Friday, April 15, 2011

Crawl into the mind of Strafe from "Marauder"

Check out this excerpt from Marauder. My latest release.

“Ya know, you aren’t the same man,” Nick said, keeping his back to Strafe. “I get the feeling she isn’t the same woman.”
“I made her want me once, I can do it again.”
“I have no doubt you can.”
Strafe wished he believed that as much as Nick sounded like he believed it. The woman he’d watched defending her clan certainly wasn’t the same women he thought had died five years ago. The Priscilla he knew was meek, mild and timid. This woman, she had grit, tenacity and damn, she really thought she could give her clan the chance to escape by running that dump of a truck into the woods.

Opening the door, he crawled inside the cab, lifted her limp body in his arms and carefully carried her to his tent. A few of the men stopped and watched, knowing better than to say anything. They knew he didn’t show any affection for women. The only time he approached a woman was to sate his need for sex. So he could see their confusion.

Strafe carried her into his tent, settled her down on her bedding and allowed himself a moment to drink her in. He couldn’t believe it. She’d died. He could have sworn she’d died right there in front of him.

His gaze drifted over her shabby clothing. Her shirt hung from her torso, her arms like thin twigs draped in cloth. The jeans she wore bagged around her waist, a piece of rope keeping them from falling down. It twisted his gut that his Priscilla lived like this. She deserved better and he would give her better.

Reaching over her, he grabbed a bowl of water and a rag, moistened the rag and gently cleaned the blood from her head. The cut didn’t seem bad, not deep enough to be stitched anyway. Once he cleaned her face he worked tirelessly at cleaning her hair.

She’d let it grow. Long waves of chestnut-brown hair cascaded down below her shoulders. He liked it. It made her sharp, angular features softer. She’d acquired a few scars that hadn’t been there before. One from the corner of her left eye that ran to her hairline and one that slashed across her right upper lip.

He couldn’t allow himself to think about how she got them. The scenarios he’d conjure in his mind would only drive him to the brink of madness. Forcing himself to push on, he surveyed her clothing and decided he couldn’t stand to see her in these rags any longer. Slipping his finger beneath the collar of her T-shirt, he ripped and was shocked how easily the material shredded down her front.

Glancing at her creamy exposed skin he sucked in a sharp breath and stifled a curse. Pushing the material aside made his insides quiver with both anger and terror. There over her right breast was a puckered, thickly scarred bullet wound that flooded his mind with memories of that night. He quickly pushed them aside, refusing to allow
those memories to take hold. Instead, he allowed his gaze to travel away from the wound and down the rest of her body.

What he saw there didn’t help his sour mood. She looked like a skeleton with flesh stretched tight against it. Dear god. How long had she been starving?

“No more,” he mumbled, untying the rope holding her jeans up. “No more.” With shaking hands, he tugged the thin, dirty denim down her hips and down her thighs, cursing the entire time as each inch of her pencil-thin thighs were exposed.

“Oh baby. What’s happened to you?” After removing her boots he shucked the denim off her body and tossed it aside. Tomorrow he’d burn the filth. He never wanted to see it again.

Pale moonlight filtered through the tent flap and kissed her tender, fragile flesh, giving her an angelic glow that had him reaching out. As thin as she was, she still was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Her full breasts were topped with cherry-pink tips that made his mouth water. He remembered sucking them, rolling them on his tongue and getting drunk on her taste.

Fisting his hand to keep from touching her, he let his gaze travel down her ribs, over her sunken belly and across her protruding hips. She’d been thin five years ago, but not painfully thin like this. At least then she’d had curves, lush, delicious curves he liked to stroke. She’d be that way again, he promised her and himself. He’d make sure she ate every day.

Comfortable in his resolve to put meat on her bones, he allowed his gaze to brush over the soft brown curls between her legs. His fingers twitched, eager to be sunk deep in her fine hair and stroke her outer lips. He couldn’t though, not now. Reluctantly, he moved away and rummaged through his bag of clothing. Buried at the bottom he kept a tank top that he never wore. After shaking it out, he tugged it down over her head, careful not to touch her bruising cut.

It took some maneuvering, but he managed to get the shirt shuffled down her back and over her hips. The garment hung nearly to her knees. On him, it was tight and
short. Brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek, he sighed. What hell had she lived through over the past five years? Regretfully, he reached for the rope looped around the tree trunk and bound her wrists.

Walking to his pile of blankets, Strafe stripped off his shirt, tossed it aside and then removed his jeans. He always slept naked, a habit he chose not to shake after his time at the rebel camp. The rebels liked to keep their new recruits vulnerable, unable to hide weapons. He found it comfortable.

Lying down on top of his blankets, he stretched out and stared at the roof of his tent. What would he dream about tonight? Usually he dreamed of Priscilla, the night she died and how agonizingly lonely he’d become. Glancing over at her, he wondered again, what would he dream about?

Would she accept this new man? The rebels had created a cold, merciless monster. A monster who’d crawled out of his cage and lashed out until every last one of his captors was dead. He didn’t do it alone of course, those men out there, they followed, fought until their bloody, bruised and damn-near-dead bodies collapsed. In the end, they’d won their freedom and now they intended to live the best way they knew how. He’d have to make Priscilla understand that.

Want to read more? Pop on over to Marauder is also availabel at

A carnal quick read I do so hope you enjoy!

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