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"Kimberly Zant returns with the sequel Thief of Hearts: The Return. Once again the reader is on the edge, waiting to learn the identity of her dream lover. The sex is steamy, erotic and light bondage makes the story even more intense. By the end of Thief of Hearts: The Return I was even more eager for the full extent of the story to be revealed than I was in book one, especially when it was hinted that a real connection had begun between the Thief and his woman. Once again, we have to wait for another sequel. I was left savoring the knowledge that that a bond had been formed and also that the series would continue. Kimberly Zant’s creativity has become addictive and so has the Thief of Hearts. I greedily look forward to book three." Road to Romance
"Thief of Hearts: The Return, by Kimberly Zant, continues the erotic tale of a woman enthralled by a mysterious intruder. A short fantasy of light bondage and submission, this is a highly entertaining read." Nan Strebeck, The Romance Studio
"The erotic build up and unfulfilled sexual tension of the woman in this story is transferred to the reader through the writing as well as through the ending of the story. Once again we are left panting and waiting for another release (pun intended) of these diary entries in order to gain more knowledge about both the woman and the man we have come to know as the Thief of Hearts. An emotional attachment develops towards the end of this story. I wait, as on the cusp of another climax, for the third release of Thief of Hearts by Kimberly Zant." Timeless Tales Reviews
THIEF OF HEARTS:
The Return
By
Kimberly Zant
(c) copyright May 2003, Kimberly Zant
Cover art by Eliza Black, (c) copyright May 2003
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
Dear Diary:
I’ve always considered myself level headed, not at all the sort of person to believe in the ‘supernatural’, or any sort of myths, for that matter. The ‘Thief of Hearts’ threw all my beliefs into disarray, however.
With little more than a whisper of sound, I found that the man who had come silently into my room in the night and had tortured me all night long with the most exquisite pleasure I had ever known had vanished as if he’d never existed. In the blink of an eye the room was empty of any presence save my own.
I leapt from the bed. My muscles screamed with pain, but I ignored it, rushing down the hall, through the living room and kitchen.
There was no sign of him.
Having searched the entire house, I collapsed on my bed and wept until I fell asleep. When I woke it was late in the afternoon. I lay staring at the ceiling for a time. Finally, I roused myself and rose. I smelled him on my skin and was torn between an insane urge to keep that part of him with me and an equal determination to wash all evidence of him from my body. Finally, I turned the hot water on and stepped into the shower, scrubbing myself thoroughly.
I felt weak and listless when I was finished. Dressing, I left my room and went into the kitchen, grabbing an apple and munching it as I wandered around the house, checking every window, the doors.
I had examined every opening to the house with great care twice before I even realized what I was doing.
There was no sign of forced entry. The house, as usual, was locked up tight.
Had I left the door unlocked? It was locked now, but he could have locked it on his way out.
Despite a desperate wish to find a logical explanation, I found it very hard to believe that I had left any door or window unlocked, allowing him to gain entrance. I was a compulsive security freak. I had never, since I’d begun to live on my own, left a single door or window unlocked. And I checked each, over and over, before going to bed at night, fearful that I’d unlocked one and forgotten, or that someone else, my boyfriend or the handyman, had unlocked a window for some reason and not locked it again.
Yet, he had been there. There was no question in my mind about that. My body still ached from his possession. It still quaked when I allowed memories of the night before to fill my mind.
If I accepted that he had really been there, though, then I began to realize that I might also have to accept that he had entered my home by some sort of magic, because the security system was working and had not been tripped and the house was locked up as tightly as a prison.
Moreover, and though I had avoided all thought of it previously, I was not a heavy sleeper--far from it. I did not take drugs of any kind. How then could I explain that the ‘Thief’ had not only entered my room, but bound me hand and foot so that I was helpless against his assault, without me rousing even a little until he was done?
I should have woke immediately at his first touch. Instead, it was almost as if I had been hypnotized, or drugged, or simply ‘bewitched’, for I had known nothing at all until he had wanted me to become aware of his presence.
That night I checked every door and window over and over, making sure that each was locked. I had slept most of the day. I sat up most of the night.
I found that I was both relieved and disappointed when he didn’t come.
Days passed. I ceased to watch for him, or, at least that was what I told myself.
But, when a week passed and he didn’t return, I began to grow restless, angry.
I didn’t care who he was, or how he’d managed to find his way into my bedroom, or why he’d done what he’d done. I finally realized I simply couldn’t bear the thought that I might never experience anything like that again.
By the time my boyfriend finally returned, I discovered that I had little interest in him. I could not bring myself to act as if I’d missed him, or that I was glad he’d returned. All I could think was that he would expect me to want to make love to him and I had been spoiled to any other man. I wanted my phantom lover. I did not want my boyfriend even to kiss me.
After his second day home, he erupted, demanding to know how I’d found out. I stared at him blankly. The only thing on my mind was the growing fear that my boyfriend would keep my phantom lover away. “Found out?” I echoed.
He glared at me. “Look, there was nothing to it, all right? Me and Stacy just got caught up in the moment.”
Stacy. My best friend Stacy? “You and Stacy…?”
“You’re pissed. I know you are. I don’t blame you, but it just happened. It didn’t mean anything to either of us. Things just got a little out of hand. You know how it is.”
I should have been furious, but I discovered that, except for feeling betrayed by my best friend, I just didn’t care. “Stacy fucked you?”
He stared at me. “You didn’t know?”
It should have been obvious to the knuckle head that I hadn’t, and I didn’t particularly care. Before my phantom lover, I would probably have felt devastated by the news. Now I was just indifferent.
Except that I damn sure wouldn’t be trusting Stacy around any more boyfriends! Some friend!
“No,” I said. “I didn’t. But, now that I do, I’ll expect you to gather your things and leave.”
“We can work this out.”
“I don’t want to work it out.”
I was relieved, actually. The encounter with my phantom lover had not been by choice. No matter what, I had felt I had a commitment with my boyfriend and I would not have willingly betrayed his trust. I hadn’t had a choice, but it had still altered the way I felt about myself, and my boyfriend. Even if I had not discovered that he’d betrayed my trust, I would have had a hard time going on with the relationship. Now I didn’t have to.
I waited hopefully for the return of my lover when my boyfriend moved out. Days passed--a week and then another. I began to despair that he would ever come back and I had no idea who he was or how I could reach him.
I was sleeping deeply, exhausted from days and days of waiting for his return, when I smelled his cologne. It rolled over me in a tidal wave of sensation that sent logical thought processes scattering, revving my libido at the same time.
Despite my body’s instant recognition and reaction, I thought at first that it was only a dream. I’d dreamed of him night after night, hoping he would return, and each time I’d woke devastated to realize it had been no more than a dream.
I felt certain I was dreaming again … then I felt a tug on my wrists. Had I descended once more into my dreams? Or had I surfaced to the reality I’d been waiting for?
I became more aware of my surroundings as I felt my arms lifted above my head so that they framed my face. I felt a series of gentle tugs as they were bound in that position.
I opened my eyes just as the scarf descended, catching no more than a fleeting glimpse of the man above me.
The mattress dipped and he straddled my middle, though he held his weight off of me. Leaning forward, he whispered near my ear, “Miss me?”
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