|Buy Joy Ride HERE|
by Desiree Holt
There are so many different definitions of erotic romance that sometimes I wonder if we’re all reading and writing the same thing. But I can tell the difference between erotic romance and erotica-the first is a love story and the second is purely an erotic experience, between people who may never see each other again and are together purely for the thrill. I’m a Happy Ever After kinda girl so for me the romance is paramount. The people involved must feel emotionally for the other or others and must, at the end of the story have at least a Happy For Now.
So what’s the difference between, say, sensual, spicy and erotic?
I think it all boils down to the explicitness of the sex scenes. One of the first things I learned when writing sex scenes of any kind was to focus on the five senses–taste, touch, smell, hear, see. The more explicit the scene, the more intense the reaction of the senses. And each scene can be expanded on that basis, so if the author does it right the reader becomes physically and emotionally involved with each character.
My late husband, my hero, my best friend, was the one who first encouraged me to dip my toe in the waters. A publisher I was with at the time was opening a line of erotic shorts and I was waffling about whether I had the skills or the ability–or courage–to explore this new genre.
So I outlined a plot, did my little character sketches, and sat down to write. And what a wonder! The scenes actually flowed. And even better, were believable. What a miracle!
Then I began to research the subject, reading authors who had and were making a name for themselves in the field. I learned from them how to weave scenes together so the sex was meaningful rather than blatant. And I learned that I loved writing scenes at the maximum heat level, because to me, that was the maximum expression of feelings. For example, in BDSM relationships there is a level fo trust necessary that I don’t think is there in other situations. Maybe that’s why I write so much BDSM–because I can show how deep the trust is and how the relationship is about so much more than sex. I think one of the greatest compliments I get from my readers is from those who tell me their husbands love when they read one of my books! LOL!
Joy Ride, from Decadent Publishing, isn’t about BDSM but it’s a lot about trust.
Last year I went to Johnny Depp’s Viper Room to see a performance by an excellent rock band, Run Devil Run. The moment I stepped into the room the music enfolded me like an erotic cloak, ramping up each of my senses and making every pulse in my body throb. The person who drew my attention, however, was the bass player. Can you say sex on a stick? He was sooo into his music, and so “hawt” on stage you could feel the energy and electricity sizzling from him. I knew I had to write a story where the hero was based on him.
Check out this shot of him.
And so Joy Ride was born.
For Emma, the good girl poster child, it’s about learning the intricacies of sex that she’d never experimented with. For bad boy bass player Marc it was about showing her so many ways to share their feelings for each other as the sex between them becomes hotter and hotter. I hope you’ll come along for this erotic ride.
And to celebrate, Decadent Publishing will give away a copy of Joy Ride to one lucky person drawn from those who comment today.
Available at: Decadent Publishing, Amazon, Sony, All Romance eBooks.
Emma, the good girl poster child, is running from a life she suddenly sees as grey and suffocating. A life where she’s successfully buried all her hopes and secret dreams. Until the night she wanders into Aftershock and is immediately drawn to Marc, the hot bass player with the band. Marc doesn’t much care for the groupies who hang around the band. He wants a woman he can create a life with that’s a counterpoint to the craziness of the rock music business. When he sees Emma for the first time something inside him cracks wide open. Just one sizzling glance between them and he’s sure he’s found the woman he wants. But as the relationship grows, there’s a huge stumbling block: Emma won’t tell him her name. The sex is fabulous but he wants more. So does Emma but her fear of everything falling apart builds a barrier she can’t seem to cross. Marc is taking her on the joy ride of her life, but will her own insecurities destroy everything?
Clutching the cold beer bottle in her hand, she wedged her way between gyrating bodies, hypnotized by the music until she reached the front of the crowd…and stopped at the edge of the stage, mesmerized. The bass guitarist stood with one foot balanced on the monitor in front of him, his body leaning into the sound. His head was thrown back, dark hair flying around his face as he pounded out the rhythm of the song they were playing. He was wild, uninhibited, totally immersed in his music. He moved with an incredible grace to the accented beat, hips thrusting as his clever fingers plucked the strings and slid on the neck of the guitar.
For one incredible moment, Emma had the feeling he was playing only for her and she realized she really had been struck by “Lightnin’.” Permanently electrified by it.
A surge of heat raced through her, and it wasn’t the kind that emanated from the tightly packed sweaty bodies. Instead, an electric excitement gripped her, sending a charge of unfamiliar sexual thrill to every nerve. Her breasts tingled and between her thighs, she felt a throbbing as deep as the sound of the bass. At first she stood stiffly, clutching her drink. People jostled and shoved her as they kept time to the beat. She took two quick swallows of the beer, grimacing at the bitter taste. But as the alcohol eased her tension, she found herself catching the rhythm of the music and trying to mimic the movements of the bass player, totally caught up in the seductive lure of the song. For one crazy moment, she was gripped by an uncontrollable urge to jump up on the stage, and bump and grind with him. Her! Emma, the good girl!
Clumsily juggling the beer bottle, she slipped the thin strap of her purse over her head so it lay crosswise between her breasts. Her focus still on the bass player, she swayed to the beat, hips moving, rocking. When the song ended, the bass guitarist threw back his head on a final note and then looked out into the crowd, peering beyond the glare of the stage lights.
His eyes seemed to find hers as if pulled by a magnet, and a fist slammed through her.
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