This is a particularly exciting Flashback Friday for me. This month marks one year since I released THE ACCUSED, Book 2 in the Immoral Virtue trilogy. It also marks a high point for me regarding THE WATCHMAN. During this month, just one year ago, I had finally broken through a tremendously intimidating bit of writer’s block that had lasted much too long and had taken off at a passionate run to the end of that book – and the end of this series. And what an emotional run that was.
But since we’re all about passion on this site, how about a sexy little excerpt from that final book?From Chapter 4:
Immoral Virtue, #3
“All witchcraft comes from carnal lust,
which is in women insatiable.”
~Heinrich Kramer, 1486 “Malleus Maleficarum”
(The Hammer of Witches)
Jameson brushed past Abigail and she hurried after him, frightened of the darkened hall, a space where she had not entered so deeply before. And then, he opened a door and she rushed to follow him into the second chamber. The chamber where Mercy remained. Bound. Eager for his touch, a punishing touch he would too willingly bestow.
Though lit only by candles and hearth, the room shown brighter than the blackened hall, illuminating Mercy as she hung there still, her arms above and bound, her head dipped forward as though she slept.
Jameson stormed over to her. Slapped his hand to her rump. The crack of flesh against flesh sudden and loud.
Mercy shrieked, danced on her toes as far as her shackles would allow. Flashback Friday
He strode behind her, ever at her back as she turned to and fro to see him. “You drowse, Mercy,” he said, “when you should consider your fate.”
He spanked her again, the sound of his palm against her rump painful and biting. Though Mercy’s breath rushed from her, he showed no sympathy, striking her again and again and again. Making her squeal and squirm. Flashback Friday
Abigail thought to run to him, to stay his hand, but his warning rang so clear in her mind she remained rooted at the door. And his hand came down several more times, each strike as hard as the first. And then they stopped and he stood there, watching Mercy quiver. The crackle from the hearth and her heavy breaths the only sounds in the quiet room.
Then he cupped his hand to the spot he had punished. Did not pinch nor squeeze even as a soft coo came from her. He curved his palm to her flesh, his fingers slightly splayed. His large hand covering much of one cheek despite the generous swell of her.
“And what of this night, Mercy?” he asked softly, smoothing small circles over the spot, steadily, absently.
Mercy arched her back, lifting her rump toward his hand, not hiding from this touch, but seeking more of it. And he moved with her, stood back to look down at her, gliding his hand over her gently, without the aggression of moments ago, as though absorbing the heat of her, soothing her. His touch…his gaze…so intent. So sinfully reverent.
He had stroked Abigail with the same light touch as this. His fingertips grazing over her. Flesh to flesh. Warming her. Stirring her even with that slight touch as he examined her for the devil’s mark. As he awakened her. Made her yearn for desire she had not yet known…
“Have you no thought for what you must endure?” He stroked Mercy’s hip, her thigh…lower to the back of her knee, then lower and lower still, until he reached her ankles and released the shackles there.
He moved with her, ever at her back, circling with her, as the ropes held her wrists high above and she shifted to find him.
The sight of them, in this dance, took Abigail’s breath. Even naked and bound so uncomfortably, Mercy moved with grace. Her body bare and lovely. Her breasts so full, lifted as they were with her arms above. Her rump, tinted pink now from having been thrashed so forcefully. She spoke with lust not fear.
And he, Jameson, so broad, so regal even through this long dark night, stood tall and sure behind her no matter how she turned. His hands on her waist, his gaze on her alone…though with beauty such as Mercy’s, Abigail could expect him to look nowhere else.
“You will endure pleasure Mercy,” he said and the sudden change of his voice, the low tone of it, from deep in his chest created a flutter within Abigail’s bosom.
She knew that tone, it had rumbled beneath her palms as they had pressed to his chest, stirred her hair when he had stood close to her, so close, she felt the moist heat of his breath against her ear…
“Pleasure,” he said to Mercy, “perhaps beyond that which you have known.”
Immoral Virtue, Book 3
Evil is found when evil is sought