Time to Feed Your Reader! #FreeBooks #Giveaway

Is the news getting you down? Are you staying away from people to try to stay healthy? Are you looking for things to help you beat cabin fever?

Let us help you!!!

Here's a great way to fill up your eReader and save money, too!

Click on this link:http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-bargain-books/ to find books in your favorite genres that are currently only $0.99 or maybe even FREE and feed your reader!!!

We have all the subgenres of romance: contemporary, historical, erotic, romantic suspense, scifi and fantasy romance, paranormal romance... along with many many other genres... check them out to see if you find something that tickles your fancy!

There's also a chance for you to win a $25 Amazon/BN GC - check out the Rafflecopter at the end of the post.

Here are the links to different categories:

Contemporary Romance (erotic and non-erotic): http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-contemporary-romance-erotic-and-non-erotic

Historical Romance (erotic and non-erotic): http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-readerhistorical-romance-erotic-and-non-erotic/

Science Fiction or Fantasy Romance (erotic and non-erotic): http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-science-fiction-or-fantasy-romance-erotic-and-non-erotic

Romantic Suspense (erotic and non-erotic): http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-romantic-suspense-erotic-and-non-erotic/

LGBTQ Romance (erotic and non-erotic): http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-lgbtq-romance-erotic-and-non-erotic/

Women's Fiction/Chick Lit: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-womens-fiction-chick-lit/

Non-romance Mystery/Suspense/Thriller/Horror: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-non-romance-mystery-suspense-thriller-horror

Non-romance Historical Fiction: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-non-romance-historical-fiction/

Non-romance Science Fiction or Fantasy: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-non-romance-science-fiction-or-fantasy/

Literary Fiction/Contemporary Mainstream Fiction: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-literary-fiction-contemporary-mainstream-fiction/

Non-Fiction: http://www.goddessfish.com/promo/feed-your-reader-non-fiction/

As part of this event, I’m promoting my free story collection Crowd Pleaser: Sexy Shorts. Here’s a teaser from “Reunion”, a BDSM romance tale from that collection. You can get the whole book free, in any ebook format, at Smashwords.

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It's always like this. My chest aches. It's difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt.

I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draw us together.

Today will be different. I've booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

I don't call him that to his face. He'd mock me, his voice bitter. “If I were your master, I'd simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would.” He doesn't give me that order, although I suspect that he's tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I'm grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he'd put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we're apart.

Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I'm looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. “Sarah.”

I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. “You're here!” I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I'm flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.

In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don't know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.

I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. “How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly...”

“Hush,” he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. “Don't chatter. Take me to the hotel.” 

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Saturday Spanks: Reunion - #FreeStory #Corset #SaturdaySpanks

My Saturday Spanks excerpt today is from my short story “Reunion”, originally published in Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. It’s bittersweet, romantic BDSM, based quite closely on real life.

Actually, I get tears in my eyes whenever I re-read it.

Anyway, if you like the excerpt, you can read the entire story for free on my website.

Enjoy!

“So, what do you have in your bag?” he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.

“I have the corset.” I’d purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.

“Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?”

“I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer.” I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find a rug beater, or the switches. It’s too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to carry them...”

“No excuses!” He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure that you know better than to disobey me. We’ll see about your punishment later.”

He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I want to see you in your corset.”

I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he’s not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream “look at me, see how stiff I am”.

My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I’m naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word.

“Why don’t you close your eyes while I put it on? It’s rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect.”

“You can’t hide anything from me, Sarah,” he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.

My fingers don’t work at all, I’m so nervous. I know he’s getting impatient, yet I can’t seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I’ve gained weight and I won’t be able to fasten the thing, but finally, I manage.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

“Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

“Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

“Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon.

Still, I’m not prepared when he slaps one cheek with his open palm. “Ow!”

“You are such a nasty little girl! I had forgotten. But now I remember (slap) just how kinky and twisted you really are.” He gives me three more spanks in quick succession, and I’m wailing out loud. At the same time, I’m hoping that he doesn’t stop.

Of course he does, knowing how to stoke my fires with frustration, but only for a moment.

“Across my knees, Sarah.” The armchair is perfect for a spanking, and once again my spirit soars, as he lays into me, landing one ferocious blow after another on my tender butt. I’m where I belong, and both of us know it.

My butt is burning like it’s been barbecued. It’s starting to hurt enough to interfere with the pleasure. I wonder if he still has that uncanny sense of my limits that he used to demonstrate. Just as the thought crosses my mind, he whispers in my ear.

“I’ll bet anything that you’re soaking wet, Sarah.” Without waiting for a reply, he thrusts three fat fingers deep into me. The fires race from my ass to my cunt and back. I come hard, grinding down on his hand, wanting him deeper, always deeper.

Remember you can read the entire story here!

Love and Lust (#desire #fantasy #romance)

Sex is boring. A strange claim, you might think, from someone who has been publishing erotica for almost two decades. It's true, though. I'm really not interested in the physical aspects of sexual encounters, tab A fitting into slot B, all the sweat and the groans, the stickiness and the wet spot on the sheets. What fascinates me is desire – the mental/emotional experience of wanting someone sexually. In less polite terms, lust.

Lust is supposedly a deadly sin. That's because, at its purest, it can overwhelm everything else: self-control, reason, responsibility. Lust acts like a drug, heightening the senses, intensifying every experience, swinging your mood into the highest highs or the most profound lows depending on whether it is reciprocated and consummated. Lust might lead to sex, but it might not. As an author, I find it interesting either way.

I've probably written at least a hundred sex scenes in my career. I have to admit that I've gotten many compliments on them (as well as some protests from people whom find my level of explicitness uncomfortable). Other writers sometimes ask me how I do it. How do I keep straight whose body parts are where? How can I write “cock” and “cunt” without getting embarrassed – or bursting out laughing? How do I manage to arouse my readers?

My answer is that I focus on the lust. I am firmly ensconced in my characters' heads – not in their bodies. Actually, I'm not particularly skilled at describing the (possibly indescribable) physical sensations of sex. But I know what my characters want. I feel what they feel. I see the pictures in their minds, images that might not have anything to do with what they're actually doing at the moment, but which fan their arousal. “Spirit to body and out to the world”, to quote a line from the poem I posted when I was talking about dancing. That's how sex works, too, at least for me.

Lust stimulates lust. Nothing turns me on like knowing that someone finds me desirable. The most intense pleasure comes from the knowledge that my fantasies are in sync with my lover's. My story “Reunion”, in Rachel Kramer Bussel's collection Do Not Disturb: Hotel SexStories, includes a scene in which the woman dons a corset and parades around the hotel room while her lover/master watches.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

“Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

“Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

“Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon.

This story is based on an actual experience, which in the real world was bittersweet. Even in the story, there's no actual tab A into slot B sex. Yet the tale is drenched with desire. I get wet every time I reread it.

So what about love? Where does that fit into the equation?

Now that I'm writing erotic romance as well as erotica, I'm required to give my readers love as well as lust. For me, it's not that difficult. In my own life, I've rarely known one without the other. I don't necessarily mean the great love, the deep love, the Love that transcends all and lasts forever which romance readers crave. But I find it hard to be aroused by someone, to share the intimacy of sex, without caring for my partner. Even a one-night stand can be sanctified by love -- sweet, precious, elusive, but perhaps not as rare as some claim.

I know that my perspective on this is not at all universal. Some women are probably horrified by my confessions. They need to know a man for a long while before they can trust him with their bodies. I can understand that. I know that I've been lucky.

Some women, on the other hand (probably more women than men would believe), are perfectly happy getting off with a stranger, some hot-looking stud with whom they could never have an intelligent conversation. Not me. I've had a few experiences with men where there was a disconnect between the physical attraction and the emotional connection. I remember them with regret. Still, I don't think it's silly to call most of the several dozen men I had sex with during my wilder years my “lovers”. That's what it felt like to me.

I suspect that this natural convergence of love and lust in my psyche explains the fact that my writing bridges the gap between erotica and erotic romance. When I'm writing romance, I sometimes worry that lust will get the upper hand. Usually, though, there is love in the background. All I need to do is bring it into focus.

One of the raunchier scenes in my novel Raw Silk is a four-way ménage. It includes M/F, M/M and F/F interaction. (Don't worry, I'm not going to quote it here!) Here's a peek into the mind of the main character, though, after all four participants have reached orgasm:

Four exhausted, sweaty bodies sprawled on the rich carpet. As Kate regained her senses, she realised that she was inexplicably, deliriously happy. Joy bubbled inside her, like champagne. Laughter threatened to overwhelm her.

Her head rested on Somtow's flat, firm stomach. He gently stroked her hair, running his fingers through the tangled ringlets. His other hand stroked Uthai's buttocks. The performer lay face down, his shaven skull cradled in Orapin's lap. The maid sat leaning against the couch, a serene smile on her full lips.

No one spoke, but Kate could sense Somtow's gratitude and delight. Meanwhile, she scrutinized her own emotions. Why did she feel so buoyant, so joyous? It was only sex. Then she understood her own error, that the line between sex and love was so thin that it might easily dissolve in the warm flood of mutual pleasuring.

She felt love for Uthai, for Orapin, and most of all for the shameless and insatiable Somtow. Finally, too, she felt love for herself, so free and ready to savour whatever carnal treats her life might offer.

That's what lust will do to you. Or is it love?

Sunday Snog: Reunion

I've been buried in edits, trying to get my new novel ready for submission. And I just sent it off! I'm so tempted to share one of the many kisses in Rajasthani Moon, but I don't want to tempt fate. I almost never share uncontracted work, and I already broke that rule once this week!

Instead, I'll give you the first kiss in my romantic BDSM tale, Reunion. You'll find this story in my collection Just a Spanking. It's also available as a free read on my website. 

After you savor my snog, go visit Victoria Blisse, the queen of snogging, and read her kiss and those of the other authors who are joining in the fun this Sunday!

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It's always like this. My chest aches. It's difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt.
I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.

Today will be different. I've booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

I don't call him that to his face. He'd mock me, his voice bitter. "If I were your master, I'd simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would." He doesn't give me that order, although I suspect that he's tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I'm grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he'd put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we're apart.

Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I'm looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. "Sarah."

I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. "You're here!" I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I'm flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.

In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don't know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.

I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. "How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly..."

"Hush," he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. "Don't chatter. Take me to the hotel."

A Kinky Snog from Reunion

Happy Snog Day!

I'm in the process of my monthly website update. I thought I'd post a snog from my BDSM story Reunion, which I'm adding to my free reads page.

Have you visited Snog Central yet today? I'm talking, of course, about Victoria Blisse's site, where you can find one of her delicious kisses as well as links to those from your other favorite authors...

Three years since I last saw him, and now his plane is late. I perch on the edge of the chair across from the American Airlines desk where he told me to meet him, tension winding me tighter with every moment.

It's always like this. My chest aches. It's difficult to breathe. My nipples are as taut and swollen as if he already had them wrapped in elastic bands. I try not to be distracted by the stickiness between my bare thighs. I glance at the arrivals screen. His flight has just landed. Ten minutes, fifteen at most, before I can expect him. I fill my lungs deliberately and try to slow my racing pulse.

I hover between joy and terror. It has been so long, too long. What will he think of me, the strands of gray in my hair, the new wrinkles? What will he ask of me? Will I be able to give him what he needs? I remember other reunions, too few, too short. No time for more than a few kisses, a few playful swats on my bared butt. I remember lying on his lap in Golden Gate Park, my skirt flipped up around my waist. I can precisely recreate my shame and my excitement. I recall slouching down in the front seat of his car in a dark, sweltering parking garage, while he unbuttoned my blouse and dabbled his fingers in my cunt, naming me as his slut. A few hours every few years is all we manage, a country and my marriage separating us even as our history and our fantasies draws us together.

Today will be different. I've booked us a hotel room, in this city where neither of us live. We have the entire day. My husband waits for me at home, while I wait here in the airport for my master.

I don't call him that to his face. He'd mock me, his voice bitter. "If I were your master, I'd simply order to you leave him and come to me, and you would." He doesn't give me that order, although I suspect that he's tempted. He refrains, out of respect for me and my choices, or maybe in fear that his power over me is not as great as he would like to imagine. He spares us both, and I'm grateful, though now, waiting, burning to see him again, I almost wish that he'd put me to that ultimate test and take away the awful yearning that I feel when we're apart.

Every one of my senses is on alert, yet he manages to surprise me. I'm looking toward the gates. He comes from the other direction and calls to me softly. "Sarah."

I start and then laugh nervously. When I stand up, my bag tumbles off my lap to the floor, toys clattering inside. "You're here!" I feel clumsy, silly, stupid, but when he bends to kiss me, everything but the joy disappears. I'm flooded with it, gasping, overwhelmed.

In his limbs I feel his pitiless strength. His lips, though, are gentle, questioning. Am I still his? I melt, open my mouth and my mind to him. Does he sense the answer? Sometimes I am certain that he reads my thoughts. He laughs ironically and calls me suggestible. I don't know what to believe, which suits him perfectly. He wants me a bit off-balance.

I struggle to act normal, as if I were just meeting an old friend. "How was your flight? Did you have trouble with your connections? What about your baggage? Is that the only jacket you have? October here can be kind of chilly..."

"Hush," he says, laying a blunt finger upon my lips. "Don't chatter. Take me to the hotel."

****

You can read the rest of Reunion here. Check out my January news and contests, too!

A Man Who Gets It

By Marc Nobbs (Guest Blogger)

First off, thanks to Lisabet for hosting me today. I do appreciate the opportunity to speak to you all. I want to begin with a quote :

Bottom line, this is a well written romance written by a man who gets it.

That’s what Acquanetta Ferguson said in her review of Kissed by a Rose for the San Diego Examiner.

A Man Who Gets it. I actually cribbed that for my website. You see, here’s the thing – there are an awful lot of women who simply don’t believe that men can write romance novels. Common consensus is that romance is a genre written by women, for women, and men should stay the hell out of it.

Okay, so that’s a stereotypical generalisation, but it’s true that the genre is dominated by female writers and female editors and that the vast majority of romance novel readers are women. The UK’s oldest and best know romance publisher, Mills & Boon, insist that all their authors use female pen names – even the very small number of men that write for them. And before their untimely demise, Black Lace even went as far as to refuse to publish books by men.

But you’re not really a man. You’re a woman with a gimmick.

Seriously, I’ve actually had e-mails to this effect. People who’d read one of my books and refused believe it could possibly have been written by a man. But I assure you, I am a man. I have a penis and everything. I’d offer to show you a picture, but, you know... I even have a ‘Man Drawer’ in my shed where I keep all my ‘Man Things’ –screwdrivers, pliers, the pump for blowing up my son’s football, that sort of thing.

You must be gay then. Or a closet gay.

That’s the other response I often get. Because, obviously, only gay men could come up with romantic plots and believable romantic interactions between characters. Well, sorry to disappoint, but I’m not gay either. Not even a little bit. I’m just your average, heterosexual, married father of one who happens to be a bit of an old romantic at heart.

Truth is, I sort of fell into writing romance. I certainly didn’t sit down one day and say, “You know what, I think I should write romance novels.” When I first started this writing lark as a hobby back in the late nineties, I wrote what I suppose a lot of people would have expected from a young, horny twenty-something bloke – sex stories. Simple, let’s get buck naked and f*** stories. I read loads of them in the old Usenet groups and figured “I can do that.”

The first few were pretty bad and had very little in the way of plot or characterisation. Those first few are so bad that I haven’t even put them on my website. And when you read some of the ones that I have put on my website, it makes you realise how bad those first ones must have been. Take a look at Heaven in Leather or Memorable Holiday to see what I mean. Both are ‘stroke’ stories – that is, stories that serve one purpose only, if you know what I mean. (Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more, eh?)

But here’s the thing – these short stokers never felt very… satisfying.

I’ve always been an avid reader – from a very early age – and as such I’ve been brought up on great stories, great plots and great characters. So writing stories where the characters were stereotypes and the plot was little more than a series of events designed to get the characters naked and screwing as quickly as possible, was never going to be enough for me. It took me some time, but eventually I graduated from simple short stroke stories to longer stories where I took the time to develop the characters and make them more like real people. These stories had better, stronger plots that weren’t all about getting to the sex act. Try Claire, Sophie, or Phone Calls to see what I mean – they are all freely downloadable from my website. Although, be warned – Claire WILL make you cry. I guarantee it.

The stories still had sex in them, though. Quite a bit of sex if I’m honest. But they also became, over time, more romantic in tone. After all, that's what leads to great sex in the first place, right?

The other thing that happened the more I wrote is that I got better at the mechanics of writing. I joined an online smut-writer’s group and learned all that stuff I didn’t learn in all those creative writing courses that I never took. I learnt what to avoid and what to strive for. I learned that the sex in a story should be secondary to telling the story. I learned that a good story depends on great characters that the reader cares about. And I learned that if you, as the writer, don’t give two hoots about your characters, then your readers won’t either.

The culmination of all this learning was Reunion, written in 2004 and available to download for free on my website. It’s the story of a boy and girl who never quite got together as teenagers, and then meet up again ten years later.

It’s a decent story. Not perfect by any means – but it was certainly the best thing I’d produced up to that point – even if I didn’t feel confident enough about its qualities to submit it for publication. I fell a little bit in love with the heroine, Kelly, as I was writing her and I hope it shows. I tend to fall a little bit in love with all my book’s heroines.

Reunion has many qualities that have become my hallmarks. The hero is not your stereotypical alpha-male romantic hero – he’s just an ordinary bloke who’s following his heart and doing the best he can. The heroine is normally strong and independent – the kind of woman I’m usually attracted to. And the primary Point of View character is hero – not the heroine.

And that last point is, I think, the reason that Ms Ferguson described me as a “man who gets it”. I don’t try and copy what most female romance authors do. I don’t try and tell the story from the heroine’s point of view. I don’t try and get into her head and describe what she’s feeling. Instead I give the reader an insight into what’s going on in the hero’s head. I’m not trying to write “women’s fiction” or “out do” the huge number of excellent female romance writers. I’m trying to offer something different to the romance genre. Something fresh and exciting. And, I hope, I’ve achieved it.

To go back to Ms Ferguson’s review of Kissed by a Rose, she said...

If a woman had written this the male lead would have been an alpha male which most women love in fantasy. In this Marc knocks that fantasy on its ass. He writes his romance with a bit more realism, and quite frankly it is a refreshing change. As this is written from the male point of view, we as women reading this get to see how the other half of the human population thinks and reacts to love.

I am very, very proud of Kissed by a Rose. It’s a fantasy to some extent – I mean, how many guys ever meet their movie-star idol, let alone get to date them – but it’s also grounded with as much realism as I could cram into it.

I wanted to write a story where the reader was never entirely sure about the heroine and her motives and I think I pulled it off. I wanted to write a story where the reader would see the hero hurting and feel his pain, and given I had my beta-readers in tears at more than one point in the book, I think I pulled that off as well.

I recently re-read the book in preparation for its print release, and it still stirred in me the emotions I wanted in the places I wanted. And it still gave me a warm glow at the end. So yeah, I’m damn proud of it.

Romantic fiction, even Erotic Romance, isn’t a man’s world. Not by a long way. I’m one of very few men drowning in a sea of women (damn, now there’s an image to take to bed with me tonight) but I hope I’m proving to those who ‘take the risk’ and read my books that men, or at least this man, can write romantic fiction and can do a good job of it. But, I suppose, ultimately, that’s up to the romance reading public to decide.

So, what can you expect from a Marc Nobbs novel? Well, take Reunion¸ (did I mention you can download it free on my website?) which despite being one of my earlier works and not as ‘polished’ as my latest releases, does contain many of the traits I’ve become known for.

It’s got two very likable leads in Matt and Kelly – Matt was described as one early reader as the ‘nicest man in the history of smut, ever’, and while Kelly tends to split opinions for much of the book, ultimately readers love her as much as I do. It’s a passionate story, littered with hot sex scenes but in the end it’s just got a really good plot full of twists and turns that lead to a climatic (and happy) ending.

It’s also fairly dialogue heavy at times. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been told that I’m ‘good’ at dialogue. Hell, I’ve even been told more than once that I should turn my hand to scriptwriting for movies – not that I’d ever expect any of them to ever get made. I can’t see Kiera Knightly wanting to act out some of the scenes I write. Although, if I could cast Sasha Grey...

But these are my hallmarks. The hero everyone loves. The heroine we have our doubts about. The twisty, turny plot that races towards the big ending. The passionate, heart-felt, loving sex scenes. The great dialogue. You’ll find them all in a Marc Nobbs novel.

You can learn more about me on my Website. I also blog regularly on topics ranging from my writing to what's going on in the world around me as well as hosting guest posts. And, if you tweet, you can catch me on Twitter where I'm @marcnobbs