Well, I have finally finished my new book and it will be released by the end of May by Yellow Silk Dreams Publishing. Moonbeams of Unintended Consequences Is the story about a young woman who meets a young, black opera star post-symphony at an elegant reception held in one of the symphony benefactors mansions in San Francisco.
A greeting, a touch, a shared breath. Their worlds collide and ignite in an erotic explosion of volcanic proportions that neither could resist. How about a bit of a blurb and a tasty teaser?
Enjoy ~ ☼ღஜ ﾚo√乇 ¸.☆¨¯`*.✿.*˜”*° ♥
SHE wore a flowing, form fitted white spaghetti strapped gown that cascaded in tumbled silken folds to her abdomen and revealed her breath in the soft rise of her alabaster breasts. Her eyes reflected an emerald depth with gold flecks that edged to hazel and were framed by neat, arched brows that narrowed to her temples where her heartbeat announced the rhythm of her life. Her only adornment was a starkly white gardenia nestled in the curves of her auburn. The heavy floral fragrance of the corsage announced her arrival as she glided elegantly to her aisle and settled, like a dove, into her center seat. She was alone…but not for long.
Would she regret her indulgence?
HE was a towering, self-assured giant of a black man, chest broad and arms outstretched in opulent black leather. His intense black eyes locked irresistibly onto her and declared his hunger. The opera house erupted with his full bass-baritone harmony. His musical seduction began, and his hypnotic gaze was met by her eager response as she answered his desire with a blush.
But, was his desire enough?
THEY spent an insatiable night together in Room 457 of the Historic Whitcomb Hotel locked in a magnetic embrace riding moonbeams of passion and ribbons of desire that wove them irretrievably together in ways that only the future would disclose—a future neither of them ever anticipated. Would the secrets of the past, of that one night, prove too much to bear as the future unfolds the truth and the depths of her desperate need?
Would the life and death struggle she faced overshadow the seeds of love planted a decade earlier?
The orchestra warmed up in a disconnected, faltering collection of notes, strings and horns as the wealthy patrons filed into the theatre and were settled. She wore a flowing yet form fitted white spaghetti strapped gown with a backline to the small of her back above the well-rounded cheeks of her ass. The cascading neckline tumbled in silken folds to her abdomen which revealed her breath in the soft rise of her alabaster breasts.
She was of medium height with an envious rubenesque shape most men admired: long, shapely legs nipped tightly at the ankle tapering to narrow, small demi-feet elegantly adorned in satin heeled slippers with scarlet, well-pedicured peek-a-boo toes, full breasted bosom with pert erect nipples stretched against the fabric of her gown, round hips that accentuated a narrow waist and a lovely pleasing back that joined all her sumptuous qualities. Her eyes reflected an emerald depth with gold flecks that edged to hazel and were framed by neat, arched brows that narrowed to her temples where her heartbeat announced the rhythm of her life. Her rounded cheekbones accentuated the graceful curve of her jaw line as it narrowed to a slightly dimpled chin below heart-shaped ruby lips. Her only adornment was a starkly white gardenia nestled in the curves of her auburn curls that caressed the pale white opaque flesh of her face. The heavy floral fragrance of the corsage announced her arrival. She glided elegantly to her aisle and settled, like a dove, into her center seat. She was alone.
The house lights dimmed yet she glowed, demurely, in the white gown as if she were unmistakably the main attraction.
She stared as he walked onstage: a towering, self-assured giant of a black man, arms outstretched in black opulent leather to embrace the audience, she felt to embrace her. His piercing gaze locked irresistibly onto her, in all her radiant purity. His intense black eyes seemed to declare his hunger.
The opera house erupted with his full bass-baritone harmony. He sang, it seemed to Jordan, to no one but her as she smiled quite involuntarily. Each throaty, reverberating note he released strummed every nerve to her very foundation. His musical seduction began, and would surely end she thought, with her in his outstretched arms.
Her petulant feminine petals nestled in the protective mound where her thighs joined. They slowly filled with her eager response and unfolded the protection of the essential pearl of her existence as she answered his desire with a blush.
She sat through the entire performance tethered to his gaze. The magnetism she could not resist overtook her fully and her responses were involuntary yet welcome. She felt his gaze through her gown caress her, push her, tease her and excite her with every deep vibrato he released into the hall.
She was, therefore, completely surprised when the lights raised and the fluid embrace of his voice was gradually replaced by the swelling bustle of movement from the exiting audience. She looked to her left and right, then up to the stage beautifully shrouded by long red opulent velvet curtains separating her from the object of the gathered passion in her belly.
Her reverie broken, she returned to the moment at hand. As she rose, the romantic trance invoked by his voice broke, the hold eased, and dropped shard by shard from her body so that she could move. She gathered her wits, shook off the spell and seemed to float in the afterglow with the others to the atrium. She exited the main entrance to the broad threshold above the street below.
She took a few steps outside and shocked by the damp San Francisco night, drew her wrap ever tighter to her heaving breast, her nipples still erect from the seduction of the opera star. She paused a moment, enjoyed the remains of her trance, and proceeded down the steps to hail a cab.
The after symphony reception was held at the home of one of San Francisco’s most prominent elite, a huge supporter and member of the Symphony Board of Directors, Drake Morrison. Drake and his wife Amelia were friends of Jordan’s parents who were absent because of a holiday in the Orient. Jordan’s parents were regular supporters of the Symphony and met the Morrisons frequently during intermission on most opening nights for a glass of champagne. She had been invited as a distraction from her solitude to join them on opening night at the reception in their home. She agreed to attend eagerly as she often attended the symphony with her Mother when her Father was unable.
She felt her low-belly tighten; her heart pounded and her palms tingled with perspiration in anticipation. The main opera lead and cast always came to the receptions. The non-profit organization relied upon their attendance to boost donations so she knew she would see him here and she wondered if he would even recognize her or if the reverie of connection had been hers alone.
When he entered with his entourage, he towered over everyone with his black elegance. He was beautiful, a stunning black onyx statue carved to magnificent perfection. When she saw him, only feet away, she staggered slightly as he turned to her with an outstretched hand in greeting, eyes locked in a magnetic embrace. She lost her breath and her heart in one moment as she touched his fingertips with hers.
He clasped her hand with the both of his and pulled her close to his body with a knowing smile curled on the curve of his chiseled jaw line. She felt his heat, was hypnotized by his aroma. She knew then that he remembered her in the audience; he had sung to her, he had sent his words in musical notes on foils to surround her, lift and seduce her.
The moment was suspended when he was directed to further introductions. He bowed ever so slightly with his departure and barely whispered, a bientot, mem’selle, his breath searing her neckline. She weakened in his presence and felt ill-balanced on a passionate precipice as he moved away. Their arms outstretched unwilling to be parted, her hand slid from his as their fingertips relinquished an electric hold.
“A bientot, mem’selle,” he had said. She hung on every word with rapt expectation for their next meeting as he moved into the crowd of admirers.
She watched as he worked the room, seducing male and female alike with his charisma and brilliance. He was a master in the simple ministration of his charm. He spoke with confidence, smiled at nonsensical nervous banter and made everyone most relaxed in his presence with an effortless touch.
The night edged on and she resigned she was like all the others, seduced by the sheer presence of the man. She sought out the Morrisons and bid them a grateful goodnight. She went into the library where her wrap was hung. A manly black hand extended and took it from her grip and as she spun, he curled her into his embrace as well as the shawl.
“My room key at the Hotel Whitcomb. The town car service I called to take you there is waiting outside. Room 457. Have I presumed too much?” as he pressed himself to her body and the key card into her hand. The low melodious tone of his voice melted any thought of resistance.
“I, ah…No, you have not presumed beyond expectation. I ache to feel you inside me, truly, and I thank you for your discretion. The Morrisons are long time friends of my parents who don’t yet consider me a grown woman,” she smiled into his down-turned eyes and smelled his heat.
© Muffy Wilson
Author Bio and Links:
Muffy, author of erotic, romantic stories about love, sex, hope and passion, was born in San Antonio, Texas, to traditional parents. With two older brothers, she was the youngest, the family “princess,” indulged and pampered. She adored her older brothers, following them everywhere and was surrounded by love, stimulation, and pets. Her father was a career Colonel and pilot in the U.S. Air Force which required the family to travel extensively. The family lived in most points between Alaska and France. Muffy spent her formative years in Europe and came of age in France.
Returning from France with her family, Muffy finished high school in Northern California and attended the University of California, Davis, and majored inBusiness Management. Muffy entered the work force, independent with a fierce work ethic, and retired at 39 from IBM as a Mid-West Regional Director in the Real Estate and Construction Division. She and her husband moved to a small Island in northern Wisconsin where they owned a historic tavern, restaurant and resort business which they since have sold. They now live a charmed life by the water in SW Florida. Muffy pretends to be a serious real estate business person but, in real life, indulges her private interest in writing sexy short stories and sensual literotica ~ Live, Laugh, Love with Passion.
Secret Cravings Publishing, Oysters & Chocolate, Decadent Publishing, Ravenous Romance, Yellow Silk Dreams Publishing
Cheerleaders in Heat ~ TBA Summer 2015
Other Novels and Contributions: