By Jaime Samms (Guest Blogger)
Paranormal erotic romance from Pink Petal Books
Hi, everybody I know Lisabet's away, so a few of her friends have decided to drop by and…er…blog sit. Yes. That's it. Blog sit. It certainly isn't a party, and most definitely not a sizzling one. You know. If anyone should ask or anything. I know you must be thinking, if it isn't a party, then why are all these characters, who aren't Lisabet's characters, here? Well. There's a simple explanation for that. At least, I know why mine are here. You see, they never seem able to let me go anywhere in the blogosphere without they have to come too. Just to see what's going on. Just to try and show off their stuff. They like attention, and I'm just the facilitator. At least, it feels like that some days. Even after their stories are written, sometimes, I feel like I am a window onto the wider world for my characters. Or, perhaps, that they are a window for me, into an inner world where story muses dwell and occasionally, gift me with their view of the world.
So without much more fan fare, might I introduce Tim. He's blind, which may or may not be why he see ghosts. We never did figure out if that had anything to do with it, but I don't really think it matters. The ghosts don't seem to care…
Tim has seen more since he lost his eyesight than he ever did before, but he's in very real danger of overlooking the one man who's been watching him a long time.Timmy has lost one family member after another, and now he's losing his eyesight, as well. It's no wonder he holds tight to the ghostly lover who always seems to meet him in the park in dead of night when he's tired of being alone.
Lately, though, Tim's been hearing other, less friendly voices out of the dark, and his long-time friend and neighbor, Mark, is worried. When he tries to intervene and suggest Tim start acting more like the blind man he is, Tim refuses his help only to find he can't hang onto his ghosts without paying a very personal price.
When his ghost lover finally says good bye, Tim finds he maybe should have listened to Mark after all, only now, it might be too late.
"What happened?" Was there concern in the voice? It was hard to tell. Tim closed his eyes and tried to remember what his visitor looked like. He was only a husky voice these days.
Tim could remember his sound, his smell, remembered his name, but how he looked was slipping away. Tim drove his memory back, imagined dark eyes, intense, unwavering, a gaze only for him. It seemed so far away now. "Okay, well," Finality. His visitor was getting ready to leave.
"Then what are you doing out here?"
"Look—" Tim cleared the nerves from his throat and tried again. "Looking for you."
"What makes you think—" The question hung, half asked, in the damp air. Tim wondered if there was fog tonight.
"I would find you?" Tim turned his head to where he imagined he might see the speaker's face, if he could see anything in the dark. "You're always around, Gordie."
"How do you know?" Suspicion? Fear?
Tim leaned away, reached up to find an arm and moved his hand up to the shoulder, not quite daring to go further. "I heard you. You took tomatoes from the neighbor's garden and you slept on our porch with the cat." He gripped the flannel shirt under his fingers and leaned closer, lowered his voice. "You took my father's shirt, and you sometimes climb up into the tree outside my window." His voice was barely a whisper now and Gordon's nearness sent a shiver through him. "I bet you watch me sleep."
There was a snicker, and Gordon jerked Tim's hand free of the fabric, crushed it in a tight fist.
Tim grimaced, but didn't utter any sound.
"I watch you do a lot of things, Tim‐tim."
"Why do you watch?" Tim asked, trying not to let the pain into his voice. He felt his way through the thick air, the threat, his own uncertainty, to find lips. "When you could do it with me?" he whispered against those lips.
Gordon drove him to the ground under his weight. "What do you want me to do with you, Tim‐tim?"
Tim didn't mind the reassuring weight holding him down. It was warm when they did this, and almost felt like what they did together mattered. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool skin of his companion's cheek, sliding his thumb along the side of his nose and over his lips. He raised his other hand to the man's forehead and slipped his fingers over the lines of worry there, down his face, gently over his eyes, exploring with his hands what the darkness hid. "Kiss me."
"Kiss you?" The body above him rose a little, and Tim clung to a handful of flannel and tiny buttons.
"I always wanted to, when you used to come at night and peer in the windows. I wanted to sneak out and talk to you, meet you. But I never did."
"You stopped coming."
"No. Why did you want to meet me?" There was a hint of wonder in the question, and Tim relaxed his grip to reach up and read the emotion with his fingers, in the slack set of the man's jaw, his lax lips. He touched Gordon's bottom lip with his thumb and smiled.
"Because you could have snuck into anyone's porch, peeked in anyone's window. You kept coming back to mine. Maybe I wanted to know why."
Gordon kissed his thumb and leaned close again, kissing along Tim's jaw to his chin, pausing just before their lips met. "Because you left your curtains open." His hand snuck under Tim's t‐shirt. "All that pale flesh on display. You did that on purpose."
"Maybe." Tim squirmed to get the hand where he wanted it, in full contact with his chilled side. As Gordon's hand roved over his stomach and chest, he closed his eyes, and the image of his partner's face came back to him. Long black hair and narrow features, dark eyes, a sharp nose and thin, almost pointed chin. Most of all, he remembered the lust, shining from his eyes and accenting his smooth, hairless features. He saw again the fine lips curved in a satisfied smile as he watched. Tim's hips lifted, creating friction that met with movement against him and made him moan. He turned his head, searching for lips and tongue. He found them, as eager for contact as he was.
Gordon thrust a hand inside his jeans, and they both squirmed for contact, Tim shivering as cold fingers wrapped around his hardness. He ground up into Gordon's grip, jerking his hips against Gordon's erection, and moaning into his mouth.
Memories washed through Tim, of spreading himself, naked on his bed and waiting for the telltale shimmer of moonlight on glossy leaves as Gordon climbed the tree outside his window to watch him. The excitement of knowing he was under scrutiny always made it better for Tim. Even when the view out his window began to blur as his eyes lost their focus, just knowing there was someone there turned it into something other than a solitary, lonely activity. The sensation of eyes on him became addictive, made it easier to forget for a little while all the other things that weren't right in his life.
"Tim‐tim." Gordon's voice in his ear brought him back to the present. "Come for me, Timtim. Like you used to, moaning, with your head thrown back, your throat exposed." His mouth travelled down to cover Tim's throat with possessive, hungry lips. He licked at Tim's Adam's apple, sucking the skin between his teeth, then travelled back up, close to his ear. "Come in my hand, Tim‐tim."
Even as he spoke, his own hips moved, faster, harder, against Tim's body, crushing his buttocks against the cold ground. Gordon's fist clenched hard around Tim as he came, groaning into Tim's neck and jerking spasmodically against him.
"Don't stop," Tim gasped, hammered his hips up into Gordon, moving his cock inside the tight grip, clamping his teeth around a harsh shout as he finished and sagged. They lay, for a while, Gordon's lips roving over Tim's face and throat, and Tim's hands traveling up and down, swarming over Gordon's body while the flush of orgasm cooled.
When they finally parted, and sat up, once again side by side, the smell of Gordon's coat, his sweat and their sex mingled, filling Tim with a sad longing. Gordon had drifted out of his life a long time ago. He sighed and stood.
"One of these days, Tim‐tim," Gordon said through a cloud of cigarette stench, his voice immediately level with Tim. "One of these days, someone else will find you instead of me."
"Nah." Tim stood, snugged his jeans back in place around his hips, and oriented himself back the way he'd come. "You'll always find me first. Or I'll find you."
"How do you know?"
Tim glanced back over his shoulder. He couldn't be sure exactly where Gordon was, but he felt the other's presence somewhere behind him. "You hum."
"I what?" Gordon removed the jacket from Tim's shoulders. "I hum?"
"Yeah." Tim put a hand on Gordon's chest and felt the deceptive solidity through the soft material. "I can hear it. The less I see, the better I hear you. It's like…" he smiled and let his hand fall. "I don't know what it's like, but I like it."
"I knew I should have left a long time ago," Gordon muttered, but Tim heard the teasing under the words. More seriously, he asked, "Does anyone else hum?"
"No." Tim shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Sis yells. It's all she ever did, even before she was a ghost. I don't get along so well with her as with you."
"We never used to get along, when—"
"When you were alive?"
Bio: Jaime Samms has been writing for various publishers since the fall of 2008, although she's been writing for herself far longer. Often asked why men, what’s so fascinating about writing stories about men falling in love, she's never come up with an easy answer. She's always written stories about men in general, and about men in love when she first started noticing these things. For a long time, she thought she was pretty odd.
Right now, you can find her work on her website, for starters. If you flip through the pages of her site, you’ll find plenty of free reading. she also writes for Freya’s Bower, Loveyoudivine Alterotica, Pink Petal Books, Dreamspinner Press and Total E-Bound.
You can find her on the web in various places: