It's been a whirlwind week. I finally uploaded a new chapter of Out of the Past. Gods, it was hard to write, struggling with the dynamic of the characters and the tone of the story. Long story short I ended up writing the single longest sex scene I have ever tackled. I really hope you appreciate it, because I fucking hate writing sex scenes. Truly, it's all for you guys.

So that should be up soon, and soon as well the fully edited version will be up here. I'm still working three jobs and juggling life. Hell, it's Saturday night and I had to turn down invitations to two awesome kickass parties...because I had to work.

So soon I hope to have the next writing 101 lesson up, I'll aim for tomorrow but I am supposed to be helping friends paint their house, so we'll see. Or perhaps I shall embrace ye old "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Until then here  is a preview of part two of Out of the Past:



She busied herself with dishes and then set up in his office with her laptop, researching Morelli.

He was old man now, but in his youth sixty years ago he’d been a runner who worked his way up on the streets of Providence. When the Italians had moved into Boston he’d followed, made a name for himself. When too many murders and too much coke was connected to him, a rash of killings had taken down any and all who could testify as witnesses to the charges. His lawyer had gotten him sprung and he’d moved up to Toronto, assuming like most Americans that a low crime rate meant low rime, and therefore opportunity.

History was repeating itself.  Once more he’d been arrested, indicted, and a trial was set, but witnesses were dropping like flies. Turned out Gigolo John was actually a gigolo, and had been scheduled to testify about Morelli’s drug operation. The woman with him had just been a client.

All she could glean on the killer was that experts believed the one in Boston was different than the one in Toronto. The one in Toronto used a gun of a different caliber, and had no compunction about collateral damage. Great.

Maybe she wasn’t so safe there. However, she had dropped her suitcase. If the hit man got it he had all her brochures, not a one leading to Chicago. Her fake identity would lead him nowhere. She could spend eleven more days there and leave with the money to start over somewhere safe. If she could handle Sebastian.

Last night had been so confusing, and the hot memories pulled her attention from her computer. The way he kissed and touched her…it was passionate, raw, full of need. But in the end he had taken nothing for himself. She had expected to be used and then he went and took nothing from her. What was his game?

One thing life had taught her was life was a chess game. People either played as pawns, thought themselves bishops, or were the chess masters. Sebastian was a chess master if ever she saw one. He had an end goal, but what was it? If it was revenge for leaving him, last night made no sense. Instead it had been…it had been what she fantasized in many ways, but in her fantasies on the plane ride back she had daydreamed about the feel of him inside her, filling her, their bodies pressed close together, his lips on her skin, her hands all over him as he surged and filled her until she was breathless and clinging to him.

Well, she had eleven days. Morelli’s hitman would never find her, she was safe. At the end of that time she would have her money and the opportunity to go anywhere and start fresh again. Until then, two could play that game.

She grabbed his credit card and her purse, and found the number for his car service. She wasn’t stupid, and wasn’t about to go wandering alone, but for what she needed she had to go outside. When two chess masters met they could either agonize and strategize, or they could play something else.

She was going to change the game.