Excerpt for Mariposa Soul by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Investigative journalist Andre Cordaire spends the majority of his time globetrotting around the world and flitting from bed to bed, never tempted to stay in any of them. Always searching. It's a lonely existence, but he has never been able to find that special woman with whom to share his life. Soul-mates, however, can turn up in the most unusual places at unexpected times.

An encounter in a bar, a hiking trip up a mountain, and discovering a soul-mate in the person he never would have expected, who makes him want to share the love trapped inside him, was the last thing Andre was ready for. Finally, here is someone who understands more about him than he did himself. Once revealed, can he acknowledge what his heart and soul cries for? Or will he keep running, denying his need for the one person he knows could make him happy? Even if that person is a man?

This story is a work of original fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author.

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author.

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Copyright 2017 by Adrianna Dane

Cover Art Designs by T. A. Gallup

This story was originally released in October 2006 by Amber Quill Press/Amber Allure

CAUTION: This story contains explicit sexual situations and strong language. You must be over the age of 18 years of age to read this story.

Mariposa Soul

By Adrianna Dane

Dream Romantic Unlimited, LLC

Table of Contents










1Andre looked down at the woman as she slept, a satisfied smile on her gently parted, soft lips. One arm was thrown upward curved around her head, the silky exposed flesh would have been enough to draw any other man back to her bed to stroke her drowsily awake.

Any other man would be eager to suckle her breasts as he parted her legs to burrow inside the welcoming satin heat of her vagina. She had been wet and ready for him immediately and his cock had slid effortlessly inside her silky passage.

She was a beautiful woman by anyone’s standard. She was responsive and sensual and he’d given her pleasure, brought her to orgasm more than once, hence the contented, peaceful look on her face right now. And stroking her heat had brought his own orgasm spurting forth with ease. If only it had been thoughts of the woman lying beneath him that had fueled his explosive climax.

He smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt and reached for his jacket that was resting on a chair near the bed. He sat down and slipped into his shoes, tied the laces, then leaned back and watched her for long moments.

Why did he feel so removed from his emotions? He should be feeling satisfied and happy. He’d met her in a bar earlier that evening. It was one he frequented often, meeting up with other journalists like himself, chatting for long hours over several beers, debating current issues. More times than not, leaving with a female colleague to end the night in her bed or his. They were casual encounters, scratching an itch, and then they’d go their separate ways, on to the next story. No commitments, no ties, no part of his inner self shared with another human being. That had occurred only once, and he shied away from remembering the ecstasy of that particular memory. No, he wouldn’t think of that.

Recently, he’d returned from an assignment in South America, and had spent the night swapping stories as he often did. She’d walked up to him, having recognized Andre from a picture she’d seen in a current article of his and introduced herself, offering to buy him a drink.

She’d told Andre her name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember it right now. Maybe he didn’t want to remember it. Once he walked out of her apartment, she’d be no more than a fleeting snip of a memory, hardly more than a quick byline in a newspaper. A blur among other nameless female faces, and, like inexpensive wine, he’d used them to numb his thoughts and make him forget—just a quick, cheap fix of forgetfulness. Only it didn’t work the way it was supposed to. All it did was emphasize the deep well of loneliness he was always on the verge of tumbling into head first.

Sometimes he felt like Prince Charming looking for the owner of the glass slipper. Finding that one person who fit him like no other in the kingdom would or could. And sometimes he felt like the girl in the story, where he was the one quickly slipping away, fearful of discovery, yet holding fast to the dream her prince would find her. And knowing that for one brief moment, he really did exist.

He now had to wonder whose discovery he was more afraid of—his own or his friends and colleagues?

He rose from the chair, gave one last look toward the bed, then turned away to walk out of the bedroom, quietly letting himself out of her apartment. Sometimes the painful loneliness he felt inside yawned like a chasm of darkness waiting to consume him entirely.

He felt it more deeply now than he had six months ago. He didn’t want to acknowledge the reason for the deep, gnawing pain that seemed to be ever present. If he attempted to pry open his soul and look inside, he was afraid of what he’d discover. It would be a negation of all he thought he was.

It was one of the reasons he’d fled on assignment to South America, putting some distance between himself and temptation.

He stepped out of the elevator, strode across the floor, and out onto the sidewalk. He breathed in the scent of nighttime and it seemed to cleanse him somewhat or at least helped to clear his head.

Pulling out a pack of cigarettes and the lighter from his inner pocket, he quickly put one in his mouth, lit it, and inhaled, feeling the bite of the nicotine as it attacked his lungs. He looked down at the lighter, studying the elongated silver outline and the deeply etched multicolored butterfly on its face. It caused a deep ache inside him, a longing for something ethereal and delicate he couldn’t touch, couldn’t hold onto. Was afraid to capture.

Being in South America had only exacerbated the need and the feeling of solitude. There were lots of butterflies in the jungles of South America. He should have known better than to take that particular assignment to try to forget. His fingers tightened around the lighter, the metal beginning to warm in his hard clasp.

His footsteps carried him along the wet, silent street, shoulders hunched forward against the damp night air, his mind focused on internal thoughts. And memories.

The encounter with the woman upstairs had meant nothing. It was a sad fact, but true nonetheless. He’d wanted it to mean something—he’d wanted to feel, to embrace her fragrance and femininity. He wanted her to offer him forgetfulness. He willed her to make his soul come alive, to be able to answer her mating call.

But like all the many meaningless times before, it hadn’t happened.

He turned a corner, heard the echo of a lonely siren in the distance, felt the moisture of late night rain cling to his face.

Today he should take that assignment his editor had offered him. It would send him far away from the temptation for a good year. Then maybe the aching need would finally dissipate and he would remember how good it felt to ease his body inside a woman’s soft caress.

Who was he trying to kid? Those days had been destroyed forever. He shoved a hand into the pocket of his coat. His fingers encountered the sharp edges of a business card and a wave of longing sliced through him. He didn’t have to pull it out to know whose card it was. He had it memorized, the name seared into his brain.

You have a butterfly’s soul, Andre, beautiful and fragile. I await the day you set it free to live the way it is meant to live. Come to me when you’re ready.

He’d fought it for so long, trying to lose himself within other warm bodies, in other arms, through other lips. He’d tried so damned hard to surround himself with the scent of women, to make him forget.

But they had all paled, and were all forgotten because he could only remember one set of arms, one mouth that consumed and pulled at his soul, eyes that stroked him to life and filled the loneliness of his soul, like nothing had ever done before.

His response had scared him, yet excited him. He’d wanted to give in to the feelings, and although they’d felt right at the time, he’d shied from acknowledging what they meant about him.

He stopped walking and looked up at the street sign and sighed. Pulling deeply on the cigarette, he tossed it down and ground it with the heel of his shoe. It was as though it was inevitable his footsteps should have carried him to this particular street corner. He’d fought the feelings for so long and was tired of the struggle. The confusion inside him swirled around him, ever present no matter where he went or whom he was with.

But suddenly, as he looked up at the street sign, his hand closed over the card in his pocket. Mariposa Street. Was it a sign that he should accept the message of the soul he’d tried to forget? In Spanish, mariposa meant butterfly.

Was he finally ready to accept the nature of his needs to feel complete? He turned toward the street, saw a taxi, and hailed it. He felt the flutter of trapped wings beating inside his soul. Was he ready to fly? He knew he feared leaving the safe, familiar boundaries of his cocoon.

The taxi pulled up, he opened the door, and stepped inside.

“Where to?” the older gentleman asked him.

Again, his fingers encountered the card in his pocket, like a talisman. He didn’t need to take it out to provide the driver with the address.

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