Inexplicable Desire - #Chemistry #Erotica #Connection

Several years ago I reviewed M.Christian’s sci-fi erotica story BionicLover. This tale follows the disturbing and intense relationship between a shy, struggling female artist and a butch woman of the streets who, when the story opens, has a magnificently crafted artificial eye. Thinking about the book after I wrote the review, I realized one reason it moved me so deeply: the author never really explains anything. We see the near-irresistible attraction between Pell (the artist) and Arc (the increasingly bionic butch). We watch as Arc replaces one body part after another with prosthetics, as Pell falls ever more deeply under her spell, as Arc vanishes then returns to the arms of the woman who somehow makes her whole–but though the emotions feel genuine and true, we never know why anyone does anything. Unmediated by reasons, we experience the desire, the longing, the loneliness, directly. The tale remains hauntingly ambiguous as well as overwhelmingly erotic.

In contrast, much of the erotic fiction I read focuses considerable attention on explaining the source of the attraction between the protagonists. Sometimes it’s something as superficial as big breasts or washboard abs. In other cases, the characters clearly complement each other, in terms of personality or history or mutual fantasies or kinks. In all too many stories, the erotic connection is pretty much a foregone conclusion, because the author has made the reasons for that connection painfully obvious.

Desire isn’t necessarily like that, though. Attraction often cannot be explained—except by amorphous concepts like “chemistry”, which is no explanation at all.

I remember one of my lovers, from my sex goddess period, when I blossomed from a self-conscious nerd into a flaming nymphomaniac. I met him at a mutual friend’s wedding, and wanted him from the very first instant. This wasn’t due to his physical appearance. He was cute, but no movie star. It certainly wasn’t because of his personality. He turned out to be arrogant as well as somewhat dishonest. None of that mattered. I wanted him. He wanted me. We had sex within four hours of meeting. Over the next few weeks, we shared some wild times, pushing the envelope (as they say), until I came to the conclusion that I didn’t really like him that much.

Call it chemistry if you like, the inexplicable force binding two souls, two bodies, who by rights shouldn’t be together at all. Whatever it is, it cannot be predicted, or explained.

Another wonderful literary example of this phenomenon is Willsin Rowe’s searing novella The Last Three Days. If you’ve ever thought lust was trivial compared to love, read this book. Rowe’s protagonists are in some sense addicted to one another. Insatiable need draws them together again and again. The pleasure of their encounters tempers their mutual antipathy. The emotions become so tangled that neither the characters nor the reader can sort them out—but they feel incredibly real.

There’s a clever little acronym frequently cited in author circles: RUE, which stands for Resist the Urge to Explain. Usually, when someone invokes the RUE principle in a critique, she’s commenting on a back story dump or an excess of description that slows down the pace of the narrative. Meditating on these two exemplary stories, I see that the RUE particularly applies to the erotic attraction between one’s characters. The more surprising, unexpected, complex and inexplicable that is, the more compelling the tale.

Desire cannot be summoned at will, nor can it be reasoned away. Desire simply is. And we erotic authors are but its chroniclers.

A treat for lovers of ménage - #groupsex #menage #ERWA #anthology

Do you love sexy stories of threesomes and more-somes? If so, I recommend Twisted Sheets, the brand new anthology from the Erotica Readers & Writers Association. Ten steamy stories, headlined by erotica superstar Selena Kitt; an intro by ERWA guru Daddy X; a cover to drool over from Willsin Rowe—you know you’re tempted! Why not give in? The book’s only 99 cents for a limited time, exclusively at Amazon.

Blurb

A tangle of legs. Fingers, hands, too many to count, roaming all over your body. Lovers’ voices, whispering your name in stereo surround.

Two may be company. Oh, but three is where the real fun begins!

ERWA has flung wide the boudoir doors and torn back the coverlet of everyday intimate couplings. Slip into our giant bed and explore the thrilling combinations an extra partner or three may create.

A wife craves a second man in her bed, but how will she respond when a third climbs aboard? A shy couple’s fantasy goes awry when their private invitation for a foursome goes viral. A young English woman shares more than just her sordid dreams on the psychiatrist’s couch. And don’t miss “Human Sexuality 101”, Selena Kitt’s mouth-watering college romp.

Where numbers matter, Twisted Sheets delivers, because these are just a few of the ten scorching ménage tales in this sexy collection.

Excerpt
From “Group Therapy” by Belinda LaPage

“I don’t…I’m not…” Tyler looked around for Monica, realizing suddenly that he held a naked woman, tied up like a mermaid and virtually begging him to fuck her in front of his girlfriend.

Monica had already shed her clothes and was first on the bed. “Come lie down.”

“Um.” Tyler puffed out a shaky breath. “Sure.” Fuck the orgy out in the den. This here was his fantasy writ large in smooth girl-flesh and heaving bosoms. He lowered Skye onto the covers and she wriggled fish-like into Monica’s arms. Oh God, this was better than he’d ever imagined.

“C’mon honey,” Monica waved him closer. “It’s really happening.”

“It really fucking is,” Tyler muttered. He shed his boxers, letting his cock spring free. Jesus, when did I get hard?

A voice spoke up in his head. Probably when you had your hand on the mermaid’s tit.

And he had, he realized. He’d totally been feeling Skye up, and Monica was okay with it—she was so okay with it, she was doing the exact same thing. The girls were all over each other, and Tyler watched with breathless disbelief as their lips met.

What the fuck are you doing? yelled his inner voice. Get in there!

This is just a taste of the sublime naughtiness that awaits you. Stories by Selena Kitt, Big Ed Magusson, Belinda LaPage, Ian D Smith, Fallen Kittie, Delores Swallows, Troy Storm, Jean Roberta, Madison Langston and Avery Weston. No, I’m not in this one... but I’ll tell you honestly, when you want both erotic heat and sublime craft, ERWA is the place to go!

https://www.erotica-readers.com

https://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Sheets-Sizzling-Ménage-Anthologies-ebook/dp/B07HY7YDHD

Cover Reveal! Damned If You Do, #BDSM #PNR Coming April 28th!

My new paranormal BDSM romance won’t be out until late April, but I just can’t keep quiet about it any more. I think the story will strike a chord of familiarity with my author friends. Hopefully general readers will enjoy this modern day twist on the Faust legend as well.

I truly love Willsin Rowe’s dramatic cover. What do you think?

Here’s the blurb:

Sometimes romance can be hell

Wendy Dennison is tired of being a starving author. The royalties from her critically acclaimed romance novels barely pay her bills. Her devoted agent Daniel Rochester may be smart and sexy, but he can't get her the sales she needs. Then a charismatic stranger appears at her coffee shop table, promising her fame and commercial success, as well as the chance to live out her dreams of erotic submission. But at what cost?

Nothing you can't afford to lose, my dear.

Seduced by the enigmatic Mister B, she signs his infernal contract. He becomes both her Master and her coach, managing her suddenly flourishing career as well as encouraging her lusts. Under her mentor’s nefarious influence, she surrenders to temptation and has sex with Daniel. The casual encounter turns serious when she discovers her mild mannered agent has a dominant side. As the clock ticks down to her blockbuster release and Mister B prepares to claim her soul, Wendy must choose either celebrity and wealth, or obscurity and true love. 

 

Coming from Excessica on the 28^th of April – just in time for Walpurgis!

Review Tuesday: Playing House by Willsin Rowe (#BBW #romcom #review @WillsinRowe)

Playing House by Willsin Rowe

Amazon Digital Services, 2016

Let me begin with full disclosure: Willsin Rowe is not just any author. We’re members of the same group blog (Oh Get a Grip) and he has designed several of my favorite covers (most recently for TheGazillionaire and the Virgin). I’ve also edited one of his books (Her Majesty). So I can’t pretend to be a totally objective reviewer.

At the same time, anyone who follows my reviews knows that I may try to be diplomatic, but I am always honest. Given the small, tight-knit community of erotic authors, it’s inevitable that I know many of the authors whose books I discuss. Generally, I won’t post a totally negative review; if I really don’t like a book, I’ll pass on the entire process. However, I have no qualms about pointing out what I see as the weaknesses in the books I do decide to discuss—and tough as it may be to accept, I expect friends who review my books to do the same.

Now that that's out of the way... on with the review!

Green-eyed red head Lucy Featherstone has a sharp wit, a warm heart, and passion for order. Whether she’s sorting the stock at her beloved used bookstore The Lost Books Home, doing her regular Saturday house cleaning, or making herself a cup of tea, she likes things a certain way. She lives her life by her own rules, stifling her impatience with others who lead less well-organized lives.

While her store offers Lucy with spiritual and intellectual sustenance, it barely provides the financial support she needs. Without her housemate and best friend Toni’s assistance, Lucy wouldn’t be able to cover her mortgage payments. So when Toni reveals that she’s moving in with her fiancé, Lucy comes close to panic.

Fortunately, Toni has a solution—one might even suspect, a devious plan. She has found a substitute to take over her place and help Lucy pay the bills. The only problem is that the new roommate just happens to be a guy, and one of Lucy’s top rules, since her cheating boyfriend Cameron dumped her and moved out, is “no smelly boys”!

It doesn’t really help that Mark is drop-dead gorgeous as well as polite, considerate, and a gourmet cook. He’s not even all that messy, for a male, and actually, he smells divine. His very presence puts Lucy on edge. When he’s away from the house, though, shagging his fashion model girlfriend, she feels even worse. Lucy is torn between her attraction to her spontaneous, uninhibited housemate and fury at her own weakness.

Romance is mostly about the journey, not the destination. From the first time Lucy first exchanges wise-cracks with Mark, we know they’re destined to find happiness together, despite the vast difference in their personalities. The fun lies in their torturous progress toward their HEA.

Willson writes crisp, energetic dialogue that crackles with intelligence and wit. More than once I found myself laughing out loud at Mark’s and Lucy’s interactions.

****

Standing up, I walked to the kitchen, drawing in a little of his lovely scent as I passed him.

“And, um, how come I didn’t hear your car?”

“Parked across the road. For a quick getaway.” He came right up beside me, far closer than I thought I could handle. “Anyway, I wanted to whip up a garden salad and maybe an orange cake before heading back to pick her up.”

Suddenly it was my mouth growing wet. “Cake?”

“And salad.”

“Cake?”

“You’re a classic, Luce.”

The way his words lit me up inside was amazing. Yet it still made me feel more than a little pathetic. I was supposed to be a strong, independent woman with goals and power and yada yada yada.

At that moment my mouth ran away from me, leaving my brain lying in the gutter, drunk on its cocktail of horny hormones. “You need any help?”

He cupped my chin in his hand and looked me up and down. “I don’t know, soldier. You think you’re up to the challenge?”

I struggled not to tremble at the touch of his warm hand. It took me a moment to find my breath, and a little longer to find my voice beneath it. “Well, you know my reputation. On at least three occasions I poured cereal without causing salmonella. And I once opened the right end of a can of soup.”

Little wrinkles of delight appeared at the sides of his eyes and he released my chin. “Cool. Why don’t we get started? Grab a knife.”

He opened the fridge and dug into the veggie crisper, while I turned to the cutlery drawer and chose a knife. When he turned and stood, he placed lettuce, tomato, carrot, capsicum and red onion on the counter. Then he looked at my hand and burst into laughter.

“Sorry, Lucy. I meant a real knife.”

“This is a real knife.”

“Of course it is, and it would be perfect for denting Brié.”

“I’ll dent your Brié, mister.”

He strode to the corner where the knife block stood and pulled out the biggest one we had. So very male. “Now this is what I’m talking about. Here, catch.”

Though he made no move to actually throw it, I leapt back and shrieked. “Oh! You asshole!”

Still, I couldn’t help laughing along with him. The big, stupid, delectable oaf.

“As if I would. Ah, you’re a lot of fun, Luce.”

“And you’re a very big little boy, Mark.”

****

At the same time, the author shows readers the conflicts and confusion that stand in the way of their getting together. In this tale, men and women really do seem to come from different planets at times, given how they misunderstand one another.

****

“It’s just the way it is. I see it all over the place. You girls hold the balance of power over decent men when it comes to sex. You know we’re not gonna take without permission. You have the prize between your thighs and you dangle it in front of us just to get what you need. God forbid you should acknowledge a man might want anything more than just perfect pussy.”

“Wh-why are you being such a prick? You haven’t listened to me at all! You don’t know what…” There was no way to finish that sentence without it sounding like a lie, and a ploy for sympathy. If I told him now about Patrick’s heavy-handed thuggery, it’d sound like nothing more than an attempt to worm my way out of his bad books.

Mark hooked his towel around his neck, letting his shoulders droop. Though it seemed any anger he’d been holding was now at least watered down, still he kept his back to me as he spoke.

“I–I’m sorry, Luce. I really don’t mean to be a prick.”

“You clearly just have a natural talent.”

“Please. You’re just making me crazy.”

“Oh, I am? It’s all my fault now? When it comes to crazy, I don’t think you need any help there, Marky.”

I’d only wanted a reaction. Using the name that woman called him was just my way to get him burning up again. Maybe I thought it would remind him that he wasn’t without sin when it came to

relationships. But really, if I was honest, I just wanted to scratch him somehow. And I’d gone far deeper than I’d ever meant to, clearly.

He whipped around and stared at me like I’d peed on his Mustang, his deep brown eyes turning darker than his coffee. His frown was etched sharper and deeper than I’d ever seen it.

I wanted him to speak. Even if it was a shout, or an insult, just tell me what he thought. Tell me I was a bitch or a cow or whatever, because I already knew I’d proved that. He didn’t make a sound, though. Without another word he swiveled on his heel and marched, naked and wet, out of the bathroom.

“Hey! Don't traipse water all through my…” But before I could finish he'd already shut his door. He did it quietly, but with an unmistakable clarity. No slamming or thudding, just a crisp click that felt more like a fuck you than even a fuck you would have.

****

The thing is, there are serious issues keeping the two lovers apart, even after they’ve surrendered to their mutual attraction and had some of the wildest sex you can imagine. The conflicts in this tale are mainly internal (though there is a villain of sorts, a creepy stalker type), but they’re plausible. This is what relationships are like—complicated and very, very messy. No wonder Lucy’s so distressed!

This realistic portrayal of their developing relationship sits a bit uneasily with the more cartoonish aspects of the book, in particular the over-the-top portrait of Gabrielle, Mark’s status-obsessed, fashion model girlfriend. Lucy’s concern about unsanitary nature of taxi seats struck me as overdone, too. I’m sure the author intended to portray Lucy’s love of order as a personality quirk, not a pathological obsession, but this detail made me wonder. Clearly it’s difficult, though, to write an extreme character without going over the line into stereotype or ridicule, especially when that character is intended to be funny.

Then there are the sex scenes. Mark’s and Lucy’s lust-filled couplings heat up the pages with delicious intensity. At the same time, the raw, almost violent nature of their sexual interactions felt a bit foreign to their personalities. There’s a dramatic difference between the mood of these scenes and the rest of the book. Indeed, the characters themselves seem to share some of my bewildered disorientation when they come back to earth after their fierce encounters.

Still, as a reader I felt a huge sense of satisfaction when Mark’s and Lucy’s mutual attraction finally overwhelmed their scruples. That moment is one of the great joys in reading erotic romance.

Before concluding I want to comment on another satisfying aspect of the book. Like many of Willsin’s heroines, Lucy is a big girl, with lots of flesh on her bones. Although she’s not overly paranoid about her size or weight, she can’t help feeling inadequate next to slender, perfect Gabrielle. Mark eventually makes it clear (via both words and deeds) that he adores Lucy’s body. It’s rather difficult for him to admit, though, that what he wants in a woman is so much at odds with what society says he should want (i.e. Gabrielle). I applauded his insight and courage in recognizing how blind and immature he’d been—and how much that blindness cost him, emotionally.

Playing House by Willsin Rowe is an intelligent, light-hearted romance seasoned with a healthy dose of humor, and spiked with some intensely passionate sex. If you like dialogue reminiscent of Bogart and Bacall, a curvy heroine with a mind of her own, and a sexy, sensitive hero, you’ll enjoy this book as much as I did.

An Interview with Willsin Row (#interview #artist #musician #covers)

One of the best things about being an author is the opportunities I get to meet other creative people. During the last year or so, I’ve had the privilege of getting to know the multi-talented Willsin Rowe. I first encountered him through Excessica, where he’s artistic director. He designed the covers for my D&S Duos series, in return for my editing his delightful F/F story Her Majesty. Then, when there was a vacancy at the Oh Get a Grip blog, he stepped into the gap. I’ve gotten to know him a lot better through his posts there. Most recently, he designed the amazing cover for The Gazillionaire and the Virgin.

Anyway, I found myself wondering what makes Willsin tick, from an artistic perspective. So I thought I’d ask. He was kind enough to agree to this interview.

Your creativity takes a wide range of forms: writing and playing music, visual art and fiction. Which came first? Which comes easiest or most naturally for you? If you had to choose one creative outlet that “defines” who you are, would it be Willsin Rowe, musician; Willsin Rowe, artist; or Willsin Rowe, author? Or something else?

Gosh, that’s a toughie. I view myself as an author who makes cover art and plays music, yet it’s the cover art for which I’m best known. I remember in childhood that drawing came first (I won a prize at the age of 5), but by the age of 8 I was already doing various forms of silly writing. Usually my sister and I would put speech captions on the characters in the books we read, but that grew rapidly into writing actual stories.

I do recall identifying the desire to write professionally at the age of 10, and I do believe writing is the art which comes most naturally to me.

A few years later, the desire to play and write music took over, though, and I pursued that for a couple of decades, only truly coming back to writing about ten years ago. Plenty of day jobs in the meantime, and plenty of casual writing for friends in that time (customized poems, for example… usually bawdy).

In recent years I also added “book trailer maker” and “music video maker” to my skill sets. I no longer make book trailers commercially, as the way I worked was too time-intensive. I wrote the scripts based on information from the author, I wrote and arranged all the music, I sourced most or all of the imagery and very often created frame-by-frame animation through Photoshop. As I was dealing with indie and self-published authors, I simply couldn’t charge what the work was worth, so I wrapped that side of the business up. (Anyone who’s interested can check out my trailers here… remembering, please, that the newest of them is still close to four years old). And my music videos, all for my own band, can be viewed here.

Do you find that there’s cross-pollination between your different expressive modalities, or are they fairly independent?

Oh, absolutely there is. At only a superficial level there are obvious marriages. Words meet graphic arts when I make covers for my own books. Graphic arts meets music when I’ve made CD covers and posters for bands I’m in (or other people’s bands). And of course, words meet music all the time, even if it’s just my terrible and puerile word-switch improvisations while driving my sons on the school run.

Looking deeper than that, though, the most obvious crossover I’ve noticed is that twenty years of song-writing helped me shape my story-writing. The direct link was when I focused on flash fiction in the early years of professional writing. I adore the challenge of taking a huge concept and distilling it to only a few words. I’ve always been good with puns and cryptic crosswords, and both of those lateral-thinking methods help with flash fiction, allowing an author to use words with several meanings in place of a more simplified one. I find that opens the scope of a story’s heart greatly, and that was a skill I honed through music. I daresay that knack for brevity has also informed my longer works (though arguably not my interview answers!)

I’ve been the lucky beneficiary of your fantastic cover art design talent. How did you get started doing covers? Did you teach yourself the nuts and bolts of using graphic design tools, or do you have formal training? What is your process for creating a new cover?

Why, thank ya for the props, ma’am! I had actually discovered a talent for certain kinds of drawing (mostly photographic reproduction style) while in high school. At that point, I hadn’t begun to teach myself music, so art seemed a good overarching field to chase work in. Out of high school, my first job was as a compositor (page layout artist), where I learned the basics of older style printing, such as hot metal work and stereotyping. That was where I first began fiddling with Mac computers, and a few years later I managed to score a job as a desktop publisher.

I’ve never had any formal training in graphic design, but I picked up a lot of information along the way, and I believe I have a natural eye for balance and typography. None of that truly prepared me for the field of book cover art, though. That began when I was first published through Excessica and was given the opportunity to make my own cover art. When the publisher put a call out for any authors who might be able to make covers, I volunteered. After the first half-dozen covers it seemed I had a little flair for the field and I’ve never stopped making them since.

As far as process goes, there’s no one answer. For new authors I tend to use a cover request form, but for folks I’ve already worked with we can often go straight to shorthand, especially when it’s an established series like the Paranormal Dating Agency (by Milly Taiden).

On the technical and production side of things, again there’s not really a single answer. Genre and sub-genre can help set the pace, but there are some elements which are common across nearly all covers (and indeed, photography and other design), such as the rule of thirds. Knowing one’s way around Photoshop (or any of the other workable applications) is essential, though there is an absolute truckload of tricks in there I’ve never encountered. Mostly that’s because I started using Photoshop almost the second it was released in the very early 90s, so had to work around all the stuff it couldn’t do! The techniques I developed for myself have probably been somehow included in updates, but I’ve never gone looking.

I have actually described the nuts-and-bolts process of cover design in the past, with my friend and co-author Katie Salidas. You can find that info here, if you’re interested! – http://www.katiesalidas.com/2012/04/deconstructing-art-of-cover.html

I know about “writer’s block” from personal experience. Is there such a thing as “artist’s block” or “musician’s block”? If so, how do you handle this when it happens?

Artist’s block doesn’t usually take the same form as writer’s block, in my experience, though other folks’ mileage may vary. I hasten to add I rarely seem to encounter writer’s block, but in part that’s because I have other fields I work in (which harks back to the earlier question about cross-pollination). If I happen to be stuck for words I probably won’t even notice because I will have jumped across to work on a cover. But that aside…

The main stumbling blocks I’ve encountered with cover art tend to be two-fold: either I can’t find a stock image to suit, or I get so close to the project I can’t truly see it.

With the first issue, it can be incredibly frustrating. Sometimes you can find the perfect pose, but the model is wrong (hair colour, skin colour, height, weight or just overall look). Sometimes it’s the opposite. Hardest of all images to find, though, is a genuine curvy/BBW model posing romantically with a man (or just posing in any fashion which is not either comical or insulting). With the wonderful growth in BBW/Curvy fiction out there, I would have hoped more photographers and models would have jumped on board, but so far it’s still incredibly slim pickings. I (and many other authors) get asked quite often why the women on our BBW books are slender. My friend Erika Masten had the perfect response, though (not sure I’ll get this verbatim): “Please stop asking the authors, and start asking the photographers”.

With the second issue (being too close to the project)… well, that’s a commonality throughout all creative fields, I believe. I’m using it as a metaphor but it also feels literal. Sometimes a cover refuses to coalesce because it’s as if I’m standing right up against it, and no matter how much I bend my neck, I just can’t see the rest of it. Most people who write, paint, draw, design clothing, or do any other creative world have almost certainly endured that same feeling. The only answer then, of course, is to walk away from it for a short while. Again, either metaphorically or physically (or both).

Musically… well, music has become a much smaller part of my life these days. I don’t recall a time of having musician’s block, onlyhaving writer’s block at times while writing lyrics!

My own writing is very much separate from my everyday life. Indeed, Lisabet Sarai is practically a different person from my real world persona. What about you? Do the people around you know about and approve of your writing? Actually, given that you do covers for erotic fiction, I might ask the same about your art. Do you show your stuff to your family and friends?

All of Willsin is me, but only some of me is Willsin. There’s not a thing I say or write or post publicly which the real me wouldn’t do, say or post. There is, however, plenty the real me says, does and would post which Willsin wouldn’t, if that makes sense. Willsin is a distillation of the real me. He’s human flash fiction! Yet I’ve been him since 2006, so I’m comfortable inhabiting his skin when the need arises.

Not too many people in my real life know what I do (my parents and sister know but it’s not really a part of their lives in any way). Some know I make book covers, though I doubt they realise how many of them are dirty smut books. Fewer still know I write, fewer again know WHAT I write.

But I’m a diverse bloke, and I also write under the pen name Abi Aiken, a fact which I only revealed recently. And I write some non-erotic material under yet another name – a name which is much more widely know by real-world folks. So some folks know some stuff, and very few know all the stuff!

It’s not that I’m too worried about people knowing I write erotic romance… it’s more the potential ramifications on my wife (she’s a primary school teacher) and even my kids (youngest is 12, and if his mates knew, I’m sure he’d cop some teasing).

What’s your dream, from an artistic or creative perspective? If you could devote as much time as you wanted to making music, art or stories, what would you do?

If I had to choose only one field, then I would choose writing, simply because (at least for the first few drafts), it’s mine alone. Every word is there because I wanted it so. The buzz which comes from composing a sentence which truly works is a thing of beauty. That’s the thrill which keeps a person writing, I think. I’m a pretty ordinary singer, but there are times, few and far between, when I’ll hit a note and hold it and it just soars. It’s like the golfer who duffs 98% of his shots. It’s that 2% which connect sweetly that keeps him or her playing. I find the same thing with writing, but when it’s my baby (final draft before editing), the ratio is inverse. 98% sweet shots, 2% duffed. It might suck to every other person on the planet, but at that point, it’s as close to me as is possible.

~~~

Thanks so much for taking the time to satisfy my curiosity, Willsin! If you want to learn more about Willsin, check out his blog and/or his posts at the Grip. And don’t miss his recent stunning release, The Last Ten Days, which I reviewed here in January.

Review Tuesday: The Last Three Days by Willsin Rowe

The Last Three Days by Willsin Rowe

Self-published, 2015

Millions of romance novels celebrate the transcendent power of love. Love heals wounds, inspires heroism, overcomes evil. We’ve been taught to believe that finding one’s soul mate leads to both sensual bliss and enduring satisfaction.

Very few books acknowledge the fact that lust can be equally powerful, that it can transform lives, reveal truths, and trigger epiphanies as profound as those produced by love.

Willson Rowe’s novella The Last Three Days is one of those precious books.

The Last Three Days chronicles the intense sexual relationship between Opal, a cynical young woman frustrated by the way her unfashionably heavy body has stunted her opportunities for success, and Luther, a well-heeled lawyer stuck in a loveless marriage to a celebrity sex symbol. Opal and Luther aren’t in love; in fact they don’t like each other all that much. However, they’re irresistibly attracted to one another, from their very first meeting at the seedy bar where Opal serves drinks. Their connection is visceral, chemical, irrational and amoral. It encompasses all their senses, but especially taste and smell. When they’re together, they sink to an animal level where nothing exists except the body of the other. When they’re apart, craving drives them back together.

It’s easy to dismiss this sort of lust as superficial or trivial. Willson Rowe shows how complex and nuanced physical desire can become. Though it probably springs from some sort of physiological or neurological compatibility, a meshing of pheromones or a complementarity in pleasure receptors, it soon acquires cognitive and emotional dimensions. If that were not the case, the mutual need would vanish as soon as the couple separated. Instead, memory and fantasy take over where chemistry leaves off, perpetuating, and in Opal’s and Luther’s case, deepening their mutual dependence.

He swore he could still taste her. Still smell her juices on his lips.

Three days later, a dozen guilt-driven showers, and she was still all over him. Luther pressed back against the cubicle door, searching for strength. His hands were birds of prey, tearing open his pants,

eviscerating them, curling sharp talons around his cock. He felt her touch on him as he stroked himself. He leaned his hand on the wall above the toilet, all thought of hygiene displaced by the wordless blaze of lust within him.

In no time he was there again, with the heat and the sound and the feel of her mouth around him. How she’d salved her hunger; slaked her thirst. The reverence of her greed.

The Last Three Days has the most complex timeline of any book I’ve read since The Time Traveler’s Wife. Mr. Rowe carries it off brilliantly. The book begins three days in the past, with Opal entering a hotel room, knowing Luther awaits her. It jumps back to the point three months earlier when Opal and Luther first met. The chapter alternate, one temporal stream chronicling the development of their relationship, the other advancing through the last three days of the title—three days during which the two character plan to kick their addiction to each other’s flesh. The streams gradually converge toward the present and the ironic climax of the tale. Not only is this structure elegant, but it also mirrors the jerky, episodic nature of Opal’s and Luther’s encounters—the furtive blow jobs in lavatories and the few hours they steal from their separate lives to meet in anonymous hotel rooms.

Mr. Rowe’s language is full of raw energy and a lush attention to the senses. He is particularly skilled at conveying the sensuality of Opal’s abundant flesh.

The bed creaks as she moves and he glances over. Her knees are

kissing, her pussy almost invisible. His fingers vibrate as he pictures himself gripping her thighs, pushing them up and out. Filling her armpits with her knees, and her pussy with his tongue. The divinity of her ass taunts him. She takes a deep breath, her round belly swells, forces her hips back. For an instant he spies the dark little crater between her cheeks. His fingers, his tongue, his cock, all shiver with recognition.

...

He turns away again, locking onto the full-bodied and ravenous

concoction of femininity asleep on the bed. All flesh, fluid and

scent. He finds the kink in her nose, the tiny scar on her chin. He

follows the outline of her body with his eyes, hovering at the erotic

puddles of flesh where her breasts and belly rest on the mattress.

He grinds his teeth and scowls. The way she tempts him without

effort—without consciousness—should be illegal.

Opal constantly taunts Luther about how pathetic he is, fucking a fat girl, but the lawyer worships every bit of her. She has a grace she doesn’t even recognize, that tears him apart.

The feeling is mutual, however. Like him, she can never get enough.

He stood, naked, and she sat on her feet before him, lustful and reverent. She rose to her knees, took a handful of his hard cock and

rubbed her face against him.

“Mmm... you again,” she said, and slid her tongue up the hot rippled belly. She filled her mouth with him, let his heat glide through her body. Coiling his fingers into her hair he pulled, driving himself all the way home. She gagged on his length and he hissed the way guys do.

Opal pulled on his arms, dragging him back to the couch. She ran the round length of her body up over his shaft until they were face to face, hip to hip, cock to cunt. It just kept happening.

She was in free-fall as she glided herself down over his thick cock. For a second she closed her eyes and just sat in his lap, her body still and sober but her nerves squirming like eels. She rode the sweet burn inside and put her hands behind her head, wordlessly giving her breasts over to him. He rolled them, pounded them like bread dough, tasted their every pore and molecule as she stroked him with her hips.

With a cruel bite of her nipple he sent her mind flying through the roof of her skull.

“Bastard. Gonna. Come. Again.” If only he’d... “Fuck!” If just that one time he’d spoil it. Maybe she could walk away from him.

The erotic tension builds to an unbearable level as Opal and Luther struggle to spend three days and nights together without succumbing to their lust. The story’s ending—I hesitate to call it a resolution—is wonderfully ambiguous.

I have nothing against love and happily ever afters. However, I celebrate when I discover a book that moves off the well-worn track of romance to explore other avenues of desire.

The Last Three Days is that sort of book.