In my latest romance, Triptych, my heroine Miranda wrestles with the question of true love. She also wrestles with recalcitrant sisters, mysterious machines and art thieves.
I probably spent more time choosing the perfect subtitles for my chapters than actually writing it (a slight exaggeration for effect). Each refers to a family crisis or the relationship between siblings. I do hope my readers will take note of them and enjoy the hints at what is to come in the chapter. Here are a couple of my favorites.
The thing about family disasters is that you never have to wait long before the next one puts the previous one into perspective.~ Robert BraultIf you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, it’s just possible you haven’t grasped the situation.”~ Jean Kerr
The Cabot family—three sisters—sees its share of crises. In this excerpt, Miranda and Luc are caught in flagrante delicto…but by whom?
Take lost masterpieces, brilliant inventors, and stolen prototypes. Add the Three Sisters, Indian spirits who guard the Potomac River. Stir in three sisters and their lovers. Result? Jealousy, sex, genius, larceny and love. Who will end up with whom, and will the Three Sisters take another life as the legend demands?
Triptych, by M. S. Spencer
Ebook 67,300 words; Print 213 pp.
M/F, 2 flames
|The Cabot House|
Excerpt (R): The Witness
He kneeled before her, took her hands, and slowly lifted her as he rose. Gently he wrapped her face in his palms and brought his mouth close, closer to her trembling lips. She stood, not wanting to move or breathe, waiting. He barely grazed her lips with his, and stepped back. “Thank you.”
She opened her eyes. He stood quietly, his expression both ardent and patient. A little voice sang in her ear. “Go for it.” She leaned forward, put her arms around his neck, and drew him to her. Her lips smashed against his with all the pent-up desire she’d been pretending didn’t exist. He opened his mouth and parted her teeth, his tongue probing, licking, teasing. Their bodies touched and pressed against each other and they hung on, swaying. Miranda felt wave upon wave of an intense emotion that had to be passion pass through her. The tide did not ebb.
With sudden determination he lifted her and carried her to the bed. “Miranda, I’ve wanted this since I first saw you. Tell me you felt the same.”
Oh, God yes. “No. No, Luc, we can’t. No.”
He stopped unbuttoning her blouse. “Why not? Tell me.” His voice came thickly.
“Because…oh, Luc, it’s not right. I don’t know. I don’t tr—” He stopped the words with another kiss. This time it went deeper still, the streams of desire spreading through her lymph nodes. Her hands and feet tingled and her vulva melted. She let him take off the blouse. Her nipples peeped above the blue lace bra. With his tongue he nudged them out of hiding and fastened on one. Miranda writhed with the pleasure of it, knowing she shouldn’t allow it. He left the nipple and trailed kisses down her belly. Strong hands pulled the skirt down to reveal her blue silk bikini. Before she could say a word, he tore them off. With his hands he spread the vaginal lips and began to lick the folds, sucking up her juices. “Oh, my God, Luc, no.”
He stopped. “No?”
“I…uh…” She looked him full in the face. His black eyes flashed, his tousled hair fell across his brow. Her body let go.
Somehow he knew she had given in. He unbuttoned his jeans and let them drop. She ripped open the crimson oxford shirt he’d been wearing and spattered kisses on his chest. He pushed her down on the bed and rose above her. “Miranda.” Then he plunged into her.
So this is what making love feels like. With Edward it had only been sex. This, this is love. She went to meet him. And they rested.
Miranda’s body felt like a feather bed, like a warm bath, like the eye of the storm. She didn’t think she’d ever been so relaxed or so sure the world was a wonderful place. She gazed at her lover. “Luc?”
He opened one eye. “Yes, mon chou?”
A tiny click. “Oh my God, Luc, we left the door open! Someone heard us.”
About the Author
Although she has lived or traveled in every continent except Antarctica and Australia (bucket list), M. S. Spencer has spent the last thirty years mostly in Washington, D.C. as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter, editor, birdwatcher, kayaker, policy wonk, non-profit director and parent. She has two fabulous grown children, one fabulous grandchild, and currently divides her time between the Gulf coast of Florida and a tiny village in Maine.
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