Silk & Shadows

Having recently been in summertime Florida, my definition of hot has changed.

Hot romance brings ideas of energetic romping to some. But by another definition of hot, I envision lounging on beaches with somethingtinis, palm trees rustling in that oven-baked breeze. Bring on the lifeguards and minions with sun tanning oil—all that heat would make for a more passive love scene, something languid and sleepy. For the livelier games, I’ll wait like a basking lioness until the sun goes down and the ambient temperature cools to the point where movement seems like a possibility. Where the hot love scene means sand between your toes, give me the midnight beaches.

In another definition, hot might be a matter of taste. One could have spicy romance in a Southwestern style, bent over bowls of chilli in a land of red tablecloths and Spanish rhythms. That’s where the burn on the tongue works lower and lower, heating everything until your whole body is aflame. There’s a lot of excitement in every spoonful, and one has to be cautious of those hot peppers. Heart burn can have many meanings, too.

Romance for the writer invokes all those meanings and more. Sight and sound—his voice, her body—are important, but touch, smell and taste give the most powerful opportunities to set the scene. When the lights go down, it’s our primitive perceptions that rule, and it’s those that have to be somehow translated to the page. Unless an author can find the right balance of sensory description, the fire in the blood and the sooty firefighter who comes to fan those flames are colorless backdrop. Without the word play that charges the senses of the reader, romance scenes are mechanical at best.

Not as easy as it sounds. There’s purple prose in every author, and here is where it wants to leak out. Fits of giggles are not the desired result.

Unless of course, you’re trying to write about a hellhound and a vampire. Then everything gets a bit strange and you end up with something like the excerpt below. This is a draft from FROSTBOUND, the book I’m working on. Disclaimer: What makes it to the printed page might be quite different:

“Are you saying I’m a liar?”

Lore looked unimpressed. “You’re on the run. I found you with a bloody corpse. You use a knife with considerable skill. You’re something more than you’re saying.”

He turned and opened a drawer in a tall dresser. From where she was chained, Talia couldn’t see what was in the drawer, but heard the scrape of metal on wood. When Lore turned back, he had another set of silver handcuffs in his hand.

Talia scrambled backward, squeezing herself into the corner where the bed met the wall. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Extra insurance.”

She jerked at the chain with frustration. “Damn you, leave me alone!”

“It was your choice, me or the police.”

Lore reached over her, his big body stretching easily over the wide mattress. Talia shrunk against the pillows as his face came too close to hers. She could smell that burnt chemical scent on his clothes again, as if he’d been at an industrial fire. Beneath it was the musky scent of man–except it wasn’t. It was richer. Darker. Hellhound. The hair on her neck ruffled. Must be the demon blood, because Mrs. McCready’s cockapoo never smelled that good.

But there was no way she was letting him chain her other hand. His face drew close to hers, a mixture of caution and determination in his dark eyes. She flexed her fingers, calculating the angle between Lore’s nose and the heel of her hand. With enough force, the right blow could knock him out. The squishy mattress would cost her momentum, but she was willing to give it—him—a shot.

Damn! He anticipated her move, his hand rising to block her, so at the last second she changed angles and went for his holster. Lore solved the problem by dropping on top of her, pinning her under his weight. Suddenly her nose was buried in his hair, her breasts crushed under his broad, strong chest.

“Get off me!” she hissed into his ear. His neck was right there, pulse pounding like forbidden candy. She’d heard some vamps liked demon blood.

Talia felt the strength in his body as he moved, the stretch and pull of muscle under cloth. She tensed, wanting the freedom to fight but only meeting a solid wall of hellhound wherever she moved. Lore grabbed her right wrist. Nuts! She cried out, the sound plaintive.

He stopped moving and simply held her there, their faces a breath apart. His eyes were so dark, there was almost no distinction between the iris and pupil.

“Are you going to be good?” he growled.

Talia squeezed her eyes shut. “Please don’t cuff my other hand. You don’t need to. I can’t break free.”
Her voice cracked, finally giving way to the terror of the situation. She was too young a vampire to break the silver cuffs, and not nearly as strong as a hellhound. She might as well have still been human.
Helplessness brought back bad, bad memories.

“Do you promise to be good?” This time the question was gentler.

She nodded, hating herself for her eagerness. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

She was lying. He had to know that. It was the first duty of a prisoner to escape—even if she had no idea in the world how she was going to do it.

He rose up on hands and knees. Talia was trapped beneath him, caged by his limbs. The feel of his warm hands still clung to her skin. His touch had been businesslike. Appropriate, if chaining up a woman ever could be described that way—yet now there was something in his expression as he stared down at her, he second set of cuffs still dangling from his hand. Something other.

The look pinned her like a stake.

She resisted the urge to curl into a ball, an instinctive urge to cover her vulnerable parts. He was looking at her as if he’d just decided she might be good to eat—in more ways than one. Worse, she wanted to respond.

Talia swallowed hard, putting all her defiance into her eyes. Refusing to cave.

“Bad dog!”