Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  The master bedroom had a walk-in closet the size of Lauren’s room at home, and the soaking tub in the bathroom looked out over the hills to the Pacific.

  If this were their house.... The thought came unbidden. If this were their house, she’d crawl into that tub right now and not come out for several days.

  She was actually looking at a landscape of mountains over the bed and pondering taking up painting again when Vince stepped up close behind her and growled in her ear, “If this were our house, I’d bend you over the foot rail and fuck you so hard you wouldn’t have the breath to scream when you came.”

  His words made her breath catch in her throat, and her thighs literally went weak, her groin suddenly heavy and aching and wet. So much for not being in the mood anymore. She hadn’t gotten this horny this fast in...far longer than she wanted to ponder.

  She grabbed hold of one of the turned-wood mahogany bedposts for support. Vince moved even nearer, and she could feel the bulge in his pants against her ass.

  “No,” he went on, his voice low and hot in her ear, “even better, I’d bend you over the foot rail and spank your ass until it turned that pretty shade of red it always does, until you’re begging me to fuck you. And then,” he put his hand next to hers and gave the bedpost an experimental shake, “since these seem sturdy enough, I’d tie you down spread-eagled, and then fuck you senseless.”

  This, this is what they’d played at before kids and mortgages and crazy work hours. A few times Vince had managed to get her off without anyone walking in on them...and in one glorious instance the real estate agent had gone down the street to make a call (in that dark time before cell phones) and they’d done it standing up in front of an enormous window that looked out over the Hollywood sign.

  They hadn’t wanted to mess up the bed. It wasn’t until afterwards, too late, that they saw the smudges they’d left on the plate glass.

  They’d snuck out before the agent returned, laughing triumphantly and still, despite their mutual orgasms in the house, had barely made it home before they fucked like bunnies again. Twice, come to think of it.

  How could she have forgotten? It was as if it’d been another part of her life—so long ago, so distant, that it seemed like a movie she’d once seen, a book she remembered reading.

  Now it all came flooding back.

  Almost literally, judging from the state of her panties.

  “Vince...” she managed.

  “I want to do you in every room of this house,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “In the kitchen, that granite countertop cool on your bare ass. In the wine cellar. In the screening room while we watched porn.”

  His hand was under her skirt now, moving determinedly up her thigh, and she wanted to tell him no, tell him to stop, that someone might walk in.

  That had been the thrill before, hadn’t it? The chance of being caught?

  But somewhere along the line, that had changed. Now she felt honestly worried about the repercussions. They were upstanding members of the community. They had careers on the line. They had children.

  Then, it was as if a switch flipped her brain.

  Well, screw that, she thought.

  She swallowed the laughter that bubbled up in her throat (only because she didn’t want someone to hear and interrupt them). The kids could bail them out, right? Wasn’t that the point of having kids, to have someone to take care of you in your later years?

  “Sex in the, uh, formal dining room that we never use,” she said, her brain melting under the feel of his fingers stroking against her panties. “And, um...oh god, yes....”

  The last words hissed out of her because he was already beneath the panties, pressed hard against her as he stroked. He took over the story, his lips against her ear, but she barely heard the words. Just the sound of his voice and the feel of his hand and the slow, steady climb towards climax that drove all thoughts out of her head.

  Footsteps snapped on the marble staircase, growing louder. The real estate agent didn’t have to wear the stupid booties.

  “Vince....” Stefanie meant to say it as a warning, but it came out as a moan. The sound of her own voice, husky with arousal, startled her—and helped send her over the edge.

  She swallowed her moans of pleasure as she ground against Vince’s hand.

  By the time the clipped footfalls arrived and the agent smiled and chirped, “How are we getting along? Any questions?”, Stefanie was standing in front of Vince to hide the tent in his pants. He had one hand comfortably on her waist—the other, the one that smelled like her, he’d stuffed in his pocket.

  “Everything’s great,” Stefanie said with a smile, sure she was flushed and sure the agent’s return smile was knowing. “The view from the soaking tub is amazing.”

  As the agent turned to go, and they moved to follow her out, Vince murmured, “Thank you.”

  It hadn’t occurred to her until now, because she’d been so wrapped up in her own goodbye, that he’d needed this, too.

  * * *

  Later—much later, after they’d gotten home and gotten their clothes off and gotten off again—as they waited for their heart rates to subside, Vince said, “You know...we could always turn Lauren’s room into a play room....”

  Stefanie snuggled back against him. “Let’s at least wait until she graduates and finds a place of her own,” she said. “In the meantime, though, that furniture store near the Galleria is having a sale. We could look at getting a new bed—a nice, sturdy, four-poster one....”

  She wasn’t ready, not quite yet, to say goodbye to her last child. Some changes had to be gradual.

  But she was ready to embrace and welcome back the dreams and desires she and Vince always had as a couple.

  Copyright © 2018 by Andrea Dale.

  Alia Mahmud has loved reading and writing since she was a child and is especially interested in the power of storytelling. She is a big fan of comic books and video games, and practices short-form improv on a regular basis. Though she often tries to seem cool and tomboy-ish, she has a secret sappy romantic side that she is happy to now share with you.

  HOT CHOCOLATE

  by Alia Mahmud

  Sighing, I glanced down at my phone. No notifications.

  I should have known, I thought, sipping my tea. Nothing ever works out that easily.

  I looked around the café. There were happy couples, a group of teenagers, and a young family scattered around the open room. And me.

  Normally I don’t mind being alone, but for whatever reason today my feelings were more... complicated.

  Against my better judgement, I read back over our conversation. It seemed like Dean had been genuinely excited to meet me, but I guess that’s easy enough to fake over text.

  Texting him one more time can’t hurt, can it?

  I mulled it over as I swallowed the last mouthful of tea. Why not?

  Hey we were supposed to meet like 30 mins ago.... You coming?

  There. Sent.

  The waitress approached to take my mug away and refill my water glass.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, still scanning the room as if I hadn’t already looked over every inch multiple times.

  “Would you like anything else? We have some pretty great hot chocolate here.”

  I looked up at the waitress for the first time since arriving. She was smiling warmly at me.

  “S-sure. Hot chocolate, yeah.”

  “Coming right up!” she beamed, before turning and walking away.

  I turned back to my phone. Still no notifications. I opened up the conversation, wondering if Dean’s phone was dead and he had gone to the wrong place. I mean, it’s possible.

  √ Seen.

  I groaned and put my head down on the table. He had seemed so nice, too. So much for online dating.

  I heard a clunk on the table. I looked up and the waitress had set down a steaming mug of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream. I turned to thank her, but instead of stopping, she sat down across
from me and set another mug in front of herself, smiling sheepishly.

  “Sorry...I just got off work and it looked like you could use some company,” she said. “If you’d rather be left alone, um, just let me know.”

  She looked up at me, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. I glanced at my phone one more time (still nothing), and put it away before taking a sip from my mug.

  “Yeah, I could use some company. My name’s Alex,” I said.

  “Carrie. Nice to meet you!”

  She stuck out her hand for me to shake. The moment I touched it, I felt a surge of electricity race through me. I hesitated letting go, and it seemed as though a million years passed before she finally withdrew her hand from mine.

  “So, there’s a movie theater next door,” Carrie said. “If you’re interested, we could maybe...I dunno...go see something? If you want to, of course.” Her blush deepened.

  At that moment, I got a notification from my phone. I excused myself and opened it up. Dean had finally messaged me back.

  Oh shit I forgot we were meeting. Do you still want to meet up?

  I looked up at Carrie, who was still waiting for my answer. I smiled at her.

  No thanks, I texted. I’ve got another date.

  Copyright © 2018 by Alia Mahmud.

  Our columnist, Julie Pitzel, has been a receptionist, radio DJ, bill collector, telemarketer, administrat"chapter-sub"ive assistant, community college instructor, and an expediter (aka professional nag). She’s been involved in the Houston writing community for many years including two years as President of a local Romance Writers of America Chapter. She writes paranormal fiction from a geodesic dome south of Houston, where she lives with her husband and a pair of cats. Most recently, her story “The Dance” was published in The Death of All Things anthology.

  YOU READ THAT?

  COVER STORY

  by Julie Pitzel

  “You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  Really? Have you bought a book lately?

  Okay, I know the phrase is metaphor and not about actual books, but maybe it’s time to retire the idiom. Because when it comes to books, I judge them by the cover every time. We all do.

  I looked up the origin of this saying, expecting it to be from a time of plain leather bindings and block font titles. To my surprise, it originated in the 1940’s. By then, the book-buying public was already accustomed to choosing books based on vivid pictures and lurid titles. It was introduced well after dime store novels, pulp fiction magazines, and mass market paperbacks displayed sensational covers.

  As early as 1935, Penguin began color coding books. Red for Drama included Shakespeare, Bernard Shaw, some Orwell, and P. G. Wodehouse. It merged into the Orange for Fiction with titles such as 1984, Jane Eyre, and The Great Gatsby. Crime Fiction included Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle. There was a color for Essays, World Affairs, Travel and Adventure, and Autobiographies. Yellow served as the catchall, Miscellaneous.

  But even without the Penguin color spectrum, artwork and font provide giant clues to genre. Picture the following three covers, all with the image of a distant city. One is bright, harsh colors with hard angles and straight lines, and the title is a digital font. The second is soft, muted colors, lots of curves, sweeping lines, and a swirly font. And the third is dark silhouettes and shadows, with red highlights and a newspaper font. Without looking at the titles or authors we’d guess the first is science fiction, second a fantasy, and third a mystery or thriller.

  If we picked up those books and the descriptions didn’t match our expectations, we probably wouldn’t buy them because the premise didn’t live up to the promise of the cover.

  Romance covers are a little more nuanced, but still give clues regarding time period, sub-genre, and sexual content. A woman in a sweeping ball gown is obviously a historical romance. If we see cleavage or even a bit of leg, it’s going to be more sensual. If there’s a wolf or pentagram or batwings, we expect to find a paranormal twist. Whether we’re browsing physical book shelves or an e-reader, we are drawn to certain books because the clues are there, showing us that this is our type of book.

  When I started reading romance in the eighties, I chose books with sensual embraces—bodice rippers. I knew just looking at them that I’d get a sizzling historical, filled with bold characters and hot sex. I didn’t bother reading descriptions on the sweet-looking contemporaries. That wasn’t the story I was looking for.

  My tastes have changed a bit over time. I still love saucy historicals, but I’ve discovered I enjoyed contemporaries also, especially if they’re humorous and a little spicy. And I adore paranormals. Brooding vampire? Check. A hot Alpha wolf? Yum. And while I’m drawn to covers showing off a little man-candy, I’m more apt to pick up books with a “take-charge” woman on the cover.

  If it’s a passionate embrace, the woman will be the obvious instigator, the seducer. On a historical cover, maybe she’s wearing pants or carrying a sword. Usually she has a very direct look that tells me she intends to control her own destiny.

  The premise I’m looking for, regardless of subgenre, is heroines acting as their own heroes. And many romances today follow through on that promise.

  According to Sarah Maclean in a recent* Entertainment Weekly article, “The larger arc of the romance novel is the arc of the women’s movement. Women fighting against a dominant, gendered misogynistic culture, and ultimately triumphing.” Cover images have begun to reflect that arc. In books from the 80’s, many of the women look slavish. In today’s covers—even in an impassioned clinch—the woman might look orgasmic, but she doesn’t look like she’s paying him homage.

  The article pointed out that romance pushes the boundaries of society. You’ll find stories with same sex romances, and people of mixed races coming together because we can’t control who we fall in love with. The pages of romance stories are filled with resistance and political activism. And we see some of that diversity when we look at the choices for romance on our e-readers: male/male, female/dinosaur, Highlander/Sassenach.

  Not all authors will share their opinions on Facebook and Twitter, but writers put their passions and beliefs in the stories they tell. They may not be in your face with their thoughts on the current administration, but their views and beliefs will be reflected in their plots and characters.

  Over the years, romance covers have changed, but not quite as much as the stories inside them. The rapey heroes from the 70’s and 80’s went away years ago. Our protagonists started using condoms and promoting safe sex when that became the norm in modern life. Romances have been dealing with issues of consent for many years, but in today’s climate I’m sure we’ll see many story lines dealing with concerns of pressure and coercion.

  The romance genre is based on happily-ever-afters. Its core message is about hope and overcoming hardships. Some people dismiss the genre because of the happy endings, because they think fiction should be realistic. (But those same people probably don’t have a problem with James Bond or Frodo Baggins.) In many ways they’re judging romance by its covers. They’re missing the clues that promise feminism, activism, and diversity.

  While we can judge a book**, a genre, or a person by their cover, it doesn’t mean we know the whole story. For that you have to open the book.

  Copyright © 2018 by Julie Pitzel.

  Footnotes

  * Romance as Resistance: How the happily-ever-after genre is taking on Trump http://ew.com/books/2017/11/03/romance-novelists-resistance-trump/.

  ** To see a roundup of 2017 Romance covers, check out Houston Bay Area RWA—Judge a Book By Its Cover Contest https://jabbic.hbarwa.com/. They open it up for Readers to choose their favorite covers the first week of February.

  Alice Faris grew up in a small community in Northern California that proudly boasts of having more cows than people. She raised guide dogs for the blind, is dyslexic, and can shoot a gun or bow and miraculously never hit the target (which at some point becomes a statistical improbability).
Alice worked as a school psychologist and counselor for local schools. Alice also writes paranormal romance as Tina Gower. She won the Writers of the Future, the Daphne du Maurier Award for Mystery and Suspense (paranormal category), and was nominated for the Romance Writers of America® Golden Heart®. She has professionally published several short stories in a variety of magazines.

  PUTTING SEXY IN CONSENT

  by Alice Faris

  Tell me again: why isn’t consent sexy?

  Since the #MeToo hashtag has become the biggest news event of the year—so huge that it took the TIME magazine spot as the Person of the Year—it’s been on the lips and ears in serious discussions online, in person, and at work. Men and women are reevaluating and thinking back on every interaction and wondering what is appropriate and what is sexual harassment.

  And I’ve noticed an interesting discussion around it, whispered in romance circles. Will all this talk of proper interaction between romantically interested partners kill the romance? Will our Alpha heroes flatten into emasculated husks of their former glory? Instead of sweeping heroines off their feet, will heroes now need to stop and ask permission? Won’t this kill the mood?

  My opinion? Consent is sexy.

  Yes. It is. Believe me.

  If you have a “but, what about...” on the tip of your tongue, hold that thought. Let’s talk about where this instinctive reaction comes from.

  We know through research that women have been conditioned to act a certain way, be treated a certain way, and react a certain way. As a psychologist I’ve read study after study that shows women talk less in meetings, yet are perceived to talk too much when asked about their behaviors by peers. This perception becomes so internalized that some women become self-conscious to speak out more often than men.

  It’s no wonder given this toxic mix of expectations that women are harassed as often as they are in the work place. We are expected to keep it quiet to save our jobs. We’re expected to give a firm no, but also be polite, but also keep the door closed to further attempts, but also not hurt his feelings, but also take some of the responsibility for wearing that form fitting shirt—as you can see it’s maddening!