Silk & Shadows

Hot love scenes is a great topic. Problem is, in my January release, Surrender to Darkness, the love scenes get a little dangerous.

The reason? My hero is a berserker who falls victim to an uncontrollable inner rage when the stakes are high. Normally, that means when he’s facing overwhelming odds in a battle. But when he meets demon hunter Kiyoko Ashida, something odd happens:

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoch noted the arrival of two robust youths, both wearing black robes similar to those worn by the placid, tea-drinking elder. Japanese bouncers. A small bubble of heat rose in Murdoch’s chest, a mild response to possible danger.

“In any case,” Watanabe adding, guiding Miss Ashida toward the door with his hand on her elbow, “we won’t be continuing the conversation. We’re departing.”

“Not until I get my five minutes.”

Watanabe frowned. “Don’t make this more difficult that it needs to be. These men—” he pointed to the two standing just behind Murdoch “—are here to ensure Ashida-san and I depart without incident.”

“If they touch me,” Murdoch said softly, “they risk their lives.”

“Threats are unnecessary,” Watanabe responded.

“It wasn’t a threat, it was a warning.” Murdoch didn’t have time to explain. He again tried to connect with Kiyoko Ashida, facing her squarely. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

She didn’t respond. She just kept walking.

The two men at his back stepped closer, clearly intending to prevent Murdoch from interfering with her exit, and the warmth in his chest burst into a small fire. Only two men, so the blaze was containable. For now.
But there was no way Murdoch could allow Kiyoko to leave without a chance to discuss the collection of relics she’d recently inherited from her father. If the weapon he sought was among them, it could save the world a whole lot of grief.

As she passed by, he put out a hand, intending to snag her sleeve.

But her reflexes were excellent. She yanked her arm away before he could reach his objective, and in the process, her fingers grazed lightly along his.

Murdoch’s eyes rolled back in his head.

A wave of hot, liquid pleasure raced up his arm and splashed into his chest, nearly taking him to his knees. He swam in it—his blood pounding, his breath short, his senses alive. The fiercest desire he’d felt in his entire seven hundred year existence licked across every inch of his skin, thrilled every nerve ending, and sent every drop of blood rushing to his groin. The urge to sink into Kiyoko Ashida’s warm embrace was so keen and unrelenting that goose bumps sprang to his skin and saliva pooled in his mouth. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before. It was both utterly blissful and horribly terrifying.

Terrifying, because his berserker rejoiced at the sudden lack of restraint. It rose up in a red tide of fury, filled every empty thought, and swallowed him whole.

Good thing Murdoch is comfortable with danger. Because he knows what he wants…

She hung her katana on a wall mount. “So, you would agree that situational awareness is as important as the physical actions you take?”

“Aye.”

“Well, meditation is about expanding your awareness. The objective is not, as you stated, to withdraw from the world. It’s actually the opposite. To experience reality and understand your place in it.” Crossing to a cushion, she sat. “Understanding your relationship with the world around you will give you greater control over yourself.” She looked up. “You are interested in achieving greater control, are you not? Sit.”

Actually, at that precise moment, he was only interested in the expanse of pale skin her gaping gee revealed. His motivation for taking a seat opposite her was merely to get a better view of it. But sit he did.

“What now? Do I close my eyes?” he grumbled.

“No, zazen requires open eyes. But first, we need to assume a proper meditation posture.”

“Don’t expect me to bend like a pretzel. I’m seven hundred years old.”

She chuckled. “You look remarkably good for a man of your age. Proper posture requires your knees to be flush with the cushion. Can you do a half lotus, like this?”

She tucked her left heel against her buttocks and lifted her right heel into her lap. It made his knees ache just to watch her.

“No,” he said.

“Then kneel.” Rolling back, she grabbed a short, tilted stool from the corner of the room. “And sit on this.”

Carefully avoiding her fingers, he accepted the seat. “This is a lot of effort to go to just to think.”

“We will be doing this several times a day, so get used to it,” she replied. “Once you have mastered zazen, we will attempt to touch again.”

He grinned. “Is that your way of confessing you can’t get enough of me?”

Her expression remained neutral. No smile.

“Come on, admit it,” he continued, egged on. “You felt exactly what I felt when we touched, and you’ll do anything to feel it again.”

She blinked.

“The hot rush of blood through your veins, the heavy pound of your heart against your chest, the edgy, almost-unbearable need. You remember what it was like, don’t you?”

“Not really.”

“Liar.”

“My goal is to reach the point where touching you engenders no reaction whatsoever,” she responded flatly.

“No reaction whatsoever?”

“None.” Her gaze dropped. “Are you ready to begin?”

“No.” He knelt and leaned back on the stool. It was remarkably comfortable, even for his war-torn knees. “Why do you care what happens when we touch? Once you give me the Veil, we’ve no need to see each other again.”

Her lips thinned briefly. “The emotions that besiege me when we touch run contrary to my desire for inner tranquility and enlightenment, so I seek to tame them.”

He studied her for a moment. “I rather like the way you make me feel. If it weren’t for that small problem with my berserker, I’d pounce on you this very moment. I’d offer you no reprieve until you screamed your pleasure to the heavens and finished with a huge smile on your face. There’s more than one way to find tranquility.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she flushed crimson. “Do you always say what’s on your mind?”

“Aye. It saves time.”

Aren’t you a bit curious how these two work things out?

Currently working on: Wrestling Book 4 to the ground
Mood: Mouth full of dirt

On my morning alley walks with Monster Girl, the grass has gone to seed and the air smells like cider from all the fallen apples. The shadows are getting so long.  But the heat isn’t over yet because here at Silk And Shadows we’re sneaking in a week of hot love scenes.

And speaking of hot, y’all are now seeing the first posting of VOWED IN SHADOWS, Book 3 of the Marked Souls.  Here’s Jonah, the hero, in all his blond bad boy glory, with the sweltering city behind him (it’s August in Chicago, after all) and a demon storm on the horizon:

Maybe it’s just the humidity making me swoon.

We’ve met Jonah briefly in SEDUCED BY SHADOWS and FORGED OF SHADOWS. This righteous missionary man lost his wife when he was possessed, and he can’t imagine ever loving again.  So when the repentant demon within him sets him on the path of rampant unbound etheric energies that leads him straight to the Naughty Nymphette — dancing tonight at the Shimmy Shack! — he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will never, ever, in an eternity fall in love as Archer and Liam did before him.

But he is a man of strong convictions, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure the Chicago league of immortal demon-possessed warriors bring this newest fighter to their side. And by “do whatever it takes,” I include doing her…

*                                  *                                  *

From VOWED IN SHADOWS:

Jonah sat and crossed his arms. He needed her demon ascendant before he made his move. She wouldn’t believe his story otherwise. “Dance for me, Nymphette.”

Physical stress triggered the demon’s rise. Dangerous, but necessary since the newly possessed needed to find a way to balance the demon within them. Males traditionally drank and fought their way through the other-realm emanations coursing through their bodies. He’d been told it worked differently with the females. Just as well, since his balance was shot.

“Call me Nim.” Her voice turned husky, not with the demon, just a generic come-on. She swayed closer. “Nymphette is such a mouthful. And maybe you want me to save my mouth for… other things, right, Cap’n?”

“Don’t call me captain.”

Read the rest of this entry �

Children, parents, aunts and uncles, neighbors, co-workers, fellow school volunteers — we’ve all got ‘em and like it or not, every one of them has expectations of who we’re supposed to be. As moms, we are the source of all knowledge and wisdom — at least until our children reach middle school age, at which point we cease to know anything useful at all. But even so, according to my daughters we’re still supposed to uphold certain principles even if those principles appear to be completely ignored for the next several years. We’re helpful daughters, loving wives, respected members of our communities, not to mention the champions of morality and keepers of the American Way.

We’re NICE ladies, right?

Yeah, and surely nice ladies don’t think about, let alone write about…THAT!

Yes, well. The very best piece of advice I ever got when it came to writing love…no, let’s call them what they are…sex scenes was to put everyone you know utterly out of your mind. You’ve got to forget that eventually your dad is going to read what his little princess wrote, that your Auntie Matilda has a bit of a heart condition, or that your minister’s wife might happen to see your name glaring out at her from the romance shelves (because yes, even your minister’s wife probably reads romance). In fact, I once heard the fabulous Theresa Medeiros say that during church services, people would be passing her books over the pews for her to autograph. And it isn’t as if her sex scenes are what you’d call tame — oh no, indeed! What they are is passionate and intense and REAL.

Remember, it’s about your hero and heroine — and only your hero and heroine, and every scintillating plot point that brought them to this moment. It’s time to lock the rest of the world out of that imaginary bedroom — or mossy glade, kitchen table or the back seat of a limo — just as you would when you actually…you know…do it. I can guarantee you, you’re not thinking about your grandma then, so forget about her disapproving “tsk tsk” while you’re writing and thrust ahead, pump out those details, and impale your readers with some all-out, mind-blowing and darn it all, NAUGHTY sexual action!

Oh, and my husband adds his advice: lots and lots of empirical research. Typical man.

And don’t forget to leave a comment for a chance to win Sylvia Day’s Eve of Darkness!

I used to struggle writing love scenes. Not because I was shy about describing what was going on, but because of the very reason Jessa mentioned in her post yesterday—as a reader, I often skipped them. I felt they were necessary to show the developing depth of the relationship, but weren’t really critical to the plot.

Oh dear. I write love stories. How can a love scene not be critical to the plot of a love story?

Exactly.

So, I took a step back, thinking. I discovered I plotted love scenes as events that HAD to happen, instead of just letting the relationship run its own course. I orchestrated them, instead of letting the characters do whatever felt right. And by thinking that way, I had turned a very special and potentially defining moment into WORK.

So, I relaxed. I stopped planning the love scenes. Strangely, even when I consciously gave myself permission to write a story with no love scene at all, love scenes popped up. Why? Because they were the natural evolution of the relationship. I find the love scenes I pen now are both easier to write and more in tune with the characters’ personalities. They’re now tightly connected to the characters’ story arc and, therefore, an integral part of the plot.

I know there are more people than just Jessa and I who skip love scenes. Question: As a reader, do you find that there are more great love scenes written today than, say, ten years ago? Do today’s romance novels speak more to the true power of love, or less?

Currently working on: The big bad
Mood: Teeth gritting

Happy almost Valentine’s Day!

What better time of the year to talk about writing sex scenes than Valentine’s Day? Er, not that Valentine’s Day is all about sex, but it does tend to go there, doesn’t it? If it’s done right, of course

I’ll be honest here (and honesty is a useful tool for Valentine’s Day AND writing sex scenes); I often skim sex scenes when I’m reading. Not because I’m a vaguely repressed romance writer working out her problems in cheap self-therapy on the page, but because – like a long-term comfortable relationship where maybe the fires have dimmed a little – sex scenes can sometimes feel rote and perfunctory. We’ve all heard the tease about romance novels where you crack the spine at the halfway point and, whoopsie, fell into bed and had sex.

Even with whips and whipping cream – even with prehensile tentacles if you read the farther-out-there stuff – the sex has to MEAN something. I want my sex scenes to work harder, to get down and dirty, and go deeper…

Okay, I can see this posting has the potential to get me into trouble. But that’s exactly what I want from my sex scenes. The potential for trouble. I want to know that this scene is important – just like all the rest of the story. That clues and pitfalls and moments of truth are hidden in the otherwise eons-old insertion of tab into slot.

So how do you create a special Valentine’s Day – and a special sex scene?

Engage all the senses: The archetypical Valentine’s Day includes chocolate, champagne, roses, and a candle-lit bubble bath. So too on the physical level, a good sex scene should play with every nerve ending – the thick creaminess of the dark chocolate, the gleam of flame-light on slick wet skin, the rich sweet scent of the roses as the petals float across the water only to sink under a surging splash as he raises himself over her… But Valentine’s and sex scenes aren’t just about the physical.

Reveal more: Hey, we’ve all bought Valentine’s Day panties. And let’s just say the price does not reflect the square footage. I like a sex scene that uncovers something about our heroine. It’s a dangerous moment, that unveiling. In opening herself to the hero, she risks more than the twenty bucks spent at Victoria’s Secret. Our hero faces the same moment, but please don’t picture him in Valentine’s Day panties. I mean, unless that’s your thing. Although I’d go more Abercrombie & Fitch.

Find the core: No, you naughty-minded reader, not THAT core. Well, actually yes, that core too. But I was thinking of that defining moment that is the reason you cannot skim a good sex scene – it’s the moment the hero metaphorically pulls out the velvet Valentine’s Day jeweler’s box. Locked in that dark, protective box is a shining jewel that he will hand to the heroine for safekeeping. Will she accept? Whatever comes next (and you know there’s more to come), that bond will mark them forever.

A spontaneous sexual romp on a sunny Sunday afternoon is wonderful too – in real life and in a book – but the ritual that is Valentine’s Day and the crafting of a meaningful sex scene can be as sharp-edged and delicate as scissors wielded on a construction paper heart, with as many mixes messages as a box of candy hearts. The story that doesn’t miss a beat here can win my heart.

What was your most memorable experience of Valentine’s Day? The passing of those cheap little postcards in grade school? An impromptu game of spin the bottle? A proposal from your hero?

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for your chance to win SJ Day’s EVE OF DARKNESS!