By Margie Church
I admit, when I first began writing
romances, I was in love with purple prose. When I was working with my co-author
on Razor, we read to each other. I thought I was going to die a couple times—both
listening and reading to him. And then we'd burst out laughing because we
caught ourselves avoiding "those words" as we talked about upcoming
scenes. I'm a pretty private person and unless we're talking shop—as in the
craft of writing—you're not likely to hear me using graphic language in a
conversation. Well, maybe after a couple shots of Irish whiskey, one or two
might slip out.
It took some practice to become comfortable
with using graphic language in my manuscripts and some words I rarely use
because they make me wince. They throw me out of the story and for me, that's
not a good thing for a reader to experience.
But I'd rather use the word cock than the phrase steel love meat. My apologies to those who use molten-hot love canal and moist nether regions.
After you've recovered from choking on
your beverage, you kind of get my point. Sometimes a one-word adjective or noun
is more erotic than some goofy sidestep around the real word.
The more experienced we get in our
craft, the better able we are to convey some of these words and phrases in a
way that entices or flat out makes you throb. Erotica is supposed to do that.
Skilled use of dialog and setting can make even the C word make you suck your
breath through your teeth, close your eyes, and think about saying that
sentence to your lover the next time the opportunity arises.
So, I write erotic romance and some of
it has reached bestseller status – like Night Music, my new erotic ménage for
The Edge Series. Although this is a short story and The Edge Series has some
wiggle room to break out of traditional romance guidelines, this is still a
very romantic story. And it packs plenty of heat. From the sexy Aussie kiss on
the dock through the sexual encounter of a lifetime, you might be thinking a vacation
in the Blue Ridge Mountains is something you want to book soon.
A quiet,
lakeside vacation is just what Brielle needs to decompress after her busy
concert season. She expects the weeks to pass uneventfully. Until she meets the
men next door.
Tyler and Zeke
are as adventurous and sexy as the Harleys they ride. The passion they hear in
Brielle's music draws them to her.
Convinced the
hunks are gay, Brielle lets down her inhibitions. That turns out to be the best
decision she's made in a long time.
Brielle had stopped at the local
market to get enough supplies for a few days. She had no intention of going to
town unless there was a darn good reason. After her clothing and other belongings
were unpacked, she opened a bottle of wine—one of several she’d bought—and
contemplated the glorious evening sun.
The rumble of motorcycles disrupted
her musings. She craned her neck to see who the offenders were.
Two men on
leather-bedecked hogs cruised down the neighboring driveway. She watched from
the seclusion of her covered porch as they got off and parked their bikes.
Leather chaps covered their jeans. Boots and black leather vests made them look
badass. She waited for them to remove their helmets and reveal more of their
features.
She wasn’t
disappointed.
One of the
broad-shouldered men had flaxen hair. The second man ran his hands through his
dark hair that reached his shoulders. Even from a distance, she could tell they
were in good physical shape, and probably in their late twenties. A twinge of
naughtiness plucked her libido. Her vacation was already looking up.
The
bike-riding neighbors unpacked their saddlebags and carried their gear into
their cabin. The door shut softly behind them and returned the peace and quiet
they’d interrupted.
Brielle
watched the sun dip lower, streaking the sky with brilliant red, orange, and
yellow against the clear blue backdrop. The deep sounds of a motoryacht’s
engines mixed with the haunting sounds from the loons.
Inspired, she
refilled her wineglass, and then brought her cello to the three-season porch.
She moved her bow across the taut strings, warming up, wondering what she
should play. She sipped her wine while searching through her extensive music
collection. Her hand rested on Bach’s Toccata
and Fugue in D Minor. Did she dare? Could she play with even half the
passion Mei Ju had the other day?
Closing her
eyes, Brielle focused on the sounds and sight of Mr. Ju on stage.
Will that ever be me?
She drew her
bow back and forth on the strings to play the fiery interludes and soulful
chords. Brielle imagined herself in front of the orchestra, the way Ju had
been, and did her best to do justice to the piece he’d played so brilliantly.
As she played
the last, low note, she noticed the two men standing on their porch, watching
her. Heat flared in her cheeks, whether from the exertion of playing or the
embarrassment of their witness, she didn’t know.
One man began
clapping.
Not expecting
that reaction, she chuckled.
“Play
something else,” said the man with the long hair.
Thinking they
were making fun of her, she closed her music and stood. “Funny guy.”
“No, really,
play some more.”
She
contemplated the request for a moment. “You’re not going to call the cops?”
The blond one
laughed. “Oh, hell no. Come on. Play something hot and sexy.”
Bolstered by their enthusiasm, she
wondered what she could play that might fit the bill. “Just a minute.” A number
of titles ran through her mind and she dismissed them all. Ah, the perfect one.
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