Why I Love Writing Baddies

EXHIBHITIONI’m hard at work in Grace Marshall mode, writing the final book of the Executive Decision trilogy, The Exhibition.  As well as writing sex and romance, I’m once again writing a delcious baddie. Well, actually, I’m revisiting one that I just couldn’t stay away from, and that’s got me thinking about why I love to write baddies.

I’m not sure when it happened, but my sneaking suspicion is that it was probably my first encounter with that ever-so-wicked, ever-so-enticing demon — Deacon, from my Lakeland Heatwave Trilogy when I first realised just how much fun it is to write baddies. Deacon was my first serious baddie, and I loved every creepy, twisted, nasty minute I spent with him clear to the very end of Elemental Fire. He was not only wicked and twisted, but at times he was sympathetic and at times he was outrageously sexy. I think I enjoyed being inside his evil head almost as much as I enjoyed the sexy, exciting romps of the Elemental Coven.

Book two of Grace Marshall’s Executive Decisions Trilogy was a different matter, however, as I wrote the stalker, Edge, for Identity Crisis. Though I was drawn into his dark, poisonous world, and it made me feel sort of claustrophobic and queasy, the words practically exploded onto the page, with me both wanting to run away and wanting to stay and see what happened next, wanting to uncover what his twisted mind had planned.

I’ve always told people that for me writing the sex scenes in erotica is like the best safe sex. It’s a wonderful way to participate in all of the fantasies I’ve ever had and some I never would have imagined I could have. But what happens when I write the baddies? Why do I love being in their presence so much? And even more to the point, what does it say about me that I find them so easy to write (heh, heh, heh)? Am I all of those people, the heroes, the victims, the incidentals and the baddies all rolled into one neurotic, twitchy woman? Do I have all of those traits somewhere hidden inside me — the fantasies about being the evil tyrant as well as the fantasies about threesomes on the Lakeland Fells? I doubt there is any way to peek into the strange depths of my own psychology that’s quite as revealing as writing a baddie. I shiver at the thought.

I know, on a psychological level, all writers have all of those parts within us and, on some level we live on the page in all of our characters, whether they’re hot and gorgeous and deliciously flawed in sexy ways or whether they’re evil and twisted and scary as hell. The darker parts of me frighten me at times, but they’re kept in check and held in balance by all of the other parts of me, all of the other parts that participate in the tenuous semi-democracy of my inner workings so that the Deacon in me and the potential Edge in me and the petty Tally Barnes in me are all channeled onto the written page. Am I scaring you all yet? I promise you, I’m harmless –ish.

And now that we’ve talked baddies, I thought I’d give you a rough and off-the-cuff sneak peek of the baddie from Grace Marshall’s next novel, The Exhibition.   As I said, I’m revisiting a baddie I just couldn’t resist returning to — Terrance Jamison — from the first of the Executive Decisions novels, An Executive Decision.  His story is, by no means finished.  In this scene, a talented young artists wakes up in a hotel room with Terrance Jamison, who has promised he can mentor her to a great career. She begins to suspect that her choice wasn’t the wisest. Enjoy.

 

Blurb:

Successful NYC gallery owner, Stacie Emerson, is ex-fiancée to one Thorne brother and ex-wife to the other. Though the three have made peace, Ellison Thorne’s friend, wildlife photographer, Harris Walker, still doesn’t like her. When Stacie convinces Harris to exhibit his work for the opening of her new gallery she never intended to include him in her other more hazardous plans. But when those plans draw the attention of dangerous business tycoon, Terrance Jamison, Harris comes to her aid. In the shadow of a threat only Stacie understands, can she dare let Harris into her life and make room for love?

Excerpt from The Exhibition:

Terrance Jamison sat reading the New York Times at the table in front of the window of the penthouse suite. He was already showered and dressed for business, even though it was a Sunday. For a second Ingrid stood in the doorway watching him, letting the wave of butterflies wash over her as she thought about the fact that this man, this very powerful, very wealthy man singled her work out from all the rest, this man believed her worthy of his attention. He sipped his coffee and sat the cup carefully back onto its saucer. She hadn’t thought him even aware of her presence until he spoke. ‘There’s a robe in the closet,’ he said without looking up from the paper. ‘Go put it on.’

She obeyed, stripping off the shirt in full view of him before she walked slowly back into the bedroom for the robe. When he didn’t look up, she felt more than a little bit confused. The man had been the best host ever last night. He had taken her to dine at Per Se putting out way more on one meal than she paid for her apartment for six months. Then he had brought her back to his penthouse suite in the Plaza Hotel. She’d never even been to Minneapolis until her senior trip, let alone New York before, so she was sure she reacted a bit like a kid at Christmas, and he seemed to relish her delight. But this morning, he seemed miles away. Surely it couldn’t be anything she had done. She hadn’t done anything that he hadn’t suggested or recommended. Perhaps he was just distracted. Surely an important businessman like Terrance Jamison had plenty of things other than art and artists on his mind.

She slipped into the robe and joined him at the table. He still didn’t look up. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I’ve ordered breakfast to be delivered –’ he glanced down at his watch ‘—in about twenty minutes.’

She poured herself coffee then moved to admire the view out over Central Park. ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, her voice breathless with the view and with nerves.

Still he said nothing. So she took matters into her own hands and leaned over his shoulder. ‘What are you reading?’

‘The write-up about last night’s little soirée,’ came the reply that sounded neither irritated nor warm. ‘It seems Ms Emerson has done it again. Even without our little contribution, Americans for the Arts has done very well from her efforts.’

She studied the picture of Stacie Emerson shaking her hand and offering her the plaque for Outstanding New Artist. She looked a bit shell shocked, but Stacie Emerson looked polished, at ease, and gorgeous. Her chest tightened with a strange mix of envy and hero worship. She owed the woman big time. If Ms Emerson hadn’t given her the chance to display her work in New World Gallery for the charity auction, she would have still just been Ted Watson’s little girl who dabbles in the arts in the old barn behind the cowshed, and Terrance Jamison would have taken no notice of her – would have never had cause to.  And yet she couldn’t help it. She would have liked it if the gallery owner had been a little less perfect, a little less comfortable in her own skin. There were several other posed shots with Ms Emerson and other people who were clearly people Ingrid would know if she ran in the same circles that Ms Emerson did, even people she might have had the opportunity to meet if she had joined the woman and the other artists for dinner. The little niggle in the pit of her stomach made her wonder if she might have made a mistake by not going along last night, but surely not. Hadn’t Mr Jamison said he could help her career-wise, at least as much as Ms Emerson could? And she had whole-heartedly believed him. Then. But right now she wasn’t feeling so sure.

‘How long have you known her,’ she asked, recalling with a twinge of jealousy she’d felt at the way he looked at her, the way he touched her when he’d asked her to join the for dinner.’

‘Stacie and I go way back,’ he said, still not showing any emotion at all. ‘Way back. She’s a very talented girl, our Ms Emerson.’ This time the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile. ‘I doubt there’s anything she couldn’t do if she set her mind to it.’

Ingrid certainly wouldn’t have called her a girl. Encouraged by the sudden shift in his humor, she settled onto the arm of his chair and wrapped an arm around his neck. ‘Were you lovers?’

He shrugged her off so quickly that she nearly lost her balance and she stood quickly to keep from falling. Then he pushed back from the table and tossed the paper into the trash can next to the sofa.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, feeling a shiver run up her spine as he began to pace like a caged lion in front of the window. ‘That was none of my business. I’m sorry.’

He turned on her so suddenly that she nearly tripped over the leg of the chair he’d just vacated trying to step away. But there was no need. There was a broad smile on his face, and he took her into his arms and smoothed her mussed hair away from her face. ‘Stacie and I did some business together,’ he said, one hand moving down to undo the knot at the sash of her robe. ‘And certainly for me, that business did involve some … pleasure.’ He pushed the robe off her shoulders and, in spite of herself, she felt suddenly shy, but he only chuckled softly and gave her body the once over with the same appraising eyes with which she’d seen him admiring the art at the gallery. ‘You have nothing to be jealous of my dear Ms Watson. While Ms Emerson likes to be surrounded by lovely things, I prefer to possess lovely things.’

He pushed her back until her bottom pressed against the table, then he lifted her onto it, rattling the coffee cups and spilling coffee onto the white linen table cloth. With one hand he opened her legs and stroked her until she trembled with something more edgy than just arousal. With the other hand he opened his fly, eased out his erection and pushed into her with no preamble, no foreplay. And she felt as though he had forced a battering ram up inside her. For a second, she couldn’t breathe, for a second her eyes watered, for a second she felt fear tangle and knot with the beginnings of arousal. And she might have actually cried out, even struggled to escape him, but he was so strong. Just before she could get truly frightened, his efforts calmed and he held himself still inside her while he caught his breath, while he studied her face, her breasts, her thighs, the place where their bodies joined. And the pain gave way to an achy, prickly, almost panicky sort of pleasure. He stroked her breasts, examining them in that same way he had the art at the gallery, thumbing her nipples until they were raw and hyper sensitive, all the while his gaze took in her body as though he were judging it, as though it fascinated him in an abstract sort of way.

‘The funny thing about lovely things, Ingrid, is that lovely things often like to be possessed.’ Then he began to thrust, both hands moving to grip her hips and pull her tighter against him. ‘What do you think, Ingrid? Do you think that might be the case?’

His thrusting grew harder and she wrapped her legs around his waist to steady herself. A coffee cup rattled off the edge of the table and shattered on the wood floor. He cupped her chin in a tight grip between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her with a kiss that threatened to smother her even as it aroused her and frightened her. When he pulled free, he still held her so that she couldn’t look away from him. The tension in his body told her he was getting close. ‘Not that it matters.’ His words were now breathless and forced from his throat. ‘I don’t have to have permission to possess what I want, Ingrid. I simply buy it.’ And then he came with a hard thrust that forced the breath from her lungs and felt as though it would split her in two.

Before he could bring her, though she was already pretty sure that was not his priority, before he could even fully recover himself, there was a soft knock on the door. He pulled out and wiped himself on one of the linen napkins. ‘That’ll be breakfast.’ He tossed her the napkin. ‘Clean yourself up.’ Then, without so much as glancing back down at her, he went to the door, leaving her feeling nearly as shattered as the cup on the floor.

She hurried to wipe herself and retrieve the robe from the floor. She had just cinched the robe tight around her when he returned looking as though nothing at all had just happened.

‘Breakfast is in the dining area when you’re ready.’ He gave a quick glance at his watch. ‘I have a plane to catch, but you have the room for the rest of the day. There are clothes in the closet that should fit you. I’ve arranged for your gown to be dry-cleaned. It’ll be returned to your hotel room by the time you get back there.’

He picked up a small case from where it sat near the sofa and headed for the door, leaving her stunned and confused. Then as he reached for the door, he turned, came back to her and pulled her into a bone crunching embrace and a deep, hard kiss. He slipped a hand down and thrust two fingers quickly up inside her and thumbed her clit and she came with a startled sob. When he pulled away, he wiped his fingers on the edge of her robe, then he studied her for second. ‘My secretary will be in touch with plans for furthering your career, and I’m sure the two of us will be entertaining each other again soon.’ Then he left without another word.

Inspiration and Hero-Worship in Bath

It’s been ages since I was last in Bath, and upon our return Wednesday afternoon I very quickly remembered why I love the place so much. For this visit to Bath, we had Raymond’s sister, brother-in-law and niece with us. It was their first time.

We had a plan. Raymond would play tour guide while I wrote. I was feeling a bit panicked for having had a week with very little writing — lots of fun with the rels, but very little writing — so I promised I’d write at least part of the time then reward myself with a bit of Bath on the side.

So, being the well- behaved writer that I am, Wednesday afternoon, I bade everyone a fond farewell as they all headed  off to take the open-bus tour. Then I hung out in the hotel gardens and lounge drinking tea and writing like a crazy woman. I joined the happy gathering in the evening for fisherman’s pie and a pint of Abby Ale at Sam Weller’s Pub. I figured I’d earned it after finishing off 3K on the WIP for my day’s efforts. In fact I was pleased enough that I went on the tour of the Roman Baths with the rest of the gang the next morning. I love the Roman Baths. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen them, and every time I do they excite me and inspire me.  How amazing is it that something as simple as water can so powerfully draw for so many people to one tiny place for so many centuries?  It’s taken the water that now fills those ancient Roman baths ten thousand years from the time it fell as rainwater in the Mendip Hills and percolated down through the layers of rock to make its way back up to the hot springs below the baths. That’s some seriously vintage water!

After a picnic lunch near the River Avon, complete with fresh cherries and French school children having a water fight, I said good-bye to my compadres and headed back to the Lansdown Grove Hotel for another close encounter with Stacie and Harris and another two thousand words written on The Exhibition. That evening I joined the crew in front of the Pump Room to listen to a little opera from the street buskers, which got us all in the mood for a nice Italian dinner later.

Friday, before we took the train home, we visited the Jane Austen Centre a little bit of a pilgrimage, for me, to honour one of the literary goddesses of all time and definitely one of my heroines.

The Jane Austen Centre is a quiet little place off Queen’s Square, not far from where Jane stayed when she was in Bath. What I remember most about the visit was hearing that Jane delighted in Bath when she went there as a young woman, and out of that delight came Northanger Abby. But later when she returned in her late twenties she found the place shallow and depressing, as evidenced in Persuasion.

Though much of Bath looks like it might have looked in Jane’s day, things have changed considerably since then. Now it’s easy for me to find inspiration walking the streets between the honeyed sandstone buildings of Georgean Bath. It’s easy to be inspired painlessly and happily in the far-less stratified hodge-podge of tourists and locals scurrying about in the bright June sunlight. And, for me,  it’s impossible to walk where Jane Austen walked and not be awed by the stunning creative force that came from one small, seemingly powerless woman, whose novels didn’t even bare the name of their author until after her death.

KD Grace proudly puts her claim to authorship front and centre on everything she’s ever written, as does Grace Marshall. My name, my creativity, my essence. I wrote it! I claim it! I can’t imagine what it would be like to have been such a creative person as Jane Austen was in a time in which women had very little control over their own destinies.  I’m only saying that it’s good to be reminded that nothing comes without a price, and that price is no less dear because I wasn’t the one who had to pay it. Having said that, I’m pretty sure every writer suffers for her art. I believe that whole-heartedly. Most of us suffer in ways that mean nothing to anyone but us, in ways that are quite often neurotic and unnecessary (at least I do).

I hope at this point, you’ll pardon my groupie-ism and hero-worship, but really, how could I go to Bath and not be at least a little bit star struck.

Thank you, Miss Jane Austen for writing the human heart in such a moving way in a time when it wasn’t cool to do so, and especially in a time when it wasn’t cool for a woman to do so. My efforts to write the human heart often feel bumbling and less then eloquent, but they’re sincere and full of hope, hope your words helped inspire.

On a less serious note. Near the end of our tour at the Jane Austen Centre there was a place with regency costumes for visitors to try on and take piccies in. I have to say, Raymond makes a far more striking Darcy than I do Elizabeth.

New Release: A French Affair by Lucy Felthouse

A French AffairSydney Tyler is renting a barn conversion in Northern France, planning to spend the fortnight getting some words down on her novel. Unfortunately, construction work in the other half of the building puts an end to her peace and quiet. Genuinely upset that the builders are going to disturb her, the property’s handsome English owner, Harry Bay, offers to make it up to her. He’s a little flirtatious, and after spotting his wedding ring, Sydney keeps him at arm’s length. Sexy as he is, she has no intention of getting involved with a married man. But when Sydney learns the truth about Harry, will their mutual attraction spur them on to work through their emotional baggage and make this more than just a French affair?

Available from: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/a-french-affair/

*****

Excerpt:

Sydney Tyler jumped so hard that her fingers slammed down onto the laptop’s keyboard and she typed a bunch of gobbledegook.

Kashfkjsdhlfknsdlfvn sdlkch awoeduioh ahdwklc

Gasping, she clutched at her chest as her heart thumped rapidly and painfully. “What the fucking hell was that?” she said to the empty room.

Pushing her chair back from the desk, she stepped over to the window. Peering out into the brilliant sunshine, she saw something on the lawn that she had absolutely not been expecting. Workmen.

She groaned. So much for her peaceful writer’s retreat. She’d planned to get a good chunk of her novel down in the fortnight she was away, and now it looked as though her peace was going to be monumentally shattered by banging, drilling and God knows what else.

Sighing, she gave the windowsill a pathetic thump in her frustration. She might have been pissed off, but she was no vandal. And besides, she didn’t want those noisy buggers in her part of the building fixing things—having them next door was bad enough.

Sydney really could not believe her shitty luck. When she’d booked the cottage in the French village of Monthiers over the phone a couple of months ago, she’d dealt with a fellow Brit called Harry Bay, who she’d suspected was the owner. On arrival, though, a timid French woman had met her and let her into the luxurious barn conversion before handing over the keys and explaining a little bit about the local area. Apparently, in the mornings, someone came along the village streets, selling fresh bread and pastries.

There wasn’t much else to tell, it seemed, as the village had nothing except a church—almost opposite her accommodation—and a tavern. It was also lacking—she’d quickly discovered—a mobile signal. Not even a single bar illuminated her screen. Her phone was now no more than a watch, alarm clock and calendar. If there was an emergency, she was screwed. But on a much lighter note, it was one less distraction. She could just get on with what she was here to do, blissfully undisturbed.

The arrival of workmen was incredibly irritating. Her temporary landlord hadn’t mentioned there’d be anyone working next door. If he had, she wouldn’t have booked the place—the quiet and idyllic location were the whole reason for choosing this property, this area. Even though there was no way he could have known she was there to work, common courtesy would dictate that he told her. Perhaps he was just interested in taking her money and didn’t give a damn about whether she had a satisfactory stay or not. There was nothing to be done about it now, unfortunately. She’d paid for the fortnight, and she was buggered if she was going to cut and run, pissing that money down the drain. She’d just have to find a way around the disturbance, and console herself that she could leave a snarky write up on a review site when she got home.

Finding out the builders’ working hours would be a good start—she could attempt to write around them then. Or perhaps she could make use of the headphones she’d stuffed into her case, without ever thinking they’d get used. Some loud rock music would drown out the din from next door and hopefully allow her to work. It was worth a try. She hoped they were only doing a small job that would only take a couple of days, but deep down she knew they weren’t. They were renovating the whole place so it was as beautiful as the half she was in.

She was just about to go in search of the aforementioned headphones when one of the men pottering around on the lush back garden stepped away from the others. Standing in a shaft of sunlight, he pulled his arms high above his head and stretched, dragging up his t-shirt to reveal a lean stomach with a fine line of dark hair leading enticingly into the waistband of his jeans.

Oh yum, she thought, perhaps having builders next door wouldn’t be so bad after all. Especially if they all looked like him. She continued to watch as the man dropped his arms to his sides and watched the others. His dark hair was overlong and stuck out at crazy angles, as though he’d been running his fingers through it. She couldn’t see the colour of his eyes from this distance, but she could make out enough detail of his features to see that he was handsome. Gorgeous, actually. Close up he could be much less attractive, but from her upstairs window, the view was pretty fine.

Just then, he glanced across at her side of the long barn, which was divided into two holiday cottages. He caught sight of her standing there, and his face dropped. He looked back at the builders, then returned his gaze to her again. Pointing at the group of noisy men, he slapped his forehead with his other hand. Finally, he pointed at his chest, then up at her. He was indicating he wanted to come in. She paused, then nodded. Common sense told her she shouldn’t be letting a strange man into her temporary home, but then, there were several large, bulky men milling around, so if they were a dodgy sort, she and the locked door would have no chance against them, especially with no means of calling for assistance. She could scream, of course, but she doubted anyone would come. The walls of the building were extremely thick—though sadly, no match for banging and drilling—the nearest house was a little way down the road, and by day, the village was all but deserted. There was only one business that she knew of—the tavern—so the other inhabitants would have to go elsewhere to work. To nearby Chateau-Thierry, perhaps, or even further afield.

She’d just have to hope that the handsome man—probably the head honcho of their group—was also a decent one. Presumably they were a reputable company, as they’d been hired by the British owners, who were usually more wary of cowboy builders, and given the horror stories and dedicated TV programmes back home, it was understandable.

Before she got even halfway down the stairs, a knock came at the door. Okay, so he was polite enough to knock, that was good. She moved a little faster, careful not to trip in her flip flops and go hurtling downwards. Once she was safely on the ground floor, she twisted the key in the door and opened it.

*****

Lucy Felthouse is a very busy woman! She writes erotica and erotic romance in a variety of subgenres and pairings, and has over seventy publications to her name, with many more in the pipeline. These include Best Bondage Erotica 2012 and 2013, and Best Women’s Erotica 2013. Another string to her bow is editing, and she has edited and co-edited a number of anthologies. She owns Erotica For All, and is book editor for Cliterati. Find out more at http://www.lucyfelthouse.co.uk. Join her on Facebook and Twitter, and subscribe to her newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9

Gracefully Aroused for FREE!

Best of KDG final cover imageI’m very happy to announce that my collection of short stories, Gracefully Aroused, is FREE from today, the 5th of June, through the 9th! This very nasty collection is sort of a history of K D Grace. It is comprised of some of my earliet short works for Xcite all the way up to the most recent, with an added two bonus stories just to sweeten the naughty package. So settle back with a nice glass of wine and enjoy being gracefully aroused (or maybe not so gracefully!) Just follow the links below and get your free download.

Blurb:

From a love spell that doesn’t quite go to plan to a farmhand who needs a little discipline; from a woman who is addicted to the confessional to a personal trainer with a very unorthodox method of guaranteeing his clients they’ll look fab come bikini season, K D Grace will tell you a naughty story with a twist. Before there was Ms Holly and the Pet Shop, before there were sexy ghosts, before Grace Marshall upped the romance ante, K D Grace was into quickies, and here’s a selection of her naughtiest.

Hired Hand
Pretty city boy, Tim Harris, is the last man Suzie Sheridan would have hired to help her on the farm had he not been the only one who applied for the job. But with strict discipline generously applied in all the right places, even Suzie is amazed at just how good a hired hand Tim turns out to be …

Personal Trainer
Penny Davis can’t afford to hire a personal trainer to get her fit for bikini season until ex-military hard man, Hawk Sturgis, offers her an unorthodox fitness regimen and an even more unorthodox payment plan, guaranteed to have her heating up the beach in her new bikini just in time for the summer hols.

Accidental Hitchhiker
On a road trip across America, Liz Martin’s car breaks down in the middle of nowhere South Dakota, and the ride a Good Samaritan lorry driver offers her is not exactly the one she expected.

Productivity
Under the careful supervision of his unorthodox management consultant, a stressed company CEO learns a hands-on technique guaranteed to up productivity.

Flaws
Love spells are the most dangerous kind of magic. Mick Denver learns the hard way when he enlists Sally Haddon, a witch who specialises in sex magic, to help him win the affections of his new co-worker, the exquisite and dangerous Darlene.

Hard Times at the Nymphomaniac Rehabilitation Facility
Sadie’s sexual appetite is out of control, and a spell at the Nymphomaniac Rehabilitation Facility is intended to put it right. It isn’t long before fellow inmate Carol is showing her how to bend the facility’s strict rules, earning them both punishments that are more than worth the crime.

Confessions
Confession is good for the soul, but Hail Marys and Our Fathers aren’t nearly enough to gain absolution when Jilly confesses to an unsuspecting priest that confession makes her come.

Excavations
While volunteering on an archaeological dig, Gina and Mike discover new and exciting ways to help their workaholic professor relieve stress – and he introduces them to one or two methods of his own, which are far from academic.

Seeing Red
We all give off body heat, but only Jenny can see the red glow it gives off, darker and more intense the more turned on we become. When she’s compelled to follow a fellow bus passenger whose scarlet desires are too powerful to ignore, she learns the real secret of her unique vision.

Pheromones
An unusually powerful sense of smell gives Chloe the ability to sniff out the scents of people in lust. When she volunteers for a research trial into pheromones, she doesn’t realise the scientist in charge will have the perfect, sexy aroma she’s always craved in a lover.

Gracefully Aroused FREE!

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Xcite Books

Thrill Seeking with Kristina Lloyd

Kristina LloydThrill Seeker Kristina Lloyd erotica

It’s my pleasure to have the very lovely Kristina Lloyd as my guest today. Kristina is sharing a little about her new novel, Thrill Seeker. Welcome Kristina! Do tell!

Thanks for inviting me over, KD! I’m here to share a little about my new book from Black Lace, Thrill Seeker, and would like to introduce my central character, Natalie Lovell.

Natalie’s a fairly ordinary women in her early thirties with a dull job, some good friends, and the standard amount of heartbreak under her belt. What makes Natalie extraordinary is that she’s on a mission: to know her sexual self. But the course of kink, like that of true love, never did run smooth, and we follow Natalie as she pursues an increasingly risky and muddled strategy in her determination to reach her goal. It doesn’t help that Natalie finds danger and fear enticingly erotic. If BDSM had health and safety inspectors, they’d be tearing their hair out over my protagonist.

One of the reasons I describe myself as a writer of erotic fiction rather than of erotic romance is because I like writing about individuals on a journey toward sexual authenticity. This doesn’t preclude the development of a core relationship, of love or a happy ending, but those factors aren’t driving the story. Nor does it mean my fiction isn’t romantic. It often is, albeit not conventionally so.

For Natalie, the exploration of her submissive sexuality on her own terms is key part of her self-actualisation. However, haunted and inhibited by incidents in her past, Natalie has taken some years to reach a point in her life where she feel brave enough to move forward. As she says:

I realised I had two choices. I could stick my neck out and start being honest about my desires, or I could suppress my feelings and remain in the closet, hoping someone would eventually find the door to let me out. Basically, I could live or die; or at least, live a life not fully realised. Giving up on certain aspects of yourself, the parts others might find distasteful or threatening, is the easiest thing in the world. It’s the safest route, the path of least resistance.

Natalie has played safe and secretive for too long. So she ventures into kinky internet dating, her first success being Baxter Logan, a charismatic, sexy, screwed up Scot who goes on to betray her after they’ve fallen in love. Readers meet Natalie on ‘take two’ of her online explorations where the risks have already escalated: she’s confessed to having kidnap fantasies to an intriguing stranger, Den, who hasn’t even offered a photo of his face.

This isn’t a D/S relationship which begins with contracts, safewords, clear consent and unambiguous boundaries. Many of Natalie’s fantasies centre around being forced, rendered powerless, and having choice removed. She enjoys the taste of fear. When Natalie discovers the term ‘edgeplay’ she finally has a channel for articulating and formalising some  of her desires. Here’s Natalie, mulling over what she wants:

‘Edgeplay’ was a concept I’d recently discovered and I’d added it to my mental BDSM dictionary along with other words which had once seemed peculiar in the context of sex, such as ‘scene’, ‘submission’ and ‘play’.

Although the definition seemed hard to pin down, I understood edgeplay to mean scenes where kinky activity takes place on the threshold of the submissive’s fear. Safewords aren’t used since they remove the fear. I was pleased to learn about edgeplay, not least because its existence made me feel less alone in wanting to be taken to the edge of safety, to the zone where my lust could blossom in darkness.

I recalled a word Den had once used in email: liminal. I’d had to look it up. Liminal, I learned, referred to times and places which were neither one thing nor the other: the margins and boundaries; the in-between spaces; those unstable moments of change such as the hours of twilight, the greying, glittered suspension between day and night.

That’s where I wanted to be, not secure in a walled fortress but blissing out on submission in the shifting magic of dusk.

Ultimately, my greatest concern was not my welfare but that, in clarifying an arrangement, Den and I might negotiate its heart out by stripping away risk and fear. What would be the point? I wanted to feel this in my veins, in my deepest shadows. I wanted lust spiked with terror. I wanted to be in his power, my desires ostensibly secondary to his. I wanted to know the truth of my fantasy of being abducted and taken to a place where I would be tested. How far could I go? What would happen to me on the margins of fear? Who would I become? That’s what I wanted. I didn’t want us to arrange to play a nice game by nicely discussed rules.

***

If you enjoy your erotica on the light and cheeky side, Thrill Seeker may not be for you. But if you want to try a book my publisher describes as  ‘Fifty Shades Darker than EL James or Sylvia Day’ then strap yourself in and hold on tight. Thrill Seeker is intended to be a wild, exciting, scary ride!

To find out more about Thrill Seeker, visit my blog and follow the links for a couple of sexy excerpts.

Thrill Seeker is out now in the UK in paperback and Kindle, and will be released in the US and Canada in late June.

Kristina Lloyd

Kristina Lloyd is the author of four Black Lace novels including the erotic thrillers, Asking for Trouble and her most recent book, Thrill Seeker. Her short stories have featured in numerous anthologies, including several ‘best of’ collections, and her work has been translated into German, Dutch and Japanese. She’s been described as an author who ‘writes sex with a formidable force’ and ‘blends literary and popular styles beautifully’. Kristina has a master’s degree in Twentieth Century Literature and lives in Brighton, UK. Visit her at http://kristinalloyd.co.uk