Title: Cold Like Snow
Author: Sita Bethel
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: July 23, 2018
Heat Level: 4 - Lots of Sex
Pairing: Male/Male, Male/Male Menage
Length: 65400
Genre: Paranormal, paranormal, ghosts, established couple, musicians, mild BDSM, ménage
Add to Goodreads
Synopsis
When René moves into his new home, he
didn’t expect it to come with roommates. Two handsome roommates, to be precise.
Too bad they’re ghosts.
The fact that they’re dead doesn’t stop
them from running their fingers through René’s hair or tackling him onto the
bed. It’s not long before things escalate and René finds himself with two ghost
lovers that treat him better than any living partner ever has.
However, they can’t eat, can’t go far
from the house where they died, and their fingers feel like icicles against
René’s skin. The longer René is with them, the more he can sense them, but
nothing can reduce the chill of their bodies against his. Still, it might be
worth the hypothermia.
Excerpt
Cold Like Snow
Sita Bethel © 2018
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
René stood in front of the doorway and
ran his finger over the outline of the key’s metallic surface before wedging it
into the lock and stepping inside his new house. The cold air puckered the skin
of his arms and neck. He rubbed his shoulders to keep them warm as he looked
around. The flooring throughout the house was black-and-white linoleum. A wide
living area faced him—to his left was a fireplace, straight ahead stood double
glass doors leading to a small garden, and to his right a half bathroom, dining
area, and kitchen. Between the dining room and the glass door, a staircase with
a thick cherrywood banister curved up to the three bedrooms and a full
bathroom.
René walked to the staircase and stopped
short of the first step. He examined the black-and-white squares. They looked
clean at first glance, but since he was searching, René noticed the thin
rust-colored lines between the tiles. It was why he had bought the house. He’d
heard the two previous owners had died after falling down the stairs.
Afterward, the old building fell victim to exaggerated ghost stories. True, it
did make the building more affordable, but the real reason it appealed to René
was because he loved ghost stories and all things macabre. Ever since he was a child,
tales that made others grimace had made René smile. He squatted to the floor
and reached out to graze his fingertips against the tiles.
A long sigh escaped from between René’s
lips. He stood and headed to his moving truck. After several hours of carrying
boxes in, he decided to save the larger furniture for the next day. René lit a
fire; orange light crawled across the floor and walls. He unrolled his sleeping
bag near the hearth and slipped inside. The old house creaked. The silence in
the house amplified every other noise, which echoed like a lullaby and soothed
René into a hard sleep.
At dawn, before René was fully awake, he
dreamed someone dragged their fingers through his hair. He rolled on his side,
muttering, “It’s too cold to get up.” The next time he opened his eyes,
sunlight brightened the room through the garden doors. He sat up, rubbed his
face, and remembered the odd dream of being petted. He smiled at the dream as
he stretched and moaned. René slipped out of the sleeping bag and shuffled
toward the kitchen to make coffee.
The day labored on as René set upon the
tedious mission of dragging his furniture inside his house by himself. Most
items—the bed, the office desk, his baker’s rack—he had dissembled before
loading into the rental truck, but a few pieces—the washer, dryer, and sofa—he
had to strap to a dolly with bungee cords, making it slow to get them inside
the house. There was nothing better to do during the constant back and forth
than think. He’d spent most of his thirty-four years of existence rushing past
his own life. He’d sped through junior high and high school as fast as he
could, desperate to get away from the small-minded town where his aunt and
uncle had raised him after his parents died of heat exhaustion during a camping
trip. After he graduated, René fled to the nearest city, waiting tables to
scrape up enough cash for a small apartment while he earned his associate
degree. He jumped into a relationship with the first guy who openly pursued
him, infatuated by the bold, flirtatious attitude that René never experienced
from any of the guys back home. Even after his heart broke, René hurried
straight to the next boyfriend, who ended up being much worse than the first.
He learned his lesson after that one,
sticking to casual hookups as he focused on work and his studies. Once he
finished school, René was desperate to find a job where he could afford more
than ramen noodles and dollar-store socks. Now he was at a point in his life
where he wanted nothing more than to appreciate everything he obtained and
accomplished over the years. He escaped the small town. He made enough money to
pay his bills. He finally bought a house. René wanted a chance to breathe and
enjoy it. Perhaps find a decent partner who wanted to settle down, or at least
get a dog.
He went through an entire box of granola
bars and a pot of coffee before he decided to go to the store for groceries.
When he returned, René made a sandwich
for lunch and then continued to set everything in order. By the end of the day,
each stack of boxes sat in the correct room and the furniture was more or less
placed where he intended to keep it. Too exhausted to assemble the bed, René
spent another night in his sleeping bag near the fireplace, feeling like a
strange post-modern male Cinderella.
In the early gray dawn, he had the same
dream. Fingers, barely felt, ran through his hair and gingerly touched his
cheeks and collarbone. René exhaled with content at the soft, misty caresses,
and he wished ghosts were real before sinking into a deeper sleep.
In the morning, he started unpacking in
the kitchen until he found the toaster and a skillet. After eating breakfast
and unpacking the kitchen, he assembled the bed. Two nights on the floor had
his shoulders stiff. René cursed as he balanced the sideboard of his bed frame
in his lap and worked the first screw in one turn at a time. For the cost of a
six-pack of beer and some pizza, May would have been more than happy to help
René both move his furniture and set up the bed, but René relied on his best friend
too much already. The next time May visited, René wanted to go out and have
fun, not unpack a mountain of boxes, so he finished tightening the first screw
and wondered where his bag of extras had disappeared. René groaned when he saw
them on the other side of the room. He would have sworn he’d set them beside
his lap when he started, but apparently he hadn’t. By the time he pushed the
box spring and mattress onto the completed frame, René was worn out. He dropped
onto the bed and made snow angel motions with his arms and legs before resting.
“Forget unpacking. I should just go to
sleep,” René spoke to the bed, having no one else to talk to.
His muscles ached from carrying boxes
and furniture, and the bed was firm but soft enough for him to sink a little.
René shut his eyes and pulled a deep, intentional breath into his lungs.
Daydreams played out behind his closed eyelids. It’d been awhile since anyone
else had been in his bed with him, and he imagined a mystery lover sneaking to
his bedside, sitting beside him, and kissing his stomach as he unzipped René’s
pants. His fantasy spun out of control. The mattress felt like it really did
shift with the weight of another person sitting close. René sat up and shook
his head to rid himself of the ridiculous daydream. He made the bed before
going downstairs to finish unpacking the living room.
By the third night, the house resembled
a home. René examined his progress in the living room and nodded his head in
satisfaction. As he stood in place, René’s hair slid against his shoulders, as
if someone had brushed the long strands away from his face. He froze a moment,
wondering if his imagination played tricks with his mind again, but the
distinct pressure of a hand lighted on his shoulder and fingers ran down his cheek.
He blinked, trying to process the strange sensation of being touched by
invisible hands.
“Hello.” René’s voice sounded loud in
the visibly empty living room.
The touching stopped after he spoke.
“Wait, don’t leave,” René said, afraid
he’d somehow startled whatever had interacted with him. René’s gaze darted
across the living room, searching for any indication that he wasn’t alone.
Nothing was out of place. René sighed, his shoulders slumping forward. “I
didn’t imagine that,” he whispered, to convince himself he hadn’t daydreamed
the experience.
An idea drifted into René’s head. He
spoke to the air in a bashful tone. “If you can hear me, would you follow me.
Please?”
He walked up the stairs and opened the
door to his office. Stacks of boxes lined the walls and surrounded the desk
like strange cardboard obelisks. René pilfered through the boxes until he found
one labeled office odds and ends.
He pulled the tape from the top of the
box and set aside small statues of gargoyles, skeletons, and imps. With both
hands, René removed the old Ouija board from the cardboard box. He’d never used
it before and only owned it for the aesthetic, but now he sat on the tiled
floor with the board in his lap and the heart-shaped planchette under his
fingertips.
“I know this is dumb,” he said. “I know
this is a stupid toy, but why not use it? Crap, I hope I’m not talking to
myself. I just want to—” A breath hitched in René’s throat as the planchette
scrawled across the wooden surface of the board.
“Oh good! I was hoping you’d want to
talk. Hold on. Let me get a pen.” René rummaged through another box until he
found a pack of pens and a notebook. He held the paper in his lap so he could
write down the letters. “What’s your name?” René asked, but to his
disappointment, the planchette only swerved in between the yes and no options
at the top of the board. He frowned, thinking of what he might be doing wrong.
Another question came to mind. “How many of you are here?”
The pointer swerved to the number two on
the board.
“What are your names?” The planchette
moved without him touching it, freeing up his hands to write each letter.
Marcus.
Bastion.
“Really?” René raised an eyebrow. It was
a rhetorical question, but the heart planchette spelled another sentence.
“You have a problem with our names?”
“No.” René smiled. “My name’s Rembrandt.
Our mothers should be slapped. Call me René, though.” A nervous chuckle slipped
past René’s lips. “Not that I can hear you say my name.”
Purchase
NineStar Press | Amazon | Smashwords | Barnes & Noble
Meet the Author
Sita Bethel obtained a B.A. in Creative Writing at Arkansas Tech University; however, she learned how to write fiction on sites such as Archive Of Our Own and fanfiction.net. She keeps coloring books near her computer for when she’s “writing,” and owns an awful lot of dice for someone who’s never played a tabletop RPG. Sita Bethel currently lives in Arkansas, teaches Zumba Fitness and Salsaton classes at a local gym, and hopes to someday own a fortress of solitude staffed with incompetent henchmen.Facebook | Twitter
Giveaway
a Rafflecopter giveaway
No comments:
Post a Comment