Characterization has never been a problem for me. In fact I spend more time beating possibilities off with a stapler than I do looking for characters to people my erotic romances.
Plots have a way of sorting themselves out which is a good thing because the more I write, the more I do it seat of the pants trusting that eventually I’ll spy The End.
Setting is vital to me. I can’t write word one until I had a vivid image of the world my characters live in, particularly if I make up the world. Most of the time pictures of landscapes & houses clutter my desk acting like safety nets.
But titles? Just tell me to stick one on whatever I’m writing and I head downstairs for the wine. I’ve lucked out a handful of times in the close to sixty titles I’ve written but usually not. Erotic romance readers have certain expectations, and one of those is that their interest will be snagged by an intriguing/sexy title. That’s all fine and dandy but with thousands of erotic romance fiction available many trigger words have been done to death, and they tend to all run together.
More than that, publishers go to great lengths insuring that they don’t have any duplicate titles. When I was working on my latest Samhain release, I knew I’d garner extra Brownie points if I came to my editor with something unique and yet not insane. Pressure you might think. For once not. STUDS is a shape-shifting ménage about, you guessed it, two hunky/sexy men who can and often do become stallions. (Oh, come to think of it, Stallions would have been a great title!) For those who don’t know, breeding stallions are referred to as studs. You can’t get more macho than that. My concern was it was highly likely the title had been used before. But it hadn’t and now it’s mine, all mine!
So is a story set on Hopi reservation land, an independent Hopi woman, two determined and courageous men/horses, and a large handful of danger. Oh and sex. Lots of sex.
Alone. Her lean yet womanly body gliding around the equipment, her full breasts straining against the ridiculous bras women insisted on wearing. Her inner thighs would brush together, perhaps stimulating the magical part of her.
To the casual observer, she might appear to be deeply tanned, but because his human skin held the same hues, he knew she had Native American blood in her. Her cheekbones were high, her dark eyes almost as deep-set as his while her midnight hair trailed halfway down her back. She’d braided two slender strands near her temples to, he guessed, keep her hair out of her eyes. If her body lay under his with his cock buried in her soft, wet channel, he’d brush glistening hair off her neck, gathering up her sweat as he did.
Hands rammed in his back pockets, he tracked her. His cock fought the prison he’d reluctantly forced it into today. He might never understand clothing and not fucking simply because he wanted to, but he was trying. He had no choice.
Teeth clenched as defense against the future he was still reluctantly accepting, he pulled Terena’s smell deep into him. He hadn’t had sex with many human females, not because they hadn’t offered themselves to him, but because he didn’t trust his self-control. Keeping distance between himself and a woman was easier than keeping his wits about him once he touched one. On its own, sex was good and right, tension followed by delicious release, but human females wanted to talk. They expected to hear certain words from him.
Forget the half dozen or so females he’d had sex with before today. There was only this one now—and her relationship with the man he wanted to kill.
Suddenly, a sensation like hot water seared him from cheeks to feet. Stopping, he lifted his head and sniffed. He became, not a predator, but more than a man.
Scenting a woman.
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