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Wow! You Don’t Look Like an Erotica Writer

A summer post from the archives

I don’t look like someone who writes erotica. I get that all the time, and I have to smile. It’s a bit like being told, ‘funny, Scribe-computer-keyboardMG_07771-225x300you don’t look like you’re not wearing any knickers. You don’t look like you just had extra cream in your coffee. You don’t look like you’ve been reading Cosmo in the ladies room.’

 

Contrary to popular belief, most erotica writers actually do look exactly like eritoca writers. In fact I look exactly like an erotica writer. Problem is most people don’t know what erotica writers look like. And, fair enough, I have to admit we’re a very difficult lot to recognize, so I’m going to give a very short crash course in how to spot an erotica writer. Not that it’ll help much. We’re masters of disguise. But perhaps it will give you some idea of what you’re actually up against so you won’t feel so bad next time you discover that the woman checking you out at the pharmacy, or the bloke tapping away on his laptop at Starbucks, or the chick picking up her kids after school is an erotica writer.

 

First, you need to know what NOT to look for in an erotica writer. Unless said writer is doing a reading at a book store and is trying to look like people expect an erotica writer to look, the person least likely to be an erotica writer is the one dressed in fishnet stockings and nose-bleed stilettos. Likewise don’t expect her to be the one with peek-a-boo cleavage and a leather mini, or the one with ‘please f*ck me now’ make-up.

 

In fact, the most outstanding thing about an erotica writer is that she doesn’t stand out. In fact it behoves her not to stand out. She’ll be the one in the coffee shop in the corner in the back. She’ll be wearing jeans and a jumper because minis and tiny tops are just too damn cold and uncomfortable to sit around and write in, and erotica writers are endlessly practical. She probably won’t be wearing any make-up because the time it takes to put on a face is time that could be spent getting down the fab hot story idea that came to her while she was cleaning her teeth this morning.

 

Yep, chances are very good you won’t notice her at all, but she’ll notice you. She’ll notice everyone and everything around her, and she’ll filter it all through an imagination filled with possibilities, sexy possibilities, stories to be woven, and heat to be generated on the written page. She’ll have her head down, writing like a madwoman. And if she has a quirky little smile half plastered across her face, you’ll know she’s found the hot idea she’s been looking for.

 

Some erotica writers don’t stand out because hey they didn’t even make it to the coffee shop. They’re still curled up at home in their pajamas with a cuppa writing a story sparked off by a dream they had. They may be in their most comfy track suit, hair pulled back in a ponytail, feet snuggled in fuzzy slippers while they tap away on the laptop at the kitchen Writing pen and birds 1_xl_20156020
table. They may be scribbling away in a little purple notebook during their lunch break at the office.

 

It’s hard to say where they’ll turn up, or how they’ll disguise themselves, or what occupation they might take up in their every-day, non-erotica-writing life. But it’s a pretty good bet that when they do decide to reveal themselves, you’ll still be picking your jaw up off the floor saying, ‘Wow, you sure don’t LOOK like someone who writes erotica.’

 

Shameless Selfie Sunday: Some Boots are Made for Walking and some are just Kinky

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Since The Psychology of Dreams finished last week, (If you missed it, you can read it in its entirety by following the link.) I’ve decided it’s time to do something completely different on A Hopeful Romantic, so hold on to your hats. I’m beginning a new series of weekend blogs that I’m  calling My Weekend Shameless Selfies. They will feature a bad selfie or photo of me, more than likely doing silly things, along with an excerpt from one of my back catalogue novels or novellas that’s somehow connected with the selfie.

This Sunday I’m talking boots, Kinky Boots. Okay, so I get it, my scruffy sweaty walking boots are not exactly Kinky Boots, but they were definitely in part the boots that inspired my novella, Kinky Boots, and let’s face it, I do get a lot of my inspiration while traipsing the countryside in a pair of walking boots, so that being said, my walking boots can be pretty kinky at times.

Enjoy the first chapter of Kinky Boots.

 

Kinky Boots Blurb:

After a sizzling encounter in KINKY BOOTS, a quirky all-night shoe store, with the store’s hot owner, FINN MASTERS, JILL HART walks away in the most gorgeous boots ever. Her new boots come with an unexpected bonus, a sexy demon named ELEANOR, who’s looking for a good time. All she lacks is a body, and Jill’s will do nicely.

Jill quits her dead-end job and, not knowing what’s come over her stops by the nearest pub intent on doing tequila shots until she falls off the stool. Instead she does FINN MASTERS in the beer garden, unwittingly participating in her first ever threesome. The boots were the bait, the timing was right and Eleanor has new digs. It’s Finn job to prevent Eleanor’s misbehaving. His failure means he’ll have to ride shotgun and do damage control until Eleanor moves out at the next full moon.

With Eleanor in residence, Jill’s bolder, sexier, willing to take risks. But is she a whole new Jill, or is it just demon courage? And how will Finn feel about her when she’s just plain Jill again? Will the maddeningly magical ménage make Jill’s dreams come true, or will it break her heart?

 

Kinky Boots Chapter 1

A girls’ night out with Vivie usually ended up a solo act for Jill. It always started out with the best intentions, but then Kinky_BootsVivie would hook up with someone hot, shag his brains out and call Jill all apologetic the next morning, or whenever the hangover wore off. Every time Jill promised herself she wouldn’t let it happen again. But she could never say no to Vivie.

This time they’d gotten separated at the Bluu Bar just off Hoxton Square. Jill figured Vivie and tall-dark-and-dressed-for-success — who had at least been polite enough to buy them both a drink before he whisked Vivie away — were probably occupying one of the benches in the square having a good grope. From there they would graduate to his flat or hers, possibly even the nearest alley if they couldn’t wait that long. Vivie was a bit of an exhibitionist. Crowded into a standing-room-only corner next to the bar, Jill finished her wine then texted Vivie that she was going out for some air.

It wasn’t supposed to be a late night. Her twat of a boss had informed her an hour before quitting time that he needed her to work tomorrow. More like he needed her to do his work tomorrow. He’d been sniffing around the new receptionist every chance he got. It didn’t take a genius to figure their habitual two-hour lunch breaks had nothing to do with business or lunch. He boned the pert-titted receptionist, and Jill got fucked.

Still, she was in Shorditch on a Friday night. If she were going to end up alone, she couldn’t think of any place she’d rather be. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement along the streets lined with bars and clubs and interesting shops. She loved the higgledy-piggledy architecture that often involved glass and steel in the personal space of very accommodating Victorian brick and stone which had already gone through who knew how many marriages of convenience before. All around the concrete ugliness of the sixties groped and nuzzled solicitously at streets that could have come straight from a Sherlock Holms novel. It was a great patchwork of a place, heaving with frenetic humanity all bound and determined to enjoy the hell out of every last drunken, chaotic, celebratory second of the weekend. She was jostled by the enthusiastic spill-over of people with drinks and fags in front of Juno. A hen party pushed past into an off-license. People on the busy pavements crowded onto the narrow side streets impeding the odd taxi or limo. Jill hadn’t walked terribly far before she realized two things; her feet were killing her in the suicide shoes she’d borrowed at Vivie’s insistence, and she was feeling very disoriented, not entirely sure where she was. She blinked and looked around to find herself wandering along Shorditch High Street.

She half stepped and was half shoved into the entryway of a shop to avoid a handful of blokes in Chelsea football jerseys ambling by laughing drunkenly. As she leaned against the rough brick to slip out of the murderous shoes and wriggle her brutalised toes against the paving tiles, the irony wasn’t lost on her that she found herself standing in front of a shoe store. Kinky Boots the softly back-lit sign informed her in elegant gothic script. Underneath in smaller letters it read, Wicked Vintage Shoes. In spite of the late hour, the place was open.

She hadn’t planned to go in. But when she leaned against the door, balancing herself to slip back into the vicious bite of the red stilettoes, it swung open wide. Quickly she straightened herself and glanced around to make sure no one had noticed her less than elegant move. Then there was nothing to do but act like she intended to come right on in. And the thought of a cheap pair of comfy shoes to walk back home in sound like a pretty good idea.

The shop smelled deliciously of well-worn leather and shoe polish with a base note of strong coffee. Immediately she found herself nose to toe with a row of vintage-looking kitten heels flanked by a sexy display of thigh-high boots ranging in style from BDSM du jour to Goth on steroids to sassy sex goddess. She would be the first to admit that fashion was not her forte. But it was very much Vivie’s, thus the enforced suffering of her aching feet.

‘May I help you?’

She looked up to meet the questioning gaze of the store clerk, and couldn’t hold back a little yelp at his unexpected nearness. He glanced at the killer heels, which she still held in one hand, then down at her feet and offered a knowing smile.

‘Just thought I’d stop in for a look.’

She tried to slip gracefully back into the shoes, but he took them from her hand. ‘Leave them off.’ The slight gruffness of his voice was deliciously tactile, rubbing up against her like raw silk. ‘I can see your poor feet need a break.’ He motioned for her to follow him into the bowels of the store right in deep between the high racks of shoes and boots and sandals and mules and old and new and quirky and just plain strange. And in the midst of all the funky, freaky, fantastic footwear, there wasn’t a single pair of trainers or Uggs or Crocks to be found. He guided her to sit in a Queen Anne chair upholstered in pale blue chintz.

‘Are you alright?’ He knelt in front of her and sat the shoes down next to the chair.

‘I’m fine,’ she said. Then she offered a nervous laugh ‘Other than my feet.’

He settled back onto his heels. ‘When women come in here alone at this hour, they’ve usually come over from Juno or the Office after an argument with their bloke. Of course there are a fair few who’ve simply had enough dancing the night away in ill-fitting shoes.’ He offered her a smile that made her feel warm down low in her belly. ‘There’s a reason I keep my shop open after hours on weekends.’ He nodded down at her aching feet.

‘It was a girls’ night out,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m alone, I mean. We got separated.’ He didn’t need to know that her friend was getting shagged and she wasn’t. ‘These aren’t even my shoes. I borrowed them from my friend Vivie’ She nodded down to the little red feet killers. ‘Well, she insisted, actually. And the skirt too.’ She felt stupid for telling him that. Could she make it any more obvious that she was clueless when it came to fashion and dressing to impress the opposite sex?

He glanced fleetingly at the skirt, and she was suddenly aware of just how short it was, and just how much he could see from his position if he really tried. ‘The skirt, I like,’ he said. ‘However, wearing another person’s shoes is not a safe thing to do.’ The lines of his face hardened. His lips were suddenly set tight as though he were warning her about a serial killer on the loose. When he smiled up at her, his eyes reminded her of the sea that lapped at the cliffs around Tintagel neither blue, nor grey, nor green, none of those colours, yet all of those colours.

The clerk lifted her right foot into his hand. She tried to squirm away but he held her firmly flashing her a concerned glance from under a drawn brow. ‘You could have seriously injured your feet walking around Shorditch at night in someone else’s shoes.’

The skirt she wore was a denim mini, and the way he sat between her legs made her feel exposed, vulnerable, and something a lot more yummy. As he ran his thumbs up her instep and over the pad of her foot, she shifted in the chair sliding down to accommodate his inspection.

‘Shoes are so important. They protect our feet, our soles, the only part of us that regularly contacts the earth. They allow us that intimate connection with our planet while at the same time keeping us safe from it.’ He continued his inspection of her feet, hands moving gently over her arch to the ball then to her toes as he cupped her heel in a warm hand. ‘No two people’s soles contact the earth in the same way.’

Her pulse thudded at the enthusiasm of his little speech which, along with his gentle inspection of her feet, felt shockingly intimate, even more so than if he had actually peeked up her skirt. His actions were having a cumulative effect low between her hip bones. ‘Maybe you could sell me something a little more suited to me.’ Her words rushed out breathless and unsteady.

He placed both hands on his thighs and looked up at her. ‘Did you have a pair in mind?’

She gave a quick glance around the store, and her eyes lit on a pair of mauve boots that came up just over the ankle, low on the calf. They sported delicate kitten heels and were threaded with sage green laces that looked more like ribbons, ‘How about those,’ she said. Then she blushed fiercely. They were lovely, elegant, and any idiot could see, totally not suited for someone like her. ‘Or maybe something a little more practical.’ She avoided his gaze. ‘A little less flashy.’

Ignoring her second thoughts, he stood and walked to the rack. She couldn’t keep from noticing how nicely his butt filled out his jeans. She could imagine that arse had sold more than a few pairs of shoes to women who liked a good view. It was then she realized he had taken the boots straight off the display. ‘I’m hard to fit,’ she said as he knelt in front of her and unlaced one boot.

‘Trust me–’ he smiled up at her, opened the boot and offered it to her like Cinderella’s Prince Charming ‘– I can fit you just fine.’

Everything in her went warm and liquid. Her breath caught at the feel of the leather as he guided the boot up over her heel. ‘I’ve never felt anything so soft,’ she said. ‘And they’re so pretty.’

‘Shoes should be a sensual experience,’ he said moving his large hands up to cup her calf while he settled the boot into place. Then his agile fingers began to work the laces, plucking at them, caressing them, stroking them almost as though he were making music on them, like they were some exotic stringed instrument of leather and lace. And though she couldn’t quite hear the melody, she felt the reverberation of his plucking and threading beneath the hem of the short skirt and all the way up into the moistening crotch of her panties.

‘Nice, huh?’

It took her a second to realise he was responding to her response. God, was she actually moaning? And please, surely she wasn’t grinding her bottom against the chintz. The blush flashed hot across her chest, but then instead of heading for her face, it headed south, settling against her clit with a heated, unexpected nip. And her moan became a yelp, just a tiny one, but a yelp nonetheless. She would have apologized, she would have died of embarrassment and fallen completely through the chair, but he was already working on the other boot, strategically sitting between her legs, breath slightly accelerated, and … Surely she was mistaken. But as he shifted to cup her calf and smooth the second boot against her leg, there was no disguising the hard-on growing inside the front of his jeans.

Her pussy clenched in appreciation. It felt heavy and pouting as though it were begging for his attention from where it nestled just barely covered by a scrap of denim and a bit of satin. ‘You like your work,’ she managed, not actually looking at his crotch, but not actually looking away from it either.

‘Very much,’ he said, working the laces through his nimble fingers, making no attempt to hide his boner.

Was it her imagination or could she actually smell him now? It was not deodorant, not soap, that she smelled but maleness. It was like baked bread and desert heat with some moist thick base note that she felt at the back of her throat rather than smelled. It made her hold her mouth slightly open to take in the fullness of his scent, like a cat taking in the scent of a rival or a possible mate.

Was it her imagination, or could she actually feel his breath against the place where her thighs rested on the chair, teasing just at the edge of her skirt. The growing dampness she now felt in her knickers was definitely not her imagination.

For a moment she closed her eyes, shutting out the precision movements of his fingers and the view of his body hunched almost protectively between her legs. Then she allowed herself to take in the picture of him that her other senses were painting so exquisitely. She heard the catch and slide of his breath, felt the velvet flutter of it raising goose flesh on the soft skin of her inner thighs. She inhaled the complex olfactory portrait of him, the scent emanating from his arm pits, his pulse points and the place where his cock strained in its tight confinement. She could feel his skin on hers as his fingers brushed her calf. It all created a picture of him almost as vivid as the one she had seen.

She opened her eyes just in time to watch him carefully, precisely, rhythmically tie the bow in the lace of the second boot. And as he tugged the looped ends snug against the knot, she felt a ripple up both legs that accelerated and intensified as it raced up between her thighs. It continued along her spine flashing red hot behind her eyes, leaving a plum coloured after-image of the clerk’s engrossed face.

She yelped and jerked in the chair, and the vertebrae in her neck pop. ‘Did you feel that?’ She was a hairs breadth away from tumbling into orgasm, and the man had done nothing more than lace her boots. He nodded, holding her gaze. His pupils were dilated, his breathing was fast. For a second neither of them moved. Time itself didn’t even move, like everything was holding its breath, like everything was waiting, just barely able to contain the anticipation, the excitement.

Then the world exploded back into real time, and she shoved her way out of the chair and onto the clerk who was still settled on his knees between her legs. He tumbled backward against the floor with a guttural sound somewhere between a groan and a growl just managing to adjust his position as she ground her way onto his lap, straddling his groin. The skirt had ridden up over her hips, and the crotch of her panties was the only thing preventing her wet pussy from making a sticky trail over the tell-tale bulge in his jeans.

Before he could say anything, she took his mouth in a clash of lips and teeth and tongue. He was more than accommodating, tongue darting, lips tugging in an effort that quickly escaped the confines of her mouth to nibble down over her jaw and wage a humid, ticklish assault on her nape, every nip of which she felt between her legs. He made quick work of her buttons, then shoved her blouse open and slid a bra strap aside to lift her right breast free to his cupping and kneading, free to be ravaged by his very expressive mouth. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he whispered against her breast. ‘Not during working hours.’

‘But I need to come,’ she said, then gasped and shuddered as he bit her nipple. ‘I’ll never make it back home like this. Don’t force me to diddle myself in an alley’

‘I’m supposed to be selling shoes, not fucking my customers.’

‘You are selling shoes.’ She wriggled her toes in her boots. ‘See. And who says we have to fuck?’

He offered a wicked chuckle, then rolled with her, and when he was on top, he lifted her legs around his hips so that his still-clothed erection raked between her still- pantied pussy lips. ‘You’re absolutely right. We don’t have to fuck,’ he said, looking down at her with his ocean changeable eyes. ‘I always try to satisfy my customers.’ Then he shifted his hips until his girth ploughed a trough right in between the spread of her labia, pressing her panties tight into her wet folds, the fabric binding with a little hitch right against the swell of her clit as he ground and thrust.

She scrambled to meet him with her own thrust upward, and when she did so, when her hips were off the floor, he slipped both hands into the legs of her panties from behind and grabbed her bum cheeks in kneading fistfuls. His thumbs alternately slid teasingly over the puckered clench and release of her anus.

She dug her booted heels in just above the waste of his jeans for a better grip.

His whole body was tight, ridged, like it might shatter with the next thrust. The tighter his body became, the more liquid hers became until she feared the imminent flood would dissolve her into nothing more than a tidal pool of wet, simmering girl juice.

Each time he thrust she raised her legs a little higher, like she was climbing his body. Each time she raised her legs, his grip on her arse became more possessive, more demanding. The friction was maddening down where clothing rubbed against clothing, and what was underneath felt the heat like flint and steel waiting for the spark. And when the spark came, it ignited a flash fire that left them both growling and straining like animals in rut. The orgasm that started in her cunt snaked up her spine and short circuited her brain just before it slid down all the way to the tips of her toes in her soft leather boots. Then it curled itself around her like a warm embrace and finally settled between her hipbones like something smug, like something self-assured, like something completely at home there.

After that, it all happened at once. Her Blackberry buzzed with a worried message from Vivie. Where was she? Was she alright? The phone on the counter rang and the clerk, with his now wet jeans, scrambled to answer it.

‘What do you mean Eleanor’s missing?’ He spoke in hushed tones while making an effort to straighten himself. ‘You know what night it is. You were supposed to keep an eye on her. You know how she is.’ His voice had become a hiss close to the receiver, though he forced an embarrassed smile in Jill’s direction, trying to make her feel more comfortable, no doubt.

But she didn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, she felt rather delicious. She wasn’t sure why his obvious stress didn’t bother her. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt like the cat who just ate the cream. And she wasn’t sure why she wasn’t second guessing what had just happened. Instead she offered him a seductive smile, blew him an even more seductive kiss, turned in her lovely new boots and walked out the door. She didn’t know why she ignored him, when he slammed the phone down and called after her. And did she hear right? Did he actually call her Eleanor? How utterly strange?

Even though it wasn’t a long walk from Shorditch High Street to her flat, she settled herself in the back of a taxi and was still straightening and buttoning when her Blackberry buzzed again with another frantic message from Vivie. She texted back.

No worries, love! Had totally fab time, & the fun is just beginning.

            J x

PS

Bought sexy new boots.

She giggled as she remembered she hadn’t paid for them. No probs. It would give her an excuse to see the yummy clerk again. And next time she would fuck him. Hard.

She signed the text E xx

 

 

Download Kinky Boots Here:

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Amazon AU
Amazon CA
Barnes & Noble
Kobobooks.com

 

 

Reviews:

“I really enjoyed the plot of the book and how Jill not only became adventurous in the bedroom department but was more confidant too, she told people what she wanted and she got it. It was written really well and I can’t wait to read another book written by KD Grace.” 5 out of 5, Stressed Rach

“This book by K.D. Grace, whom I’m just discovering as a erotica writer and am really liking, is fabulous! It’s a quick read, spicy, and fun. Who doesn’t need a little spicy in their day?” 5 out of 5, ChantelC

“I really liked the way the story was told with Kinky Boots. Who knew that a Lust Demon would possess someone through a pair of boots. I loved how Jill and Finn got together… It was a great book and well written.” 5 out of 5, Book Crazy Reviews

“KD has a knack of pulling us right into the heart of the plot where we can hear, see and imagine the scenes before us easily. What sets Kinky Boots apart from hundreds of others is the way KD has added the sensitivity between the three of them, these scenes were not only rampant and wanting but tender and loving making the scenes between them so believable and all the more hot and sexy. It’s a fun, creative idea with a fab ending.” Midnight Boudoir

“This is the second book I have read by K.D. Grace, and it will not be my last.  With a sense of enjoyment of one another for all characters, in and out of the bedroom, tenderness and some truly sensual scenes that tug at emotional heartstrings, her smooth writing brings something for every reader.” The Jeep Diva

“The settings and characters are super well developed and the sexy scenes are sizzling! This book is incredible and the plot is totally original… I loved it!! I will be reading it over and over again!” 5 out of 5, Not Now… Mommy’s Reading

“This is one sexy, sexy read. Short enough to read in one sitting but long enough to give you all the story you desire, the dynamic between all the players was fantastic and the trust that Jill gave Finn and Eleanor was well done.” Reading the Paranormal

 

 

 

 

 

Stuck with You: New Erotic Romance from Jillian Boyd

I’m always happy to promote the latest in new erotica and romance on A Hopeful Romantic, and never more so when the story is one written by a friend and sister writer whose writing journey I’ve had the pleasure to watch blossom and evolve. With that in mind, it’s my pleasure to announce Jillian Boyd’s new release, Stuck with You.


StuckWithYou CoverStuck with You Blurb:

When Bethan’s work sends her and Ivan, her ex, to a conference together, she’s less than impressed. And when their flight home is grounded due to a snowstorm, she thinks it can’t get any worse…

Stuck with You is a short erotic romance, told in Jillian Boyd’s inimitable style with witty dialogue and sharp characterisations.

 

Excerpt from Stuck with You:

He could tell she wasn’t happy about this situation. Every time she got annoyed, her Welsh accent would become sharper than a pinprick. He couldn’t blame her though; it wasn’t exactly fun to be stuck in an airport hotel during a snowstorm. With your colleague. Who’s also your ex.

“Yes, mother, I’m okay. No, I’ve not turned into a snowman yet… hang on, yet?”

Ivan watched Bethan, on the phone to her mother in Swansea. He’d only met Bethan’s mother twice during their relationship, but every time she looked at him, Ivan felt her eyes pierce his very soul. Bethan reasoned that, if looks could kill, her mother would be watching Neighbours from behind bars.

“Yes… yes, I’m not alone. I’m with Ivan.”

The sheer noise that came from the other end was unbelievable. Bethan held the phone away from her ear, letting her mother rant about ‘that no-good piece of London shit’.

“For a 75-year-old woman, she’s got a colourful vocabulary,” whispered Ivan. Bethan rolled her eyes.

“Don’t worry, mother, I’m not going to let him… no, he’s not. Mother!”

“If she’s talking about that thing with the sock…”

Bethan turned his way and shushed him, before turning back to her mother. “I’ve got to go now… sorry. I’ll call you when there’s news. Right. Love you. Bye.”

After hanging up, she practically threw her phone onto the nightstand.

“So… that sounded pleasant,” said Ivan carefully. Bethan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she walked up to the window, opening the curtains and peeking outside at the deluge of snow coming down from the heavens. One harsh streetlight illuminated the white sidewalks.

She turned around to face Ivan. “Looks like we’re going to be here for a while. If you want to go and do something on your own, be my guest.”

“Right,” Ivan said, feeling a little bit deflated. “What are you going to do then?”

“I don’t know. Go over the notes I took at the conference, I guess. Read a book. Watch TV.”

“Bethan. Really?”

“What?”

“You’re just going to sit here and read notes?”

“And why the hell not? I took plenty of notes, and I need to type them up.”

“The notes from the conference we’ve just attended on synergy in the work place? Are they really that urgent to type up? I distinctly remember you nodding off during the keynote speech.”

“I…” Bethan started, but trailed off. He knew he’d tread onto a dangerous path with what he’d said. Eventually she said the thing he’d been expecting. And dreading. “I just want to be alone, that’s all.”

“Okay. I’m going downstairs to have dinner. I’d love it if you could… but if you don’t, that’s fine.”

The uncomfortable silence that accompanied Ivan on his way out the room was telling of just how much Bethan was still hurting. And actually, he couldn’t blame her. Seven months was in no way enough time to get over how much of a prize dick he’d been.

The truth was that he wasn’t over it either. It was hard going getting over someone who worked for the same company, in the same building as you did.

The moment he’d found out he’d be going to this conference with Bethan, he knew he was fucked. He’d tried everything in his power to avoid any confrontation, since the last one was still painfully fresh in his mind. But now there was no avoiding it. And especially not now that they were stuck in a hotel near O’Hare Airport, miles away from their respective comfort zones and in the middle of a Chicagoan snowstorm.

Sat on his own, in the virtually empty restaurant, he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. Which was ridiculous. This was just about Bethan’s rejection of his dinner invitation. It wasn’t like he felt all his hopes of a second chance being dashed as the night ticked along.

Was it?

 

About Jillian Boyd

Jillian Boyd is a blogger, author of erotic short fiction and editor. Currently based in London, she’s been writing sex stories and histories—not to mention weird wonderings—at Lady Laid Bare for five years now.

When she’s not writing filth, she can most likely be found at her day job or in the dark of the cinema. Her stories have been published by the likes of Cleis Press, Ladylit and House of Erotica.

 

Buy Stuck with You here:

Amazon UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01HYN3RR8/?tag=sexylittlepages-21

iTunes – https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1131132377

Barnes & Noble – http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/stuck-with-you-jillian-boyd/1124065506;jsessionid=1FBBC59C43C57F14B42D26306F2EF42F.prodny_store01-atgap07?ean=2940153392868

 

 

A Picture Really IS Worth a Thousand Words

(From the Archives 1st written for ERWA a year ago)

 

2015-08-19 16.25.54A picture is worth a thousand words and, for a writer, sometimes a picture is worth a whole story – even a whole novel.

As internet connections, wifi and smart phones have gotten better, I’ve gone from totally forgetting to take photos – even on the most amazing holidays and events – to being a shutter-snapping fiend. I take hundreds and hundreds of photos when I go away on a holiday, and if there’s something that interests me, even at home, I take a gazillion shots of it. Of course the instant gratification of sharing a trip or an event with everyone one through Face Book or Twitter and enjoying their responses is added incentive. I admit having shamelessly sent piccies of everything from my fish and chips in Lyme Regis to the scars on my knees after surgery, from the courgettes I grew in my garden to the blisters on my hands from kettle bells. Dearie me! I have become the monster I most feared.

 

The thing about an image is that it evokes senses other than just sight. It also stimulates memory and emotion and, for a writer, it stimulates imagination. I think that, more than anything else, that fact is responsible for my increase in photo snapping. The image doesn’t have to be beautiful any longer as it did in my earlier shutter-snapping days. The 2015-08-19 16.32.42image needs to be evocative. That’s the key for me. I played around on Pinterest quite a bit at one point. Some of you
may recall I wrote a post about my Pinterest experience, but evocative images happen wherever I am and whatever I’m doing, and an iPhone guarantees that if I want to capture that image for later use, I can do it without a second thought.

 

Here are some examples of what I mean. These shots were taken in the men and women’s loos in a pub in Inverness Scotland. Hubby took the men’s room shots for me after I told him what I saw in the ladies. The hair straightener in the ladies room at a pound a pop got me thinking about Rapunzel sneaking out from her tower prison for a little fun with her girlfriends. After wild dancing at the ceilidh, she notices her do is gone all frizzy, but since she’s Rapunzel, she has so much hair that she runs out of pound coins and has to offer sexual favors to the woman who spends money on a variety of sex toys from the vending machine, which she uses on Rapulzel.2015-08-26 13.44.06

 

Meanwhile Prince Charming, who finds her missing from the tower pursues her to the pub. Feeling frustrated, he treats himself to a portable pussy and some whisky flavoured condoms just in case he finds her. Well you get where I’m going with this.

 

Here is a shot of a deserted phone booth on the Isle of Sky near our cottage. With no wifi and no phone signal it’s easy
to imagine a hiker getting lost and ending up on a small farmstead. In desperation, she tries the phone booth, but when the phone doesn’t work, she elicits the help of the farmer who lives there — a bit of a twist on the ole farmer’s daughter stories and jokes. Of course the farmer could be a woman…

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Or perhaps you’d like a biker story with a twist? I’ve got inspirational images for that too. How about instead of a biker bar, we set our little tale in a biker bakery. In our little bakery the chef makes the most delectable bake goods of all time. She is enticed into providing all the bread, biscuits and buns for the local biker
gang. What kind of deal would the head of the biker gang make with the curvy head baker/pastry chef to get a bargain on her delectable buns?

 

I love the great outdoors, so for me every great-outdoorsy shot is an inspiration for a little garden porn or fun Al fresco, I’ve written whole series inspired by outdoor images of mountains lost in the midst and caves visited by demons and witches. But the truth is that sometimes a beautiful image is just a beautiful image, and being just back from the Highlands, as I am, and being a captive audience, as you are, I’ll leave you with this lovely image from the Isle of Sky.

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Inspiration On the Hoof

The best walks, like the best writing, happen when I end up in places I never really expected to be places I didn’t even know were there. That’s exactly what happened this past Saturday. With plans to spend the afternoon in the British Museum, I tagged along with Raymond to Regent’s Park, where he does martial arts training every Saturday until early afternoon. We planned to grab a sandwich then catch the Sicily exhibit before it ended. I figured I might as well get some walking in, and Regent’s Park in July is a great place for a walk.

 

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I sometimes forget how amazing London parks can be for long walks, addicted to the countryside as I am, but that means that when I go back to London, when I just follow my nose and let my feet take me there, I find myself totally enthralled.

There were babies everywhere, and mums showing them off. I got some really up close and personal shots of a lovely mallard family:

 

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And a crèche of coots.

 

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I couldn’t really tell family groups, and coots and moorhens, like humans, have asynchronous hatchings, so the chicks vary in size.

 

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And of course there were plenty of human fledglings there as well. One delightful little girl, who looked to be maybe three or four, was prancing around the rose garden with her mum and dad sniffing roses as she went and actually commenting on the different scents or lack thereof. I didn’t take a piccie of her. Thought her parents might not appreciate that.

 

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Besides the fledglings, there were also some gorgeous grown-ups there as well. I only got shots of the feathered kind though. Didn’t want to be stalky. 🙂

 

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There were lovely little hide- holes and romantic waterfalls and lots of places to be inspired, as I let my feet take me deeper into the park

 

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As often is the case, I ended up thinking about nothing at all really, just inhabiting the space and moving through it at an observer’s pace. I’ve long believed that you never really get to know the soul of a place unless you explore it with your soles. For every little place I did explore, there were at least a dozen I had to pass up. Next time! … and the time after that …

 

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After awhile, I found that the hard exploring had left me in need of caffeine, so I got coffee with an extra shot (to keep me going) and thought I’d find a quiet place on the grass to sit and read. Didn’t happen. My coffee and I discovered the Regent’s Canal and the Jubilee Greenway! The canal is 13.8 kilometres long and is connected to the Grand Union Canal on one end and the River Thames on the other. I’m already envisioning more fabulous walks in my future.

 

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Apparently every summer when the weather heats up, there’s a bloom of green water plants. Couldn’t help but wonder if that’s why they called it the Greenway. But it did lend a very different ambience to the canal.

 

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BTW, that house there opposite the Tui, that’s my dream London writer’s retreat. Also I think it just might be the inspiration for a place Magda Gardener might have in London. The woman has cottages and flats everywhere, you know.

 

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I discovered the Regents Canal is an art gallery of sorts, with Dr. Manhattan looking rather thoughtful while enjoying a soft drink.

 

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I headed toward Camden Locks reminding myself that my time was limited. But promising myself I’d be back.

 

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Sadly I was a bit late for the market. Next time! The place was fascinating, but a bit to crowded for this introvert — especially when she’s trying to walk, so I turned back toward the park.

 

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Along the way I found this reminder that at one time the canal was for more than just fun, and it certainly was no fun for the horses!

 

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The best part of the canal on the Camden side of the park is there’s a wonderful mix of urban decay and pure romance. What more could a novelist ask of a good walk?

 

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I reached the point where the canal turns under a bridge and leads back past the zoo. The Chinese restaurant was tempting, if for nothing else its fabulous location!

 

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The canal meanders past the aviary of the zoo and while this isn’t my best photo, imagine my delight when I was greeted by a tree full of ibises … er ibi???

 

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Sadly I didn’t get as many photos on the zoo side of the canal because I was trying to cover as much distance as I could before it was time to meet Raymond. As much as I enjoyed the Sicily exhibit at the British Museum — and I do highly recommend it, from an inspirational point of view, at least for me, the walk was the best bit of my day. It was only a little niggle of a walk that demands more – lots more, but it left me feeling refreshed and open to the Muse and her big stick. Sometimes walking a story actually becomes just walking to open myself to what’s beyond the blinders I often wear as a writer focused on my work. Whether I’m walking the story or whether I’m walking to be renewed, from an author’s point of view, from a human point of view, a good walk never disappoints.

 
© 2017 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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