Touched by Death
Genre: New Adult Paranormal Romance
Date of Publication: September 1 2017
Number of pages: 362
Word Count: 105k
Cover Artist: The Killion Group, Inc
What if Death was more tempting than you had ever imagined?
With Gramsâs recent passing and a boyfriend who cares more about his next drink than her, Lou Adaire only wants to run. To start over somewhere new â maybe in a town where her family has history.
But when a storm sends Louâs truck plunging into Tuttle Creek Lake, she discovers exactly what itâs like to fight for your life. To gasp for air only to have your lungs fill with icy water. To die.
What comes next changes everything.
Dark eyes. Consuming presence.
Death. As vague as a dream yet as intense as the lightning flashing above her still heart.
Everything about him calls out to her, tugging at her with the warm vibration of his pull. Heâs supposed to take her; they both know it. She wants him to.
When she wakes in the hospital in a new town, she canât forget what she sawâ¦ That impossible sensation of him breathing life back into her, a strong beat playing in her chest and a flutter running down her spine.
Trying to move on with her life in a foreign place is hard enough, but when he comes back for more â his burning touch against her skin, his consuming presence weaving in and out of her life, and his own scars running far deeper than hers â Lou begins to realize thereâs more to Death, and to the sleepy Kansas town, than she ever expected to find.
Lou lived. But what if sheâs not the only one in need of saving?
*Note to readers: This book contains some profanity, sex, and some scenes featuring child abuse.
My sweater chafes my shoulder blade, and I wince as it irritates the raw, tender skin. I hadnât thought much about the injury since leaving the hospital, having had other things to focus onâor focus on avoidingâbut now the memory resurfaces in my mind: rain smacking against the windshield, trees and darkness spinning around me, the booming crack of my window breaking, and shards of glass flying at me.
I pull my sweater off. Eyes closed, I reach an arm across my chest and over my shoulder, tracing the tips of my fingers along the thick, three-inch cut that hasnât quite scarred yet. Itâs smooth beneath the stitches. Too smooth, and it feels foreign; a piece of my body I donât recognize. Iâve always thought scars were meant to represent strength; all this one does is remind me that I shouldnât be alive right now.
That Iâm lost.
My eyelids flutter open, and my breath catches at the sudden touch of strong, warm fingers moving over my own. A slow, gentle stroke glides over the wound, but itâs not from me. It canât be. My hand is stuck, frozen in place over my shoulder blade as though not daring to move. The mirror before me proves Iâm alone in the bathroom, and yet, I feel it again, the same presence I felt several nights ago. Heat radiates behind my body as though someone is standing right there.
Another stroke caresses the wound, and itâs even lighter this time, like a feather brushing over me. The feeling of skin against skin is as real as anything. I can almost hear my heartbeat pounding within my chest. The fingers move past my wound, never breaking contact with my skin, and slowly trail upward, toward my neck. Though the texture feels strong and almost rough, the touch itself is impossibly gentle, treating me like something fragile.
No matter how loud my mind screams to fight it, my muscles are relaxing like jelly under the heavy sensation. My uplifted arm drops helplessly to my side. The warm touch strokes the side of my neck, wandering up further still until itâs almost in my hair. Itâs light enough to send a shiver to my toes, and my eyelids start to close on their own, my head rolling slightly forward.
The presence behind me inches closer, and I hear breaths again. Just like the other night, theyâre deep and controlled, right by my ear.
I have no idea whatâs happening to me. Half of me is struck with a pang of fear, unease over the impossible experience. Yet the other half canât help but be soothed by the calming tingles running through the length of me. Thereâs a trust I canât explain, like a gentle, unspoken lullaby, and I know Iâm safe. The heat, the masculine touch, the warm breaths soft as a whisper that rise and fall at the nape of my neck. I donât want to think at all right now. I just want to feel.
The caress slides back down the right side of my neck, almost skimming along my collarbone, when it stops. Draws back. I hear a hitch in the breathing, a tremble for a fleeting moment, the smallest hint of the effort it takes to pull back. Then the touch returns, but only to my scar, traveling down the length of it with incredible slowness, taking its time. As though savoring every moment of contact with me, in a way Iâve never experienced. A sigh pours from my lips, and when my head falls back, itâs caught by the solid warmth behind me. Itâs real enough that I could swear Iâm pressed up against the presence right now, a presence that sure as hell feels like a manâtall, strong, sturdy. The feeling is so vivid I find myself thinking in terms of him instead of it.
A shake breaks his steady breathing again, another warm tremble in my ear, and I feel the tightness of his body rise and fall with each breath.
Iâm letting myself go, relaxing every part of me until the only thing keeping me upright is his body, and as I do, the hard curves of muscle tense against my back.
Something in the air changes, and the presence behind me wavers. Itâs completely solid one moment, and in the next itâs fluid, as though nothing more than a strong breeze props me up. Soon itâs not even a breeze, just a puff of air, and Iâm grabbing the edge of the counter with both hands to keep from tumbling backward.
My legs wobble, struggling to support the rest of me. When I catch sight of my reflection now, my face is flushed. I let out a loud exhale when I remember how to breathe and command myself to get a grip. Iâm still feeling like a sloshy puddle when I slip my sweater back on over my head and drag myself to the front door of my room, unlocking it and yanking it open.
I need fresh air like a drug right now, and I canât stumble down the stairs fast enough. I hear Claireâs bubbly greeting when I fly past the front desk, but I donât stop until Iâm standing on the sidewalk, bending forward with my hands on my knees and soaking up the crisp winter breeze.
What the hell is happening? This canât just be in my head. I know Iâve been a little off since Gramsâs passing, but thereâs no way Iâd be able to dream up something so freaking real.
It was here. He was here.
Whoever he is.
About the Author:
Author of romance and paranormal, T.L. Martin is also a wife, mother of 3, homebody, animal lover, and hug enthusiast. She resides with her family in Southern California.
T.L.'s novels tend to involve the things she enjoys most as a reader: relatable and flawed protagonists, unexpected twists, slow burn romances, and a lively cast of secondary characters. (Being that she writes both young adult and new adult titles, please check individual book descriptions for any content warnings.)
T.L. is presently branching out into new adult contemporary romance!
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