by Joey W. Hill
"I'm so, so happy for you," the girl whispered. "You three look perfect together. I've never seen Noah look happy. Not the real kind. The last-a-lifetime kind."
Gen turned to verify, seeing real peace in his eyes. Happiness, arousal, pleasure, love. She saw it in Lyda's face as well, and suspected it was in her own. She'd worn wedding rings twice before, but neither had felt as right as what she wore now.
After congratulations were given, the patio cleared out with discreet driftings of the other guests into the house or gardens, leaving the three of them to share a private moment. Gen was sitting at Lyda's knee again. Noah was standing, but now he dropped to a knee beside her, kissed both their hands. Lyda stroked his hair, then lifted his chin, kissed his mouth. This kiss was another deep one, a teasing gesture that became even more provocative when he lifted his hands and she made a sharp noise, keeping him in place until she left him in an obviously aroused state. Then she leaned down and did the same to Gen. Lips brushing, tongues tangling, teeth nipping, until Gen was breathing fast and shallow. Lyda eased back, her gaze sweeping over both of them.
"I can take you up to our guestroom now, and we can celebrate alone, privately. Or, I can take you to Tyler's dungeon and we can have our own version of a wedding reception." Her gaze sparked. "Either way, my pets will end up naked and at my mercy, while I give them pain and pleasure according to my desires...and theirs. But I will give them this one choice. Which will it be?"
Gen and Noah exchanged a glance. Noah's teeth flashed in an untamed, sexy smile, but Gen answered the question.
"Why can't we have both?"
About Joey W. Hill
I've always had an aversion to reading, watching or hearing interviews of favorite actors, authors, musicians, etc. because so often the real person doesn't measure up to the beauty of the art they produce. Their politics or religion are distasteful, or they're shallow and self-absorbed, a vacuous mophead without a lick of sense. From then on, though I may appreciate their craft or art, it has somehow been tarnished. Therefore, whenever I'm asked to provide personal information about myself for readers, a ball of anxiety forms in my stomach as I think: "Okay, the next couple of paragraphs can change forever the way someone views my stories." Why on earth does a reader want to know about me? It's the story that's important.
So here it is. I've been given more blessings in my life than any one person has a right to have. Despite that, I'm a Type A, borderline obsessive-compulsive paranoiac who worries I will never live up to expectations. I've got more phobias than anyone (including myself) has patience to read about. I can't stand talking on the phone, I dread social commitments, and the idea of living in monastic solitude with my husband and animals, books and writing is as close an idea to paradise as I can imagine. I love chocolate, but with that deeply ingrained, irrational female belief that weight equals worth, I manage to keep it down to a minor addiction. I adore good movies. I'm told I work too much. Every day is spent trying to get through the never ending "to do" list to snatch a few minutes to write.
This is because, despite all these mediocre and typical qualities, for some miraculous reason, these wonderful characters well up out of my soul with stories to tell. When I manage to find enough time to write, sufficient enough that the precious "stillness" required rises up and calms all the competing voices in my head, I can step into their lives, hear what they are saying, what they're feeling, and put it down on paper. It's a magic beyond description, akin to truly believing my husband loves me, winning the trust of an animal who has known only fear or apathy, making a true connection with someone, or knowing for certain I've given a reader a moment of magic through those written words. It's a magic that reassures me there is Someone, far wiser than myself, who knows the permanent path to that garden of stillness, where there is only love, acceptance and a pen waiting for hours and hours of uninterrupted, blissful use.
If only I could finish that darned "to do" list.
I welcome feedback from readers - actually, I thrive on it like a vampire, whether it's good or bad.
Joey welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Joey W. Hill
Chance of a Lifetime
Choice of Masters
If Wishes Were Horses
Knights of the Board Room: Afterlife
Knights of the Board Room: Board Resolution
Knights of the Board Room: Hostile Takeover
Knights of the Board Room: Willing Sacrifice
Ley natural
Make Her Dreams Come True
Nature of Desire 1: Holding the Cards
Nature of Desire 2: Natural Law
Nature of Desire 3: Ice Queen
Nature of Desire 4: Mirror of My Soul
Nature of Desire 5: Mistress of Redemption
Nature of Desire 6: Rough Canvas
Nature of Desire 7: Branded Sanctuary
Snow Angel
Threads of Faith
Virtual Reality
Print books by Joey W. Hill
Behind the Mask anthology
Enchained anthology
Faith and Dreams
Hot Chances anthology
If Wishes Were Horses
Knights of the Board Room: Afterlife
Knights of the Board Room: Hostile Takeover
Knights of the Board Room: Willing Sacrifice
Nature of Desire 1: Holding the Cards
Nature of Desire 2: Natural Law
Nature of Desire 3: Ice Queen
Nature of Desire 4: Mirror of My Soul
Nature of Desire 5: Mistress of Redemption
Nature of Desire 6: Rough Canvas
Nature of Desire 7: Branded Sanctuary
Virtual Reality
Ellora's Cave Publishing
www.ellorascave.com
Divine Solace
ISBN 9781419947186
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Divine Solace Copyright (c) 2014 Joey W. Hill
Edited by Briana St. James
Cover design by Kelly Martin
Cover Photography by Valentin Agapov/ShutterstockArtem Furman/ Shutterstock,
sakkmesterke/Fotolia,mingius/Shutterstock, laschi/Shuterstock
Electronic book publication March 2014
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