My biggest fear when I wrote my first book was, What if I only have one story to tell. It’s still a knot of anxiousness that has taken a permenant residence in my gut. Something I have to ignore or this dream of mine would have died in the hole. It’s a face my fears scenerio.

I’m sending the first part of my new book off to my editor and will be sitting in a corner rocking until I get some feedback. In case you’re not on my mailing list the title is Winter’s Girl, it’s a romantic suspense, it started off in the same vein as The Choices Series but as with all my stories they take a life of their own and it wound down a parallel path. Life of a punster author.

Still, I hope you’re going to enjoy. I have a little snippet if you fancy?

Bluebell

I drop my head onto the sofa cushion with a frustrated sigh when he shifts again and moves his weighty cock farther away from where I really need it. It’s like he flicked a switch inside me with his searing gaze, his singular focus, and his tender touch. Never in my life have I felt desire, lust, or whatever this is steamrolling through my helpless body. It’s like I need his touch to survive. Every part of me craves very inch of him. 

The handful of occasions where I might’ve gone a little further than a kiss, my body went ridged, I shut down and no one wants to make out with a living corpse. 

This is something so different, a whole other realm of pleasure I never really believed. I may have dreamed it once or twice, and similar to a perfect dream you feel slipping back into reality, this reality is also frustratingly difficult to manipulate. I huff again when he circles around for another trail of kisses along my collarbone, up my neck to my ear. All the time, his cock slides back and forth against me with the gentle thrust of his hips. Close, but not close enough.

My impatience seems to amuse him. 

I can feel his smile against my neck. He changes direction, moving down my body. The pace is utter torture and judging by the wicked curl of his lips, he’s enjoying every agonising second. He works his mouth from one side of my body to the next, inching down, down until he’s seriously close to my core. Oh god, I want him so badly.

“Please, please, Darius.” I don’t know what I’m begging for exactly. I only know I can’t take much more of this erotic torture.

“I know.” He lets out a breath that hits my molten centre, and I want to scream, but his tongue follows the cool air and silences me as an unbelievable sensation shoots through my entire body. 

Oh, my God! 

His lips suck and pull at the tender flesh, and his tongue has this perfect pressure sweeping long strokes from just near my clit to my entrance. He slips two fingers inside me, and my hips buck instantly. His other hand rests across my hips, clasping me in place. There’s no escaping this onslaught of unbelievable pleasure. 

My core contracts greedily, grabbing at his fingers, which he pumps into me as a swell of pleasure rises from the tip of my toes, rolling through every nerve in my body, gathering momentum until, like an unstoppable giant wave of pure ecstasy, it breaks. My climax hits, and unrelenting he pushing me on and on, massaging a light circling motion with the pad of his thumb around my clit, building the pressure once more. This time, I scream loudly, with shock and wonder. I’m seeing stars, bright flashes behind my tightly squeezed lids. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” He draws his lips between his teeth; his eyes darken with desire and they roll to the heavens when he sucks in the flavour of me coating his lips. That has to be the sexiest sight on the planet.

He holds my heated stare, his chest is heaving and matching my own ragged breathing.

“I need to get a condom, and we need to take this to the bed.” He lifts me in his arms. I’m still dazed from the body shaking orgasm, flopping against his chest as he carries me the short distance to my bed. He lays me carefully, even so, the ancient spring creaks with protest.

“Is this thing going to hold my weight?” He presses the mattress a few times. Concern crinkles his brow at the fresh level of noise. I shrug.

“It depends. Are you planning of high diving on to it?”

“I plan on diving, yes, not from any height, though.” He narrows his eyes at my snickering.

“It’s not the Ritz, but it will be fine.” 

So I had a thought and who knows it may turn into a book or a series of short stories about why the best book genre is Romance. It’s a totally unbiased option, obviously, with years and years of research to back up my rock-solid hypothesis.

This is in no way a smut shaming exercise. I will staunchly and happily advocate the value of the genre, of its long history (Jane Ayre was a romance, as was Pride and Prejudice). Romance entertains, promotes literacy and community among readers (fierce and strong is the romance reader community and I’ll cut you if you tell me otherwise). Whether you read A Brief History of Time or The Hungry Catapillar if reading gives you pleasure you shouldn’t need to defend it…ever. And let’s not forget this golden nugget; the majority of romance books are written by women, for women, where the hero is the heroine and she always, always gets her Happily Ever After. #forthewin

Romance readers should never feel the need to justify their choice of books. And if ever you find yourself in that position, do what I do, retort with the sweetest smile and a brow raised high with judgment, and ask,

“What’s your problem with women and sex?”

No, I’m not going to add to this particular discussion.

I’m going to propose that the romance genre is actually an essential element for any relationship, a key-worker if you will.

What makes me such an expert I hear you ask? Since “because I said so” might not cut it with you and probably hasn’t done for a while, I will just say I’ve written 16 romance novels, (erotic romance, romantic suspense/thriller and rom/com), have sold over 250K books, which I know isn’t in the big leagues by any stretch but it’s not to be sniffed at and I have a very dusty bachelors degree in Communication. Enough? No, I agree, not remotely.

OK, how about I try to explain by way of my own personal experience. I have been married for over 30 years…yes I know, where’s my medal? I’m a grown-assed woman who knows the difference between the possessive sexy alpha hero and a crazy psycho-stalker in real life. I know the difference between being thrown up against a wall and ravaged to with an inch of your breast-heaving breathless life and assault. I know the difference between insta-love and insta-lust, I know the difference between the super hot billionaire in books and the actual billionaires (not mentioning any names….oh wait…Mark Zuck and Mr. Bezos ahem.) But in the books I and millions of others love and devour, the lines are not only a little blurry, but I’ll happily smug them out completely in order to fall head over heels in love with my next book boyfriend.

I often get asked, “I’d love to know what Daniel & Bethany are up to now.” But do you really? I don’t think so. It’s never a good idea to go back, visiting characters you’ve been through the mill with only to learn that Daniel does in fact leave the toilet seat up or that Bethany isn’t such a fan of anal. In order to go back, the drama would need to be re-introduced and in romance that can only mean one of three things: cheating, an illness/amnesia, or death, and frankly where’s the romance in that?

However, there have been many times when I’ve smirked, rolled an eye to the heavens at the impossibility of the bedroom gymnastics, or winced at the sheer stamina of both the hero and heroine. I’m just as guilty as a romance writer but do I care? Heck-to-the-no. Do I want to read that? Duh…yes, of course, I do.

So with my tongue firmly placed in my cheek, I want to explore a flip side, where reality meets romance. I don’t want to simply expose poorly written smut, which cloth can be hilarious I want o to create some fresh scenarios that need the reality treatment. I need some help though. I need to know the type of scenes that drive you crazy, that have you puzzled or incredulous, and while I’m at it, give me those words you can’t stand to.