The current state of the ms sits at 278 of 401 pages, with a 106.5k-word count. This last section has a few sections in need of heavy revision and/or rewrite, in order to pull the story together properly.
Day job and general funk working against me, but I've a few mornings and two full days off in which to tackle this story and beat the antagonists into submission. And thus far the rewrites have come along nicely... or so I think.
And so... to wrap up the pre-Turkey Day editing frenzy, I've a snippet to share. This scene made it through the edits with only a few tweaks, mostly because I just like it too much the way it stands:
“Don’t you feel it?” He whispers, mouth hovering just a fraction from mine. “Please, tell me you feel it.” The words come out rushed, almost hoarse. As if he’s going to start begging in a moment if I dare deny it.
My skin tingles despite the layers of clothing that separate us. His arousal rests heavily against my groin, eliciting an almost instantaneous response from me. Quick enough to make me lightheaded. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but all I manage to do is gasp.
His lips brush feather-light against mine.
“Not here,” I manage to force out finally, my frantic brain slipping gears for what seems an eternity before something snags and catches.
Garthelle’s mouth hovers close, every puff of breath mixing with mine. He smells of scotch. I want to taste it. But not here. Gaia please, not in the middle of the hallway with how many lyche lurking everywhere. His gaze slams back into mine, yellow eyes half glazed with energy-driven lust.
Oh hell, who am I kidding? The only thing I care about at this moment, the only thought registering in my brain, is the fervent hope that he does more than dry-hump me this time.
“Not here,” I repeat. And stare at his mouth. I want to kiss him. Badly. I tear my gaze away from his lips and look him in the eyes. “I want you completely naked this time.”
Garthelle blinks. Either I made something snap irreparably, or forced his brain to reengage. He smiles, lips curling by slow increments. I never realized how much pleasure could be found in witnessing the birth of a truly authentic expression. It takes all the breath from my chest.
“Ditto,” he murmurs, grabbing my hand. He turns and heads off down the corridor again. He’s not running, but it’s a close thing. And I think if anyone, or anything, interrupts or tries to thwart him—well. It definitely won’t be pretty.