It
would have been much faster to fly.
Alas,
Cecily Harrowsmith—special agent for Her Majesty the Queen, expert
in the martial arts of three continents, past mistress of princes,
potentates and the occasional prime minister—was afraid of flying.
She despised herself for this weakness, but not enough to board one
of the Empire’s sleek, viridium-powered airships, strap herself
into her seat and hope for the best.
Hence
the current tedious journey. Cecily peered out of the window of her
carriage at the endless expanse of russet-coloured desert stretching
in all directions. The mere sight of all that sand was enough to make
her throat burn. She sipped her tepid tea, wondering for the
twentieth time why she’d accepted this bloody assignment.
Thus
begins my novel Rajasthani Moon, a book that
deliberately defies categorization. It contains elements of the steam
punk and paranormal sub-genres, plus quite a lot of moderately
extreme BDSM and a M/F/M ménage. It features a kick-ass Rubenesque
heroine, a billionaire Rajah and a sexy, deliciously disreputable
bandit. It flirts with non-consensual fantasies and lesbian
attraction. It has some funny moments, not infrequently associated
with sex. Oh, and it's a romance, with what I hope is a sublimely
satisfying happy ending (although I won't tell you who ends up with
whom!)
Writing
this book involved taking risks. I've observed how readers cling to
their favorite genres. I break rules right and left with this
novel. Would the market embrace my mash-up? Or would readers run away
in droves, terrified of the unfamiliar?
Producing
the same sort of stories, again and again, can be comfortable. It may
help sales, too. To grow as authors, though, we have to leave safety
behind. We must step out onto that high pinnacle of creativity and
let go, defying the fear that we'll plummet ignominiously to the
ground. We have to get over our fear of flying.
Rajasthani
Moon is like nothing else I've written. Well, that's not strictly
true. Like most of my books, it has plenty of erotic content. What I
mean is that I've never felt so free as I did writing this book. I
gave myself permission to follow my imagination, no matter how wild
its suggestions. I found this difficult at first. The further I
ventured out onto my self-constructed limb, though, the easier I
found the process.
The
result? Well, I'm pleased with it. I have no idea what other people
will think. But I won't worry. That's out of my control.
And
Cecily? She conquers her fear, too, eventually:
***
The
passenger compartment was about ten feet long. Its walls were chest
height. A canopy shaded one end, including the brass and quartz
crystal control panel. The other was open to the sky, though the gas
bag a dozen feet above them shielded them from the most direct rays
of the sun. She was not surprised to discover that the floor was
covered by multiple layers of intricately-patterned carpets and
strewn with fat, multi-hued pillows. The Rajasthanis seemed to have
little use for furniture.
Amir
busied himself at the controls while Pratan lounged on the cushions,
looking rakish and indolent. “Come here, Cecily,” he ordered.
“Sometimes the take-off is a bit bumpy.”
Her
heartbeat accelerated and her palms started to sweat at this reminder
of what lay ahead. She gave him a sharp look. She could have sworn he
was suppressing a chuckle.
Nevertheless,
she reclined beside him, as he’d instructed. He slipped his arm
around her shoulder and held her tight against his chest. His
strength reassured her, but she still felt as though her stomach was
turning somersaults.
A
low frequency vibration hummed under them as Amir started the engine.
“Here
we go,” called the Rajah. “Prepare to lift off.”
“Kiss
me,” said Pratan. He took possession of her mouth without waiting
for her acquiescence.
Amir
released the tethers binding the dirigible to the roof. They
retracted into their housings with a snap and the gondola swayed in
reaction, springing upward a few feet. Cecily’s heart climbed into
her throat. She gritted her teeth against sudden nausea. Pratan’s
agile tongue wormed its way between her lips, urging her to relax and
open, and the spell passed. Meanwhile, his hands wandered over her
body, pulling her loose clothing out of the way so that he could
stroke her breasts and belly.
His
scent enveloped her, sandalwood and smoke superimposed on animal
musk. The wolf had not returned since their encounter on Mount Abu,
but Pratan still smelt like something feral. He burrowed into her,
sucking on her tongue and nibbling her lips, while his fingers teased
her nipples into hungry knots. Cecily moaned as the pleasure mounted.
She lay back, cradled in the nest of cushions, and allowed him free
access.
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