Samantha's Secret: Book 3 (The Elvis Angel Series)

Samantha's Secret: Introduction

The Angelic Saga that started with Eternal Flame (2007) And Dream Angel (2011) continues with Samantha's Secret.     www.patriciagarber.com                       

Copyright © 2012 by Patricia Garber

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. The characters are all either fictious or used in a fictious manner. Names, incidents and places are combined with the author’s imagination for entertainment only.

This book is not authorized or endorsed by the Estate of Elvis Presley or by the estate of any other person.

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                                                           INTRODUCTION

               Why did he crave her?  That was the real question.  For if he was truly honest with himself, it was this naive and yet complex woman that he wanted, and had for more than a year now.  He had wanted her from the moment he saw her, the moment he became her protector, her guardian.  And he no more understood how it had come to this; he, a heaven sent angel, lurking in the shadows to spend time with her, than he understood what had summoned him to her bed in the first place. 

               But there she was, Samantha Lynn Bennett, lying before him, naked, awash in the moonlight. And while his mind labored on their unique situation, his gaze roamed her body freely. Why had he come?  "Why," he growled. Then she moaned, a soft breathy whimper really, but one that was so deeply filled with ecstasy, it instantly woke his primitive self. That sinful self he thought had died on his last drawn breath so long ago. 

             Ah yes, he thought. There it was–the reason why–evident in her quickening breath.   She was calling to him alright, of that there was no question.  Not literally but metaphorically, in the sense that she had summoned him with her mind. She was caught in a dream so real, it gripped her, possessed her—and drew him in.

             He willed his gaze back to her face, watched as her eyes shifted under closed lids. He admired the way her raven eyelashes lay across her porcelain skin like delicate quills.  He thought her lips looked slightly swollen, as if she'd been kissed and often. And he remembered with great accuracy the feel of her mouth, all supple softness, pressed against his.

             All that was uniquely Samantha, right down to the overtly feminine scent of her hair—of her—seemed to encompass him.  Her passion enticed him, licking at his flesh until he was mentally gritting his teeth. He clinched his fists and held on to his primal hunger with an unrelenting resolve.  He imagined he was anywhere but where he was—standing in a gorgeous woman's bedroom, two seconds away from ripping off his own clothes with his bare hands.

             A stream of pictures flashed through his mind. He saw arms and legs, bodies entwined. There was so much movement he couldn't process the scene around him. But he didn't need to see to understand. He could feel her touching him; feel fingertips running through his mane, skimming down his sideburns.  And he knew, though he couldn't right away say why, that he was stroking her back. 

            He could sense her beneath him, keeping his rhythm. He found her tongue with his and slowly sampled, savoring. And as his real self joined his imaginary self, they licked, nipped, and suckled, encouraging her moans while stifling them at the same time. He heard her groan, and even more shocking, heard himself answer back in a deep grainy growl. This was a fantasy without the guilt.  He wanted more. He had to have her. And in that moment, decided to take his fill–devour until satisfied–and ride out the dream to its climactic end.

          In this imaginary world, he was already between her silken thighs and deeply buried within her body–loving her as he'd never done before.  A wave of emotion rushed through him; love, regret and a ribbon of thrill.  He couldn't make heads or tails of it, couldn't think as her hands were exploring him, running down his back and over his buttocks. She was pushing him on and on and on through each wave of ecstasy.  He couldn't catch his breath—didn't care. He felt her giving him the reins and watched as his imaginary self grasped her knee and hooked her leg over his hip. He thrust, felt her body open to him, and immediately, greedily, seized that extra inch.

         In the real world, he was standing a step away from Samantha's bed. His feet were planted, as if cemented to the carpet.  His hands were clinched at his side, fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers.  Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead down his cheeks. His body was ablaze. His skin was so alive that the clothes he wore felt constricting and suffocating. The zipper on his pants was tight, virtually cutting off circulation--but not quite.

         He mentally screamed under the pressure.  I'm. In. Control! 

        As if to debate the fact, the dreamscape Samantha tilted her hips, offering deeper more gratifying penetration.

        "G-o-d," he heard himself groan in one world while he felt the fabric he'd been clutching tear from the strain in another.  He had to pull back. NOW!        

          In the dream world, he placed both hands firmly on the mattress, one on either side of Sam's head. In the real world, he merely extended his arms outward, wrists flexed and palms flat.  He pushed.  For a moment, nothing happened.  Then his world spun. He felt woozy, nearly cross eyed, as every ounce of blood seemed to surge south.  His stomach muscles tightened.  His whole body compressed. And when the pressure amplified, he knew what was yet to come.

         There was a moment of push and pull and then…nothing. One moment he was spellbound and the next it was as if someone had dumped an ice cold bucket of water over his head. Every muscle in his body cramped with disappointment. He sucked in a tight breath and his eyes flashed open.  He was still standing at Sam's bedside.  She lay before him, her body glistening with perspiration.

         Though the bands of his need were stretched painfully tight, he managed to take one shaky step back. Then she sighed, "Elvis," and his internal reins suddenly cracked once again. He stepped her way then caught himself and marched to the far corner of the room. He dared not move–and since he didn't really need to breathe–he didn't. 

        The cool night's breeze fluttered the curtains next to the bed. 

        Braced against the wall, his lip curled into that legendary half smile he was famous for.   He did not consider himself a conceited man, but the sound of Samantha's soft mewling had him grinning like an alley cat. He waited, breath baited. Then with a muffled scream, Samantha shattered before him, crying out, "Elvis, Elvis, Elvis," on a long note of ecstasy, and his sly grin slipped into a wide smile. 

       Moonlight streamed through the window, a silvery ray of light cascading across Sam's glistening frame.  She looked sated and satisfied lying there in the afterglow.  And though he had not laid a hand on her–had not eased his own need–he was richly pleased.