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.
http://www.frankiediane.blogspot.com/2012/12/4th-annual-no-kiss-blogfest_3.html
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 incredible. And 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."
Whew. Did
the heat just kick on? I
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.
"Undoubtedly."
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."
"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 me. His
breathing heavy, he grips the window
frame as if he's forcing himself not to jump out the window.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
