EDEN
Book 1
Release
Date: 31st January 2015
AN
EROTIC ROMANCE
(18+
due to mature themes and sexual content)
Blurb/Synopsis
Haunted by memories of her brother’s death, and
searching for answers, Lily
Hart embarks on a
career that takes her into a seedy underworld, where she is exposed to wealth,
greed, lust and the reign of gorgeous, powerful, and dangerous men—one man in
particular wreaks havoc on her emotions.
At thirty Jake Eden has everything: looks to die for, money, power and a never-ending line of twisted, fucked-up women willing to do anything to get with him. Love? Love was for pussies…until a woman with the stage name of ‘Jewel’ arrives on the scene. She alone is different from all the others.
Oozing pure, unadulterated sex, strong, intelligent and independent, she is everything he should stay away from, but she makes him itch to tame her and keep her for himself.
Her lure is addictive and undeniable and soon he is hooked.
But when the line between betrayal and loyalty is put to test…
Will love be stronger than revenge?
At thirty Jake Eden has everything: looks to die for, money, power and a never-ending line of twisted, fucked-up women willing to do anything to get with him. Love? Love was for pussies…until a woman with the stage name of ‘Jewel’ arrives on the scene. She alone is different from all the others.
Oozing pure, unadulterated sex, strong, intelligent and independent, she is everything he should stay away from, but she makes him itch to tame her and keep her for himself.
Her lure is addictive and undeniable and soon he is hooked.
But when the line between betrayal and loyalty is put to test…
Will love be stronger than revenge?
EDEN
Excerpt
‘Nooooooo,’ I howl, but there
is gravel or grave soil in my throat, and nothing other than an ugly, dried-up
rasp travels out of my mouth. My head shakes back and forth like a mindless
wind-up toy. Even my body is denying the horror before my eyes. Without warning
my knees buckle under me, and I find myself in a heap at the doorway of his
flat. Frantically, I begin to crawl toward him, screaming, babbling.
I can’t
lose him! Not him! Oh God, not him. Please. Not him.
Two
feet away from his body and it occurs to me: this is just a nightmare. Of
course it is. It has to be. Any moment now I’ll wake up. And the first thing
I’ll do? Call him and tell him how much I have missed him, how much I love him.
I feel the floor scrape against my bare knees. It isn’t a nightmare. It is real.
We
haven’t spoken for two weeks. I had exams and when I called his mobile, it went
straight to voicemail… Shit excuse. I should have called again, I should have
emailed. Why hadn’t I? I should have known.
I
hunker down over his body, my pose ungainly, heavy, that of a suffering beast.
My buttocks hit the floor and my legs fold up and cross under me. I press my
fingers against my open mouth and stare at him. His lips and fingers are blue
and the rest of him is ashen and still. He can’t be dead.
It can’t be
real!
The
stillness of a dead body is impossible to describe. And yet when you see it you
refuse to believe it. You always think it is a trick. A mistake. A ploy… But a
needle is embedded in his arm, which is blackened with the skin stretched and
unreal. It looks as if it belongs elsewhere. That is not my brother’s arm. I
know my brother’s arm as intimately as I know my own.
My
breathing is shallow and trembling. I suck a huge burst of air into my lungs
and pull the offending needle out. My stomach twists. It should never have entered his body in the first
place. I throw the syringe away. It hits something and rolls on the wooden
floor. It also leaves a tiny hole in my brother’s flesh that does not bleed. I
swallow hard. My hands are shaking badly.
That means he didn’t suffer,
a voice whispers in my head. He did not even have time to pull it out before he
was gone to wherever it is he went to.
Oh God! He is nineteen. He can’t be
gone.
CPR.
I should give him CPR. There must be something I can still do. I grab his shoulders
and try to drag him across my thighs, but his body is so heavy, so cold, and so
stiff and foreign that my shocked hands fly away from his shoulders as if they
have touched fire. I gaze at him as he lies unmoving. The blood that ran
without rest during his short life has stilled within his veins. Everything has
cooled and hardened. He is like a piece of wood.
With
a sob of intolerable, indescribable anguish I reach for him and with every
ounce of my might I drag his cold, dead weight toward me and lift it onto my
lap. I touch the soft brown hair that flops across his forehead and it feels
different. His scalp has hardened and changed the lie of his hair. I caress his
hair, his face, his hands. Holding his head pressed against my stomach I close
my eyes and begin to rock him the way a mother would comfort her distressed
baby.
But
there is no comfort—his head is a hard, unfamiliar weight and the action
produces an odd thud made by his stiff hand repeatedly hitting the floor. I
stop. In a daze I look down on his face.
His
mouth is open, the tongue—a strange, dull color—is pushed against his teeth.
Without the healthy sheen of saliva it looks gross. I try to close his mouth,
but it is locked open. His eyes are not fully shut and through the slits I see the
whites. I try to lift a lid to see once more the beautiful blue eyes I have
known all my life.
If
I could at least see that.
But
his eyelids are glued shut. They will not budge. Tremors shoot through my hand
as I still the gruesome desire to force his eyelid open. When we were young we
used to lick the salt from each other’s skin. I am suddenly filled with the
strange desire to lick his skin.
I
put one hand under his head and the other under his neck and I put his head on
the floor. Then I scoot backwards until I am on my hands and knees and my face
is hovering inches away from his. My head moves downwards. My tongue comes out.
Inches away a voice in my head urgently cries, ‘No.’
I
stop and listen to peculiar silence around us. It is quieter than falling snow.
On the table top I notice his fingerprints in the light layer of dust, and then
something weird happens. For a second I clearly perceive myself not from inside
my body but from outside, crouched over my dead brother, more animal than
human. I recoil from the sight. And then the moment is gone and I lower my head
and lick the last salt on the corpse’s skin.
It
is the beginning of my descent into an unfamiliar territory. A place you might
call madness.
I’m
afraid my stay was excruciatingly long.
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Georgia
Le Carre
Author
Bio
Georgia Le Carre lives in
England, in an old 19th century romantic cottage surrounded by a magical garden
filled with fruit and walnut trees.
When she is not feeding words into her laptop,
she is either curled up in bed with a box of chocolates and a good read, or lost
in a long walk in the woods. Especially on moonlit nights. And often with the man of her dreams.
Links
Email Add: georgialecarre@gmail.com
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