Today is made of fun. Dozens of writers are posting almost-kisses for your reading delight. Links to my fellow scribes are at Frankie Writes. Trust me, you'll have a blast whether you write or read.
My snippet is from a shelved novel-in-progress that someday I may be good enough to tackle. I'm not revealing the wacky premise, but I will tell you it's tongue-in-cheek (ha!) adult fantasy. The present-day heroine, Helen, is trying to track down gods of myth because she has good cause to believe in them now. She is in Greece when she runs into Artemis and her brother, Apollo. Yes, the very Apollo that John William Waterhouse painted chasing Daphne before she chose to do something quite rash to escape his amorous advance.
Before I launch into my scene, I shall report to the Accountability Watchers that the first day of 2010 I met my stated daily goal of writing 1,000 words of my YA novel Sea Daughters. Yay!
Now onto the blogfest! This excerpt is from a yet-untitled work and takes place as Apollo joins Artemis and sees Helen for the first time:
"Who's this?" Apollo ran his languid gaze over Helen from her face to her bare legs and sandaled feet.
Before she could answer, he reached out and touched a gash on her thigh where she'd been cut by thick branches. Slow to heal, the wound was gaping and scarlet, but with Apollo's touch, it closed up and faded in moments.
"Thank you," Helen whispered, awed by this proof of his legendary healing power. Now she knew at least one part of the myth was true.
He moved in so close his face was within inches of hers. She couldn't help but notice that his skin was flawless and beardless as a boy's and his jaw and cheekbones were as finely chiseled as the statues depicted him.
"You're a pretty thing," he murmured. His breath was a caressing breeze that carried the music of a lyre. A lyre? Had she ever heard one? His lips were so close to hers, she felt as if they'd almost touched.
He had sunbeams in his hazel eyes. Or was it flecks of gold? He shimmered. Honey on his breath, silk on his fingers under her chin. She leaned toward his lips, which held a promise of nectar.
His other hand began to trace a path up her thigh. Fire in dry grass.
Helen clamped her legs together, causing Apollo to raise his golden eyebrows.
Her head felt full of cotton, her tongue thick with passion. "Remember Daphne," she blurted, finding words. It's not every day a girl turns herself into a tree rather than be a god's conquest.
He looked truly grieved. "I wear her laurel always." He pulled back his hands from Helen's skin.
She shivered, as if he'd taken the sun away. Would it have been so wrong to let him kiss her, to taste the lips of a god? Helen shook her head to clear it. Of all people, she knew the answer to that.