How about a snippet?
Even as Finn caught her hands, she twisted away and wrapped her arms around him from behind.
“You always say that.” She bit him on the ear and from behind, she pressed her breasts to him. “But then you look at me and you want me to touch you. I want to touch you…what’s the harm?”
Fire licked at his flesh, and he wasn’t just talking about the lust.
Built in controls kicked in, because even in his dreams—and Finn knew he was dreaming—Finn could never lose control of that fire. He gripped her wrists, squeezed, squeezed, squeezed until he felt bones grind together. “There’s lots of harm.”
His voice was coldly practical and when he pulled away, she didn’t try to draw him back to her.
He turned, look at her.
Sanity splintered, try to fall to pieces around him as he stared at her. A quiet beauty—that had been Becky, the woman he’d loved, the only woman. She looked at him now, but she hadn’t been the woman nibbling on his ear a moment ago.
Not Becky…and worse, he knew her. Granted, the last time he’d seen her—the only time he’d seen her, she’d worn a mask of blood and there been still more blood spilling from the gutwound in her stomach. Now, though, she wore a chemise and pantaloons, a corset that was clearly meant to be seen the only other piece of clothing. It was entirely likely she’d been wearing the same garments the day she’d died—the day he’d failed to save her.
Just like he’d failed to save Becky.
“How is your touch ever going to harm me, Finn?” she asked as she came close to him. Her nipples pressed against the thin cloth of her chemise and through the almost sheer pantaloons, he saw the dark shadow between her thighs.
But that wasn’t what made his throat go dry, or what had his heart slam against his chest with an intensity he hadn’t known since before his death.
She’d spoken to him…in Becky’s voice.
But Becky was dead, and unlike Finn, when she’d died, she hadn’t been brought back through Death’s door.
“Stop,” he growled, uncertain what trick his brain was playing on him. Dreaming. He had to be. He’d never much cared to dream, but this had to be the worst—
She smiled at him and as the smile curved her lips, her face wavered, reformed. Now she was growing taller, her skin darkening from pale cream to a warm, toffee brown. “Stop what?”
“This…this game. Just stop it, sweetheart, stop it now.”
Something cold flooded the room.
“Sweetheart,” she hissed. The word was cold, almost ugly and he swung his head back to look at her. The change was complete and he froze, because once, more, he recognized her.
A woman he’d known, only briefly, in Quebec, a century ago, give or take. Although could he say he knew her? She’d died while he watched and he hadn’t been able to stop it, hadn’t been able to help, except to see that she didn’t die alone.
She snarled at him, oblivious to his shock as she yellowed at him, enraged. The words were in French and he had to struggle to translate them. The most he could come up with a mangled version of “I told you never to call me sweetheart!”
A chill raced down his spine.
Not Becky…but again, it was Becky’s voice, in a language she didn’t know…and worse, those were her words.
She lunged for him
He caught her hand just before she would have struck him and then she changed.
Again. He could even feel the shift and change of her skin, the very texture of it changing, from soft and smooth, to skin that rougher, dryer, and pale, freckled. “Son of a…” The words caught in his throat and he stopped, mid-sentence as her finished forming.
Unwittingly, he reached up and cupped her face.
“Why?” he whispered. The question wasn’t directed at her. But at himself, or God, or whatever puppetmaster was directing this dream. “Why are you doing this?”
The fire inside him leaked free at that moment and he jerked back as flames licked at her.
She didn’t even notice.
She reached for him, her fingers touching his cheek.
She reached up, her features melting back into Becky’s face. But when she spoke, it was in German.
“”Finn…erkennst du mich nicht?”
He tore back, tore himself away, out of the dream, just as the fire threatened to break past his control.
He found himself on the floor of the little house where he lived, perched on the edge where the Ohio and the Mississippi met, miles from the place where he’d once called home. His skin burned and itched, a weird red rolling underneath it as the fire tried to escape him.
He banished it.
But he couldn’t banish the dream.
Or that question.
“Finn…don’t you know me?”
Spoken in Becky’s voice, but in a language she’d never spoken.
That fire gave one more slow roll under his skin as he rubbed at his face.
“Son of a bitch.”
The Grimm Books are still just .99 cents… except Candy Houses, which is free. Dunno how much longer it will last. Check out the Grimm page for links to each book.