Monday, February 20, 2012
From the naughty mind of one of my favorite writers...
Welcome to Justine Elyot. So glad to have her here in my lair. I mean...*ahem* blog.
And away we go...
It's brilliant to be here with one of my all-time favourite eroticists, the gorgeous Sommer! Thank you very much, Sommer, for having me. I'll try to keep the place tidy for you.
Heroes are one thing. Granite jaws, barrel chests, a good heart and a cool head are all very well. Clothe it in cowboy duds or a military uniform and I might want to give it a a whirl. But I'm not really a hero-worshipper.
For me, it's always been about the anti-hero. (Villains too, but that's another subject.) A man with tragic flaws, steeped in angst, but too complex for flat-out badness – that's a man I want to read about. Especially if he wears a lot of black.
The character of John Stone in my Carina Press novel Under His Influence is nobody's definition of a hero. In fact, for most of the book, he comes across as a very bad man indeed. But he has some obscure motivations behind his behaviour, motivations that don't become clear until my female characters, Anna and Mimi, are caught in his web. I don't expect him to be everyone's cup of tea, but he's certainly mine (Earl Grey, if you're asking.)
Here he is at work:
She touched her finger to his lips. He kissed it.
"I said yes," she repeated, that word of affirmation giving him permission for everything and anything.
"Right," he said, and there was a world of purpose behind him now. He stood, helping Anna up and led her, hand closed around her wrist, out of the room and towards the staircase.
"Your room." The bed was enormous, but the even bigger room contained almost nothing else – just dark wood furnishings so anonymous that they would fit well in any hotel. Had he cleared out all traces of Saskia, she wondered? But she dismissed the idea. Saskia was not going to hang over the bed and watch them make love for the first time. Saskia did not live here any more.
"My room," he smiled, throwing off his jacket and spinning Anna into him in that dancer’s hold he had first tried out on the shores of the lake. "Your room," he said, his voice low. "If you want it to be."
Anna was blinking, wondering if the implication of his words was as enormous as it seemed when he dashed the breath from her mouth with another kiss. Her lips were starting to sting now; John needed a shave and he was not one for light kissing – these were devouring, ravishing, hungry kisses, swallowing her up inside them until the burn of his stubble faded into irrelevance beside the answering burn at the pit of her stomach.
"I want to undress you," he said, and Anna supposed that in theory she could have objected, but something told her that his wishes were not negotiable, not when his eyes looked like that. She leaned back against his forearm and tried to keep her breathing steady while he unbuttoned the white cotton work blouse, following his deft fingers with a kiss at each newly revealed part of her – dropping his lips on her throat, her collarbone, the hollow of her breasts between her bra cups, finally exposing her belly and sliding a hand around her hip, stepping back, drinking her in.
"God, Anna," he said, then he was kissing her neck, shoulders, face, while a hand kneaded the lace covered mounds of her breasts, finding and circling the nipples with deadly accuracy. His fingers found the zipper of her short light-tweed skirt and soon it was dropping over her slender hips to the floor, leaving her standing in only her underwear and summer slingbacks. When occasional thought cohered in Anna’s head, it was thankfulness for the Sunday afternoon she and Mimi had spent depilating, moisturising, clipping, trimming and polishing their bodies in front of Dirty Dancing. She was as buff and smooth as she would ever be, so that John’s exploring hands would encounter little resistance in their journey. "You’re fucking beautiful."
She shuffled out of the shoes and stood on tiptoe so that she could reach his mouth with hers, longing to have them joined once more. He obliged, running hands down the hollow of her back, cupping her bottom with a squeeze that made her moan. Quick as a flash, his hand was between her thighs, tugging at the knicker elastic, sliding inside, finding her wet, as he knew he would.
His other hand unhooked her bra. "Come on," he ordered gruffly. "Bed."
She lay amidst the puffy peaks of the duvet, watching him avidly while he tore off his shirt and trousers, revealing the extent of his desire for her when his boxers followed suit.
"I’m not waiting for you another minute," he vowed, diving on the bed at Anna’s side, then leaping astride her, covering her body with his and ravaging it with kisses and caresses.
"Oh please, oh please," gasped Anna, running her hands all over him, grinding her hips against his in mindless need, opening up for him, offering him everything she had and was. He wrenched down the knickers, rubbing his cock in the juices he found there while she disposed of the inconvenient wisp of fabric with her toes.
"So ready for me," he hissed in her ear, sounding almost pained by the weight of his longing for her. "Do you want this, Anna?"
I don't know about Anna (actually, I do) but, y'know…hello…
If you're tempted to read on, it's available from CARINA PRESS.