Romance Fiction: Feminist?

I’ve always had a suspicion that romance novels are actually underground feminist literature. After all, the writers are women, the readers are women – even the editors at Big Six publishers are women, as are the vast majority of e-publishers.

And romance is the 800 pound gorilla of the book market. As Marla Bustillos notes in her article at the Awl.com, “romance is by far the most popular and lucrative genre in American publishing, with over $1.35 billion in revenues estimated in 2010. That is a little less than twice the size of the mystery genre, almost exactly twice that of science fiction/fantasy, and nearly three times the size of the market for classic/literary fiction, according to Simba Information data published at the Romance Writers of America website."

(This is a great article, by the way. She seemed to view romance the same way I always have. Which is what inspired me to write this blog.)

Yet despite the undeniable popularity of romance, everybody absolutely SNEERS at the genre. Why? That’s simple.

Anything involving so many women must suck.

Especially if it deals with subjects like how women perceive men and themselves; how they feel about men, how they experience sex, and how they manage their lives and children.

We romance authors use historical and fantasy settings to examine, in an metaphorical way, how women deal with social pressures such as the mother who demands “Why aren’t you married?”

Or how it feels to be a woman in a society which insists that women are inferior to men. Period.

Look at some of today's political discussions of women in combat roles. One female television commentator this week discussed the 60 percent increase in rape in the military. Her basic point was, Of course they’re being raped. What do they expect?

The subtext is, if you’re in the service and you get raped by a fellow soldier, you were asking for it.

Now, as a romance novelist, this is the kind of thing that makes me want to write something. Thing is, I can’t come right out and say what I really think about this commentator; that might offend a large segment of my readership.

What I can do is set a novel in, say, 1823, show a woman of the period who is raped, and then examine her experiences of both the rape itself and the reaction of Society matrons who are quick to say she must have asked for it.

I would then use the story to ask why a woman might say another women asked to be raped. Perhaps the society matron believes that since her own precious daughter doesn't wear revealing clothing or break social rules, she'll be safe from this horrific crime. (Perhaps the Fox commentator believes that as long as you don't serve in the military, you, too, will be forever safe.)

I could show the mind of the rapist, who really doesn’t give a damn what the woman was wearing. He just saw an opportunity and took it. His whole focus is on the sense of power raping this woman gives him, when in his ordinary life, he’s basically a weakling at the bottom of the male status chain. (This actually is closer to the psychological reality of serial rapists than the view of them as mysterious, all-powerful monsters.)

Using these characters, I can really look at the crime and explore it in a way that makes the reader experience ALL sides of rape: the victim’s, the offender's, the society matrons', and the judge’s.

I could show you how the law at the time viewed rape as basically a property crime: the woman’s father “owned” a virgin he could have married off for financial advantage, but who is now no longer valuable because she’s been raped. So the thief -- or rapist -- must be punished for his crime. Which is not really against the woman at all in this social view: it's against her father.

I could also give you a hero who comes to love the woman despite social attitudes that she no longer has value. I could examine how the two of them work to overcome her emotional scars.

And it would take BOTH of them. He couldn’t save her from the rape, but his willingness to love her helps her realize that she’s not a wounded, worthless object, but a human being who deserved far better from society than she got.

I could thus show you rape and its emotional effects, even make you experience those effects through my characters. I could examine the egregious way all societies treat rape. (In some countries, female victims are jailed for being raped, which makes no damned sense whatsoever.)

In so doing, I could create an argument against blaming the rape victim with considerable emotional power, without actively preaching to the reader.

This would have far greater impact on the reader than a ranting blog post talking about how a certain Fox commentator is a f****ing moron. If you happen to be a Fox fan, that’s not going to change your mind one bit.

But reading my novel just might.

Feeling the emotions of all those involved might make you think. Might make you reassess what you believe and why you believe it. (As long as I don’t overtly preach, and all my points are made in subtext rather than coming out of the heroine’s mouth.)

That’s the power of the romance novel. That’s why women write them, and that’s why women read them. It lets us talk about these things without having to worry about how men are going to react to what we have to say.

Unfortunately, said male reaction is likely to be: What IS this shit?”

Neurological studies have shown men and women have very different brains which process emotion in very different ways. So when a man reads a romance novel, the emotional experiences the book describes are not how he experiences the same things. So he just doesn't get it.

A man reads a romance and thinks, “This is not how I perceive reality. This is just smut for women.”

As a result, romance is viewed as unworthy, stupid, purple, florid….I could go on, but I’m getting depressed. Anyway, the end result is that only 9 percent of the romance readership is male, according to the Romance Writers of America.

Feminist critics are just as likely to deplore our fiction as men are. I suspect few of these women have read a romance published after, say, 1990. For one thing, many feminist literary critics proclaim our heroes are all rapists, something that has been unacceptable in romance fiction since 1988 or so.

Today we tell our readers that making a violent assault on a helpless person is not heroic. Today's romance heroes are far more likely to kill a rapist than BE one.

Then again, perhaps feminist critics decry romance for more pragmatic reasons. They have sense enough to know that if they defend the romance genre in the literary establishment, men will laugh at them. Which does not bode well for one’s academic career.

I, happily, am not a critic. I'm a romance novelist, and I'm damned happy to be one.

And I have this great idea for a book...

Car chases blog

Dear ladies from Savy Authors -Yes, I realize that I was supposed to post my car chase blog, and I do intend to do it. I will interview my husband and post the answers tonight. I just haven't had a chance to get to it before now. I am sorry. Look for it tonight.

The First Chapter of Master of Darkness

Here's Chapter One of my new novel, MASTER OF DARKNESS, which will be out May, 2012. Please let me know what you think, folks. :)


Chapter One


Normally, William Justice found gardening about as exciting as watching paint peel. He got a hell of a lot more interested when the gardener was Miranda.

Lovely Miranda Drake, wearing a pair of snug jeans that made the most of her long, strong legs and heart-shaped ass, a Black Eyed Peas T-shirt cuddling round, delightful breasts in soft cotton…

Ohhhh, baby. Plant one on me.

Besides, it wasn’t every day you got to watch a werewolf garden. Especially when she was also a witch.

Miranda sent another wave of magic rolling across the lawn like summer fireflies, cool blue sparks drifting down to sink into the soil. Everywhere the sparks touched, violets and peonies thrust eagerly up into the air, vivid petals unfurling in the space of seconds.

There was something hypnotic about the way magic illuminated the striking curves and hollows of Miranda’s clever face and the elegant, narrow line of her nose. Her eyes glowed soft amber as she cast her spells, and her full lips parted as if for the kiss he'd ached to give her for weeks.

The soft blue-white sparks of werewolf magic faded. Miranda cocked her head as she looked across the sweep of lawn, considering the effect of her new flower beds in their sweeping curves of color. "What do you think, Justice?"

He shook his head. "Randi, I'm a cop and a werewolf. Ask me who killed who with what, that I can tell you. But when it comes to gardening, I don't know carnations from kudzu."

Miranda eyed him over her shoulder, gleaming curls sliding around her shoulders with the movement of her head. "Could you get any more male?"

“Hey, if you’re gonna do it, do it right.” His gaze drifted down to her butt in wicked appreciation. Want to find out how right I can do it?

He managed not to ask. That would really be pushing it.

Apparently deciding to ignore both Justice and his growing obsession with her ass, Miranda returned her attention to her garden. "I think it needs some rose bushes." An offhand flick of her fingers brought them bursting from the earth in shades of yellow and red and soft peach, surrounding the two-story cream stone cottage in pretty blooms. “And … there. Finished.”

“Nice job,” Justice told her, letting the sincere admiration show in his voice.

The little house looked snug and homey with its rosewood shutters and peaked roof. The sturdy door was carved with an image of a wolf peering through leaves, and curving front steps led up to the wide porch supported by wooden rosewood posts. Stained glass windows glowed bright with the house’s interior lights, depicting yet more wolves running through moonlit forests or serenading the full moon.

Yet lovely as it was, the house was dwarfed by the elaborate castles, chateaus and villas that surrounded it, towering walls of marble and granite shimmering with magic in the moonlight.

Avalon. Enchanted city in the magical universe that existed alongside dull mortal Earth, invisible and unknown to humanity. Here magic was a natural force, like gravity or electro-magnetism. A power you could use to build a house – or turn into a werewolf.

God, my life is getting weird, Justice thought. And it was pretty damned weird to begin with.

Miranda had spent the last week building her new home with all that energy, condensing magic into cream stone walls and stained glass. The furniture had come next: imaginative creations in exotic Mageverse woods, carved in Celtic designs, upholstered in impossibly soft fabrics. Rugs covered the shining hardwood floors, and piles of pillows lay here and there, all in jewel-bright shades of red and green and blue that seemed to shimmer as brightly as the stained glass.

Justice had watched her conjure every bit of it, shaping raw energy with the power of her will, intellect and talent. She’d gloried in the act of creation, her smile wondering, her eyes lit from within by flashes of magic.

That sheer sensual pleasure grabbed him right by the balls, awakening his Wolf to growl in possessive need. Not that his animal nature was ever that deeply buried to begin with.

Never mind that Miranda Drake had no interest in belonging to anybody. Particularly not a certain werewolf she seemed to view mainly as a pain in the ass.

So he wasn’t the least surprised when Miranda turned her attention from her new house to look at him with narrow, determined eyes. As if he was the next thing on her mental checklist of things she planned to fix. She headed for him with a long-legged stride, determination in every step.

Here it comes.

She’d probably been planning this for a while now, but she’d been either too busy or flat on her ass with exhaustion.

Now she was neither. He got ready to fight.

Miranda stopped just inside kissing range and looked up to meet his eyes, her amber gaze flat with cool challenge.

He rocked back on his heels and folded his arms, silently telling her he was ready for whatever she wanted to dish out. “You have something to say?”

“This isn’t working.”

“What’s not working?”

“You know perfectly well. You. Here. With me.”

He lifted a brow. “That’s not what you said when I was waiting on you hand and foot.”

She’d been immobilized with exhaustion after creating enough potion to vaccinate the Magekind against werewolf Bites.

Something about the magic in those bites triggered an anaphylactic reaction that was invariably fatal, since the Magekind’s healing magic had no effect on it.

However, Miranda discovered her own werewolf magic could treat the Bites. She’d then created a vaccine to prevent the reaction altogether.

Unfortunately, the magical drain of brewing enough potion to treat the entire city had kicked her ass so thoroughly, she’d barely been able to move. Since Belle was off on a mission, Justice had taken care of Miranda himself, cooking for her, making sure she ate, even helping her to and from the bathroom.

Being who and what she was, she felt she owed him a debt. And she hated that.

Now Miranda glanced away, flushing, despite the stubborn jut of her jaw. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”

“No, but you needed it. You needed me. And you need me now.”

Her eyes flicked back to his, and she bared those pretty white teeth. “No. I don’t.”

“You do. Or have you forgotten that Warlock wants you dead?”

“This is Avalon, Justice. There’s a magical shield around this place you couldn’t blow a hole in with a nuclear bomb. Warlock can’t get to me.”

“No, he can’t.” She looked a bit surprised at his easy agreement. “Assuming you never leave.” He lifted a brow. “This city makes a really pretty prison, doesn’t it?”

“Dammit, Bill, I can take care of myself!”

“Like you did when Tanner tried to gut you like a rabbit?”

“At the time,” she gritted, “I was a little busy saving Guinevere’s life!”

“Good thing I was there to save yours.”

“And believe me, I’m grateful.” Her red brows drew down, and she took a challenging step forward until they were nose to nose. “But I don’t need a bodyguard anymore, Justice.”

“Too bad.” He gave her a deliberately pleasant smile. “You’ve got one.”

“If you think you’re moving in with me…”

“You want me to pitch a tent among the azaleas?”

She bared her teeth. “I want you to go home.”

He bared his teeth right back. They were starting to feel a little sharp, a sign he was just a bit too close to Changing. He tightened his control over his inner werewolf. “I don’t have a home anymore, sweetheart. Not since I saved your ass. Warlock and the Council of Clans have declared me a traitor.”

“Then you can stay with Tristan and Belle, just the way we’ve been doing. She won’t care.”

“Oh, hell yes, she will. She’ll be too polite to say so, but she’ll care. She and Tristan are Truebonded now, remember? Living with those too is like being trapped in an episode of Knights of the Round Table gone Wild.”

Even as pissed as she was, Miranda’s lips twitched in an aborted smile. It really had gotten damned uncomfortable staying with the couple, whose psychic bond made them newlyweds in all but name. “Yeah, well, Avalon is a big city, Justice. Find somewhere else. Hell, ask Belle. She’ll find somebody to put you up.”

“No. I’m your bodyguard, Miranda. I’m not leaving you until Warlock’s dead. Or I am.” Protecting people was what he did. It was what he was. Even becoming a werewolf hadn’t changed that.

He damned well wouldn’t let it.

“I. Don’t. Need. A. Bodyguard!” Her soft upper lip curled into a lupine snarl, and her eyes sparked with temper.

Justice looked at that pretty mouth – and his temper Shifted, transforming like a werewolf into raw, hot lust. God, he burned to know how that mouth tasted. Just keep snarling, baby, and we’ll find out.


Miranda wished to hell Bill Justice wasn't so damned hot.

There he stood, long-legs braced wide in faded jeans and worn black boots, brawny arms folded in a way that made his biceps look the size of grapefruit. His hair was black and glossy in the moonlight, just long enough to curl, and sparks of werewolf magic flickered in his black eyes when he angled his head to snarl at her.

She liked to tell herself he had a thug's face, what with the broad cheekbones, square jaw and Roman nose, his brows thick slashes over his narrow, deep-set eyes. Cop's eyes, watchful, accessing, more than a little paranoid.

Miranda could resist all that. Really. She'd be just fine if it wasn't for his mouth. Wide, curled in a wicked grin more often than not, with a full lower lip she really wanted to bite. Just hard enough to make those ebony eyes go all hot.

The trick was to keep him the hell out of her house. If she was dumb enough to let him move in, he'd be in her bed the next time she turned around. That was just the way Alpha Males were. Pushy bastards, each and every one. And God knew Justice was as Alpha as they came.


Just like my psycho father.

Only Justice was nothing like Warlock. She knew that. But he was still a dominant son of a bitch, and eventually, he’d want to prove just how dominant he really was.

Just like Warlock. Just like the stepfather she’d had to kill because he’d finally murdered her mother after years of abuse. Miranda didn’t need another dominant son of a bitch in her life, good guy ex-cop or not.

I don’t want to have to kill him too, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind.

She told it to shut up. I’m not going to kill Justice. But he’s still not moving in.

His eyes fixed on hers in a hot predator stare that made her nipples harden, and his wide mouth flattened in a determined line. "I'm not leaving, Miranda. Deal with it."

"You're not staying, either." She braced her hands on her hips and tried to ignore the nipples. It wasn't like she was in her Burning Moon, dammit. This stupid attraction would be understandable then, a natural product of magical werewolf hormones driving her to mate. Anything male would do.

But she wasn't in her Burning Moon. This was all Justice. And she had no idea how he was doing it to her. If she didn't know better, she'd think it was a spell.

"What happens the next time Warlock sends one of his killers, Miranda?" He was tall enough to look down at her at just the perfect masculine angle. Bastard.

Miranda glowered up into those seductive eyes. "I can handle anything he throws at me." A bald-faced lie, but never mind. She just needed to get Justice out of her hair. She's figure out the assassin thing later.

"I don't want your death on my conscience."

“I’m not going to die, dammit. And either way, it’s not your problem.”

Temper flared in those midnight eyes as he spoke through gritted teeth. “By God, it is. I’ve made you my responsibility, so you’re my responsibility.”

“Why?” she growled back, so damned frustrated she wanted to pull her hair. Or his. “What the hell difference does my life make to you?”

“This!” Big hands closed over her shoulders and snatched her right off her feet as if she was a three-year-old. His mouth covered hers in a kiss that flooded her brain with pure need.

Oh, my God, Miranda thought, his lips are as soft as they look.


And then she couldn’t think anything at all.

His body crushed into hers, broad firm muscle under soft cotton, arms wrapping around her in a powerful grip that dragged her close and drowned her in his hot male animal strength. His tongue stroked between her lips, drugging her with the taste of masculine hunger and Direwolf magic. The blend of wild wolf heat and pure male desire hit her brain like a shot of Kentucky bourbon in strong black coffee. It jolted and dizzied, making the world swim and stealing her will to resist.

As if sensing that weakness, he dropped one hand from her waist, found the curve of her ass with a warm, possessive grip. Tightened and lifted as if she weighed no more than a child. Her feet left the ground and the world spun as he carried her toward the cottage. Still kissing her.

The door banged open and he swept her inside like something out of a fairy tale.

Except Miranda had quit believing in fairy tales when she was four years old -- the day she’d realized her magical daddy was more devil dog than Prince Charming.
But God, there was a different kind of magic in Justice’s skillful mouth and strong, steady grip, and Miranda let herself believe.

For the moment.


Justice lost himself in the sheer sensual feast that was Miranda’s mouth – the velvety warmth of her lips, the curl and flick of her wet little tongue, her teeth tugging his lip in hungry demand. Her body felt warm in the cradle of his arms. Deliciously soft in all the perfect places, firm and strong in others. Her scent flooded his head, sensual musk and the fresh green tang of deep forest. All of it spelled Direkind female to his growling libido.

His sexual need had grown stronger, darker, since he’d become a werewolf three years ago, and Miranda brought that hunger to quivering attention. But then, she could arouse a plaster saint in a church niche with those soft, soft lips…

Justice tore himself away from her mouth just long enough to scan the house for a place to make love to her. He knew damned well if he paused too long, she’d start thinking about all the reasons this was a bad idea. He needed his hands and mouth on her now if he meant to keep them there.

Off to the left of the foyer lay the living room, with its fireplace and the semi-circular conversation pit that curved around it. He carried her into the room and down the steps into the pit, where jewel-tone pillows lay in a tempting pile.

Justice looked down into her vivid eyes as he lowered her into the inviting little nest. “God, I want you.” He ached to see that pretty body spread for him in long-legged, exquisite nudity.

But as he reached for the hem of her T-shirt, he froze.

She watched him as she lay sprawled across the pillows, her copper hair spilling in bright curls around her head. Her chest rose and fell in the quick rhythms of arousal, but cynicism had begun to cool the heat in her eyes.

Justice rose to his feet, grabbed the hem of his black polo shirt and dragged it off over his head. Her eyes widened, the cynicism drowning in surprised arousal. The tip of her pink tongue flicked over her lips.

He concealed a smile of satisfaction. During his human days, he’d logged a lot of hours running and lifting weights, but not out of the usual gym-rat vanity. For a cop, building strength and muscle was a survival strategy. If you got into a chase or a fight with some asshole, you wanted to make damn sure you won. Becoming a werewolf had only added to the size and density of the muscle he’d worked for years to build.

Judging from her dilating eyes, Miranda approved of the results.

His cock bucked against the fly of his jeans. Justice reached down to free it. His zipper whispered, erotically loud to his wolf senses.

Toeing off his running shoes, he caught the waistbands of both jeans and cotton boxers, dragging them down his thighs in one ruthless motion. Stepping free of the tangle of fabric, he kicked them away and straightened. His cock jutted from his groin, his balls heavy and tight below it.

Then he just stood there, letting her look. A bead of sweat ran down his spine.

By stripping first, he’d put all the power in her hands. Justice had come to read Miranda pretty damned well over the past month, and he knew if he didn’t give her this moment of control, she’d never trust him.

Jesus, the men she knew before me must have been real bastards.

Miranda stared at him in helpless, aroused amazement. Alphas didn’t do things like that: display themselves to a woman, let her make the choice. They seduced, they demanded, they overwhelmed with sheer erotic skill. Just as Justice had been doing to her from the minute he’d grabbed her shoulders.

When he’d put her down on the pillows, she’d figured she was in for a dominance fuck – hot, arousing as hell, but still designed to put her in her place: that of a female who knew who her master was, and obeyed accordingly.

But now he just stood there, magnificent in his nudity, and waited. Waited to find out if she wanted him.

As if she could do anything else. Justice was armored in delicious male muscle from wide shoulders to tight waist, down long runner’s legs to the big feet he’d planted wide. Yet the brawn wasn’t beefy or overdone, like that of some steroid-shooting professional gorilla. His was a knife-fighter’s body, the perfect balance between mass, agility and speed. It was a musculature that shouted of aggression, yet his powerful hands hung open and easy, not balled in threatening fists. And his cock…

Sweet Mother Mary.

It jutted at her, rosy and thick from the heart-shaped head to the broad base and heavy balls. She felt a rush of heat deep in her belly as she imagined him pumping it in and out of her with the all power of that muscular ass.

Miranda licked her lips and lifted her eyes from that meat shaft. And got caught in his hungry black gaze. He stared at her as if she was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.

Nothing like the Alpha Warlock had sent to breed her. That one’s stare had reduced her to the hole between her thighs. If she hadn’t killed him, he’d have raped her. Warlock had wanted her pregnant rather than dead then, and Harold Worthington had meant to do the job.

Worthington had been old enough to be her father, and she’d been a virgin. He’d threatened to beat her mother if she didn’t submit.

Instead Miranda conjured a blade and drove it into his brain. Not to save herself, but because Joelle Drake had been beaten enough.

Barely a week later, her mother was dead, murdered by her abusive husband. Miranda burned down her stepfather’s beloved mansion around his corpse and fled.

Two nights later in some one-stoplight town, she’d picked up a twenty-year-old human in a bar, just to make sure her first time wasn’t rape at the hands of another of Warlock’s thugs. The boy had been sweet and surprisingly tender despite his clumsy inexperience, and Miranda had decided on the spot to stick to human lovers.

She’d sworn then that no werewolf would ever occupy her bed.

But here was Justice, looking at her with those dark, hot, patient eyes. And waiting.
Miranda caught the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it off over her head.

As she tossed the shirt aside, he seemed to quit breathing. Freezing like a predator, he stared at the round curves of her breasts cupped in the black lace of her bra.

She’d have expected the eager wolf heat in Justice’s gaze to make her feel vulnerable. Instead she felt powerful – and more profoundly female than she’d ever been in her life.

The front clasp sprang open under her fingers, and Miranda shrugged the bra off with a roll of her shoulders.

His tongue flicked over his full lower lip.

She dragged her boots off and threw them one by one across the room. The thump and skidding clatter as they landed on the hardwood floor sounded loud to her sensitized hearing.

Justice’s gaze didn’t falter.

Miranda tugged off her socks and sent them flying over the semi-circular couch. Her heart hammered.

Her zipper hissed. His powerful shoulders coiled.

She took her time pulling off her jeans, adding some gratuitous hip wiggle just to make a muscle twitch in his square jaw. The jeans sailed off after the socks.

Miranda rolled to her feet with the easy strength of her Direwolf blood. She watched him watch her as she slowly slid the thin black silk panties down her thighs. Spinning it out, making them both wait.

Until she straightened, toed the panties aside, and stepped up to him, as naked as he was. Justice still didn’t move, though those big hands had coiled into fists, as if he was fighting the need to grab and take.

He must be six-three or four, tall enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. The wolf inside him flickered deep in his eyes, its feral hunger caged by Justice’s iron control.

That control gave her the courage to touch his chest, run her fingers over the curves and hollows of firm muscle under warm, tanned skin. His dark chest hair felt as soft and fine as fur. His heart thumped against her fingertips in a drumbeat of sexual need.

God, he was big. Even bigger than her stepfather...

The flashback hit.

Miranda started to snatch her mother’s limp body into her arms, only to freeze, afraid to touch her and hurt her even more. “Call 911!” she yelled at her stepfather.

“It’s too late.” Gerald Drake sounded utterly indifferent for a man who’d just murdered his wife with one blow of his fist. Easy enough to do, since he was in Direwolf form, and Joelle had not even dared to transform. “She broke her neck. She’s dead.”

He bared his teeth, stalking toward Miranda on clawed feet. Grabbing her by a fistful of mane, he hauled her up away from Joelle’s body, drawing back for another open-handed swipe of his claws. “And I’m not done with you.”

He didn’t notice the short sword shimmering into her hand, but he did when she rammed it into his chest. Miranda’s lips peeled off her teeth. “Well, I’m done with you!”


The memory disappeared back into the depths of her mind like a hit-and-run eighteen wheeler, leaving Miranda dazed in its wake. What the fuck am I doing? Justice is an Alpha Direwolf, just like Gerald, just like Worthington. He…

Justice lowered his head. Before she could obey a howling instinct to jerk away, his mouth touched hers, tender, soft, a bare brush of lip on lip. He didn’t grab her, didn’t shove himself against her to make her aware of how he dwarfed her with all that muscle. Only his lips touched hers, the contact tender, questioning, reassuring.

Hunger carefully tamped down, though she could smell it in his scent, a dark male perfume growing stronger with each second.

Inside her soul, her werewolf nature stilled, protective rage draining. Sensing Justice meant her no harm.

A thought flashed through her mind, hard and sharp as a blade. I can let Warlock and his bastards make a sexual cripple out of me, or I can prove I’m not a victim.

She opened her mouth and let Justice in. Besides, I’m a werewolf. I can heal anything he does to me. I’ve done it before.

His tongue swirled around hers in sweet temptation, silently inviting her to play. She pursued it back into his mouth, letting his mint-and-male taste flood her brain and drown her ghosts.

Passion began to heat her blood like a pot slowly coming to a boil.

Warm fingers found the stiff peak of one breast and traced a slow, tempting circle over the sensitive nipple. Pleasure curled through her, lazy as sun-warmed honey. And just as sweet.

Miranda leaned into Justice with a soft, helpless little moan. And tried not to think about all the reasons this was a really bad idea.


Hope you liked that little taste. I will post more latter.

Angela Knight
www.angelasknights.com

A sample of Chain of Kisses

My new e-book, book, Chain of Kisses, is out now from Changeling. It's available in Kindle and Nook format, among others. I just wanted to share a little sample of it.

You will find it here:
Chain of Kisses

Be aware, though-- this is short, but it's really, really kinky. There's a wide streak of BDSM in it, so if you don't like that, you won't like this book. In fact, I had to hunt some to find a section of it clean enough to post. As it is, don't read any further if you are under 18. I MEAN IT!!! I'm a momma, so don't make me come over there....

Twenty members of Arles’s crew sat around the octagonal serving tables in the Mjölnir’s mess. As we walked in, their voices filled the room with a cheerful babble of jokes, tech talk, and the usual playful taunts, reminding me of happier days aboard the Valkyrie.

But as they spotted Arles leading me toward the officer’s table, all conversation died away. Men and women alike turned to stare.

No wonder. A length of gold chain led from my jeweled collar to the prince’s big hand, and manacles bound my wrists. My bonds were as finely crafted and gem-studded as any jewelry I’d ever worn, but no one would mistake them for anything but symbols of my sexual captivity.

I lifted my chin and met the curious gazes, freezing my expression into one of cool disdain. I might wear chains, but I was still a royal princess of Swanhilde.

Still, the walk to the captain’s table stung. Women smirked in satisfaction at seeing an enemy so shamed. Men leered at the nipples visible through my filmy thrall tunic. One spacer made a comment that triggered barks of crude laughter.

My hands curled into fists. I wanted to rage at them, but I muzzled my fury and reminded myself of my bargain with Arles. A little shame was a small price to pay for the lives of my crew.

Even as I drew my shoulders back and stiffened my spine, eyes widened all across the room. Everyone promptly found something else to look at. The snap of heads turning to gaze elsewhere looked almost synchronized. What the hell…

Which was when I noticed the tension in Arles’s broad shoulders and his white-knuckled grip on my leash. I couldn’t see his expression -- I walked at his heels -- yet I could almost feel the radiating heat of his anger -- directed, for once, at someone other than me.

I stared at his stiff spine in speculation. Perhaps he was simply a jealous man, yet some naïve part of me hoped he’d felt my shame and silently defended me with a glare.

Ridiculous thought. Why would he care? Especially given that shaming me was obviously the intention behind the sex-thrall tunic and chains.

But as I trailed him across the gleaming faux marble floor to the table reserved for senior officers, I remembered the boy I’d loved. Arles had been an idealist then, devoted to his father’s vision of imperial honor and responsibility.

I’d been five years old the summer my mother had hand-fasted me to Prince Arles. Even then, the tall, handsome fifteen-year-old had fascinated me. He’d been kind, showing me the model starcraft he’d built, even teaching me to fly the little toy around the palace.

I’d proceeded to break one of my mother’s priceless Elderkind vases with a particularly ill-aimed dive. To my astonishment, Arles told our parents he was to blame. Though he suffered his mortified father’s thundering wrath, he didn’t reveal I was the true culprit. And I was deeply grateful.

Queen Zerelda expected her daughters to be worthy representatives of our royal House. Had Arles not claimed responsibility, Mother would have ordered the captain of the Royal Guard to flog me with his sword belt.

It would not have been the first time, nor the last.

From then on I’d worshipped my prince. And that was how I thought of him, My Prince, as though he were a hero from some ancient tale.

We spent hours together in the years that followed, arguing ancient battles and plotting wild strategies to defeat the Fafnar. I came to adore Arles with all the passion in my young heart. Not even Galon had been able to dislodge him.

But Arles was no longer that boy, as I was no longer the foolish girl trembling before her mother’s anger. It was past time I took responsibility for my actions.

I had indeed shamed the royal House of Vanda and voided the treaty that had been in place since our parents had hand-fasted us. It was a good thing Emperor Ragnar had not abandoned Swanhilde to its fate, or the Fafnar would have enslaved my people and wiped out my royal House. They’d done as much on the other worlds they’d preyed upon.

We wouldn’t have had any hope of defending ourselves. Swanhilde’s people were artisans and poets, farmers and philosophers. The Torreans, on the other hand, were the finest warriors in human space, which was why my mother had sought the treaty with Emperor Ragnar to begin with.

My stomach clenched as I considered the fate I’d almost brought down on my world. I deserve anything Arles wants to do to me.

The prince sat down at the server and waved me to the high-backed seat next to his. I settled into the chair, feeling its warm, dark blue padding shift and move around me until it cuddled my body like a living thing. I glanced over the room, lifting my brows. Every seat in the mess was of the same expensive type. “You pamper your crew, Captain.”

He shrugged. “Small comforts are the brick and mortar of crew loyalty. My people are well paid, and I treat them with respect. In return, they never hesitate to follow me wherever I lead.” Arles grimaced. “Including more than one hand-to-hand brawl with the lizards.”

“That couldn’t have been much fun.” Fafnarian warriors are built like biped tanks, more than two and a half meters tall, with armored black hides and claws like daggers. “I’ve had a scuffle or two with them myself. I killed one, but I damned near bled to death doing it.”

That particular lizard had slain Galon, which was why I went after the reptilian fucker with a quark-splitter’s axe. I’d been so blind with rage and grief, it was a wonder I lived through the fight at all.

Galon had been dead two years now, but I still missed him.

Blue brows lifted. Arles eyed me as if he saw far more than I wanted him to. With his sensor implants, he probably did. Finally he nodded shortly and turned his attention to the tabletop menu display.

I watched his clever fingers tap meal choices for both of us. I was not surprised he didn’t ask my preferences. I was his thrall, not a guest, and he wanted to make sure I knew it.

While we waited for the server to produce our plates, the prince propped his elbows on the table and studied me. I decided it was time to own up to my mistakes.

“I was a stupid girl ten years ago, Arles.” I had to force my gaze not to drop. “I know you may not believe me, but I’ve rued my flight every day since. It was cowardly, and I was not raised to be a coward. I have spent the last decade trying to become a woman who could meet her own eyes in the mirror.”

Arles bared even white teeth, not sympathetic in the least. “While my House endured the shit-storm of rumor you left behind -- rumors my enemies used against me to erode my reputation and stain my honor.”

I swallowed. “Yes, I’ve seen the news vids.” The galactic news coverage had been vicious. Reporters brought up my jilting him in every story about his victories.

“And we won’t even mention your sister’s antics once she became my brother’s wife.” The prince grimaced. “Had I not redeemed myself in the Fafnar war, our nobility would have refused to acknowledge me as my father’s heir. You damned near wrecked my career before it even began.”

“I know.”

“Meals are served,” the table announced before I could say any more. Panels in its gleaming surface opened, and the server lifted our food into place.

I picked up my fork, only to put it down again, unable to eat for the tension knotting my belly. “I wish there was a way to make up for my actions.”

“There is.” Arles studied me with a gambler’s cool calculation. “My tour of duty here is done. I’m returning to Tor. If you truly mean to make up for your transgressions, serve as my thrall until I find a wife.”

I gaped at him. It was one thing to parade around his ship on a leash, playing sex games. To do so on Tor, where the news services would beam every juicy detail to Swanhilde… ”But my mother…”

“Yes, I imagine it will be quite the scandal. A Swanhilde princess in bondage to her former betrothed.”

Another woman might have mistaken the nasty curve of his mouth for a smile. “Fortunately, you’ve seen to it that I’m inured to scandal. You, however, will experience the same depths of shame I knew when you jilted me before the whole of my father’s empire.”

I hope you'll enjoy "Chain of Kisses" as much as I did writing it. Thanks for reading!

Best,

Angela Knight

The First Chapter of Hope's Kiss

My new e-book, "Hope's Kiss," is now available from Red Sage. Here's the first chapter. If you're interested in buying the book you'll find it here: Hope's Kiss.

In the meantime, enjoy the sample...


He was naked, covered in blood, and lying in the floor of a steel cage.

She’d still know Mark Wilder anywhere.

Detective Hope Barton scanned the room from the bottom step, eyes flicking from the cage to the bloody wooden table beside it, to the shackles that hung from blood-splattered cement walls.

The big, dimly lit basement reeked of murder: body fluids, rotting gore, and helpless suffering. Her stomach heaved, but Hope had been a violent crimes detective for two years, and she’d stood over her share of slaughter. Swallowing hard, she forced her dinner back where it belonged and did her job.

“Mark.” Hope strode toward the cage, ignoring the sticky puddles drying on the cement underfoot. She was too busy scanning the room for the key to his cell. There was no sign of one, dammit. “What the hell happened to you?” When he didn’t move, she raised her voice in a cop’s bark. “Mark!”

He stirred and lifted his head from the cage’s dirty floor. One dazed green eye met hers under a shock of matted blond hair. Blood and filth streaked his face, his lips were cut and bruised, and his left eye was swollen shut.

Somebody had beaten the crap out of him. And judging from his bloody knuckles, he’d fought back hard. Which was no surprise. Mark never took anything lying down.

Her gut twisted. How was she going to get him out of here? She grabbed the thick iron bars in both hands. “Mark…” “Mark, it’s Hope.”

For a suspended instant, he stared at her without any recognition at all.

Until he roared with a tortured animal howl and leaped at her in an impossible eight-foot bound. Pure reflex had her jolting back, barely dodging his hand as it shot through the bars.
How did he do that? Nobody could jump like that!

Mark’s lips peeled off snapping teeth, his powerful body straining to reach her with fingers curled into claws. His bare, bloody feet thudded on the bars as he kicked them savagely, trying to bend the steel. His one good eye glittered in frenzy.

He has fangs. She froze, staring at his sharply pointed canine teeth. Sweet God, Mark has fangs!

He sure as hell hadn’t had them in high school. She’d put her tongue in his mouth often enough to know.

As he bellowed and clawed, Hope damn near drew down on him. She managed to drag her hand away from the grip of her shoulder-holstered 9mil. Glock, but it took an effort. I’m not going to shoot Mark Wilder.

God, she ached to call for backup, but she no longer trusted anyone in the department.

Mark finally stopped howling. Clinging to the bars, he stared at her, his good eye feral and desperate, like a wolf’s with one leg in a bear trap. Recognition flickered in his gaze. “Hope?”

His voice sounded broken, raspy, as if he’d been screaming. Screaming for a very long time.

Pity raked at her heart, along with a certain tense relief. At least he’d recognized her. “Yeah, it’s me.” She gave him a twisted smile. “Guess you were right. There is a vampire in Reede County.”

“Told you.” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as if fighting some powerful urge. “I warned you…what he was.”

Yeah, but she’d thought he’d lost his mind. The story he’d told her last week had certainly sounded crazy.

* * * *

They’d been working their way through a pizza in his den as Blade Trinity roared away on the big flat-screen television, Wesley Snipes killing vampires with a fanged snarl and flashing arcs of his sword.

It was a DVD choice Hope later realized was deliberate.

She’d folded a slice of the pizza and was about to take a healthy bite when Mark said, “I know who killed Joy.”

Hope dropped the slice back on her plate. He’d said he had something to tell her when he’d invited her over, but she’d had no idea he’d meant anything like this. He looked tense, as if he dreaded telling her whatever he had in mind, his green eyes narrow and wary. “I’m listening.”

“Patrick Stone came to my folks’ house the night after Joy died.”

“The tent revival preacher? You think he killed your sister?” Sexual predators often assumed religious covers that gave them access to victims, and they moved around a lot to keep from getting caught.

“Yeah. We thought Stone was going to offer to pray with us or something, like my folks’ pastor had.” Mark braced his elbows on his knees. A muscle in his jaw flexed as he bit off the next words. “Instead, the fucker told us all to forget about her, that she was nothing but a little slut.”

“Oh, my God. He said that to your parents? So how hard did you kick his ass? And how many punches did your daddy get in?” She grinned, imagining Ted Wilder’s reaction to anybody saying something like that about his little girl. Preacher or no, Ted would have taken the guy apart.

“None. Dad believed the bastard. They both did.” Mark’s big hands flexed between his knees.

“What? That makes no sense. What did you do?”

“Invited Stone outside and tried to knock his teeth down his throat. He blocked every punch, tossed me on my ass…” Mark stopped and took a deep breath. “And then he told me he was a vampire. Showed me his fangs and told me exactly what he did to Joy. In sickening detail.”

“He actually had false teeth made to look like fangs?” That would explain the puncture marks in the victims’ bite wounds.

“No, Hope. He really is a vampire. He said that’s how he made my parents believe him -- he’s got psychic abilities no human can resist.”

A chill raced over her skin, and Hope had to work to keep her face expressionless. On the screen, Wesley showed his fangs in a flash of white against his dark skin. “Let me get this straight. You believe your sister was murdered by a vampire?”

He didn’t look away. “I know how crazy it sounds, but yeah, that’s exactly what I believe.”

* * * *

It had to be Post Traumatic Stress. Mark had just left the Marines after ten years in Afghanistan and Iraq as a demolition specialist. A decade of that would give anybody PTSD.

Except it hadn't been the trauma talking. Every word of his wild story had been true.

“Talk to me, Hope,” Mark begged in a ragged voice, leaning against the bars as if all his furious energy had abandoned him. “Help me hang on, or I’m going to lose it again.”

She studied him, frowning. His face was white and bloodless, his lips pale.
“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. Just talk to me.” He closed his good eye and pressed his forehead against the bars. “How did you find me?”

“Your parents came by the Sheriff’s Office yesterday.” The Wilders had known Hope for years, so they asked for her whenever they needed a cop. “They told me they hadn’t seen you in a week. At first they’d thought you’d just forgotten to call, but when your father kept checking your house and you never came home, they got worried.”

He grimaced. “I’ll bet they’re going out of their minds, after what happened to Joy.”

“Pretty much. Which is when I decided to question Stone after last night’s revival, something I damn well should have done when you said he killed Joy.”

“Hell, I wouldn’t have believed me either.”

Hope turned and began to pace, trying to work off her outraged energy. “You know, Stone actually ordered me to forget those women, as if he expected me to obey him.”

“He did. And you would have, if you’d been an ordinary human.”

She decided not to ask what the hell he meant by that. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know. “So I started asking questions. One of the women from the church hosting the revival told me she’d loaned Stone her mother’s house. The mother’s been dead a year or so, and this lady hasn’t been able to sell the place.”

“And she never will when word gets out about this.” He gestured at the blood-smeared cement.

“Then this morning, Sheriff Williams called me into his office. Said to quit wasting my time with animal kills and get back to work on my caseload. But animals don’t leave finger shaped bruises, and those were human bites, no matter what the coroner said.” Hope turned to face Mark, her hands curling into fists. “Thing is, I’d discussed the cases with the sheriff just the day before, and he’d agreed they were homicides. It was just like you said -- Stone had done something to his mind.”

“Bastard’s got a lot of power.” Mark straightened abruptly, as if someone had goosed him with a Taser. His good eye widened in panic. “What time is it? Is Stone here? You’ve got to get the hell out, Hope, or he’ll…”

“Relax, tonight’s service just started. Which is why I decided to drop by and check out the house, even though I didn’t have a warrant.” She curled a lip at the blood splatter that painted the cinderblock walls. “I smelled the stench of this dungeon of his all the way out on the porch. Instant probable cause. I kicked in the door and followed the reek.”

“For all the good it does either of us.” Mark wrapped his bruised hands around the bars and stared at her with desperate intensity. At least he seemed to be tracking now. “Hope, you can’t touch Stone. Even if you managed to arrest him, all he has to do is use his powers on the sheriff and he’s out the door. Given his strength, I doubt you could bring him in at all. And I don’t want him to get his claws into you too.”

She moved back over to the cage, staying just out of reach in case he tried to grab her again. “How did you end up like this?”

“I was dumb enough to challenge him at my folks’ house.” A bitter grimace twisted Mark’s mouth, and the knuckles of his fists went white from his grip on the bars. “He told me later that’s how he knew I’m Kith. He almost grabbed me that night, but he decided to wait, think it over. Then like a moron, I showed up here and got myself caught.”

“Wait.” Hope frowned. “What the hell’s a Kith?”

“That’s what vamps call people with the psychic strength to survive becoming a vampire.” Mark leaned his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes. The hollows beneath his striking cheekbones looked deeper, as if he was growing gaunter before her eyes. “The same strength makes us immune to a vampire’s orders, so that’s how they recognize us. Which is how I became a monster.” His good eye opened, meeting her gaze in a blaze of urgent green. “And that’s why you need to stay the hell away from him.”

“And let him go on killing?” She snorted. “Not very damned likely.”

“Hope, Stone thinks you’re Kith too because you refused to back off the case. He’s thinking of turning you. And you don’t want to become that bastard’s toy.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Hope reached for the cell phone clipped to her belt. No matter what, Mark needed medical attention. He was in shock, suffering from blood loss and God knew what else.

He straightened in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“Calling dispatch for an ambulance.” She started thumbing buttons. “You need treatment. The Rescue Squad carries equipment that can cut into a car. They can slice open those bars.”

“I’d kill them, Hope. I’d kill them all. And you too.” His gaze haunted and urgent, Mark stared desperately into her eyes. Even his tongue looked dry as he licked his lips. “Stone hasn’t given me enough blood. I’m starving. I wouldn’t be able to control myself.”

Hope froze with the phone halfway to her mouth as she stared at him. And finally started to think through the implications. Even if the team managed to subdue Mark -- maybe by drugging him -- what then? He was a fucking vampire. Half an hour after he went to the hospital, he’d be on CNN.

Somebody would shoot cell phone video of his fangs and a few choice shots of this chamber of horrors. And he’d be screwed.

Meanwhile Stone would return from his tent revival, where he was probably choosing a sixth blonde from among the worshipers. Another woman to rape and murder.

That bastard needs to die. It wasn’t the first time in Hope’s law enforcement career she’d had that thought, but it was the first time she intended to carry it out.

She clipped the phone back on her belt with a hand that shook. It had been too damn long since she’d slept, or had anything to eat beyond stale cop coffee and candy bars. Being the lead investigator on five serial murder cases would do that to you. Especially when the killer’s a fucking vampire.
“All right. What do you think I should do?”

His good eye lit with hope, and he stepped closer to the bars. “Go to my house. Look in the garage, under the blue tarp. There are eight pipe bombs and a detonator I built to look like a ball point pen…”

“Wait -- bombs? Pipe bombs?” She stared at him, incredulous. “Do I look like a suicide bomber to you?”

“I’m not talking about blowing yourself up. I sure as hell don’t want you dead. Just Stone.” Mark’s bruised hands wrapped around the bars, and he stared at her with desperate intensity, as if willing her to listen. “I’ve already built everything you need. All you have to do is position the devices, get the hell away, and press the detonator.”

“What if somebody sees me, Mark? They’d think I was some kind of psycho, killing a preacher for giggles. They’d never believe he was a vampire. I’d go to jail for the rest of my life.”

“I know, I thought of all that too. Thing is, it’s the only way to be sure of killing him.”

“What about a stake through the heart? It’d be a hell of a lot less complicated.”

“And a lot more risky.” Mark released the bars and started to pace in long, urgent strides. “What if he woke up before you finished? Hell, we don’t know whether a stake would even work. It could be a myth, like the one about crosses. Holy objects obviously don’t bother him, or he couldn’t be hanging out in churches, waving a Bible.”

Hope grimaced. “Good point.”

“But I’m damned sure those bombs would do the job. That’s why I took the risk of telling you what he was. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, but I wanted you to know why I’d blown the house. Unfortunately, I made the dumbass mistake of casing the house at night, and Stone caught me.” He stopped pacing to rest his forehead against the steel and closed his good eye. His normally healthy tan had leached away, leaving him pale beneath the bruises that spotted his broad shoulders. “Next thing I knew, I was in this cage, slowly starving to death. You and those bombs are the only hope we have of stopping him now.”

Well, at least it was a plan. A crazy plan, but a plan. Hope scrubbed her hands over her face. They were trembling hard now. “So what do I do?”

FROM MILD TO WILD: CREATING SEX SCENES THAT ARE MORE THAN THE SAME OLD BUMP AND GRIND

Here's a sample lesson from my class on writing love scenes
Introduction:

By Angela Knight

If there’s one aspect of romance that we as a genre have trouble with, it’s love scenes. After all, many of us grew up being told that when it comes to sex, “Good Girls Don’t.” Or if they do, they’re not supposed to like it.

In reality, I think we’d all agree that a sexless marriage would be arid and dysfunctional. Not to mention doomed; what man is going to put up with a wife who doesn’t like sex? Yes, he may love her, but if she hates his body and hers to that extent, somebody’s in desperate need of some serious therapy. And what kind of husband would force his wife to do something she hated? I think the technical term for that is “rapist.”

We don’t publish that sort of thing anymore.

Of course, you could create a heroine who is sexually screwed up to that extent, but readers would expect her to have her head on straight by the end of the book. Otherwise, your couple is not going to get that promised “Happily Ever After.”

Thus we have to assume our heroines like sex with their handsome heroes, no matter how virginal they may be, even in sweet romances where the bedroom door remains firmly closed.

So our heroines do enjoy sex.

It’s romance novelists who don’t.

Or at least, many of us don’t like writing about it. All together now: “It’s just Tab A in Slot B!”
I’ll grant you, the mechanics of sliding Tab A into Slot B may be the same, but only if you leave out characterization, emotion and the development of the romance.

My husband and I have been married for 26 years now, and I have no idea how many times we’ve made love. But every single time is different, depending on what happened that day, what mood we’re in, and what we decide to do to spice things up.

Strawberries, anyone? Whipped cream? No chocolate, though: it gave me a rash last time....

THE CRAFT OF LOVE

As a writer, I pride myself on writing love scenes that are vivid and emotionally intense. Readers read romance because they want to experience – or re-experience – the humming thrill of falling in love with an incredible, sensual man.

In fact, romance novelists who expect to find success must pay more attention to love scenes now than ever before. The newest generation of readers were raised on MTV and Sex in the City, and they do not expect us to primly hold back because we’re afraid of being called sluts. They want us to show them what amazing lovers our heroes are, not just tell them that everybody had a really good time. What’s more, editors know that, and they’re looking for writers who are not afraid to deliver.

But selling books is not the only reason to write good sex. Love scenes provide writers with a way to depict emotional intimacy and romantic intensity with a power that can’t be achieved in any other way.

What’s the first law of writing good fiction? “Show, don’t tell.” There is no better place to show the sweet flowering of a romance than in bed. That’s where our characters are most naked – and not just physically.

Think about it. Why do sex scandals grab headlines? It’s because we all know that a person’s core character is revealed by what he does in bed – or in a men’s room. He can make speeches about family values all he wants, but if he says he’s hiking the Appalachian Trail when he's not, we know what’s really going on in his head.

The way our heroes and heroines make love tells us volumes about what they think of themselves and the opposite sex. If they’re tender and concerned for the other person’s pleasure, that says something. If, on the other hand, all your hero is interested in is his next orgasm, that says something too.

Even more revealing is the way in which his lovemaking changes throughout the course of the book. Yes, he may know how to make a woman’s toes curl from page one, but how does making love to this particular heroine effect him? Does his concern for her pleasure increase until his focus is solely on her joy rather than his own? That says volumes about his evolution as a hero. And it also tells you a great deal about how the romance has grown.

GROWING THE ROMANCE

Every scene in a romance must do one of three things: develop the characters, develop the internal or external conflicts, or develop the romance. Otherwise it should be cut.

That definitely includes the love scenes. You can write the most sizzling scene ever put on paper, but if all it does is give the reader a thrill, it should be either rewritten or cut.
If there’s one mistake I see erotic romance writers make, that’s it: love scenes that don’t do anything. Sex scenes that are only there to give the reader a buzz may be fine in porn, but that’s not what we’re writing.

The focus in a romance is always the romance: the growth of love between two people, with all its rocky missteps and luscious pleasures.

Which is why traditional romances with three-page generic love scenes are every bit as bad as pointless erotica. If you’re including a love scene solely because your editor demands it, you’re doing something wrong. And you’re missing a golden opportunity to advance your story.

It’s my intention with this class to demonstrate how to craft love scenes that make your romance truly romantic.

Over the next month, I will post a total of fourteen lessons, one each Monday, Wednesday and Friday. You are welcome to ask questions whenever you like, and I will do my best to answer.

Lessons will include:

The three functions of love scenes in romance
Character development
Heroes
Heroines
Mapping the romance with love scenes
The First encounter
Middle encounters
Last love scene of the book
Conflict
Creating appropriate levels of sensuality, whether for erotic romance or traditional
Sensual detail
C, F and P words – what language should a romance writer use?
Conclusion

I hope you find the class useful, as well as good fun.

Now, if you'd like to sign up for the class, it will cost $20 for non-members of Colorado Romance Writers, which is hosting the class. Members will pay $15. Class lessons will be posted in a special online forum, where you can also ask questions. You can have the lessons mailed to you too.

If you want to sign up, you can do that here:
http://www.coloradoromancewriters.org/

Click the workshop tab, which will take you to the sign-up area.

Thanks so much for your interest in my class!

Angela Knight

I'm teaching a class on writing erotic romance!

Hi, guys! A lot of people have asked about my class on writing erotic romance. I'm going to be teaching a new class in May. Here's information from Passionate Ink, the RWA chapter on erotic romance, which I'm teaching the class for. You don't have to be a Passionate Ink member to join.



Special workshop to fund the Passionate Ink Perseverance Fund* – WRITING EROTIC ROMANCE with Angela Knight May 3, 2010 – May 31, 2010 $25
In this class, New York Times bestselling author Angela Knight will discuss the techniques of writing erotic romance she used to make the leap to New York publication. She’ll cover creating heroes heroines and villains for erotic romance, as well as how to structure a plot that combines sexuality, sensuality and conflict to create a story readers can’t put down. She will discuss creating intense internal, external and romantic plots for erotic romance, as well as how to write multiple love scenes in such a way that each one is different and advances the plot.

About the presenter : Angela Knight is the New York Times bestselling author of books for Berkley, Red Sage, Changeling Press, and Loose Id. Her first book was written in pencil and illustrated in crayon; she was nine years old at the time. A few years later, she read The Wolf and the Dove and fell in love with romance. Besides her fiction work, Angela’s publishing career includes a stint as a comic book writer and ten years as a newspaper reporter. Several of her stories won South Carolina Press Association awards under her real name.

In 1996, she discovered the small press publisher Red Sage, and realized her dream of romance publication in the company’s Secrets 2 anthology. She went on to publish several more novellas in Secrets before editor Cindy Hwang discovered her work there and asked her if she’d be interested in writing for Berkley. Not being an idiot, Angela said yes.

Whatever success she has enjoyed, she attributes to the marvelous editors she’s had over the years. David Anthony Kraft and Dwight Zimmerman at Comics Interview taught her the nuts and bolts of fiction writing. Alexandria Kendall of Red Sage discovered her talent for romance writing and encouraged her to believe in herself. And she will be forever grateful to Berkley editor Cindy Hwang, who has been unfailingly supportive.

Angela lives in South Carolina with her husband, Michael, a polygraph examiner and hostage negotiator for the county’s Sheriff’s Office. The couple have a grown son, Anthony.

You can find out more about Angela at her website – http://www.angelasknights.com/

For more information: workshopchair@passionateink.org

To Pay Online : Using PayPal (PayPal), send payment to perseverance@passionateink.org with “WORKSHOP – Perseverance” as the subject. In the “message” section, include Your Name and Email Address.
Cost: $25 To pay by check, print this page and send with a check to Passionate Ink Workshops – Perseverance c/o Robin L. Rotham P.O. Box 2412 Norfolk, NE 68701

*100% of all entry fees from this workshop will go to fund the Passionate Ink Perseverance Fund. The purpose of the fund is to assist those RWA members who may be facing difficulties paying their Passionate Ink chapter dues. Payments from the fund will be governed by the chapter’s bylaws, and policies and procedures manual. All funding will come from directed donations.

Thanks!

Angela Knight

HOT FOR THE HOLIDAYS

On Sept. 29, the anthology HOT FOR THE HOLIDAYS will be out. It features novellas by me, Lora Leigh, Anya Bast and Allyson James. My story, "Vampire's Ball," should be interesting for people who like the Mageverse series, since it kicks off the next Mageverse story arc.

The story also features Grace and Lancelot, from previous stories. I'm pretty excited about it. Here's a little blurb:

Kat Danilo’s childhood turned tragic when her sister become the victim of a serial killer. Years later, she gets a chance at justice when she discovers she’d the daughter of Lancelot, vampire knight of the Round Table. But first, she’s got to convince a handsome vampire warrior that she’s worthy to gain the magical powers that are her birthright – powers that might help her find her sister’s killer.

If the murderer doesn’t find her first....

****
And an excerpt:

She rose on her tiptoes, caught the back of his neck, and drew his head down until she could reach his mouth. It was a surprisingly tender kiss, less an act of passion than an offer of comfort.

Her lips felt exquisitely soft as they brushed over his, a delicate seduction. She started to draw back.

Ridge caught her nape, felt the cool silk of her short hair against his fingers, impossibly soft. Opening his lips, he deepened the kiss, drinking in her taste, savoring the sweet comfort she offered.

Kat responded with a tiny moan, a whimper of breath against his mouth. She leaned into him, the silk of her gown warm from her body, her breasts lush and full against his chest. Her long legs moved restlessly, brushing his thighs.

Her scent filled his head, some delicate perfume tinged with jasmine. And beneath that, the heady musk of female arousal. He hardened in a hot, sweet rush, his balls going tight.

Vampire hearing picked up the rush of her pulse, the sea tide of her blood. His fangs slid from their housing in his jaw. He bent his head, nuzzling, and she tilted her chin, giving him access to the big, pulsing vein . . .

What the hell am I doing? The thought blew through the smoky heat of his arousal, chill as a sudden draft. Ridge blinked.

Oh, hell, he was losing it. If he didn’t stop this, he’d be balls-deep in her and coming before he knew what hit him.

And that was a really bad idea. Tempting, yes—Merlin’s Cup, he was tempted—but there was no way he could maintain his objectivity if he banged the girl.

No, not banged, a voice whispered from the back of his brain. Nothing with this woman would be as simple as a bang. Kat Danilo wasn’t the kind of woman a man used for meaningless physical release. She might draw you in with that pretty body, but she’d snare you tight with her intelligence, with her questing mind and dry wit. Not to mention the subtler temptations of shared grief.

That might be the most dangerous snare of all.

SKYKEEPERS

My buddy Jessica Andersen has a new book out this week, and I'd like to encourage y'all to take a look. I love Jess's work, and I think you will too.

Hey gang! Today we’re talking about a new release and recommended read, Jessica Andersen’s SKYKEEPERS.

Check out the video trailer: www.youtube.com/user/DocJess1

The word from the back cover …

Ancient prophecy holds that 12/21/2012 will bring a global cataclysm. Mankind’s only hope lies with the Nightkeepers, modern magic-wielding warriors who must find their destined mates and fulfill the legends to defeat the rise of terrible Mayan demons.

In Skykeepers, Michael Stone is a man with a dark secret that has skewed his magical abilities dangerously toward the underworld. Seeking redemption, he sets out on a perilous mission to save the daughter of Ambrose Ledbetter, a renowned Mayanist who died before he could reveal the location of a hidden library. The Nightkeepers must find the library before their enemies gain access to its valuable cache of spells and prophecies.

Sasha Ledbetter grew up hearing heroic tales of an ancient group of powerful magi who were destined to save the world from destruction. She never expected that her bedtime stories would come to life in the form of Nightkeeper Michael Stone, or that she’d hold the key to the warrior’s survival. As Sasha and Michael join forces to prevent the imminent battle, sparks of attraction ignite between them, and they’re forced to confront the unexpected passion that brings them together … and also tears them apart.

And an excerpt!

He’d thought he’d steeled himself for the familiar kick of attraction, the lust that hadn’t faded with their becoming lovers. But need hit him hard the moment he saw her stretched on her tiptoes to return a bowl to a high shelf, her midriff-cropped tee riding up, yoga pants riding down, the two exposing a strip of her taut, strong abdomen, with the soft lines of muscle on either side of her navel, where a trio of freckles drew his eye.

She turned slowly, and when she met his eyes, he saw a reflection of the burning heat that churned in his gut. “Well?” she said softly.

His body moved almost without conscious volition around the pass-through and into the kitchen, where he stopped close enough to catch her light scent over the cooking smells, close enough to distinguish the heat of her body from that of the stove. “What’s cooking?”

She handed over the mug she’d been sipping from. “It’s something I’ve been playing with.”

He knew she had magic in the kitchen, knew she wielded flavors with the deftness of a trained chef and the inspiration of a mage, but still he was unprepared for what hit his taste buds the moment he took a sip. Sensations exploded across his neurons in a blaze of heat, texture, and taste that had him sucking in a breath. There was chocolate, yes, but it was more savory than sweet, taken away from the realm of dessert by a mix of peppers and salt, and things he wouldn’t even begin to match with chocolate, but that somehow matched perfectly. He sucked in a breath. “Holy crap.” Took another sip and rolled it around in his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as the flavors changed subtly, the peppers mellowing to something else. “Nice,” he said, and this time his tone was one of reverence. “Very nice.”

“That,” she said with evident satisfaction, “was exactly what I was going for.”

Eyes still closed, he felt her trying to take the mug back, and tightened his fingers on it. “Leave it,” he said. “I’m at your mercy. Anything you want. Just ask.”

He’d said it partly in play, but also because he remembered what she’d told him back in the beginning, on her first day at Skywatch. I cook when I’m happy or sad, when I’m celebrating with friends or all alone with my thoughts. Which of those things applied now?

He felt the air shift, felt her indrawn breath as his own, but instead of “we need to talk” or any of the female warning signs experience had taught him to expect, she surprised him by leaning in and touching her lips to his.

The kiss was as unexpected as the hint of pepper and spice he tasted amidst the chocolate on her lips, in her mouth. Setting aside his mug, he deepened the kiss, relieved to let it be easy even though a small part of him said it shouldn’t be so easy, that he was skimming the surface of something he needed to be diving into. But then she shifted her hands, sliding them up his chest to link behind his neck and tug him closer, pressing her body to his, and the vibe went true, singing inside his skull with the warm sparkle of red-gold magic.

“Come back to bed,” he said against her mouth. “We’ve got a few more hours to burn.”

***

What reviewers are saying about SKYKEEPERS:

“… intricate and compelling … I can hear their voices, feel their thoughts, and yes, music plays. Seriously, there is a soundtrack going on in my mind and I see her world in Technicolor.” Romance Novel TV

“An exciting, romantic and imaginative tale … guaranteed to keep readers entertained
and turning the pages.” Romance Reviews Today

“… a compelling and passionate lovestory.” (4 1/2 stars) Romantic Times Magazine

In stores everywhere! FMI, check out www.JessicaAndersen.com

AK