Crawling Into Bed With Chris Quinton
And a Good Book - Dark Waters
*crawls across bed* Important things first, are these sheets silk or cotton?
Finest cotton, it feels so good on the skin. Silk is clingy and slippery...
Yes, I much prefer crisp and cool to clingy and slippery. What are you wearing?
Um, do you mean for real? Or what I would be wearing in my imagination?
Only the classiest French perfume. [Or maybe a very baggy cotton nightshirt.]
What are we snacking on in bed while we read tonight?
Rich, dark chocolate wrapped around brandy-soaked cherries, washed down with a fine red wine.
Oh that sounds awesome. I'm going to have to go find some of those. If I open this nightstand drawer, what will I find?
Chocolate-coated brandy-soaked cherries? In Real Life, my notebook and pen for nighttime inspiration, my Kindle for those nights without inspiration, and headache tablets.
Hehe...let's go with the cherries, though we may have some use for that Kindle. Do you roll up in the blankets like a burrito, or kick the covers off during the night?
Both. Be warned, I am a very restless sleeper ;-)
Just don't smack me in the eye and we'll be fine. Can I put my cold feet on your calves to warm them up?
Of course you can, hon, if you're not that attached to them. Or any other delicate bits.
Okay, then. I'll just...er... scrunch up over here. What are we reading?
Dark Waters, an historical shapeshifter murder mystery, leaning towards the more traditional shifter of the Highland legends...
Flein is a wanderer by instinct and need, roaming the known world as the fancy takes him. In the Highland village of Glenfinnan, women have been raped and brutally murdered. The killer is a waterhorse, a monstrous shapeshifter by all accounts. But when Flein meets Donnchadh, first in its equine form, then its man-shape, he knows the waterhorse is innocent. Flein is drawn to the shapeshifter, but he finds it difficult to acknowledge it's more than a monster.
Donnchadh, though wary, shares the same attraction. They join forces to hunt for the real murderer, but time is short. They must find the killer before more women die. Then suspicion is turned on them and the hunters become the hunted.
"Lindos," said the each-uisge, an implacable note in its rich velvet voice.
"Lindos," he echoed, "and while I'm talking, I'll do something about that mane of yours. It's a knotted mess. Have you no pride in your appearance?" He didn't wait for a response, just shifted off his boulder and knelt behind the creature. He took a handful of matted hair and began to tease the strands free. It was a clean mane, he discovered, just raveled by wind and water to wild elflocks, damp from the loch and scented like a clover meadow.
The tale of Lindos and Rhodes led onto other Greek islands. To Crete and Knossos and the story of Theseus, then on to Jason, the voyage of the Argo, the siege of Troy and Ulysses' wanderings. Donnchadh sat silently, not moving, not even when a tangle needed a sharper tug on his scalp.
Lost in his stories, aware only of the silk flowing ever more easily through his fingers, Flein forgot the binding and he forgot to feed the fire. Until a charred log slumped and he looked up to see only faintly glowing ashes and the full moon low in the sky. Dawn was only an hour or so away.
The pale light glowed pearlescent on the each-uisge's skin, brought strange highlights to its hair. Slowly, Flein gathered a double handful of mane and parted it to reveal the vulnerable nape with its curling infant-fine down. It drew him forward and he gave in to the temptation. He pressed his lips to the warm satin skin that smelled of clover and pine and woodsmoke, and his desire was an aching hunger deep in his belly. Donnchadh shivered but did not pull away.
His heart pounding, Flein stroked his hands across the wide shoulders, feeling the slight quiver in the muscles at the contact. He nuzzled the hair aside and sought the strong throat and Donnchadh's head tilted, letting him find the lobeless ear and suck—
Then the each-uisge moved with blinding speed. It tore itself free and was across the dying fire, facing him, broad chest rising and falling with its unsettled breathing. Its cock stood out, thick and heavy, the half-revealed head glistening with moisture.
"Donnchadh," Flein said, coming to his feet. It backed away, fading into the nightshade beneath the pines. "Donnchadh!"
No answer. Water lapped the shore, wind whispered through the trees, an owl called once, and Flein knew he was alone in the night.
Buy Link - https://spsilverpublishing.com/product_book_info/new-release-c-1/products_id/1214/?zenid=5766c9714e85773c4126b9cb5d54e925