Author bio
She was having an awesome time launching TV channels for MTV and NBC Univeral (Syfy), when a near death experience spurred Laxmi Hariharan to get writing. A one time journalist with The Independent, she is now the author of the multi award winning Many Lives Series. She also blogs for the Huffington post, has written for The Guardian and been featured in various publications. Married to a filmmaker and fellow author, she lives in London. Receive a free starter library of the Many Lives series when you sign up to her newsletter http://bit.ly/NewsletterLH
Reach Laxmi, on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/laxmihariharanauthor
on Twitter https://twitter.com/laxmi
on Instagram http://www.instagram/com/laxmiwrites
on Amazon amazon.com/author/laxmihariharan
Excerpt
A sudden hot thwack to the cheek has me jerking awake. I gasp, taking in a deep breath of air and stare into amber flares. Strong, steady, he burns me up too, but in a different way. His head is silhouetted against the pale pink of dawn creeping in through the open window. The breeze has that dreamy quality, a slight crispness to it, hinting at the rain showers from last night.
It's blessedly cool; at least a good ten degrees lower than the surly heat of the day outside. I try to bring up my hands to touch his face and find them shackled by his palms. I have scratched his cheek, the fresh marks just beginning to open up the skin. As I watch, a droplet of blood pops out. I raise my head; catch it on the tip of my tongue.
He doesn't move. Just watches me, those amber eyes alert as always, wary with self-restraint. I can see myself in them. I lean forward and flick out my tongue to brush the drop of blood against his lips.
He deepens the kiss, slanting his lips across mine, pressing me back against the bed so just for a second my breasts are crushed against him. I have borne his weight before, but this is different.
Our lips break apart and I fall back. There's a strange look on his face. He is aware of me, aroused, no doubt about that. I also see … pity.
He knows.
He knows that I cut myself.
And then, he knows that I know he knows.
Just like that, the fire in his eyes blanks out, replaced by that freezing desert-like brown sheet of glass.
The one I itch to reach out and shatter.
"You are too impetuous, you know that?"
Does that mean I like to follow my heart? "Not anymore …" I say. "Life's too short to play guessing games."
"Get dressed," he orders, but his tone lacks conviction.
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