There is no, no, moment more de-stressing and instantly-stressing than that when you hit the Send button for a new submission. In that single second, that one flash-all-the-days-of-my-life bite of time, every single flaw in my new tale becomes so obvious.
I know I’ll never be able to look my editor in the eyes again because I am not just stupid, but stoooopid. Oy vey! To be such a smuck as to submit a book with so many errors.
Okay, that said, I am going to go the unthinkable. Yep, that’s right, I am going to sneak preview book five in The Hades Squad series, Satan.
Here we go:
Satan flinched when the doorbell rang.
Jess must’ve forgotten something.
Satan slammed the three old fashioned deadbolts that secured his backdoor and headed for the main entrance to the home that had been in his family for two generations. A quick glance at the ornate grandfather clock, a hand-made Rolex dating from the eighteenth century, in the palatial and imposing lobby confirmed his mental calculations. Five minutes to ten.
Ding, dong, ding dong.
“Hold your horses Devil,” Satan called out, jammed his phone into his back pocket, and opened one side of the mahogany door.
He did a double-take.
For there, standing on the black and white patterned marble u-shaped top step, stood a striking flame-haired stranger wearing the epitome of the little black dress. She had skin that defined the word porcelain. The eyes staring at him were of an impossible hue, a true powder blue. Her scarlet lips, the top one pouty and plump, the lower wide and generous, drained all the blood from his brain.
Satan’s groin tightened.
“Hi. I’m supposed to meet Jess Blaine here tonight.” The woman extended a bare arm. “I’m Angelica O’Malley.”
On autopilot, Satan shook her hand. Static electricity crackled when their palms met, and he tensed his pelvic muscles when his cock went rigid. Not since college had he reacted so strongly to a female. “Lorcan McGillycuddy.”
A fierce jolt of deprivation hit him when she wriggled her hand free of his, and hugged her arms.
The meager gray cells still functioning had him noting the absence of a coat. He pushed the door wide, gestured for her to enter, and swept a glance down the long driveway leading to the wide Porte Cochere. No sign of a vehicle.
He closed the door and spun about to face her.
“It’s a tich on the quiet side.” She crinkled her nose and squeezed her eyes shut before staring right at him again. “I missed the whole thing, didn’t I? My plane was late and my cell’s dead. The limo driver offered me his, but who remembers numbers anymore? Do you live here? May I impose on you for a few minutes longer? I’m afraid I need to use your, um, bathroom.”
He wondered if she gave head. With lips like hers, it’d be a sin if she didn’t.
She grazed her fingers to his forearm. “I’m babbling, aren’t I? Um, Lorcan—the bathroom?”
He couldn’t drag his gaze from her red nails. Visions of her hands on his dick interrupted his processing of her constant stream of sentences. The bathroom. She wanted to use his bathroom. Damn, he’d sell his left nut for a chance to lather her generous rack. “Let me show you the way.”
With the full knowledge he had no right to do so, Satan set his hand to the small of her back. Angelica O’Malley had the body of a centerfold female. Voluptuous and curvy, the stretchy onyx number she wore together with the ruby red four-inch stilettos had him conjuring her shedding clothes to the tune of The Stripper.
A whiff of her perfume teased his nose. “Shalimar?”
She stumbled, he tightened his hold on her, and when she craned her neck to meet his gaze, the Satan in him surrendered to temptation and he brushed his lips over hers.
Her mouth parted and he slid his tongue into her heat.
She shoved at him.
Bemused, he gawked at her.
“I really do have to go.”
Satan shook his head, but the physical action didn’t break the sexual cobwebs clogging his mind. “The bathroom. Right.”
Not for a second did he consider releasing her from his hold. He forced himself to continue walking down the hallway and halted at the open door to the powder room. “Would you like a glass of wine? Or would you prefer a cocktail?”
She cocked her head to one side and a slow, sex-bomb smile chased those scarlet lips. “You’re a tactical man. Ex-military’s my guess. Either is fine. And yes, Shalimar.”
He remained standing there long after she shut the door in his face.
Satan hurried to the kitchen, snagged a bottle of Australian Grenache from the wine cooler, and grabbed two crystal goblets and an opener. He made it back to the hallway just as she exited the bathroom.
“Better?” She’d have to spend the night, because the first screw was going to go down fast, and once just wasn’t going to cut it.