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Wednesday, July 10, 2013
New Book
I've been away for a while and I apologize for my absence. Life (and death) got in the way and I'm still recovering. During that time, I penned a new novel (erotic romance) entitled A Battle Raging which is now available at Amazon and Smashwords.
Below is a short blurb:
Maya Temple looks forward to teaching her weekend art class where she
hopes to introduce the joy of still life drawing to her enthusiastic
students. But her plans for her class go awry as soon as one late
student, Zachary Yarborough, wheels into her class.
Zach is a
former marine who was wounded in Afghanistan four years prior and is now
a paraplegic. He also suffers from post traumatic stress disorder and
is taking the class at the request of his psychiatrist, who feels Zach
can benefit from art therapy. However Zach winds up pissing off the
beautiful art teacher in various ways that includes drawing a nude
sketch of her on the very first day.
At each session, Zach and
Maya antagonize one another but eventually can't resist the growing
attraction between them. Initially, Maya mistakenly believes that a man
in a wheelchair cannot be sexual. But Zach is eager to prove her wrong
again and again...and again.
Here is an excerpt:
So now she sat just a few steps
away from him, wearing a white terry cloth robe that contrasted nicely against
her skin. Her hair gleamed softly in the muted sunlight coming in from the
window. A couple of tendrils caressed her left brow, emphasized its arch. She
wore no makeup, but she didn't need to. Her face was a perfectly proportioned
oval, the shadowing near her cheekbones giving them prominence. The light
played with her irises, making them amber mirrors in which he was reflected. It
would be an interesting exercise to paint himself as a ghost in those eyes.
He'd only tried his hand at painting
once several years ago, but that attempt hadn't involved capturing a living
person which was a very intimidating task compared to doing still life. The
shadows and planes of the contours along her jaw line, moving down the curves
of her neck, to her collarbone alone were a challenge but he was determined to
get everything right. Because he did plan to hang this painting in his
apartment and he wanted to memorialize her so that it would seem as though he
had actually captured flesh on canvas, to make it so realistic it would seem she
was actually there looking back at him. A small consolation for not having the
real person there with him.
The smell of the oils
circulated throughout the small space even with the windows open. A small
headache had begun behind his right eye but it was a mere distraction.
There were bigger issues
distracting him, too. The top opening of the robe had slipped a bit and the
curve of a breast was visible.
Despite his resolve to take
things slowly, his body's response seemed beyond his control. Anticipation was
an intoxicant in itself, driving his impulses. In his mind, he was already
touching her, discovering the smoothness of her skin. Driving himself hard inside
her.
He opened the paints, began
mixing burnt umber and red along with titanium white to recreate the subtle
tones of her exposed skin. Satisfied with the mixture, he began the outline of
her face, running the brush in short, broad strokes, softening along the edges.
He searched her face to memorize the contours, gauging the reds and yellows of
her flesh tones.
He continued, his brush
diligently moving across the canvas, until hair, eyes, cheeks emerged, the
creation of a one-dimensional woman, beautiful in repose, naturally lit by sun
rays.
He only stopped into the second
hour when he saw signs of strain in her face indicating that she was becoming
tired.
"I think I'm done for
today," he said, washing the brushes in the cup of solvent.
She half smiled. "I
suppose you're not going to let me see until you're finished."
"Could I even stop you? This
is your home after all. Feel free."
He rolled back to allow her
room to view the canvas. He looked up at her expression, then realized he was
holding his breath.
"It's me," she said
with awe. "It's so beautiful."
"It's just what I see when
I look at you."
"And you see me like
this?"
"And you don't?" he
asked incredulously. It hadn't occurred to him that she wouldn't know how
gorgeous she was.
She shook her head slowly.
"I mean I know it's me, but it has a different aura, like you're deifying
me."
"Well, a goddess should be
deified."
She looked at him with a smirk.
"Now you're being facetious," she said without rancor despite her
words.
"No. That first day when I
was such a dick to you…well, it was because I was so intimidated. I hadn't
wanted to come in the first place and then I come and see you. And all I can
think of is how I didn't want to make a fool of myself because I'm so rusty…and
I guess I was so anxious that I took it out on you and the class. I'm sorry.
Again I was a selfish prick."
Owning up to one's bad behavior
was something that Dr. Madison often stressed in his sessions, both group and
private.
"It's important not to use
your PTSD as some moral get out-of-jail-card," Dr. Madison had said
recently. "You may not be responsible for the cause, but you're largely
responsible for the cure, which is checking your emotions and attitudes when
you can."
Those words rang in Zach's head
now. He often had trouble apologizing. But today the regret flowed easily,
without any pushback from him.
"Thank you, Zach. I know
from experience it's not easy admitting when you've been wrong. And I apologize
to you for trying to push you beyond your comfort zone. It was not my intent to
push you out of the class."
She looked back at the portrait.
"I still say I have
nothing to teach you. Your skills are even beyond my expertise."
She stepped back and shifted to
turn. The robe snagged on the easel's edge, pulling the material until the robe
opened slightly. Zach spied the curve of a thigh, saw a peek of white panties
before she jerked the robe, ripping it a bit, pulling the material closed
again. He saw the embarrassment on her face.
"Don't worry, I didn't see
anything…much," he assured her. "Strange, being an artist and so
ashamed of nudity."
"I'm not ashamed of
nudity," she said, but the tone of her face reddened a bit. "It's a
natural state."
"Yes, and a beautiful
state, as well," he said. "Look, I'm in this chair and you'd think
that I would feel awkward taking off my clothes, but I don't. I have a scar running
along my back and my legs aren't as muscular as the rest of my body. You know,
sometimes I sit in front of my floor length mirror and examine my body, compare
it to the body of my younger self, how I remember it. It's different, yes, but
no less than it once was. It's part of who I am now."
"That's a healthy
attitude," she conceded, but her hands maintained a death grip on the
edges of the sides of her robe, obviously afraid of another
"betrayal" by the garment.
Before he could think about what
he was doing, he reached with both hands, put one on either one of her hands.
"Let go," he coaxed.
The initial panicked expression
conflicted with other emotions and obvious curiosity. He realized that she was
at war with herself , two sides trying to trump the other. The pragmatic Maya
who was probably telling her that she couldn't do this, that he was a student
and practically a stranger. And maybe the more adventurous side that peered out
at times, even during the short time he'd known her.
Desire and curiosity. In the
end, they won out and she loosened her grip.
He reached for the belt, pulled
at it until it gave way. The robe fell open. He saw the otherwise taut stomach
with just a slight curve to it and lace-edged white underwear. She had no bra on
and her breasts were bare, her nipples just a few shades darker than the rest
of her. They were slightly uptilted, something that should be captured on
canvas, in various oils.
His forefinger touched her
stomach tentatively and he heard a sharp intake of breath. He let it roam
downward, trace the edge of the panties, upward then, traveling toward the
undercut of her breast, tracing its edge.
He grabbed the edge of the
robe, jerked it down, and it fell to the floor, leaving her naked and open.
"Take off your
panties," he instructed, knowing he had no right to ask, but urged on by
his need and her apparent acquiescence.
UPDATE: I'm no longer on Facebook but you can follow me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/SharonCullars.
Labels: a battle raging, Books, novel
Sharon Cullars Coffee Talk at 7/10/2013 09:11:00 PM
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