Sharazade Breaks the Language Barrier with A Skiff of Snow

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I’m chuffed to bits to have my dear friend and fab writer, Sharazade on Hopeful Romantic today. I would love to offer her a proper British welcome, but since I’m not totally British and definitely not proper, I’ll just say what a pleasure it is to have her sharing the story behind her fun and sexy new story, A Skiff of Snow. A story that has a very special meaning to me. Take it away, Sharazade!

Quite some time ago I blogged about the importance of Facebook for writers as a place to make friends (post is here: http://sharazade.com/?cat=31). One of the erotica writer friends I made there was none other than KD Grace, whom I later had the pleasure of actually meeting at a writer’s conference. But even before that, we posted and chatted happily to each other on Facebook about this and that.

One day, she made a remark about expecting “a skiff of snow.” Now, to an American—or at least, to this American—a “skiff” is a sort of boat. I therefore expected that a “skiff of snow” would be a boatload of the white stuff. However, apparently to people living in the area of England that KD now calls home, a “skiff of snow” is a light dusting. So we talked about that, and then about other American/British terms that are different. KD also mentioned getting a delivery from her local milkman—a service that has all but died out in the US, as private dairies are forced out of business by regulations and rising costs. So that too fed into our discussion of cultural differences, and in a rash move, I said that if I were to write an erotica story about cultural differences, I’d put in a hot delivery man in it and call it A Skiff of Snow, and dedicate it to KD Grace.

Well. I think that was two years ago? Something like that. I am not the world’s fastest writer of fiction. But I really did write the story of the American girl Miranda, who travels to England, battles with vocabulary differences, and—of course—meets a hot delivery guy.

I find travel both intimidating and liberating. Even in a country that almost shares a common language with your own, it’s not that hard to make a fool of yourself. And yet, there’s a freedom in your relative anonymity too. No one knows you; you have no history. You’re freer to take chances. And so my Miranda, even while tripping over herself, has the guts to keep trying until she finally gets her man.

In this excerpt, from her attempt to buy a ticket at Waterloo station, you can tell she’s not quite there yet:

* * *
The line wasn’t long, actually, but it moved very slowly. People seemed to spend a long time at the window. Well, that would suit me just fine. If I got the right window. I looked around a bit at the other people in line. How unfair—there were attractive men all around me, actually. As there had been all over London. But how to meet one? I mean, how to really meet one? How did you start? I could strike up conversations about the weather or the time and ask directions, and I’d done all those things, but there never came a point when I could say, “Excuse me, but I’d like to have a fling.” I suppose I could have tried—but I wouldn’t want them to think I was that kind of girl. (Even if I kind of was.)

I turned a corner in the queue-line and could see the male agent again. Maybe about 30 or 35, brown mussed hair, and blue eyes. And … a blue uniform. What is it about men in uniforms? OK, I know selling train tickets isn’t quite the same as being in the RAF, but … it still looked hot. Trust me. I imagined his arms around me as I played with his gold buttons, teasing him a little.

Back up. I’d have to get there first. But at least here I’d have an excuse to make some conversation. I’d ask for my ticket, see, and he’d note the destination, and mention that he was going there anyway, to … to stay with his aunt, or something … and … he’d sort of hint around to make sure I was single, and then we’d arrange to meet up, and …

Another male agent walked behind him. Yes! Two agents! Both of whom had the night off! And would want to show an American around. And we’d wind up back at their apartment – I mean their flat – and one would stand behind me, holding my arms at my side, kissing my neck at just that spot. Then the other one would step up to me, and say

“Cashier number five, please. Cashier number five,” came the announcement for me. I was almost afraid to check—but it was! It was his window!

I was probably more flustered now by the station agent than I would have been by the damn ticket machine. OK, Randie, calm down. You can do this. Talk to the nice man without drooling.

I sort of gawped at him. I couldn’t remember what to ask for. “Um, I need a ticket…”

“Single?”

What the hell? That was pretty forward! I blushed. He’d skipped about six steps of my planned dialogue, but … I could roll with it.
“Yes, I am. Just out of a relationship, actually … ” (Well, so he wouldn’t think I was some sort of loser nobody wanted to date.)

“I mean for the ticket. A single or a return?”

Oh god. Right. The ticket. I didn’t know how to answer the question, though. I had to settle for staring blankly. Return? Did that mean refundable?

“One-way, or round-trip?”

Right – duh. I should have been able to figure that one out, but I’d been too distracted by his uniform. Good thing he also spoke American. But now I was not only not getting a date – probably – I was totally embarrassed.

“Round trip, please.”

“Certainly. Where to?”

What? Oh … was he hoping to meet me after all? “Well … to here, of course.” I sort of half-winked at him and gave him my most enticing smile.
“Yes, but … ” Was that a small sigh? “But what city did you want to go to, so that you could come back here from it?”
Oh god. Oh god. I’m such a dope. I will never, ever buy a ticket from a man in a uniform again.

“Woking.”

A definite sigh this time. “Not walking, love. Where do you want to ride to, on the train?” Like he was talking to a three-year-old.
Oh god oh god oh god. Even the “love” didn’t help. How the hell did you pronounce that name? I tried again.
“Woaking? Wooking?” Why wouldn’t it be wok, like the Chinese dish?

I showed it to him on my little map.

“Oh… Woking,” he said – exactly the same way I’d said it. At least I think. My face was flame red. I considered changing my ticket to a one-way – dammit, a single – so I would never have to face him again, broad-shoulders-in-a-uniform or not. Thank goodness I didn’t have to give him my name in order to get the ticket. (And he didn’t say anything about going there himself, or having the night off. He probably didn’t even have an aunt.)

* * *

When Miranda meets the right man in the right way, though, they find that they share a common language after all. This one’s for you, KD!

Thank you for this, Sharazade! It’s the first time I’ve ever had a story written for me! It’s a fab tale, and what fun it was being a part of the discussion leading to it! KDx

A Skiff of Snow is available at Amazon, Smashwords, and other fine purveyors of cross-culturally informed erotica.

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-Skiff-of-Snow-ebook/dp/B00AADCGUE

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/A-Skiff-of-Snow-ebook/dp/B00AADCGUE

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/256904

Sharazade is professional writer, editor, and consultant, with more than 20 books published under another name. She divides her time among Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and the U.S. Not surprisingly, her stories tend to feature some aspect of travel–modes of transportation or exotic locales. She enjoys stories that are realistic enough that they might have happened and fanciful enough that they might not have. She values communication, adventure, exploration, passion, and love. Find her on her blog at http://sharazade.com.

The Telling of Tales: D.L. King and Friends Read to Me

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Ever since Wednesday night’s readings at Sh! with D. L. King and friends, I’ve been thinking about the power of reading stories to each other. I was there to read a bit from one of my own stories, but more importantly I was there to sit back in a roomful of enthralled people and just listen to some of the wonderful authors who have stories in anthologies edited by D. L. King. I couldn’t have asked for more wonderful story-tellers:

Jacqueline Applebee (Where the Girls Are)

Janine Ashbless (Carnal Machines)
Jacqueline Brocker (Under Her Thumb)
Ciara Finn (The Sweetest Kiss)
K. D. Grace (Voyeur Eyes Only)
Remittance Girl (The Sweetest Kiss)
NJ Streitberger (Seductress)

The stories ranged from fem dom to vampire to steam punk. There was even a bit of mythology and voyeurism thrown in for good measure. It was a tremendous pleasure to see D.L. King again, and I felt very honoured to be included to read with some of my heroes in the world of erotica. I was literally transported by each story. The thing is, not only were the stories outrageously sexy and sensual, as you’d expect, but the stories were beautifully woven to pull in the listeners, to allow them to get lost in the tale. I was completely captivated.

Since Wednesday night, I’ve been thinking about how much I love being read to, thinking about why there’s so much more magic in a story read out loud. Some of my earliest memories are of sitting on my mother’s lap while she read to me. I didn’t care what she read. It was the sound of her voice, the way she made the characters come alive, the way the story made me wonder and think and try to picture in my little-girl head a world so much bigger than the Wyoming lumber camp we were living in at the time, a place where the Swiss Family Robinson were surviving and thriving on their lost island, a place where kids, not much older than I, rode gorgeous black horses and solved scary crimes and chased spooky ghosts.

When my mother wasn’t reading to me, my grandfather, who lived with us, was telling stories of his youth, of near-misses with rattle snakes, of catching the biggest catfish ever and of the horse that no one but he could tame. And my dad had his own tales to tell, of practical jokes played on siblings, of dogs that bit, of destructive tornados.

My family knew the magic of story, and they shared that magic with me. The magic of a good story, the magic that compelled our ancestors to sit around a banked fire and listen to the histories of the tribe, listen to the tales of the family, listen to the myths and folk lore collected over generations is a living, breathing magic that still makes my heart race when I think about it.

Unlike our ancestors, we have it all written down now. We have access to a good story anytime. And yet the magic is never more powerful than when the story is read out loud. The power of story spoken goes bone deep and touches parts of us that are much older than our physical selves, parts of us that have roots around campfires sat beneath a sky full of stars.

Wednesday night, we all sat in the bright pink glow of Sh! basement, sipping fizz and listening to sexy tales, tales that offered yet another layer of magic, the magic and the mystery and the celebration of human sexuality told in a thousand creative ways in a thousand intricately woven tales. We listened to stories of what moves us, what makes us squirm, what transports us beyond ourselves while at the same time connects us most deeply to our own flesh.

Perhaps I’m just shamelessly navel-gazing this morning, waiting for my coffee to kick in, but the D.L. King/Sh! version of gathering around the ancestral hearth to listen to stories being shared made me think again about those things that connect us most deeply to our humanity, the sharing of story by word of mouth and the celebration of our sexuality. It seems to me that sex and story go hand in hand, and the community that celebrates both is a community I’m very proud to belong to.

 

Guest Blogger: Zara Stoneley

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Hi KD, Thanks for having me here today.

Sex can be good, uncomplicated fun, or it can be something far different. It can be used to control, to tempt, to punish, to reward. It can make a simple relationship complex, or can be the most straightforward part of a complex relationship.

Riding HighIn ‘Riding High’ Roisin has finally found something she’s never had before – great sex. But it frightens her. She has important, life changing decisions to make and she’s afraid of making them for the wrong reasons, sex and lust, rather than good business and common-sense. She’s grown up seeing the destructive side of sex, watched her womanising father destroy her family life and then discovered her husband has a secret life she knew nothing about. And she doesn’t want history to repeat itself.

Saul, on the other hand doesn’t have a problem with the sex – it’s the nagging desire to hang around and look after her that bothers him. But he’s only doing it to try and make up for his father’s mistakes, right?

Never simple is it? We can’t always separate the lust from the love, and when other things are going on in our lives and emotions are running high, when there are other people involved, suddenly it can be difficult to know what we should be doing and why.

Roisin and Saul both want to be emotionally independent, because they think it’s easier that way. But I wanted to throw them both together, with no easy way out, and a sexual attraction that was impossible to resist, and then watch them work out the ‘why’. Why do they want to avoid involvement? Because until they understand the ‘why’, they’re never going to be able to work out the ‘what’!

 

Excerpt

His warm hands hit her waist, making her feel squishy inside; his warm lips on her neck made her feel something different altogether. She wriggled free and took a step backwards. Distance was what she needed. Distance from temptation

‘You’ll be fine, honest.’ The seductive drawl made a promise he probably couldn’t keep.

‘From where you’re standing, yeah.’

‘The business will be fine, you’ll be fine.’ He was shrugging as though she was a moron, as though it was all straightforward. ‘I’ll sort it.’

‘I don’t want you to sort it.’ She really didn’t. She was sorting this herself, picking her way. Making it work. And if it didn’t work? Well, she’d know exactly who to blame. She put the cup down, misjudged, and it hit the work surface hard, sending a splash of coffee.

‘Well. tough shit, darling, because I’m involved, we’re both involved.’

‘Huh. We’ll see. And I’m only involved if I decide to do it.’ If. That was the problem, though; she didn’t want any “we”. She wanted that one-night stand to have been a one-night stand. And the only way she was going to be able to consign it to honourable history was if she could keep as many miles as possible between them.

‘So you’ve changed your mind? You’re going to give up and go, just like that?’

She looked into the eyes that suddenly seemed darker, more controlling. ‘I didn’t say that. I haven’t made up my mind yet, so I can’t change it, can I?’

‘Fine.’

‘I’m not going to let anyone bully me into this if I feel it’s wrong for me. I’ll find something else.’ Somehow. Shit, what if she couldn’t?

‘Sure.’ He picked up the spoon she’d discarded and jabbed it into the sugar bowl.

‘You don’t take sugar.’ She raised an eyebrow.

‘I suddenly have a craving for something sweet.’

‘I can’t let anyone make up my mind for me, Saul, not even you.’ The spoon clattered into the sink. ‘Shagging me senseless last night doesn’t change anything, this is my decision.’ A muscle was twitching in his jaw; she was making him mad. But she couldn’t stop pushing; he had to know that if she did this it was on her terms. Alone.

‘I’m not out to bully you, Roisin.’ The tight, low voice had a warning tone. ‘I just thought this was a reasonable solution.’

‘What, a solution that suits me or just you?’

‘That suits everyone. This is about business, pure and simple; it isn’t about shagging you senseless. How many times do I have to fricking say that?’

‘Until you stop fricking doing it.’ Why the hell didn’t he get that? The fact that every time they did it, it made the whole thing harder, more complicated. ‘Why’ve you been shagging me at every opportunity, eh? Hunting me down before you came here? Coming back last night to soften me up?’ She pulled further away from him. Maybe she wasn’t being fair. But life wasn’t being bloody fair. She wasn’t sure she wanted to just stop this fling yet, and she didn’t want to walk away from a place she’d fought for unless she had to. This place meant more to her than he could ever imagine, she’d had more battles, more heartache to keep this place than in the rest of her life put together. But was it worth prolonging the agony? It would take more than divine intervention for her to be able to buy it back.

‘I didn’t hunt you down and you know it. That was something that just happened and we both bloody wanted it, so don’t pretend you didn’t. I didn’t need to soften you up, Roisin, I didn’t need to do anything. I just wanted you.’ He sat down and looked. And he looked like he was being honest, or a bloody good actor. ‘Admit it, Roisin, you wanted it too.’

‘OK, I admit it, I wanted it.’ She shrugged. What was not to like when someone attacked you with animal lust?

‘I’m not forcing you into doing this. I just don’t want to take everything away from you if there’s no need.’

‘I need this place.’

‘I know. Don’t worry.’

‘Sorry, but that’s easy for you to say. I do worry.’ He was making it hard to distrust him, making it hard to push him away.

 

Blurb

‘Have wild crazy monkey sex with the first man you bump into.’ Roisin Grant hadn’t intended to follow her best friend’s advice – but, sometimes, what you expect from life and what you get don’t match up. She never expected her husband would have a stash of home-made porn movies, with him in the starring role, or that he would die and leave her bankrupt. And she never expected to be faced with asset-stripper Saul Mathews and a choice. Walk away from her home and equestrian business, or call his bluff and help him deliver riding lessons of an altogether different kind.

An erotic novel with mixed themes including m/f, menage, sex in public and voyeurism.

Available from – Xcite Books,  Amazon (UK),  Amazon (US)

*****

About the author

Zara is a writer and lover of all things romantic, from the sensual to the sexual, who knows that naughty can be nice. She lives in the UK, but whenever she can she heads off in search of some sunshine and inspiration for her stories.

She love sexy high heels…good food….good wine….music…coffee (lots and lots of coffee)… and Italy. All things Italian from the countryside to the culture, the wine to the food…and of course the sexy men.

She’s been a consultant, a teacher, a mother, a wife, a lover… and has always been a writer and she’d love to hear from you.

Where you can find her-

Blog: http://zarastoneley.blogspot.co.uk/

Twitter:  @ZaraStoneley

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ZaraStoneley

Email – zarastoneley@gmail.com

Katie Salidas & Willsin Rowe Share the Story Behind their Consummate Therapy Series

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I’m very excited to welcome Katie Salidas and Willsin Rowe  on their virgin visit to a Hopeful Romantic to share with us the story behind their very intriguing Consummate Therapy Series.

Willsin: Let’s see…billionaire? Check! BDSM? Check! Just like seven thousand other titles out there? Well, let’s just wait a minute, shall we?

Those elements are probably the main ones people will notice if they happen across the books in the Consummate Therapy series. We have a billionaire, we’re employing BDSM, and it’s a romantic and erotic experience. Where we veer away from the current trend is by making our billionaire female. And making her the submissive.

Katie: Willsin, dear, we should probably add the caveat, we try to make her submissive. Natasha isn’t one to just submit easily. Where would the fun be in that? I mean, face it. If she was a billionaire just deciding to submit then we would be falling into another stereotype. Where Natasha really differs is that she is so resistant to the idea. “I have underlings for that,” she says. She feels that everyone is beneath her. Though she’s a tough egg to crack, she really and truly needs to be broken. And that’s exactly why Dr. Benson prescribes her “Radical Therapy.”

Willsin: Absolutely right, Katie. Without drama, a story is really just a bunch of words about people breathing. It’s Natasha’s resistance, and indeed her volatility, that makes her such a vital character. She’s a woman who readers will probably take a little while to warm up to. It may even take until the second book.

So anyway, we’ve bucked the trend to a certain degree, which probably doesn’t make great commercial sense. But what we’re doing here is to tell a believable story that has an element of gritty reality without shying away from the romantic elements.

Katie: And I think that extra “grit” as you say, is what makes the romantic elements  that much more believable. There is no sugar coating the relationship between Natasha and the Master. She’s given hard lessons to learn and only in that learning, and doing what Master demands of her can she hope to overcome her own issues and maybe even find real love, if there is such a thing?

Willsin: Well, we’ll have to wait until book 3 to find out, won’t we? (Is this the time for a judicious “muahahahaaaa”?) Another motivating factor for this series was as a response to the misapprehensions some people seem to have formed about the BDSM lifestyle. It’s not, as some may think, a viable outlet for cruelty or cold sadism. It’s not a place for disrespect, and it’s certainly not something to be tackled in earnest without a great deal of trust.

Katie: I have to chime in here yet again. Willsin is so right! The lifestyle is so misunderstood by the general populace. I’m not in that lifestyle, but in researching for our book, I learned how wrong I was about what really happens. It’s not just about spanking, or public humiliation. The root of it is trust. The master may test the limits of their sub, but in a safe, sane and consensual way, with the ultimate goal being mutual gratification. And that was what we wanted to do with Natasha. She needed her limits to be tested but the “Therapy” would only work if she could let her guard down and trust in the Master to not push her beyond her boundaries. It is a delicate line they walk, with the end result being a healthier outlook and a deeper understanding of each other.

Willsin: Sing it, sister. We were adamant about including those elements, and the beauty was that we each came to this story independently with those factors in mind: trust, respect and understanding. Wherever we have physical punishments, we have object lessons attached to them. This is no game for either Natasha or the Master. This is serious therapy and He is as determined for her to succeed as she is. That being said, though, it certainly does end up being a lot of fun.

Katie: And let me tell you, writing this series was totally fun! Willsin and I work very well together. We both saw the same vision and the story took shape before our very eyes!

Blurb Submission Therapy:

Billionaire CEO of Blakely Incorporated, Natasha runs her empire with an eagle eye for every detail. She’s an obsessive, compulsive, micromanaging hard-ass, consumed by the need to control every aspect of her life and her business.

But underneath that seemingly strong façade, Natasha is a swirling mess of anger, anxiety and sexual addiction. Only her therapist, Dr. Benson, knows how close she is to burning out…or exploding. He insists on a radical form of treatment – Submission Therapy – knowing that it’s her only hope.

Skeptical but intrigued, Natasha agrees to attend the first session. What she finds there is an erotically-charged environment that will forgive none of her habitual bad behavior. And a steely-eyed man who seems to read her every desire – even the ones she won’t admit to herself.

Will Natasha learn what it means to submit? Or will she allow her brittle pride to rob her of what she truly needs?

Excerpt Submission Therapy:

Master Sweet rested his hand back in my hair. “Natasha, it’s time to begin.”

He fisted that hand again, reigniting the heat in my scalp, while his other swept down my calf and stopped at my red-black two-toned peek-a-boo toe Louboutin pumps.

“What size do you wear, Natasha?” He drew the shoes off one at a time.

“Six.”

“Yet you have size eight feet.”

“Guys exaggerate their dicks, girls shrink their feet.”

He turned his already-tight fist, pulling a sharp breath into my lungs. “That kind of language is a privilege. One you’ve not earned.”

I couldn’t speak through the tension in my body, and I couldn’t nod without risking searing pain. Thankfully Master Sweet eased his grip just enough to allow my voice back.

“Yes.”

“You will address me as Master Sweet, or simply Master.”

“Yes, simply Master.” I tensed up, ready for him to squeeze again. Instead he shocked me by pushing forward, overbalancing me until I was on hands and knees, my cheek buried in the carpet. His pelvis nudged up against my ass, and he was definitely packing something hard in there.

He took a long, deep breath in. “I do so enjoy these early stages.”

“Yes, Master,” said the toadying redhead.

He brought his free hand back down to my feet. He appeared to still be addressing his off-sider. “Look at the deep lines her shoes have carved. The rich redness of constriction.”

“Yes, Master.”

His breath seemed to falter for a moment. “It will be exquisite to see this all over her body.”

All over my body? What exactly was that supposed to mean? I should have known better. Never agree to a deal without the terms being spelled out in a contract. Business 101. “Listen, Mister Sweets. Unconventional sex therapy is one thing, but no one is putting any kind of marks on my body. Are we clear?” I threw his condescending words back at him.

“Do you understand what it means to submit?”

His callous tone caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered.

“I have underlings for that.”

“So you see submission as a form of weakness.”

“Absolutely. I bow to no one.”

“You do now. “ The finality of his words was chilling.

Need more therapy?

Occupational Therapy blurb:

Natasha’s experience at the hands of Master Sweet has left her both drained and enlightened. Wanting nothing more than to curl up against him for as long as she can, she is dismayed when he sends her home to dwell on all she’s learned.

But being a creature of habit, Natasha’s stubborn and rebellious nature leads her back into her old patterns, threatening to undo all her progress. When her symptoms return in full force, she begins to doubt not only the effectiveness of Submission Therapy, but also the motivations of her Master.

Learning of her disobedience, Master Sweet brings forward Natasha’s next session. But recognizing her behavior for what it is – a cry for attention – leads Him to change His approach dramatically. If Natasha thought her first lesson was hard…she’s in for a real eye-opener.

Does the embattled billionaire have the internal strength to earn back her Master’s trust? And how will she handle it when his intentions suddenly become even more serious?

Buy Submission Therapy here:

http://www.amazon.com/Submission-Therapy-Consummate-ebook/dp/B00A020MQK

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Submission-Therapy-Consummate-ebook/dp/B00A020MQK

Buy Occupational Therapy here:

http://www.amazon.com/Occupational-Therapy-Consummate-ebook/dp/B00A8865LW

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Occupational-Therapy-Consummate-ebook/dp/B00A8865LW

About Katie Salidas:

Katie Salidas is a Super Woman! Endowed with special powers and abilities, beyond those of mortal women, She can get the munchkins off to gymnastics, cheerleading, Girl Scouts, and swim lessons.  She can put hot food on the table for dinner while assisting with homework, baths, and bedtime… And, She still finds the time to keep the hubby happy (nudge nudge wink wink). She can do all of this and still have time to write.

And if you can believe all of those lies, there is some beautiful swamp land in Florida for sale…

Katie Salidas resides in Las Vegas, Nevada. Mother, wife, and author, she does try to do it all, often causing sleep deprivation and many nights passed out at the computer. Writing books is her passion, and she hopes that her passion will bring you hours of entertainment.

Blog
http://www.katiesalidas.com/

Facebook
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Katie-Salidas-Author/214780936916

LinkedIn
http://www.linkedin.com/profile?viewProfile=&key=58814031&trk=tab_pro

Twitter
http://twitter.com/QuixoticKatie

About Willsin Rowe:

Willsin Rowe falls in love with a scent, a playful expression or an act of casual intimacy more easily than with physical beauty. When confronted by any combination of those elements he is a lost cause. He has done many things over and over, done even more things only once, and half-done more things than he cares to admit. He loves to sing and doesn’t let his voice get in the way. He is intelligent but not sensible. He is passionate but fearful. He is not scruffy enough or stylish enough to be cool.

Blog:

http://willsinrowe.blogspot.co.uk/

                                             

 

 

Putting My Twist on What Makes Werewolves Hot by Annabeth Leong

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Many thanks to K.D. Grace for hosting me here today! I’d like to use the space to talk about the process of putting my own stamp on the common trope of the werewolf.

The word “werewolf” conjures images of abandon, freedom, wildness, and ravenous appetites. It’s no difficult task to guess why werewolves have been such popular figures in erotic romance. When I think about what makes shifters hot, it’s that very present beast within.

What makes something popular, however, can also make it daunting. A Google search on “werewolf erotic romance” turned up more than 1.7 million results, for example. How can a writer possibly add something new?

I think the key is to find a personal point of connection.

Untamed, unbuttoned, uninhibited, completely uncivilized passion sounds sexy as hell to me, but I’m not the kind of girl who would have an easy time getting naked in the woods. I’m a rules-follower by nature, inclined to anxiety, and if I found myself in a secluded area with a hot shifter, I’d fritter away my makeout time by constantly checking for approaching park rangers.

This nervousness, it turns out, gave me a way to make werewolves my own.

Any time a paranormal story is set in something like the real world, the first task is to explain why we don’t all hear about werewolves all the time. In Not His Territory, I answered that question by pitting the anxiety I know all too well against the rugged image of a man who can become a beast. My werewolves are locked down by a rigid, legalistic Werewolf Council that spends all its effort checking for the proverbial park ranger.

My werewolves don’t shift because the full moon overcomes them. Instead, they get a “full-moon exemption” from the Council, which allows them to shift one night a month, with a 24-hour window before and after if life circumstances don’t allow observance at the technically correct time. As soon as I stumbled on that sort of detail, my story, conflict, and personal angle on werewolves fell into place for me.

My heroine needs the protection of the law, because she’s being stalked by a rogue werewolf who doesn’t care what rules he has to break to get to her. My hero embodies that law, but chafes from his own struggle against the wild nature he denies.

Writing about werewolves, for me, became a way of exploring obedience to the law. What are its limits? When is it wrong? When should instinct be trusted above reason?

Those questions grabbed me and felt personal to me. They made werewolves and all they represent specific enough for me to get hold of as a writer. And this process made me understand that one of the things I enjoy about reading werewolf story after werewolf story is seeing where other writers find their points of connection in turn.

Excerpt:

“Big Timber’s worse than we thought. I need a pack of enforcers down here. The local alpha’s gone rogue—he’s stalking his ex-wife. And I think he’s also the one who decided to welcome my bus. An unauthorized shifter caught up with me a block from the station and tore me half to shreds. If I hadn’t taken refuge, I’d have been killed.”

No reply came from the other end of the line.

“Hello?” Raul said.

Gabriel answered this time, starting with a long sigh. “I can’t just send enforcers, Raul. You know that. We have to follow procedures. You’re the investigator. Do your job. Bring back evidence, and I’ll get a team down there.”

“I believe in procedures as much as anyone else—”

“Then you understand why it’s vital to follow them. When we let go of proper process, we become beasts. We can’t afford that, no matter the cost.”

“Can you send backup investigators?” Raul tried.

“The rest of the team’s still dealing with that situation in Missoula.”

“This is way more serious. Missoula’s werewolves are only threatening to break council law. I’m sitting on a pile of full-scale violations.”

“The population in Missoula’s larger. It gets priority.”

Raul deliberately relaxed his fingers. He’d pop the phone in half if he didn’t watch out. Already, a fine layer of fur had sprouted on the back of his hand. He’d have to be careful or the claws growing on his feet would rip Chandra’s carpet. Nothing brought out the beast in him more than a good, long talk about “procedures,” no matter how much he believed in the order the council was trying to establish.

“I think we’re in real danger of this pack seceding from governance,” Raul said, hoping a few official-sounding words would get Gabriel’s attention. “They’re already acting like they’re running an independent region. How much longer before they make it official? We need to quash this before they ally with the other rebel packs down in Wyoming.”

“Investigate, Raul, and we will act as quickly as we can.”

Damn. His legs were getting hairy too. Raul took a deep breath, counting slowly as he did. “The ex-wife is in danger, I think. Can I at least send her to Lewistown for protection?”

“Not without evidence.”

“The pack alpha’s claiming her house as his territory against her will. Can that claim even stand?”

“Don’t get involved in anything more than we asked you to, Raul. You can put the information about the ex-wife in your report.” Gabriel’s voice never wavered, remaining as urbane as ever.

At least one person in this conversation is having no trouble holding back his primal nature.

If Raul hadn’t seen the man shift at full moon, he’d wonder if Gabriel was a real werewolf at all.

 

Not His TerritoryBlurb:

After a devastating encounter with an illegally shifted werewolf, a wounded Raul Silva slumps on Chandra Williams’s doorstep, begging for refuge. As an investigator for the legalistic Werewolf Council, Raul’s been sent to look into instability in the local pack. Chandra’s presence makes him want to succeed at his mission for personal — not professional — reasons.

The Werewolf Council disapproves. Chandra is strictly off-limits for Raul according to both the traditions and laws of the werewolves. But after a life devoted to upholding principles, Raul’s instincts and desires are boiling to the surface. Can Raul resist Chandra, or will he break with everything he stands for to pursue a woman who is not his territory?

Available from:
Breathless Press
Amazon UK
Amazon US
All Romance eBooks
BookStrand

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Bio:

Annabeth Leong has written romance and erotica of many flavors — dark, kinky, vanilla, straight, lesbian, bi, and menage. In addition to Not His Territory, Breathless Press published her werewolf story, “The Arcadian Cure,” in its Ravaged anthology. She particularly enjoys playing off myth, legend, fairy tales, and fantastic history. She believes passionately in freedom of speech, rights for people of all sexual orientations, and freedom of religion. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island, blogs at annabethleong.blogspot.com, and tweets @AnnabethLeong

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Contest:

Thanks for reading! I’m giving away a PDF copy of Not His Territory to one reader of this post. Simply leave a comment answering the following question:

What do you personally like most about werewolves?

You have until Dec. 3 to respond. Please leave your email address in the BODY of the comment, so I can contact the winner. For more chances to win, check out the other stops on my tour: http://www.writermarketing.co.uk/prpromotion/blog-tours/currently-on-tour/annabeth-leong/