“You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!” Charles Dickens
Six Sentence Sunday
I remembered to sign up for 6 Sentence Sunday *cheers and a very large grin
Now, I just have to work out how to get the post up quicker.
This Sunday I am posting from my romantic fiction.
Darrah has been charged with finding and rescuing the Regal's heir. The evidence suggests he was taken by a band of Sarkisians who feed directly from the living. Darrah fights her cultural prejudice and instinctive fears when The Sarkisian Council send Fauld Hale to work alongside her to rescue the boy and maintain the fragile peace between their peoples.
Breakfast wasn't much but it was delicious:
Before she moved, Darrah wetted her finger and gathered up a few crumbs that dusted her thighs. She ran her tongue over the surface of her finger tip. It wasn’t the sound of his indrawn breath that made her pulse leap, it was the flare of heat more powerful than her leaf-fuelled fire had managed through the night. She shook her head and she refused to meet Hale's eyes. She also wouldn't bring her finger to her mouth again. She was too honest to do that to him after the restraint he’d showed…there were no crumbs left.