Soulmates Touch by Emma Paul

SOULMATE’S TOUCH By Emma Paul
Romiel is a gargoyle, an offspring of a Demon father and Vampire mother. Cursed by a powerful human wizard, Romiel and all Gargoyles are imprisoned in stone. And only the touch of a true Soulmate can free him. The moment that Joyce touches Romiel, she knows there is a strong bond between them. Although she tries to justify why loving a Gargoyle is wrong, her heart, soul and body refuse to listen.

Together she and Romiel face an uncertain future, as evil forces are unleashed on the unsuspecting humans. In the midst of an ancient war between the immortal vampires and demons, Romiel must unite with an old enemy in order to protect the human race against certain annihilation. As their love for each other grows stronger, Joy and Romiel must face evil head on to save humanity and the Gods themselves.

Excerpt
Pain sliced through Romiel’s body. Liquid fire ran in his veins, as his body convulsed to life. The face before him blurred; yet Romiel recognized the delicate bone structure. It was not his mother but another who kneeled before him. One Romiel had envisioned while imprisoned in the lucid dream state of the black void. Air filled his lungs. Sensations of sharp needles pricking his flesh crawled up each leg.

The pain was excruciating, yet he welcomed it as if it were an old friend. How long had it been? His skin burned as the transformation from stone to flesh spread up his limbs, to his chest, then finally his head. He fell forward landing on something…no, someone.

Gasping for breath, Romiel shook the haziness from his head to focus on who was underneath him. So weak. It was difficult to move after what felt like an eternity encased in stone.

Nothing smelled familiar, except the clean sent of a human female. The fragrance sweet and pleasant filled his nostrils. For a moment, he believed Eve finally came to release him from this suffering. Slowly, his sharp senses came alive.

Carefully, he held himself up on shaking arms, so not to crush the smaller body beneath him. The woman screamed. Romiel paused, captivated by the lovely green eyes staring back at him. Then, the full impact of her high pitched screeching reached his sensitive ears.

Romiel pulled back, hands over ears. “By the Gods woman! Cease your screaming!”

Sudden silence caused him to open one eye and look down at her. Her face was a mixture of shock, confusion and fear. The change hit him suddenly. He was unable to control the transformation into his natural form. No doubt his current visage disturbed the woman for she screamed again, only this time, managed to slide her-self from underneath him and run into the darkness.

Without hesitation, Romiel unfurled his wings, winced at the stiff pain and propelled himself into the air. The weakness in his body made him stay low to the ground. If his magic wasn’t so depleted, he would be able to teleport to her exact location. But at least flying was enough to have a clear view of the entire cemetery. Having better night-sight than a human’s, he knew it would be easy to spot her in the dark. His kind was born to prowl the night.

Satisfaction curled his lips into a cocky smile while he watched her run and jump over headstones still screaming. Hovering a few feet behind her, Romiel could not help but appreciate the view of the human’s plump shapely backside swaying back and forth while she ran. He sped up a little and landed directly in front of the woman halting her. To his relief, she also stopped screaming.

Her eyes were wide-open, beautiful green irises in a pretty heart shaped face, with full lips and a small pert nose. A sprinkle of freckles dusted rose-colored cheeks. Her ivory skin was flawless. A tangled mass of long thick mahogany tresses framed that sweet expressive face. His eyes traveled lower, settling on firm round breasts. Nipples poked through the flimsy material she wore and visions of licking those stiff peaks ignited his arousal.

Romiel’s body quickly responded. His cock thickened and rose to greet her, reminding him that he should change back to human form before embarrassing himself further.

Her eyes darted from his crotch to his face, “Oh shit!”

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not – By Breathless Press Authors

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
What flower would you tear apart to find out?
From Breathless Press

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If I had to choose a flower to tear apart to find out who truly loved me, I’d choose a branch of blooming lilac. Each flower has tiny petals, giving me hundreds of chances to discover the truth. And as I plucked one petal at a time, the romantic fragrance of the lilacs would inspire me and I’d have more ideas for future romance novels. Lilacs are magical and symbolize love, so I’d hope to find my true love before I reached the last tiny bloom.—Molly Diamond, author of Emerald Fire, the prequel to the Fire and Ice Saga.
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It’s hard to decide which flower to use with so many beauties to choose from, but if I had to, I’d pick a single white rose. Fragrant and delicate, there’s a blush of pink in the petals as I pluck them, drawing closer to the heart of the rose and my answer. I like to use this same sense of beauty and expectancy in my love stories, bringing my characters to the brink of wonder and yearning in the climax.—Dianne Hartsock, author of Shelton in Love, Breathless Press
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If I had to choose a flower to tear apart to find out if he truly loved me, I would choose a Gardenia flower. I would pick the flower late at night, and pluck the petals as I walked in the moonlight. Each fragrant petal would drift from my fingers until the answer to my heart’s desire revealed itself. Mary Corrales, author of Tasting Camilla.
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I would choose a rose. What better way to discover love than with the scent of roses and the feel of the silky petals. And even if you don’t find love, your fingers smell great for hours afterward. April Dawn – Crushing Desire -
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Wildflowers, because we all need a little more wild in our love lives. Ava Delany – Dominated -
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To find out if he truly loved me, I would pick the petals of a magnolia bloom, one by one. Their sweet scent and thick, waxy leaves remind of a hot summer day in the South. And that’s just how I like my men: hot and Southern. I’d sit on the bank of a babbling river and dip my toes in the cool, crisp water. The magnolia is associated with nobility, perseverance and love of nature. And who can resist a sexy nobleman who won’t give up a fight? – Carrie Pulkinen, author of To Catch a Spirit.
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What a shame it is to pull the petals, but no finer flower to pluck than the tulip. This symbolic flower continues to grow in water even after it is cut, curving its heavy head toward light. No matter the color, a tulip means ‘perfect lover.’ That is what Machias is to Kara in my story, Basket of Hope. Just as the tulip curves to sunlight, Kara draws to Machias. Their love continues to grow once cut free from its earthly hold. This book wont be out till Summer.
JM Powers
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“When I was a kid my sister and I would pull apart flowers and play
‘he loves me’. We’d pick the flowers that we could easily tell how
many petals were on them so we could always get the results we wanted.
All grown up, I think I’d use a dandelion. Dandelions grow all over,
are hard as heck to kill and look cheerful right until they turn into
fuzzies. I like thinking of love having that kind of generosity,
perseverance and attitude. There would always be a way to get a ‘he
loves me’ with a dandelion.” Stephanie Beck author of Cross-Stitch and
Brimstone
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In my youth I’d have chosen buttercups, or blushing violets, but that was when I wasn’t as experienced and wise in the ways of the world as I am now. It’s been a good many years since I’ve been tempted to shred flowers in a moment of uncertainty. My SO is a mathematician and a scientist, and when I asked him for his advice, he said two things. “Leave my rosebushes alone, ” and “You’d better come up with the right answer.” So, thinking to stack the deck in my favor, and taking a scientific approach, I found a flower with only one petal. That’s the one I’d choose. The mai makhaa blossom is native to Thailand and apparently has only one petal and four sepia. The certainty of that one petal, the assurance that yes, he loves me, is a beautiful thing. — @`~~ Lee Brazil author of Keeping House, Book #1 of Truth or Dare from Breathless Press

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I’m impatient, so I’d tend toward something with only a few petals. A tulip, maybe, or a bluebell. Something I could rip through in about half a second. In fact, what would be the absolute best is if I could just buy an iPhone app that would do it for me. “Does he love me, iPhone?” ::iPhone dings:: “Yes, he does.” It would also link to my Twitter account. “iFlower says: He loves you, @camrynrhys.” Done, and done. ~Camryn Rhys, author of The Barn Dance
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I would choose a daisy to tear apart, not in my quest to find out if he loved me, but as a seductive tease to tempt the one I love. One. Little. Petal. At. A…Time.—AbbyWood, author of To Play or Obey, Book One of Peckerwood

If I had to choose a flower to tear apart, I’d pick the hibiscus. I would tear the petals off in front of the man I love, secretly knowing there are five petals and it’ll always land on…he loves me. —Debra Kayn, Author of Betraying the Prince
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To be honest, I wouldn’t want to destroy a flower just to hear who truly loved me (even if sometimes the mischievous and regal orchids look like they’re hiding a secret). Flowers are beautiful and fragrant just as is, and oh, so delicate. I’d feel too guilty reducing them to potpourri. Can I shake a magic eight ball for the answer instead?
–L.K. Below, author of Cinnamon and Spice
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To find out if someone loved me, I would choose to tear apart the tropical plumeria. Dozens of the flowers surround my neck in a fragrent lei. I would release one by one the beautiful petals into the tropical wind. If the petals fly back to me, I would know that I was loved. Rebecca Leigh, author of Room Number Twelve.
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If I had to choose a flower to tear apart in order to find out who truly loved me, I’d choose a sunflower. They’re big and bright, and after plucking off all the petals, if there was no one standing around that truly loved me I would get to eat all the sunflower seeds myself. – Casey Sheridan, author of Ruby Red Metallic,
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If I were to choose a flower to find out who loves me,who loves me not, the flower would come from a pincushion cactus. The road to happy ever after is often a thorny, prickly ride, but, like love, even under extremely unfavorable conditions, the cactus flower will bloom in spite of nature’s challenges. With each petal-pluck of this hardy, beautiful flower, I would consider the qualities I want in my true love: resilience in the face of adversity, courage, honesty, integrity, sense of humor, compassion, and commitment. Once I held the petals in my hand, I would close my eyes, make a wish for my true love to find me, and then toss the petals to the whim of the prairie wind, which would take my wish with the breeze to my true love’s heart. Kaye Spencer, author of Gambling with Love, an erotic western.
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The Hydrangea by Em Petrova, author of Tattoo Dream and The French Kiss Chronicles

Picking apart a hydrangea would be a tedious job, but when you’re talking about love, it’s the only way. The mop heads of hydrangeas are made up of many tiny flowers. In this case they represent the intricate components of a relationship. Toward the center of the head, the fertile flowers grow, and as you move outward, the small blooms get larger and sterile, just as a loving relationship does. Finding the core of your relationship will bring deeper feelings of love and connection. The outer edge—while part of the relationship—can leave you feeling detached.

Tattoo Dream:
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Berengaria would use sunflowers to play, “I love you, I love you not”. For a start, they’re nice, big petals and remind her of other nice, big things. Secondly, she loves flowers, and couldn’t possibly destroy one by pulling its petals off. With sunflowers, it’s easy to keep track of which petal has been counted. Finally, the bright, happy, yellow faces insist that whatever decision the petals come to, happiness in the future is assured.
“Carnal Connections” Berengaria Brown

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I’d never rip a poor unsuspecting flower to shreds. Romance is about hope and optimism. I’d choose to believe he loved me until he told me otherwise. For the record, my favorite flower is the Sunflower. It’s the only flower that follows the sun. Ever come across a field of them, they are all facing the same direction. It’s lovely.

Vee Michaels is the author of Toy Training (and coming soon Sex-O-Matic)

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Big Changes and congratulations to the winner of the goodie bag

Congratulations to Sorcha Mowbray, who won my contest this month.

Sorcha, watch your email and I’ll be sending you a confirmation soon.

Watch out for some big changes. A History of Romance is changing it’s name and it’s face. We will be Let’s Talk Romance, and the sister site, Let’s Talk Romance Reviews Be sure to reset your bookmarks. Opening week will be lots of fun. We’ll have all new bloggers to meet, contests to win, and guests visiting. Plus, there might just be something super special going on. Stay tuned for more information.
Don’t worry, you’ll still be able to find all your old posts that you love, just under the new name (Lets Talk Romance), so if you have a favorite article, it will still be here for you to reference.

So, tell all your friends, and we’ll see you here, all revamped, June 1st.
April Dawn

Klutzies Unite!

Today we have a guest with us at A History of Romance. Please welcome Ruth J. Hartman.

Most, okay all of my heroines are klutzy. It’s in their blood. They can’t help it. I have lots of material too. You see, I am also an incurable klutz. My characters end up in some pretty interesting situations. To you and me it’s funny. To them? Just downright embarrassing.

In “Flossophy of Grace,” she’s a dental hygienist. A noble calling? Or just a glorified cleaning woman in possession of a saliva ejector. Better known as the spit sucker. When she meets her patient, Bruce, for the first time, she loses all reasonable thought and ends up nearly drowning the poor man with her water syringe. He recovers nicely, only wanting to get to know the pretty hygienist better. If he has to get drenched to accomplish that, so be it.

Grace’s boss, Dr Beeth, makes it clear that she is not to continue seeing their patient Bruce on a social level. If he finds out she’s still seeing him, she’ll lose her job. And there aren’t any others in her area to apply for. She’s looked. Bruce comes up with a scheme for them to be together. Right under Dr. Beeth’s nose. Bruce will get on Grace’s schedule for something different every day. Even for procedures he doesn’t need. Just so they can spend time together.

During a typical day, Grace gets bitten, is sprayed with water, gets doused with saliva and prophy paste, and is glared at from any number of people residing in her dental chair. And that’s all before lunch! Then there’s the obnoxious kids who won’t sit still in her chair, patients who show up a half hour late and wonder why she’s running behind, and a grumpy old man who insists on calling her “Girlie.”

She’s clumsy, goofy and loveable. Who wouldn’t want to meet a dental hygienist like that?

I love reading and writing humor. I realize that’s not part of the goal for the great American novel, but that’s okay. I love it when a reader tells me they laughed until they snorted. That makes my day. With all of the bad news in the world, I love to lighten their load. Even just a little. Just for a moment.

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Check out her novel, Flossophy of Grace.

What happens when a dental hygienist falls in love with her patient? That’s what Grace Hart discovers when she meets Bruce Gardener. The problem? Grace’s boss has a strict policy against relationships with patients. Can Grace and Bruce find a way to be together without her employer finding out?

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“Ouch!”
That was the fourth time she’d been bitten since lunch. She hoped they weren’t doing it on purpose, but sometimes she wondered. Maybe it was a pint-sized conspiracy. It was fall break for the elementary schools. All the elementary schools. That meant her dental hygiene schedule was crammed full of little people. There were kids yelling in the waiting room. Kids squirming in her patient chairs. She even heard a little girl loudly warbling her ABC’s in the bathroom. She felt like Mr. Rogers. She needed a cardigan sweater. Won’t you be my neighbor?
Grace loved kids. She really did. They were funny and sweet, and loud and annoying. They asked the most interesting, offbeat questions. And she normally looked forward to doing their prophies (cleanings) since their tiny mouths had less square footage than most adults’ gunky ones. But sometimes the little people tended to tell her way too many intimate details about their parents she’d rather not know. Ever. And they all seemed intensely hyper today. The hooligans who weren’t bouncing like pogo sticks were playing trampoline on the waiting room chairs. Had their parents given them all ultra doses of Mountain Dew before their appointments? That would be wrong on so many levels. She’d had enough of the little guys for today. It was usually a nice reprieve from a day full of adults, but enough was enough. They had worn her down to a frazzled nubbin. Where was that cardigan sweater?
Since she’d arrived at the dental office at 8:30 a.m., she’d done twelve patient prophies, taken seven sets of tiny x-rays (that’s when the unfortunate biting incidents took place), given ten grape-flavored fluoride treatments, and instructed (or tried to) all of the little darlings how to remove the ick from their teeth with a toothbrush. She also dutifully handed out what seemed like 5,092 stickers. Whether the kids behaved like lambs or hyenas, they all got stickers. Unfortunately, she noticed several of the sticky handouts found their way to the recently painted waiting room wall. In between all of the patients, she cleaned her patient chair areas and helped with getting her instruments ready to be cleaned and sterilized. All in her spare time. She was pooped.
She looked at her yellow cat-face clock on the wall. It was almost time. In forty-five blessed minutes, she’d be finished with her last patient of the day. Thank goodness! It couldn’t come soon enough. Whoever it was, she wanted them done and scooted out the door, toothbrush in hand, as soon as possible. The only thing she knew about her next patient was that it was a man, and that he was fairly new to town. Other than that, she had no clue what to expect. Grace desperately hoped he wasn’t one of those men who thought he was good-looking in his plaid pants, white belt, and bad toupee. She always had a hard time holding back a snicker in those situations.She grabbed the last, lonely chart from the pink plastic holder on the wall and wearily called out the name.
“Bruce Gardener?”
As Grace looked up to greet her new patient, the sight that entertained her eyes nearly knocked her on her size-twelve backside. Good grief, he was gorgeous.

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