Friday, November 1, 2013




Written in homage to Agatha Christie, this tale is a haunting, a murder, a thriller, a mystery, a time-travel of sorts, and a love story that transcends time. Dreamscape is also a reader's Easter egg hunt. Not everything is as it appears. Peppered throughout are little clues suggesting a story running behind the scenes. 
Setting the Stage: Lanie returns from a blind date but has no idea a ghost has been pacing the halls waiting on her return. Wanting to know how she would react to a ghost in the house, he disrupts the TV, knocks a spoon to the floor, and opens a cabinet door. And getting only her curious reaction, he follows her upstairs where after reveling in her living warmth, he falls into her dream and into the life he once lived. (The story as follows has been modified for today's broad viewing audience. Dreamscape is a scorching love story with more than one adult theme)
Excerpt:Taking a seat in the chair across from her as she scribbled small pictures onto her notepad, flowers mostly, daisies and lily-of-the-valley, he read the messages she wrote to herself regarding what needed to be done the following morning. This list was the shortest yet. Occasionally she’d look at the cabinet door to see if it would actually move again. He was tempted, but a part of him was too afraid she’d leave, never to return. Then the moment he had waited the entire day for happened. She yawned.

“You’re tired, you should rest,” he whispered. He could see the suggestion taking root in her mind. Putting her nearly full cup in the sink, she headed to bed.

Watching her sleep, Jason sat beside her a long while thinking on how lovely she looked tonight. He would have loved to have been the man to take her out on the town, to the theater perhaps. Out for dinner, certainly. If his own kisses had swelled those luscious lips, he would have ventured from her sweet mouth to the tops of those exquisite breasts so tantalizingly displayed in the décolleté of her neckline. His entire being desired to lose himself in the living heat of her. There was simply no stopping himself from caressing her, having lost that particular battle of conscience the first night she lay in his bed. He’d convinced himself that as long as he kept his baser needs to himself, touching her while she was completely unaware was a harmless compulsion.

Materializing just under the linens, his glowing form lit the sheet like a Japanese lantern. He whispered to her unconscious mind as she lay curled on her side, “Lay back for me, sweetheart, let me look at you fully while I feel how warm you are.”

Unconsciously responding to his suggestion, she rolled on her back, one arm tossed casually over her pillow.

Once more marveling that he was able to touch her at all, he swept her raven hair back from her lovely face, his thumb lightly tracing the delicate arch of her eyebrow. Touching her skin was like touching a rose petal in his garden, a warm sun-kissed rose petal. Gliding his hands over her warmth, he caressed her trim belly and arms all the while carefully avoiding the dove-soft breasts as any gentleman might unless given leave. Though it was true she hadn’t granted leave for any touching, the fragment of his gentlemanly comportment quickly faded as her living heat seeped into him.

He imagined her then as he saw her in her dream—imagined he was alive and he’d taken her out for the evening. And in his musings he’d kiss her rose-tinted lips for the longest time and she’d come to his bed without hesitation. Maidenly airs aside, she’d want him as he wanted her. He’d leisurely undress her himself, slowly unlacing the corset she didn’t need to wear. He’d kneel at her feet to roll stockings down those beautiful smooth legs. He imagined he could smell the heated scent of her arousal because he was a flesh-and-blood man again. And while his imaginative yearnings delighted his fancy, his respectful touch had unconsciously grown bolder.

Passing right through him, she rolled over on her side and hugged her pillow. Breathing the perfume behind her ear, he lightly spooned against her. His glowing blue arm wrapped possessively around her waist, and his hand filled with the soft weight of her breast. Lying there, Jason’s mind was awhirl. He hadn’t felt this way about a woman before, not once while he lived, and certainly not once since he’d died.

Thoughts of his duplicitous wife came unbidden. Under the guise of shyness, Cathy had shunned such intimate attempts to bring her pleasure. Even his innocent kisses. Terrified tears met his advances on their wedding night, and in the four months of marriage he’d lived as a monk waiting for her “comfort to grow.” Of course, it never did, in fact they hadn’t yet consummated their marriage. She’d managed to kill him off before her avowed shyness was tested.

The little Cathy did suffer his affections, his kiss upon her cheek, his caress as she passed, were simply a part of the ruse that gigged him like a frog. Blinded with desire for his beautiful wife, he didn’t immediately see the changes in her when he’d brought her home. Having time to think like he had, he recognized Cathy was indeed cold as a woman, selfish to his calling as a physician, and disdaining to his friends and the people in his employ, some of whom had been with his family longer than he had lived. At the time he attributed those changes in her demeanor to her missing her dear friends in Atlanta. He knew her father had died in the war, her mother shortly after. Knew too she was raised by a distant fourth cousin who had children of her own. Cathy was extremely close to those cousins. He frowned at the thought.

The preposterous lie she’d told him on their wedding night as she cried and begged her shy sensibilities to keep his attentions at bay all but melted away after his death. He pushed the image of Cathy and her longtime lover from his mind. He’d lived as a monk with his shy wife, while she enjoyed her carnal feast with such abandon that no one could doubt the act had happened many times before.

Confused as to how he could have been so blind, he’d studied the pair, looking for the shy, delicate angel his wife pretended to be and finding instead the practiced whore. The whole thing, their lies and his ignorance, sickened him. Unable to stomach more, he hid himself away in the cupola for one hundred years of solitude and stayed there until one night when he’d heard lonely Margaret cry.

Lanie shifted positions, her movement redirecting his dark thoughts. This kind and gentle creature in his arms, this beauty with her hot blood coursing through her veins, was as different from Cathy as night was from day. With her in his arms he almost felt like a flesh-and-blood man again. Breathing the mingled scent of perfume and soap and a woman’s arousal, he whispered at her ear as his essence plied her synapse, “Dream, sweetheart, dream of me again.” 

And she did, right where the last had left off.


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  1. Impressive publicity! I hope this blog hop proves very successful.

    1. :) Thanks. I really like the TRR parties. My multiple choice question comes at the end of the month.


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