Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Torrid Tuesday

One of the hardest things for me to write is a love scene. Now, I can write kissing scenes, and romance and bring the reader right to the edge easily, but it's the explicit play by play that gets me.

So, I write them last. Oh, I set them up. Like below. Jacy and Trace have just finished supper and they're washing dishes. I know he's going to slip her dress over her head, twist it a little and bind her wrists, making her hold on to the counter while he enjoys her.

He's still fully dressed, making Jacy a little uncomfortable, but she forgets all about it when he begins to dribble water over her breasts, blowing on them to make her nipples pucker and reaching between her hot, wet thighs to blow her apart.

I can write each physical move more easily than I can get their emotions. So, for the next few weeks, we're taking this chapter, this love scene a few paragraphs at a time.

I'll be writing it as we go along. Analyzing it, changing words, positions, and definitely emotions.


“This won’t take a minute.” Jacy fought the threatening shiver coursing through her as Trace’s arm brushed her bare shoulder, dropping utensils into the warm, sudsy water. She stiffened to stop herself from rubbing against him as she seemed to want to these days.
Inclining her head, toward the doorway on her left, she said, “Why don’t you pour us the rest of the wine or you might want beer.” Jacy’s eyes flicked toward the fridge, “and take them to the living room. I’ll be right out.”
Thinking only of having a few minutes to herself to gather her scattered thoughts and wayward body under control, a nearly impossible feat when Trace was near, Jacy picked up the dishrag and ran it along the inside the glass. Suddenly his large body settled behind her. She yelped, jumping at the intimate contact.
“Relax darlin’, let me help you get these cleaned up.” His voice, a low rumbling vibration in her upper back, dropped to the pit of her stomach, churning more butterflies, then continued to the sweet spot of her sex. She’d squelched her constant need for him quite successfully all night up until the moment he pressed his back into hers.
“It’s the least I can do since you went to all that trouble of cookin’ for me.” Each word sent soft, warm breath floating across her ear, tantalizing her senses and causing goose bumps to rise along her arms. One would’ve thought he was inviting her to partake in deliciously naughty sex instead of boring housework?
It was no wonder, she couldn’t help but lean into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Still, it would be hard pressed to tell she’d actually relaxed, even a little, for the rampant beat of her heart knocking against her ribs and shallow breaths.
“Don’t stop, baby.” Stop what? She wanted to ask, washing dishes, or, she’d been mortified to realize, arching into him like a cat in heat?
His five o’clock shadow rubbed the column of her throat, finally eliciting the tremors she’d fought hard to keep under control. He nipped her exposed shoulder before kissing away the sting he’d caused.
She lifted onto her toes, pressing into his mouth, wanting more. The thrill that he might leave marks, sealing the fact he’d claimed her with love bites filled Jacy’s mind. What was she thinking? She was too practical for something so primitive. But she found herself leaning further into Trace’s chest to keep from folding to the floor in a puddle. Well, that was what she told herself. But, she knew it was to relish in this closeness that was becoming so much harder to ignore each time she saw him.

No, no, no. No pressing into Trace Blackwell no matter how right it feels. “Yes.” The word was one long sigh as his tongue traced the shell of her ear. More. Did she voice that or just feel it with her entire being. 

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