We all know enough to expect the standard-issue turgid pectoral muscles and flowing locks from romance novels -- but what if the romance also involves vampires, war and action of the not-necessarily-hot-and-sweaty variety? It will tomorrow at Fresh City Life's Mucho Mojo, where urban fantasy writers Nicole D. Peeler, Kimberly Frost and Jeanne Stein will gather to help prospective readers protect themselves from the unknown with "mojo bags," a craft they'll help make. But the real draw is the author readings. Why? Because event organizer (and sexy urban fantasy writer himself) Mario Acevedo is promising a reading of "some of the spicier passages."
We were titillated enough to recruit Acevedo's help in hunting a couple of those spicy passages down. Here are his picks:
Here's one from Crossroads, an upcoming novel (available August 30) from Denver author Jeanne C. Stein:
The guy waiting for me in Culebra's back room looks to be about thirty. He's lying naked on the bed, his clothes folded neatly on a bedside chair. He has a sheet thrown over the lower part of his body. He's lean, muscular, with the arrogant good looks of a guy used to having his way with women. He smiles when he sees me, a smile of relief and anticipation. I'm sure the relief is because I'm female (a host never knows) and the anticipation that because I'm female, sex will be a part of the deal.
I pull a wad of cash out of my purse and lay it on top of his clothes. "I just want the blood," I tell him. "Whatever you do while I'm feeding is up to you but I don't intend to participate."
"Are you sure?" The guy pushes the sheet off his hips. He started without me.
If the size of his dick is supposed to impress me, my reaction must be a bitter disappointment. I flutter fingers in a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, I'm sure. Face the wall, please."
"Don't you want to know my name?"
He grunts and rolls over. I position myself behind him, spoon style, and pull his head closer. My body vibrates from need and the heady sensation that comes from watching blood coarse through an artery just a kiss away. His hands are busy between his legs and he groans before I break through the skin.
Then I'm lost in my own sensations. His blood is sweet and clean, his fitness the result of good diet and exercise, not pills or needles. Not that it would matter. Vampires are immune from human drugs and disease. Only the taste differs, like drinking vinegar or wine, and I'm pleased with this vintage. The first mouthful brings intense pleasure, my body now tingling with something other than hunger. There's a fleeting moment when I am tempted to roll him over, to mount him, feel him inside me while I feed.
But I resist.
I've treated sex too cavalierly in the past. I want it to mean something from now on. Something more than just scratching a biological itch.
The blood is enough. It awakens every cell in my body. It revives and restores. My skin warms. A flush of heat floods my cheeks. My senses become needle sharp. The feel of the host's skin against my lips, the smell of his arousal, the quickness of his breath, I experience it all. His heartbeat. Steady, rhythmic, until he nears climax. Then his heart begins to race until it reaches a crescendo and his body tenses. He moans, grinds against me, one hand clutches the sheet, the other moves faster and with more urgency.
I keep feeding until the last shudder of release passes and he is quiet beside me. I use my tongue to seal the puncture wounds, watch as the marks fade. He does not speak or move. In a minute, his breathing becomes deep and regular and I know.
He's fallen asleep.
And page down for another one from Tempest's Legacy, by Nicole Peeler. Hint: It involves at least two dog/breast metaphors...
I'd stopped breathing when Anyan had grabbed me, my second mistake after falling down. After running all that way, power-driven or not, I was panting like a Spaniel when I entered the meadow. So when I finally remembered I needed oxygen to live, I drew a huge, shuddering breath that necessarily lodged the barghest's rigid arm tighter against my breasts. An act that, equally necessarily, set off a whole other set of reactions in my already heaving bosoms.
If my nipples get any harder, I'm gonna bore a hole into his arm. Even my libido was panicking at the thought.
"You've been captured, Jane. Now what are you going to do?"
The barghest's voice rumbled from his chest into mine, and I forced myself not to shiver.
This is work for him, Jane. He's in "training Jane" mode. So get out of "fondling Anyan" mode before you make a tit out of yourself.
Not that my breasts weren't already making a tit of me by practically sitting up and begging for attention...
"C'mon, now. You'd already be dead if this was real. But I'm not letting you go until you free yourself. Think, Jane."
I stared blindly across the park, toward the hotel we'd just vacated, trying to clear my mind.
Ohmigog, get it together or no more cookies for you, ever, I scolded myself. Then I thought, hard, till I came up with an excellent plan.
And it was an excellent plan. I realized I could do a sort of thin-edge-of-the-wedge between us just as I'd done before, with Phaedra's Alfar net. I could do it with my shields, then force us apart. Maybe stomp on Anyan's big foot at the same time, my revenge for his unmerited sexual torture.
Unfortunately, that's not what I did. Oh no. Because I'm Jane, and I like to humiliate myself for fun.
Granted, what happened next wasn't entirely my fault. Anyan shifted, causing his torso to rub against me, and his arms to move back and forth right over the very places I was most aching.
So I responded instinctually. I was, after all, in the arms of a man I wanted very, very badly to boff. He had his arms around me. I was right where I wanted to be...and then he shifted...
And I shimmied.
Into his crotch.
Don't get me wrong: I didn't dry-hump him or start grinding against him like some hoochie dancer in a rap video. But I definitely shimmied my ass into his crotch. Well, I'm so damned short and he's so damned tall I mostly rubbed my buttocks on his knees, but whatever. There was my ass, on him, and I thought I would die.
Anyan froze behind me, and all my blood rushed to my head. I knew I was beet-red, and I honestly thought I would keel over from shame (or an aneurysm) when holy hell broke loose.
Mucho Mojo goes down (on whatever) tonight at 7 p.m. at Mad Wine Bar -- it's free, but a one-drink minimum is (strongly) suggested. Actually, make that a few.
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