Love's Immortal Panthoen 3: Bellona's War RibbonBy: Diana DeRicci | Other books by Diana DeRicci
Published By: Tease Publishing LLC
ISBN # 978-1-60767-102-2
| Word Count: 24,900 |
Available in: Adobe Acrobat
A persistent obsession with a goddess could jeopardize one man's sanity, or could give him eternal love.
An Ancient Civilizations Professor has hungered for one woman for over twenty years. The only problem--she
hasn't existed in millenia. When he is swept from modern times to the birth of the Roman Empire, he thinks his
sanity has finally snapped.
All he wants is to have one chance to love her.
If he can win the heart of the Goddess of War, he might find more than any obsession could ever promise.
Curran’s head ached and his mouth was dry. His room smelled dry and stuffy. He needed to air out his condo again. Rolling over, he tossed an arm upward to capture his free range pillow. Thunder filled the morning. Great. It was Saturday, maybe he’d just stay in bed.
Only…that wasn’t his pillow under his hand. Heavy wool scratched his back and hips as he shifted to find a comfortable position. When had his mattress ever felt so flat? Flexing his fingers, he stroked something hard…hard and stone. Stone?
Blinking, he jerked up on stiff arms and froze.
*! We’re not in Kansas anymore. Focusing, he examined his space. Stone walls soared all around him. Flat masonry with dedicated religious carvings, and a single slit window well overhead. He was in some kind of sleeping quarters. Listening, that wasn’t thunder either, but the sound of marching. Thousands marching.
Swallowing with uncertainty, he sat on the edge of his bed, a single layer ticked cot. He was naked. He shook himself. His mind was only playing with him again. Though, like Bellona speaking the night before, this was far more real, well beyond anything he’d dreamed up over the years. “Easy,” he whispered cautiously.
He wasn’t speaking in English anymore!
Lifting his hands, he scrubbed his face. Callouses surprised him. Shudders rocked his shoulders. Faint sounds reached him through the plank wood door. Apparently the only way in or out of his…space? Cell? God if he knew. He knew in a few minutes it would disappear, or he’d wake up, in his own room. He had to. None of this was real. It never had been. Now was no different.
He believed that for about another fifteen seconds.
Standing he stretched and felt his heart pound again. Now this was too much! That was not his cock! Hell, this isn’t my body! Long and lean at thirty-three, the frame of his body now was anything but the tell-tale make-up of a bland college professor. Holding out his hands and arms, ropes of muscle climbed his arms to broad shoulders. A thick chest and lean waist was held up by muscular thighs, and dark, fine hair coated his skin, from his pecs to his navel.
Trembling, he sank to the edge of the bed where he’d awakened.
Dark hair? But I’m a blonde! Curran whimpered helplessly inside. Closing his eyes, he breathed at a measured pace for several minutes, surprised and grateful when his lungs and chest eased and the fear clenching his heart died away.
Looking over his shoulder, he spotted a wooden table with a wash basin and pottery pitcher. Striding over, he poured clear water into the bowl then splashed his face. A few drops hit his chest and he flicked them off, shaking his hands after dousing himself. Bracing his hands on the wooden edge, he counted. Yet when he opened his eyes, the room was exactly as he’d seen when he’d first awakened. Definitely not home.
“You are so screwed,” he muttered. In Latin. His brain wanted to curl up in a corner and quiver. He clearly remembered dragging his sorry ass to bed last night after his meltdown. Clean sheets and a queen bed. What was he missing? Sweeping the interior space there were no answers, but one definite. This was not his room.