Friday, January 17, 2014

Cover Reveal: Stolen Grace by Arianne Richmonde

Pageflex Persona [document: PRS0000038_00071]

Book Title: Stolen Grace
Author: Arianne Richmonde 
Genre: Suspense/Women's Fiction 
Release Date: February 3, 2014 


A marriage on the rocks. Their little daughter caught in between. And a woman who will stop at nothing. Sylvia and Tommy Garland and their five-year-old daughter Grace have moved from the bright lights of New York City to the peaceful wilderness of the Wyoming countryside. But with the recession on their heels, Tommy leaves for LA for a job interview, and Ruth, an old friend of Sylvia's comes to stay. In an unexpected turn of events, a family tragedy forces Sylvia to leave Ruth in charge of little Grace for just one day. A decision that will tear their lives apart. Stolen Grace is a roller coaster of emotions with twists and turns, a tale of lies and deception, of redemption and forgiveness. And ultimately, a love story.


Sylvia sat uneasily at the edge of the silk-backed bed and kicked off her shoes. She needed to do this. She needed, just for a snatch of time, to escape. She needed to help him too—give him strength. She inhaled the scent of him and rested her head against his shoulder. He smelled of sweet grass and sun- warmed skin. He unzipped her dress. His generous hands slipped around her waist and moved up the length of her body, then stroked her back. She shivered. His fingertips caressed her skin and she closed her eyelids—a twirl of colors swam beneath them: red, twinkling green. She could hear some birds tweeting outside the bedroom window, perched on the weeping willow tree and, as one flew past, the shadow darted across her colored vision, just a second, just a flash. Tommy continued to stroke her—his touch tender. Warm.
She remembered how much she loved this man. How she ached for him. How much she desired him physically.
He pushed the dress away from her shoulders and it fell in folds about her waist. He pressed his hand under her white cotton panties and cupped her crotch, lifting it a millimeter from the bed. She cried out. Taken aback, almost, by the tingling flurry between her legs. She had forgotten that could happen. She could feel herself moisten, and she wriggled out of her dress, letting it fall to the floor. His hands moved upwards toward her breasts, his touch soft, hardly there, letting a finger flicker on her nipple, quiet and restful. She turned herself around to face him, her legs straddled either side of his, the saddle of her thighs and bottom pressing against on his groin. He was rock hard. Bigger than she remembered. Her stomach pooled with desire and she heard herself moan quietly. They kissed. He tasted of sun and apples. She let her tongue explore his top lip, then his mouth, and felt the rough stubble of an unshaven face. He groaned and pulled her closer. She remembered how little they kissed these days, really kissed— deep, probing—and she remembered, too, how he craved that.
She could feel the steady throb between her legs, and edging herself up on her knees, still straddling him, she offered his mouth her nipple. He licked it. Softly. The end of his tongue flickered like a glinting light. She let out another little cry. Her need for him, like a volt, made her push him to the bed. His head thumped on the puffed linen pillows and hungrily she unbuttoned his shirt, grappled the belt, reaching for the buttons of his jeans, feeling the rock that was his desire, the pulse in her groin rhythmical and hot.
She drank in his chiseled abs, the definition of his pectorals. She pulled off his pants, halfway. She kissed him on his muscular thighs, her head resting against his hips, her tongue and lips searching for his cock as she looked up at him, a monument of flesh and bone and blood and love. They needed each other. For the first time in years, they could really give to one another. They needed each other’s strength, each other’s weakness.
Being united was imperative right now.
“Come here, my angel, my light. I need you close to me.” He grabbed her, pulling her up toward him from the waist, placing her on top of him. Her toes tingled, and she heard him hold his breath for a second as she let him slide into her, her hands guiding him in. It felt huge, unfamiliar, as if it were her first time. She caught her breath at the smarting pain. It lasted a second and then it was over, her wetness welcoming the man she loved, the fit perfect. She had forgotten how well they slotted together.
She had forgotten that.


Arianne Richmonde is an American writer and artist who spent her formative years in both Britain and the US. She has also lived in Spain and France. She has traveled to many corners of the globe and meeting people from all walks of life and different countries is a passion of hers. She speaks fluent Spanish and French. She lives in France in an old stone farmhouse amidst sunflower fields and vineyards, with her husband and coterie of animals.

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