” he said, softly molding his mouth to mine.

His hand ran sensually down my thigh. I held the back of his head, my lips resting on his, gasping as he then moved my leg over his body, drawing me closer to him. I pressed myself into him as firmly as I could to pacify the ache inside my core. His fingers gently ran along my leg, tracing my calf down to my foot then moving up again along my arched muscles to my back. With his hand pressed against my lower back, holding me firmly in place, his mouth melted into mine, kissing me deeply. I shifted my other leg, urging Chris to lift his body slightly as I wrapped it around him. I now had him cradled between my legs. I squeezed him close, feeling his hard-on against my clit. I craved to have him inside me. I gyrated my hips, encouraging him to enter me. He caught my butt in his hands and I thrust my hips toward him. “Keep still,” he murmured, pinning me with a tender gaze. Then with one hard stroke he was deep inside me. I cried out in pleasured pain.

“Can you feel me?” he groaned.

“Yes. You’re deep, it’s so good,” I said. A teardrop ran down my cheek as I thought how deeply I loved this man.

He pinned me to him using his legs and hips, and I couldn’t see anything. All I could hear was my own rapid breathing and Chris’s swift breath in my ear. He ran his fingers across my body gently so that my body rose and filled with my arousal. My body shuddered and I swore the bed was vibrating as I screamed to fruition. Each thrust took him deeper inside me, hitting the sweet spot again and again. The onslaught was overwhelming. Another climax churned through me like a tidal wave. Chris held me tightly, burying his head in my neck, as his body shuddered and groaned, spurting hotly. There was so much of his liquid, it filled me and slicked my thighs. We swaddled together, lying still, and Chris naturally fell out of me eventually. Our lips gently caressing, we fell asleep.

Next post #8/5 Tuesday 1 September 


We are on the way with Eventide Love; blog to book. A factual fiction, political, psychological, erotic thriller set in Ireland 2011/2012

If you would like to receive a book launch offer especially for all of you as loyal followers and fans, please register below. Your details will not be shared. PROMISE. I am wracked with doubts and insecurity about my writing but am lucky to have a wonderful editor, Amy Scott, holding my hand.

Meet The Author

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