September 30, 2011

Kinky Filthy Sub...


Wow, I heart this necklace big time! Jesus, that's just the bomb, isn't it?

On top (I mean, I'm posting directly above) my mundane publishing woes, I have delicious writing news. Those of you who have been playing along at home, know that I've written five novellas for Harlequin this year. I worked my little fingers to the bone to make the styles and characters different, and for my last piece, I was a little worried. I wrote third person present tense, and I wound up with more characters than I'd initially planned. It was like that Marx Brothers' movie where the people just keep coming. Except dirty.

My biggest worry when writing for Harlequin is that my doms won't have enough soul. But I took great care with Frost:

“I want you to train me,” she says again, louder this time. He doesn’t seem to understand.

All of the nervous gestures she’s worked for years to disassemble come back in force. Her head goes down. She looks up at him from under her glossy, dark bangs. She bites her bottom lip, hard, welcoming the immediate spark of pain as a way to clear her head. When she was a top, she was able to bury these glitches—what she has come to consider as the human side of herself—beneath an icy exterior. Somehow, that ability has disappeared. Frost does things to her.

“Don’t worry,” she says, almost more to herself than to him. She squeezes her thighs together under the table, feels her bare legs touch above the lacy tops of her stockings. She knows, in her mind, what this will be like, what she’s asking for. There are men who would snap her up in a heartbeat. She doesn’t want those men. Frost doesn’t see the treasure she’s offering. “Training me won’t be so difficult. I’m good. I simply need a little discipline.”

He looks at her directly. She feels that appraisal she sensed at their first meeting. “What do you want from me?” His voice is gruff. They’re talking for real, now.

She can’t help herself. “How long do you have?”

He considers what he has to say. The heat between them is palpable, shimmering like hot liquid metal in the air. “I don’t think I can do this again.”

She’s confused, but she sees pain in his eyes, and she wishes she could help him. “We’ve never done anything before.”

“Not you,” he says. “This.” He acknowledges their connection with the slightest gesture of one finger. “It’s been too long for me. I’m accustomed to what I’ve got now.”

Everything in her wants him. She visualizes pushing away the table—hearing the coffee cups clattering—and crawling to him on the floor. She knows just what it would be like to undo his fly, suck his cock. If any of those behaviors were socially acceptable, she would be in motion. Or if this was a different type of establishment where the rules are skewered. There are so many places she could go, dark clubs. She knows the way down their shadowy alleys, knows they offer her salvation. She doesn’t want that. She wants him. None of this makes sense to her. Love at first sight is a fairy tale, and she no longer believes in fairy tales. But she feels something with this man. The fact that he hasn’t walked away gives her hope.

“What have you got now?” She has to ask the question, even though she doesn’t think she wants to know the answer. That’s the journalist in her, always digging in other people’s dirt.

He drains the rest of his coffee. The half-smile on his lips is bitter. “Nothing.”


****

Yesterday I heard back from my editor who said:

Thanks again for sending this story - I just read it through and it's great! Really sexy and kinky but with a great emotional undercurrent.

Many thanks for your hard work.


The relief I feel borders on the delirious. And tastes quite a bit like champagne.

XXX,
Alison

1 comment:

oliviasummersweet said...

Wow. This blows me away. No pun intended.;)