One Red Rose

One Red Rose
Lia Connor
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2006 Lia Connor
An Authorized Excerpt

Rosalie rippled from head to toe with pleasure, undulating on the thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Oh, now, this… this is luxury. Just about two inches away from Heaven, I'd say. Too bad two inches is too damn far away from the mark. Still, I can't deny I've had a good time…

But as the afterglow faded, she felt a familiar sense of unhappiness come creeping in. She'd failed -- again.

The evening had started off full of promise. Dinner at Masa -- the menu called the place "A Japanese Omakase Experience." There were only twenty-six seats, and they booked two months in advance. How he'd managed a table on such short notice she didn't know -- or care to ask. The taste of Junmai Daiginjo-shu, a sake advertised as "the pinnacle of the brewer's art," still lingered in her mouth.

After dinner her date of the evening had taken her to his home. Home? More like a mansion -- just this side of palatial -- where he'd made love to her for hours… and hours… and hours.

A wonderful evening. It should have been enough. Had she been any other woman, it would have been enough. She should have been counting herself as very satisfied right now. But she wasn't any other woman. She was Rosalie -- a sex nymph. She hadn't been normal since she'd been cursed more than five millennia ago, in the time of the ancient gods.

Though the old gods were long gone, the curse remained firmly in place. Eros was not to be dallied with. His enchantments were powerful, and lasted beyond his demise. She was still under a nightly compulsion to seek out the one man who would be perfect for her in all respects -- although, since she liked sex, it wasn't a terribly trying curse.

Rosalie giggled to herself as she stretched again, arching her back. Her bed partner, John, she thought his name was, mumbled in his sleep and turned his head on his pillow. Rosalie patted his ass fondly.

Whatever his name was, she had to give him credit. He'd tried his best, after all. Poor guy couldn't help it if he wasn't exactly what she needed in her bed, much less her life. If he'd even come close, I wouldn't even be able to think right now, much less analyze.

Rosalie sighed and burrowed deeper under the expensive padded silk comforter, gliding her fingers along its elegant Asian craftsmanship. He has everything, too. Looks, money, brains -- so why isn't he the one?

I think they're still torturing me for walking away from the Pantheon. Well, me and all my sisters. Rosalie wasn't alone in her quest, oh, no. There were two dozen of them, women she counted as sisters, each of them searching for the perfect mate to give the gift of immortality. To make that person like them. But each man had to be perfect. The one she sought had to be perfect for her. He had to be worthy…

She'd just have to keep looking.

Such was the life of a Muse of Sex. She could inspire men to great heights, but could they accomplish the tasks she set for them? Not very damned likely. John had almost gotten there, but close only counted with horseshoes and hand grenades.

The covers had fallen back, revealing her partner's perfectly sculpted ass. Rosalie bent and dropped a light kiss on his warm skin, one that would give him a lifelong gift. He'd remember the inspiration she'd given him that night, but she would be nothing more than a particularly vivid, erotic dream, one that faded into his memories like the colors in an abstract painting.

Rosalie slipped out from the bed and padded over to find the black slip of a dress that she'd worn to meet him -- a Vera Wang original. She shimmied into the smooth silk, tucking her scrap of a bra into the tiny beaded purse she carried, leaving her midnight blue thong behind. They were ruined, anyway, shredded beyond repair.

She'd asked for him to tear them, of course. He had good, strong hands.

Her stiletto heels went on last -- Manolo Blahniks -- "fuck me" heels if there were ever a pair made. Rosalie shook her head, running all ten fingers through her hair to give it an attractively tousled look. Her lips would be swollen from kissing and her cheeks blushing with beard-burn. She knew she would appear to be well-fucked. She might as well take advantage of the look.

The problem remaining, though, was that she was hungry -- she needed more. Something else to feed her never-ending appetite for sex. A quick cab ride and she'd be in the heart of downtown Manhattan, at the B.B. King Blues Club, where hopefully she could find someone who'd sweep her off her pointed heels.

The next man around the corner could be the one…