Sombra
A Love in Translation Series Novel
A Love in Translation Series Novel
Author: Leslie McAdam
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: April 30, 2018
Blurb
"Lush… Sombra is my favorite kind of read, unexpected and a total romantic escape." ~ Jay Crownover, New York Times bestselling author
My life had been unlived.
The safe major at the safe school. The safe boyfriend with
his safe promises.
Then I stepped off the plane in Madrid and saw him.
Of all the men in Spain, he has to be the very hottest.
That crooked smile. That devastating charm. Don’t even get
me started on how he plays the Spanish guitar.
For the very first time, my life feels like my own.
But I’m not the only one who’s made promises.
Despite the heat between us, Tavo has his own bargain to
keep, a marriage for the family’s honor.
All those delicious muscles and he’s a man of honor, too.
It’s a real shame about his obnoxious fiancée.
Faster than you can pour the wine, my life’s become a
Shakespearean comedy.
But you know what they say: Everything in moderation.
Including virtue.
"This book is phenomenal! Me. Tavo. Olive Oil = Happiness." ~ RC Boldt, author of Ditched
"Leslie McAdam has done it again... Sombra is complex,
inspirational, and well-written. A romance that truly delivers." ~ New
York Times bestselling author Kim Karr
"This is the most beautiful story of self-discovery and love that I have ever read. ... a must read." ~ Sultry Sirens Book Blog
"This is the most beautiful story of self-discovery and love that I have ever read. ... a must read." ~ Sultry Sirens Book Blog
Purchase Links
Free in Kindle Unlimited
Excerpt
Prologue
From the shadows, he emerges. The small pool of
olive oil on his hands glistens in the candlelight and drips on the tile floor
through his fingers.
Decadent.
>Hedonistic.
Dark.
I glimpse his face as he approaches the bed, and he’s grinning wickedly, his hair messy and wild. Bare feet on a cold floor. Shirt off. Jeans unbuttoned, with a thatch of groomed pubic hair peeking out, his root showing.
My body tingles and gooseflesh erupts on my arms and legs.
His appraising eyes slowly, languidly, take in my form.
And I love it. I absolutely love the way he looks at me, like he’s appreciating every freckle, every hair follicle, every curve. My painted toes. My voluptuous calves. My ample thighs. And on up.
Another drip of olive oil plops on the floor. Part of me thinks it’s a waste. The other part of me loves this game.
The wait, the watching, makes me pant, and I breathe faster and faster as he comes closer. My skin’s glowing in his dim room.
What surprise does he have for me this time?
The mystery. I love the mystery and anticipation. I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know the plan.
I have no idea what pleasures are in store for me tonight, but I’m sure they’re coming.
He knows what he does to me. He knows I’m resisting writhing on the crisp, rough sheets, which are crackly from drying on a line out back in the cold, wintry Andalusian sun. We’ll soften them soon enough when our bodies join together, but right now they’re almost like brittle sandpaper, chafing my skin.
With a bite of his lip, trying to control his smile, he rubs his hands together, making a suction sound from the lubrication. The oil smells fruity, green—if you could smell a color—and bitter.
I’ve licked it on his skin enough times to know its taste. The complexity of the flavors. How just a drop on the tongue can make me want so much.
I love it.
Even though I shouldn’t.
My eyes stay on his hands. I’m obsessed with them, especially his callouses. Over time, they’ve built up on the pads of his palms, right next to where his fingers begin. The telltale sign of a life lived working outside, although it’s not what he wants. Sometimes his rough patches crack and bleed, a hazard of using a rake to beat the olives out of the trees.
A hazard of using his hands.
Those hands, those scratchy callouses now skim down my naked body, half-lit in the dark room, leaving a trail of oil. My hair splays across the pillow. His light touch makes my nipples point up. My pulse pound. My body ache. I arch up into his fingers, wanting more. Needing more.
Needing him.
We shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t how my life is supposed to be.
But nothing can stop our desire.
Decadent.
>Hedonistic.
Dark.
I glimpse his face as he approaches the bed, and he’s grinning wickedly, his hair messy and wild. Bare feet on a cold floor. Shirt off. Jeans unbuttoned, with a thatch of groomed pubic hair peeking out, his root showing.
My body tingles and gooseflesh erupts on my arms and legs.
His appraising eyes slowly, languidly, take in my form.
And I love it. I absolutely love the way he looks at me, like he’s appreciating every freckle, every hair follicle, every curve. My painted toes. My voluptuous calves. My ample thighs. And on up.
Another drip of olive oil plops on the floor. Part of me thinks it’s a waste. The other part of me loves this game.
The wait, the watching, makes me pant, and I breathe faster and faster as he comes closer. My skin’s glowing in his dim room.
What surprise does he have for me this time?
The mystery. I love the mystery and anticipation. I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know the plan.
I have no idea what pleasures are in store for me tonight, but I’m sure they’re coming.
He knows what he does to me. He knows I’m resisting writhing on the crisp, rough sheets, which are crackly from drying on a line out back in the cold, wintry Andalusian sun. We’ll soften them soon enough when our bodies join together, but right now they’re almost like brittle sandpaper, chafing my skin.
With a bite of his lip, trying to control his smile, he rubs his hands together, making a suction sound from the lubrication. The oil smells fruity, green—if you could smell a color—and bitter.
I’ve licked it on his skin enough times to know its taste. The complexity of the flavors. How just a drop on the tongue can make me want so much.
I love it.
Even though I shouldn’t.
My eyes stay on his hands. I’m obsessed with them, especially his callouses. Over time, they’ve built up on the pads of his palms, right next to where his fingers begin. The telltale sign of a life lived working outside, although it’s not what he wants. Sometimes his rough patches crack and bleed, a hazard of using a rake to beat the olives out of the trees.
A hazard of using his hands.
Those hands, those scratchy callouses now skim down my naked body, half-lit in the dark room, leaving a trail of oil. My hair splays across the pillow. His light touch makes my nipples point up. My pulse pound. My body ache. I arch up into his fingers, wanting more. Needing more.
Needing him.
We shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t how my life is supposed to be.
But nothing can stop our desire.
Also Available
Free for a limited time!
Always free in Kindle Unlimited
Author Bio
Leslie McAdam is a California girl who loves romance, Little
Dude, and well-defined abs. She lives in a drafty old farmhouse on a small
orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two small
children. Leslie always encourages her kids to be themselves – even if it means
letting her daughter wear leopard print from head to toe. An avid reader from a
young age, she will always trade watching TV for reading a book, unless it’s
Top Gear. Or football. Leslie is employed by day but spends her nights writing
about the men you fantasize about. She’s unapologetically sarcastic and
notoriously terrible at comma placement (that’s what editors are for!). Always
up for a laugh, Leslie tries to see humor in all things. When she’s not in the
writing cave you’ll find her fangirling over Beck, camping with her family, or
mixing up oil paints to depict her love of outdoors on canvas.
Author Links
