Glass of tequila in his hand, white shirt half open on his chest, raillery in his powerful voice, Jacques’ eyes pierced into Miquel’s:
Miguel laughed, handsome as sin, wind in his inky hair, flames in his green eyes, hands caressing my hips.
‘A votre santé, mon Maréchal de France!’
His laughter resonated in the depths of the night. A shrill echo came back through the cool air.
Jacques’ blue eyes fixed into mine. My eyes flickered into his. He spoke:
“Sin takes place in the mind not in the flesh.”
Shock. Jacques was forcing me to fight my own shadows. My hands pressed on Miguel’s; my body tensed. Miguel’s lips shivered.
Knifes were out. All bets were off. One of us was going to break.
Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers
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