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 sixth 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 broke 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 was like nothing I'd written before. 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 am not going to 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.
~ ~ ~
Rajasthani
Moon is available at all your favorite bookstores.
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