The final journey of the Saving Angels series has come to an end. All roads have led you to….
“What’s the address?” she asks.
“Eleven Sparrow Way.”
She closes her eyes for a moment. “I like that. Our journey has flown us here, flown us home….”
Gabriel Roberts found his happily ever after at The Crossroads of his life. He found his brother, Michael, his history in the Legion, and the love of his life, his Evangeline. He has finally arrived at the place he always yearned for—home.
But time stops for no one; not even an angel.
For years Gabriel has guarded what is most precious to him, Evangeline and their transcendent love story.When the opportunity presents itself in an unexpected way, Gabriel decides to tell his story, and in doing so, answers the riddle of his heart: If life is the journey of years, perhaps love is the journey of a lifetime?
I dreamt of you again. We were in an enclosed glass space, the sky a brilliant blue, the clouds as white and transcendent as I had ever seen them. The sky was so bright, I believed it was made of crystals or stars so magical in their home, they competed for the daylight’s time. And they were winning. Enclosed with us a long, clear, cool pool of water. I was sitting on the edge of the pool, watching as you swam underneath the water. You were searching for something. You would dive under and disappear, just to reappear, that grin on your face, to lay clusters of diamonds at my feet.
I watched you do this for quite some time, until I believed you had captured all of those diamonds in the sky. You were giving them to me. Because the sky above had lost its twinkle, its brilliance, it had become ominous, but that mattered none to me. All that I needed was enclosed with me. I yearned for nothing, not even the lost brilliance of the sky. I had you.
You took me in your arms, pulling me close, and all that was visible through my dreaming eyes was your eyes staring back at me. They were full of passion, fire, and sparks from the stars you stole from the sky just to lay them at my feet, as though the stars above were nothing but trinkets from a candy machine. You hummed a song for me, “Hard Headed Woman,” and all the raging passion bottled inside of me pulled you close. When our lips touched, it was as though I had found my footing; I had found my past, my future, and my now.
***
Things seem to be going well. I feel like I have things really down to my own groove. I feel as if I have my own little cooking show and I am killing it. I should have done a comedy. Or better yet, they should give me a cooking show. I’d call it The Dirty Irishmen Does Southern. But I may have gotten carried away. I know it the moment the words leave my mouth. Being as comfortable as I have been, I mention something about this spectacular manwhich having the power to lure Eva into my bed.
She gives me the warning glare.
“What? Have you ever watched her show? It gets pretty heated. Just yesterday they were discussing the big O,” I say.
Her mouth pops open. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Beb!”
Eva begins to stir the cabbage, probably because it is about to burn, and as she does I watch her with a smile on my face. I love the way her behind moves.
“Don’t let him fool you, boys, if it wasn’t for—” she nods toward my head “—that sandwich would have gotten him nowhere.”
***
And then I do something no man should ever do, or one who is not well versed in the kitchen should ever do. I get cocky. I use Eva’s fancy mixing machine. Even the crewmen have mashed potatoes in their hair afterward. Eva laughs so hard she starts to cry.
***
Willie picks on, copying the steady rhythm of the recognizable lyrics. She leans into me, starting to sway, using her right hand to gently tap my leg. I can see how she’s struggling to keep her eyes open. It’s one of the most intense feelings I’ve ever felt. The connection that pulls us to each other is more powerful than gravity, than any worldly need—food, water or sleep, more than breathing even. In her eyes I get the fulfillment of every audience I have ever played for, and every audience I’ve never played for. These are the moments that I will treasure forever. I’ll take them with me when I go. This is the definition of being rich.
***
My eyes savor every inch of her bare flesh. The gentle sway of her body, the way her waist melts into her rolling, swinging hips. Her body is soft, but firm. Her eyes are full of longing and bright fire. Her stare melts me, like a slow burn. My will drips, drips, drips as she moves into me.
“I can’t get you close enough, fast enough,” I breathe. I want to drink her, absorb her, until every pore in my body is overflowing with her. Her tongue tastes like warm, sweet honey. I can never have enough of her this way. Of this I am infinitely positive.
Her head tilts backward. Her lips curl in an upward smile of pleasure. Her hair falls around her back, uncovering her breasts. The sweet smell from her bare skin enraptures me. Her hands rush through my hair. She traces the lines of my face; her fingertips seem to float across my skin. “Memorizing you,” she breathes out as her hands make their way to my body, undressing me.
I move into her, trembling, dripping with heat. My fingers pulsate and pull against her soft skin and her knees buckle.
“When you touch me, you feel like thunder pounding against my skin,” she whispers.
I’m careful now—the want needs to grow until it can no longer be controlled. Like a beast being released after years of being caged.
The tension builds, causing my soul to stir.
Born and raised in New Orleans, Annie has a habit of shortening her words and telling long stories. She speaks with a southern flair and cooks with it too. At the tender age of twenty- one, she hitched up her wagons (took her first plane ride) and moved out west to the big shake (California). Her writing career began one sleepless night when she imagined a gorgeous woman and a man with maniacal hair floating above her like lightening bugs falling from the sky. Curious about them, their story, and why they were floating around in her head, she sat down and penned (typed) her first novel, Marigny Street. A dream come true for her, she hasn’t stopped writing since. She loves a damn good love story, always has, no matter what the genre. She is particularly moved by imperfect love that in its own unique way is perfect, the notion of love at first sight, soul mates, and things that are generally out of the norm.
When she’s not writing she enjoys dabbling in photography and finding new, inspirational music to add to her collection. She currently (still) resides in the big shake (although her southern roots are calling her home) with her husband, daughter, and their two peculiar dogs, Boudreaux and Tabasco (who, call her crazy, bark with an accent).
For lagniappe (a little extra), a virtual cup of café au lait and beignets, please visit Annie’s website:
www.annierosewelch.com
She can also be found on Facebook & Twitter.
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