Monday, December 31, 2012


Frankie Diane Mallis is hosting this years 4th annual No Kiss Blogfest. 

What: The No Kiss Blogfest! This is when you get to write a scene or post one from of your favorite books, movies, or TV shows that show the almost kiss-- the rising, crushing, excruciating, longing, tension that comes  when two characters get oh-so-close to kissing that you can just feel it, want it, NEED it....and then...they don't!

Check it out on her site and see my No Kiss example below.

My favorite No Kiss (almost kiss) 

                        searching . . . will update once I find it.  lol

Eek!  I had forgotten post my kiss scene.  Better late than never. Right?  

So, here it is--a scene from my WIP that is currently being considered by 7 agents **fingers crossed**  This is part of a chapter where Peter visits Lace (Wendy) in her bedroom at night.  

I move to my nightstand and switch on the lamp.  Soft yellow light spreads across my room and Peter comes into focus.  He's dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a white V-neck tee that hugs his lean muscles.  I've never seen such a casual outfit look so good on a person, and the way those shorts hang low on his waist, showing off those hipbones . . . 
I don't know I'm gawking until drool threatens to spill from my bottom lip.  With a snap, I force my teeth together but am unable to look away.  He's not my usual type—short-haired, clean cut jock—but something about his rugged beauty attracts me. 
Everything about him is warm, from his tan skin to his bronze hair.  Even his clear sea-glass eyes radiate heat with a stare so intense it's as if he can see into my soul.  
Feeling exposed, I fold my arms over my chest and glance down at my bare legs.  It's a few seconds before I notice my shirt is hiked up and my panties are showing.
My gaze shoots up to Peter, but he's no longer staring at my face, his gaze has strayed to my legs.  It better be only my legs.
I drop my arms and run to my closet in search of my robe.  Where is it?  And why am I so self-conscious?  Then I remember—the bathroom!  I left it in the bathroom.
I hurry to my bedroom door, unable to remember closing it, and squeeze the handle.  It won't open.  I try again.  It doesn't budge.
Looking up, I see Peter's arm stretched over my shoulder, his hand pressed to the door, holding it closed. 
"Please don't leave," he says near my ear.  "I just got here." 
The worried edge to his voice surprises me, as does his closeness.  So close, his chest brushes against my long hair hanging down my back.
I spin around and press against the door to put some space between us, my gaze darting from the dresser to where he stands now.  What did he do, fly to this side of the room?  "How did you . . . ?" 
"I won't look at your legs again.  I promise.  Just don't leave."
I blink up at him, my thoughts reeling.  He's not really here.  This is a dream.  No one moves that quickly.  Or looks and smells this incredibleAnd did he say he won't look at my legs again?
"Ever?"  I ask, without thought.  Where the hell did that come from?  Heat tingles my cheeks.
Peter lowers his hand from the door and quirks a sexy grin.  "I don't remember promising ever.  And I'd be happy to take it back, if that is you're wish."
His words hold a trace of an accent I hadn't noticed before.  It reminds me of Dad and the bit of English accent he adopted when living in London for six years. 
No matter how charming this guy seems, that similarity alone has me look at him differently.  "No.  Ever is fine with me."
He cocks his head to the side, his perfect lips pursed.  "I don't believe you.  I think you want me to look at your legs.  In fact, I think you want me to like them."
"Not even close," I fire back, holding in the shock pumping through me like adrenaline.  How did he know I've always thought my legs are my best asset?  My chest has shrunk with my weight loss along with any butt I might have had, but my legs are still nice.  And if I’m honest with myself, I not only want him to notice them, I want him to think they're nice—really nice. But like hell I'll admit that to him. 
"I was going to get my robe, so I could cover my legs from your eyes," I say.
"So you weren’t leaving then?"  The worry is back in his voice, and I'm confused by his moodiness.  One second he's nervous, then flirty, then nervous again.
"Are you really here?"  I'm aware of how stupid that sounds.
His eyes stray to my legs, but before I can call him out on it, his gaze snaps up to my face.  "Sorry."  He turns away and releases a breath.  After a moment, he says, "I'm not exactly here.  I can leave my body—the island—for short periods of time when I'm dreaming.  It's not something I do often anymore, and when I do, I usually go to England."
I don't know what to make of his words.  Is he referring to an out-of-body experience?  If so, why is he here?  Is it about John?  "Why England?"  I ask with a flash of anxiety.  Peter can't have anything to do with my dad.  Still, my paranoia gets the best of me.   
"It's where I'm from."
"Really?"  I guess it could be a coincidence, and it does explain his slight accent, but his looks are so American surfer dude.  "Peter?"  I ask, but lose my train of thought the second he swings around and those beautiful eyes meet mine.  Staring down at me, his face has an awed look about it.
"What?"  I struggle to speak against the tightness of my throat.  I've never been so self-conscious in all my life.
"I like when you say my name."
WhewDid the heat just kick onI can't stop my lips from turning up into a stupid grin.  I glance away to hide my smile and rub my lips together.  Why am I acting this way?
"Don't do that," Peter says, his gentle tone softening the command.
"Do what?"  I peer up at him, my smile replaced with a frown.
"Turn your face away.  I like to look at it, at your eyes.  They are the windows to the soul."
Holy hot fudge sundae.  If I were chocolate, I'd be melting.  No wonder all the girls want him.  My mouth dries, and I realize my bottom lip is dangling again.  Seriously?  I snap it closed with another clink of my teeth. 
A charming grin tilts his lips.  It isn't arrogant like before.  Instead, he seems pleased with my reaction to him, which prompts me to do something I wouldn't normally do.  But then, nothing about this is normal.
Holding his gaze, I lift my hand and hold it an inch from his chest.  "If you're not exactly here," I repeat his earlier words.  "Then when I touch you my hand will go through your body, like you're a ghost.  Right?" 
"Don't," he breathes, and my stomach clenches. 
Isn't he the kind of guy who welcomes invitations like this?  Or is it that my flirting sucks?  No.  That can't be it.  Even though I'm hardly what I used to be, I'm not a troll.  And regardless of his request, I still want to touch him, to push my luck with him, even if it doesn't make sense. 
"Why?"  I look up through my lashes.  "Am I not your type?"  I mean it as a tease, but hearing the words makes me mentally cringe.  What if that's it?  Right now, my ego can't handle a blow like that. 
And there it is . . . the rejection I feared.  It's crushing. Because that's all I wanted from him.  Confirmation that I'm still a normal, attractive girl, capable of flirting with a hot guy just for the hell of it.  Finding out that I'm not anymore has me taking a step back. 
I’m about to tell him to leave, when he says, "You misunderstand.  I only date girls who are one night stand material.  Who can never be more than that."  He pauses to penetrate me with that searing gaze of his.  "And you undoubtedly are not one of those girls."
I don't know if that's a compliment or another rebuff.  I lift my chin, determined to prove his opinion means nothing to me, even though I'm slowly crumbling inside"What am I then?" 
"Trouble?"  My brows shoot up.  Why am I not kicking him out?
"Yes.  Because I'm drawn to you for reasons I can't explain." The truth in his voice and eyes simmer my emotions.  "I have to be near you."
My breath hitches, and my heart pounds—or is it fluttering? 
"It's the same thing with me," I murmur, shocked by several things: my honesty, his honesty, and the fact that we share the same attraction.     
By his sudden gasp, I'm guessing he's just as shocked.
For a moment all we can do is stare, an unspoken connection forming between us as if we're old friends.  It doesn't make sense, but I'm certain of one thing—I want to get closer to this mysterious boy.  I want to learn his secrets, and . . . I want to kiss him.
As if my legs have a mind of their own, I close the gap between us. 
He jets away in a blur of speed, stopping at my window with his back to meHis breathing heavy, he grips the window frame as if he's forcing himself not to jump out the window.

                               HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

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