American Bombshell: Love , lies and taboo liaisons, a coming-of-age story. Set against the backdrop of a country at war. by David King

Author:David King [King, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Irish American, Kindle Unlimted, Amazon Bestseller, Historical Ficion, War romance, World War 2 romance, Sophfronia Scott, Tony Hillerman, Donna Everhart, Sadeqa Johnson, James A. Michener, Wanda M. Morris, Shana Abe, Delores Phillips, Dewey Lambdin, Kate Southwood, Diane C. McPhail, Anna Jean Mayhew, Amanda Skenandore, Lorena Hughes, Anita Shreve, Amy Harmon, Allison Pataki, Ellen Marie Wiseman, Alice Hoffman, Betina Krahn, Elizabeth Hardinger, Amor Towles, Anthony Doerr, William Black, Jean Grainger, Eoin Dempsey, Olive Collins, Michelle Vernal, Layla Johnson
ISBN: 9781781997086
Publisher: Poolbeg Press
Published: 2023-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

Later she would not remember how she came to be in Hazel’s room. She simply found herself lying in a winged chair, a hand lolling off the arm, head propped on a soft cushion. Her pyjama top was lying on the floor, with only the bottoms remaining. The room was in semi-darkness, lit only by a shaft of light from the landing, which penetrated the gloom with a narrow yellow beam.

Hazel, with her back towards her, was standing by the mahogany bed, silently shedding her own nightwear. As she unbuttoned the pyjama top, dim rays of light illuminated her strong arms, and broad shoulders. Rosie could just make out moles in the centre of her back, near to the spine. They formed a straight line running downwards, like the three stars in Orion’s sword. He’d been a hunter, had Orion, she remembered, strong and swift, and it seemed appropriate that Hazel’s back should bear his mark.

The dim light glowed briefly on the globe of Hazel’s short golden hair as she cast the pyjama top to the floor. Next to go were the pyjama bottoms, revealing a small, pert behind clad in ivory satin knickers.

Hazel turned and smiled, letting her knickers fall to the floor. Somewhat to her surprise, Rosie didn’t feel embarrassed. Instead, the sense of intimate connection she’d felt earlier, when they’d been merely talking, returned with even greater strength. Her friend’s figure, Rosie noticed, was slender, yet finely curved, something an artist might admire. She was slim, the modest swellings of her breasts matching the outward curve of her hip, a womanliness that had until then had been almost concealed behind the trousers and overalls Hazel so often wore. Her skin was radiant, almost golden in the reduced light, which was nevertheless strong enough to cast intriguing blueish shadows into her hollows.

Hazel smiled and turned a full circle, displaying her nakedness in the intimacy of the room’s dim glow. She was completely unashamed of her body, as though sharing it with another was the most natural thing in the world. Rosie knew, even though the fuzziness of the rum, that the mood was sliding inexorably into something different, but she felt disinclined to deny the new warmth in her stomach and the curious aching longing in her thighs. She’d left home, and what she did now seemed no one’s business but her own, a rightful fruit of independence. She had a vague sense she was being steered, perhaps even manipulated into a kind of submission, yet she went knowingly, and freely.

Hazel drew closer, and Rosie stood. She let Hazel tug down her pyjama bottoms and stepped out of them as they hit the floor. Facing, their naked bodies were almost touching. There was no sound in the empty house, except the ticking of the hall clock and the faint crackle of the fire downstairs.

‘My love,’ Hazel said, cupping Rosie’s face in her hands, her deep green eyes slowly closing.

‘Hazel,’ Rosie heard herself say.

Hazel’s lips touched her own, a caress so soft it seemed scarcely more than the brush of a butterfly’s wing.

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