🎃 Happy Halloween! 🎃
paranormal, time-travel, erotic, romance
[I've left another extract over on * Pick a Genre * if you'd like to read some more]
But first, here's the blurb:
Within this frame, his curse is time…
When Hannah Keys discovers a four-hundred-year-old portrait in Wales, she is intrigued and somewhat saddened by the handsome Highlander portrayed by the artist's masterful, lifelike strokes. But when she runs into the majorly hunky model for the painting—in the flesh, in the middle of the night—she learns first-hand all about masterful strokes when she shares a night of medieval passion with him.
Lockhart Munro has been cursed inside the portrait until he meets Hannah Keys. For four hundred years, no one has heard him or seen him, let alone touched him. The one woman who can do all these things may be the key to his long-awaited freedom.
But if Hannah sets Lockhart free from his prison, will she be cursed to spend the rest of her lifetime without him?
Or perhaps freeing Lockhart will be just the beginning…
Buy Link:
Excerpt From Lost Time
Hannah heard it again.
A sigh. Her head snapped up, causing pain to burst from behind her eyes. When her vision cleared, she shrieked and scrambled up onto the bed.
There was a man. At least, the portrait of a man.
“Ohh!” she breathed, as she stared at the full-length painting. The figure leaned casually on a sword. The huge frame dominated the whole wall.
Hannah slowly climbed from the bed and approached cautiously, almost waiting for something else to jump out and spook the shit out of her.
“How on earth did I not see this?” she whispered, nearing the image.
He was the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on. His features were perfectly masculine and artfully aristocratic.
His eyes were dark and intense, but the artist had highlighted the inner iris with tiny white strokes, making it seem as if his eyes were lit from within. They sparkled with curiosity as though he were really seeing her. She looked into the dark orbs, holding her breath—transfixed, waiting, watching for them to shift or blink. But, of course, they remained still. She released the breath on a chuckle at her own silliness. What a marvelously talented artist to have made him look so lifelike.
She continued to examine him, noting the thick, dark hair that reached almost to the collar of his crisp-looking white shirt. She wondered if the cut was considered overlong and indecent for that time period. She tried to discern what era he might have been from, but there was nothing in the painting that even hinted at the answer. Hannah almost wished he were real. She longed to run her fingers through his thick mane. Had the artist taken liberties, or could this man have been so flawlessly designed?
“You are gorgeous!” She reached out almost reverently, hesitantly touching his cheek. “How could I have missed you?”
She allowed her eyes to drift over the rest of him. His shoulders were wide. The painter had revealed only a small glimpse of what hinted to be a gloriously muscled chest through the V of the unlaced shirt. His waist was trim but Hannah imagined there lay an amazing six-pack under the loosely tucked garment. Her eyes drifted lower, over the dark pants that covered his thick thighs, down to the calf-high, shiny black boots.
Her focus slowly lifted back over his body, her eyes lingering on his crotch for an overlong moment as she imagined that part of him, too. She didn’t have to be an artisan to imagine in precise proportion to the rest of his size what a delightful handful he might be. She sighed. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Hannah realized she was breathing rapidly. Her face was warm. Her breasts tingled. Her body was responding as it would if a real live man had captured her attention, although she couldn’t ever remember having a reaction like this without some kind of stimulation first. She almost wished the swirls of paint were not cool to her touch but warm and giving, like his skin might feel.
She centered her gaze back on his amazing face, noting the high cheekbones and the strong jaw, noticing the slight cleft in his chin. She touched it, wishing that her finger could delve inside the little dent. “Oh, I like that.” She smiled in appreciation of the tiny little dimple that gave the very manly features a boyish little twist.
Her attention swept to his mouth. He had full, sensual lips. “I bet you know how to kiss a girl, don’t you?” she asked them, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by those lips—to be kissed by a man like him at all. Would he take a woman over? Would he dominate her until she gave in? Not like he’d have to do much convincing. Or would he seduce a woman into submission with flowery words and a soft touch? It didn’t matter— either way, she’d be all over it.
Hannah swallowed hard and licked her parched lips as she ran the pad of her index finger over his full lower lip, resisting the sudden, overwhelming urge to press her own lips to the cool canvas. Hannah’s body trembled.
She gave herself a mental shake. It was the first time she’d ever been turned on by a painting. Putting distance between herself and it before looking back into his dark eyes, she gasped. They didn’t look as cold and intense as the first time that she’d looked into them. They were a warm chocolate brown.
“How can that be?” She exhaled, again looking to him for answers. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. She shook her head from side to side. They were back to their original cold, blank stare. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Maybe I’m coming down with something?” She peeked up at him once more. “Why can’t I meet a man like you?” she asked him. “You know, if I did, I’d never go back home.” It was the truth. There was nothing to go back home to. Her mum was gone. Cass would soon marry that idiot Paul and things would change. Again.
Hannah backed away from the portrait, switched off the bathroom light then slid into bed. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the painting. The flickering firelight gave the impression that he was alive, moving.
All of a sudden, Hannah felt a moment of gripping grief, as if she mourned for the man in the painting. Her eyes filled as her chest tightened with pain. And just as fast as the feeling had come, it went, leaving her feeling nauseous and hot.
There was a man. At least, the portrait of a man.
“Ohh!” she breathed, as she stared at the full-length painting. The figure leaned casually on a sword. The huge frame dominated the whole wall.
Hannah slowly climbed from the bed and approached cautiously, almost waiting for something else to jump out and spook the shit out of her.
“How on earth did I not see this?” she whispered, nearing the image.
He was the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on. His features were perfectly masculine and artfully aristocratic.
His eyes were dark and intense, but the artist had highlighted the inner iris with tiny white strokes, making it seem as if his eyes were lit from within. They sparkled with curiosity as though he were really seeing her. She looked into the dark orbs, holding her breath—transfixed, waiting, watching for them to shift or blink. But, of course, they remained still. She released the breath on a chuckle at her own silliness. What a marvelously talented artist to have made him look so lifelike.
She continued to examine him, noting the thick, dark hair that reached almost to the collar of his crisp-looking white shirt. She wondered if the cut was considered overlong and indecent for that time period. She tried to discern what era he might have been from, but there was nothing in the painting that even hinted at the answer. Hannah almost wished he were real. She longed to run her fingers through his thick mane. Had the artist taken liberties, or could this man have been so flawlessly designed?
“You are gorgeous!” She reached out almost reverently, hesitantly touching his cheek. “How could I have missed you?”
She allowed her eyes to drift over the rest of him. His shoulders were wide. The painter had revealed only a small glimpse of what hinted to be a gloriously muscled chest through the V of the unlaced shirt. His waist was trim but Hannah imagined there lay an amazing six-pack under the loosely tucked garment. Her eyes drifted lower, over the dark pants that covered his thick thighs, down to the calf-high, shiny black boots.
Her focus slowly lifted back over his body, her eyes lingering on his crotch for an overlong moment as she imagined that part of him, too. She didn’t have to be an artisan to imagine in precise proportion to the rest of his size what a delightful handful he might be. She sighed. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Hannah realized she was breathing rapidly. Her face was warm. Her breasts tingled. Her body was responding as it would if a real live man had captured her attention, although she couldn’t ever remember having a reaction like this without some kind of stimulation first. She almost wished the swirls of paint were not cool to her touch but warm and giving, like his skin might feel.
She centered her gaze back on his amazing face, noting the high cheekbones and the strong jaw, noticing the slight cleft in his chin. She touched it, wishing that her finger could delve inside the little dent. “Oh, I like that.” She smiled in appreciation of the tiny little dimple that gave the very manly features a boyish little twist.
Her attention swept to his mouth. He had full, sensual lips. “I bet you know how to kiss a girl, don’t you?” she asked them, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by those lips—to be kissed by a man like him at all. Would he take a woman over? Would he dominate her until she gave in? Not like he’d have to do much convincing. Or would he seduce a woman into submission with flowery words and a soft touch? It didn’t matter— either way, she’d be all over it.
Hannah swallowed hard and licked her parched lips as she ran the pad of her index finger over his full lower lip, resisting the sudden, overwhelming urge to press her own lips to the cool canvas. Hannah’s body trembled.
She gave herself a mental shake. It was the first time she’d ever been turned on by a painting. Putting distance between herself and it before looking back into his dark eyes, she gasped. They didn’t look as cold and intense as the first time that she’d looked into them. They were a warm chocolate brown.
“How can that be?” She exhaled, again looking to him for answers. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. She shook her head from side to side. They were back to their original cold, blank stare. Her mind was playing tricks on her.
“Maybe I’m coming down with something?” She peeked up at him once more. “Why can’t I meet a man like you?” she asked him. “You know, if I did, I’d never go back home.” It was the truth. There was nothing to go back home to. Her mum was gone. Cass would soon marry that idiot Paul and things would change. Again.
Hannah backed away from the portrait, switched off the bathroom light then slid into bed. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the painting. The flickering firelight gave the impression that he was alive, moving.
All of a sudden, Hannah felt a moment of gripping grief, as if she mourned for the man in the painting. Her eyes filled as her chest tightened with pain. And just as fast as the feeling had come, it went, leaving her feeling nauseous and hot.
Buy Link:
Totally Bound
Amazon
Universal Link
Also Available in Print
Totally Bound
Amazon
Amazon
Universal Link
Also Available in Print
Totally Bound
Amazon
🎃Have a Safe and Happy Halloween!🎃
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