The Peacock: The Physical Collection

By A.R. Hadley

The Peacock is a 9,500-word novelette. Roughly 50 pages. Short, sweet, and not to the point.

 

"Wow! I'm giving a 5* rating to a book I didn't understand. I didn't understand the relationships. I didn't understand the behavior of the characters. I didn't understand the unfinished ending. Was there an ending!? The only thing I understood was that the story was mesmerizing." – Silvia

 

 

A newly established artist moves to a small town and meets a married brute living life to excess. 

 

Each encounter leaves her wanting more.

More of his rugged hands. 

That sensual mouth. 

More of his brash pursuit of her that never seems to end... 

 

But the average life span of a peacock is forty years at best. And someone once told her those beautiful birds need constant companionship.

 

 

Author Note: The Peacock is a 9,500-word novelette. Part of The Physical Collection: a series of sexy standalones written by A.R. Hadley. Literary fiction, not romance. The characters and their intense and realistic actions drive the plot. Contains graphic content that may trigger some readers.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R. Hadley
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955287043

Book preview

THE PEACOCK

A.R. Hadley

Copyright © 2023 by Chameleon Media Productions, LLC

All rights reserved.

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the publisher. For permission requests, write to the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-955287-04-3

Editor: Monica Black http://www.wordnerdediting.com/

Proofreader: Judy Zweifel https://www.judysproofreading.com

Cover Design: Chameleon Media Productions, LLC

Cover Images: Canva. Used with permission.

"Ordinary life does not interest me." – Anaïs Nin

Contents

The First Brushstroke

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Also by A.R. Hadley

About the Author

The First Brushstroke

He pushed me against the heavy door of the empty bedroom. I should’ve told him no. But didn’t. Because I wanted him to do exactly as he pleased. The way men had done for centuries. 

He obviously intuited this about me. 

What I needed. 

Craved. 

I had noticed him soon after arriving at the party.

A man difficult to miss.

Lines etched across his chiseled face, a body to match, a mug belonging to someone who knew the meaning of hard labor but preferred a life of entitlement. 

And by noticed, I referred to none of those fleshly things.

This was something I felt. 

His very presence. 

I felt him before I saw him. Like a storm. Not even a hint of thunder off in the distance, but I could sense it. Him. This. 

I wouldn’t tell him no. 

Ever. 

Because I wanted every second of this experience.

It was mine. 

The way the paintings were mine. No matter who eventually bought them, I was the one who would always own them.

Chapter One

She snuck inside the back door, made her way through a kitchen, and into a living area. Plenty of guests had already arrived. But she wasn’t late. This wasn’t that kind of party.

Several things caught her attention. The opulence being the first.

An ornate sofa and matching armchair, the midnight gloss of a piano lid, an antique grandfather clock, and two large metal peacocks, hand-crafted and made of brass or copper, along with other art. Pictures. So many frames lined the walls, she tired of counting them. Earlier, Jonathan had informed her the homeowner was a collector. Right now, Jon was nowhere to be found.

Then she spotted something else…

Or someone.

A man standing at the far end of the dining room, barely smiling but dimpling.

Thirty or forty people gathered throughout this part of the house, mostly faces she’d never encountered — and this man was no exception. She’d never seen him. But she wouldn’t forget him.

Or she would paint him.

His arms. The outline of muscle there.

His tanned skin.

The tattoo crawling up the back of his neck, its colors skirting off to one side. His left.

Hi. You must be— A stranger extended a hand, taking her attention from the man with the biceps, the ink, the broad forehead. Then someone interrupted them.

Where’s the bathroom? she asked a minute or so later, after politely listening to their conversation about the upcoming art festival. 

They gestured. She wandered.

Finding a long,