So I’m sharing excerpts from Pearly (how my editor and I talk about the book) this week, and I figured the reason for the title should somehow be showcased- so here goes::
Murphy’s Time-Travel Law: Time travel is impossible—until it happens.
I jog-walk down the eerie, shadowed corridor muttering, “You can do this. You can. You’ve faced down oilmen, riggers, engineers. You have five older brothers.”
Door number one goes by.
“You’re from the twenty-first century. You graduated summa cum laude with a double major and a minor.” I pass door number two.
My footsteps slow of their own accord.
I chew the insides of my cheeks and force myself to continue.
“Go big or go home.”
Decision made, I stop in front of door number three, which stands slightly ajar. Raising my hand to knock on the solid wood, I shift and my boot catches on the too-long hem of Diana’s dress.
I snatch at the frame and manage to right myself.
My jaw drops at the scene revealed by the half-open door.
Behind a large, burnished desk stands a man who is the epitome of the Viking god Thor. Massive shoulders, chiseled pectorals, arms a logger would envy, a long, flowing, golden mane, and the profile of an immortal deity. He wears not a stitch of clothing, and the enormous erection he sports mesmerizes me. I can’t drag my eyes from his huge, engorged penis.
He doesn’t notice me, and I understand why when my gaze drops.
A half-naked woman lies sprawled on the top of the desk, which is located parallel to the far wall instead of fronting the doorway. She’s angled so I can see the profile of her face and body clearly. Her head’s half-resting on one elbow and her chin’s tilted back, exposing a slender, graceful neck.
I catch a glimpse of a blue pendant dangling from a thick-linked gold chain hanging to one side. A mane of glossy ringlets are spread in a perfect array around her head and shoulders.
She’s wearing a thin, transparent nightgown, which is scrunched above her waist. Her legs hang down from the desk, and a triangle of pale blonde curls at the apex of her thighs shimmers in the dancing flames of the candles attached to sconces on the opposite wall.
He cups himself.
Fascinated, I follow his tanned fingers as he strokes back his foreskin to reveal the reddened head of his penis.
A heated paralysis strangles my brain. I lick my lips when a thick, pearly drop oozes from the glistening slit in the center of the crown of his cock.
Lightning crackles. Thunder booms.
His head whips around and our stares collide.
Hope you enjoyed!
Cheers,
Jianne
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