Tuesday, November 18, 2014


Welcoming Jane Leopold Quinn to the blog today as a guest writer for the writing workshops. She has some wonderful ideas for writing those hot, hot, hot! sex scenes. Enjoy!

© by Jane Leopold Quinn

Let me tell ya', writing the hot, sensual, erotic, pulse-throbbing, limb-numbing love scene is only slightly less fun than participating in one. Writing it might be better because there are usually no miscues, no unseemly noises, no falling asleep right after it's over.

Actually, I like to write a scene that doesn't quite make it. I love to frustrate my hero. He becomes embarrassed in his "failure" and then obsessed with making it up to the heroine. I love a man who tries harder.

In truth, who can live up to what we come up with in our imaginations? The kind of love making we write primarily takes place at the beginning of a relationship and/or during some dangerous or suspenseful situation which is often hotter than it devolves into as the years go by. That's what makes it a romance novel. The initial pulse-pounding excitement of new love, whether it's graphic or more sweetly written.

And I'm not saying that love making down the road in a relationship can't be pulse-pounding, limb-numbing sex, but generally, romance novels are about the dawn of love.

Let me list a few guidelines that I use — certainly not a complete list — for writing my love scenes:

1.  Pretend I'm the camera circling around my couple, viewing them from all angles.

2.  Close my eyes (most of us are probably touch typists), go into my "zone," and run the scene through my imagination.

3.  Choreograph my characters' actions step by step, knowing where their hands and legs and lips are at all times.

4.  Use a delicate flick or brush of a fingertip to focus attention in a particular place. This makes the love scene, which is already a personal thing, even more intimate and focused.

5.  And, not least — I sometimes use humor to give the scene another dimension.

I'll use some of my own favorite scenes/examples to illustrate my points.

* * * * *

From HOME TO STAY, available now at - http://amzn.com/B00P3AQ8WQ

a bit of humor
…Hank falls asleep…

Panic. It's too fast. He bent to kiss her. He nudged his hips between her thighs, spread them, canted up her knees, his lips covering hers, consuming her mouth, and with no more preliminaries, no more foreplay than that, he plunged in. She uttered one low, continuous moan. It felt glorious. God, he was big, expanding, filling her unused muscles, forcing them to accept his length and breadth. He stretched out over her, straight-armed himself up again, and started to withdraw.
"Christ. Christ. Oh…damn." He was wild-eyed, shaking his head, hot breath puffing out like a steam engine.
She whimpered a no at what she thought was the loss of him. Then, he dipped in, did a little something with his hips, a little swirl just inside the entrance to her vagina. "Yes…yes…yes…" She squeezed her eyes closed at the delicious feel of him, arched up to meet him.
Balanced on one arm, he hooked her leg and pulled her knee upright, sliding inside further.
"God," she wailed and raised her other knee. Now, he was in all the way, filling her deeply, stroking every little nerve ending. "Oh, God!" It had been months and months, she was extremely sensitive, and he was magnificent.
It couldn't have been more than five thrusts, and he came. He stopped, buried as deeply as possible and nudged at her.
She moaned and tossed her head, felt the throb of his ejaculation. Any second now he'd do it again, and she'd come. God, he's heavy. No longer straight-armed above her he was crushing her chest. She opened her eyes and really looked at him. Still inside her, he groaned, a self-satisfied sound, his eyes closed, his face nestled against her ear.
Goddamn. He's asleep. The son of a bitch is asleep!

* * * * *

More from HOME TO STAY -

 focused attention…
Hank suggested a certain purchase to Nickie…

He thought he might bawl. His head spun. Bare. Naked. Skin. "Damn," he rasped into her mouth. "You bought 'em. The thong." He pulled her tighter against his hard, pulsing cock. "Goddamn." High on her hips, he sought the elastic band from the top of the T stretched across the shallow indentations above her ass. His forefinger delved down, tracing the path of her crack. "Jesus Christ, Almighty," he intoned reverently.
Neither breathed now.
He wanted inside her. Wanted to push her down and thrust inside her. His palm caressed her pussy, his fingers led him to her wet heat. Closer and closer. He inched the elastic aside. Dizzy with lust and hope, he lightly pinched her folds, slicking through the moisture. She seemed to be as lost as he was, moaning softly, continuously, and shimmying on his hand, pushing, urging him, pulling him into her heat.
She was so wet, so hot, so ready. He wanted to take his time, wanted to do this slowly, wanted the maximum pleasure for both of them. And, he didn't know if he could take it slow. Almost terrified at the intensity of his feelings, he knew he was in this too far to stop.
His lips skimmed over her face, her moans and soft pleas rasped in the night air. He circled the softening entrance to her body, the scent of her arousal drawing him in deeper. His thumb nudged her hot, stiff clit. "I owe you," he groaned.
That was all the permission he needed. He thrust two fingers inside her, filling her; his lips took the sound of her guttural growl as she arched into him.
Hard thrusts in, slow, dragging pulses pulling out. Over and over until she was stretched as tightly as a bow. And he was the arrow. She was wet…so hot…tight. On the verge of coming—he could feel the rippling contractions on his fingers—she panted and ground against him.
"Oh, God," she whimpered.
He placed his lips at her ear. "Come on, baby. I'm here." Slow and easy, he slid his fingers in and out. In hard, out slowly.
Her body shuddered.

* * * * *

From VALENTINE'S DAY, available now at - http://amzn.com/B007JCTXRS

…focus and choreograph…

"Oh, God, do it."
"Do what, Val?" He made his voice ingratiating, as if he didn't know what she wanted. I know what I want. To push her knees apart and thrust his cock as far in as it could go. Restraining his wild need, he gazed directly into her eyes. "What do you want me to do, sweetheart?"
"Unh, you know." She arched her back, thrusting her breasts in his face.
Her gem-hard, little nipples rasped on his cheek. His voice went low and whispery. "Tell me what you want me to do," as his lips caressed the outer curve of one breast.
"Say it." He lapped a wet path down her center, then nuzzled his nose into the fold under her breast. "Tell…" Nip. "…me." Lick. Nip.
"Put…your…mouth…on…" She was obviously in shivery agony, her quick breaths joggling his head.
"Where?" Rafe's mouth hovered over a nipple, letting his hot breath bathe her. Letting her anticipate. Torturing himself in the process.
"Nipple." She stretched the word out, a shrill order.
With a loud, snorting, flumping sound, Rafe obeyed and engulfed as much of her breast as he could get into his mouth.
"Oh, Jesus."
He heard her, knew it was more than she expected, and chuckled inwardly. Then he drew his lips up and suckled her in earnest. Suckle. Swirl. Suckle. Nip. Lap. Her head rolled from side to side. She'd drawn her knees up on either side of his hips and knocked them frantically into him.
"Rafe," she begged.

* * * * *

From A PROMISE AT DAWN, available now at - http://amzn.com/B00KX8KGL2

…choreograph and humor…

"I haven't had an orgasm, other than self-induced, in years," she whispered.
He cocked his head. "Pardon me? Years? You mean since your husband died."
She rubbed a hand over her face, pinching the bridge of her nose.
He threaded his fingers through the hair at her temple and smoothed it back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"Ken, my husband, was ill the last few years of his life." She didn't want to say any more, hoping Gil would understand.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "You had a rough time of it."
Tears gathered in her eyes, but she blinked them back. "I don't want to talk about that right now," she whispered.
"Okay, honey. Let's talk about this."
He brushed gentle fingers over her cheeks, against the corner of her mouth and covered her lips with his. She forgot the past. She concentrated on how wonderful it felt to be in his arms, to touch his skin, to curl her fingers around his muscular shoulders. His pony tail dropped over his shoulder and tickled the side of her face.
In the recesses of her consciousness, she heard dogs barking and tore her mouth away from his. "Gil, someone might be coming."
He nuzzled the hollow of her throat, eliciting a responsive moan from her.
"Gil." She gave his shoulders a little push. When he pulled up, she immediately missed the blanketing warmth of his body. A breeze cooled the heated perspiration coating her skin, making her shiver.
He got the message just as two greyhounds loped up to them, stopping short to cock their heads at the humans. Pulling the sides of her sweater together, she hastily buttoned it leaving her bra undone. Gil grabbed his shirt and slipped it back on. The dogs were soon followed by their owner.
"Hello, Mrs. Smithson," she greeted the older woman, hoping her smile didn't look like that of a guilty teenager.
* * * * *

From JAKE AND IVY, available now at - http://amzn.com/B00OEFC9LK

…focus and choreograph — literally, choreograph…

He didn't know exactly why but one dancer, eyes downcast, drew his gaze. Her feet slowly tapping a pulsing rhythm, she raised her skirts above her ankles, white frothy petticoats contrasted against her deep red gown. Then she hiked her skirts further, the ruffles cascading down her side. He stared at her narrow stamping feet, her long slim legs encased in black stockings. Her free arm sinuously, gracefully waved above her head. At the same moment his gaze touched her face, her head snapped up and her dark eyes met his.
And all hell—and heaven—broke loose.
Frozen in place, his arm, whiskey glass in hand, arrested as it rose to his lips. He clenched his other hand into a tight fist. Holding his breath, aware of the heat blanketing his chest and flaring through his belly, he heard a buzzing, like dozens of bees all fighting a range war in his ears. Blinking once, slowly, and realizing his mouth was open, he closed it with a snap of teeth. Grasping the warm stone arch next to him helped recover his equilibrium.
Turning her face away, she twirled around tapping out a beat echoing in every thud of his heart. Young innocent eyes, wide eyes, locked on his again. As she moved, bending and weaving her graceful dancer's body and arms, her sensuous Madonna smile teased him. After every spinning turn, she unerringly found him in the crowd. His body, after its long deprivation of female companionship, reacted to the messages sent down by his brain. Heat radiated from his trembling middle like too much whiskey on an empty stomach. Except this feeling was a hundred times more joyous and a hundred times more terrifying—and baffling. The heat washed over him warming his cold lonely heart. Sweat broke out over his upper lip. Nothing existed except this moment—no future, no past. Just this. He had lusted before certainly. But this was more.
And he knew it. Down deep.
He knew.
I want her. He hoped he hadn't said it aloud. I need her.
No! Panic-stricken, he argued with himself. Damn it. I don't need anyone.
The girl was a fine dancer. The footwork was simple enough but her arms and hands were the focus of her movements. Her long slim arms demonstrating the push-pull of the lovemaking of the flamenco hypnotized him. His lips pursed in a silent whistle. He wanted to wrap his hands around her lean supple waist and caress every inch of her. He wanted to trail his mouth all over her too—very slowly.
It was almost painful to watch her face, her amazingly changeable face. She looked sweet and innocent as a kitten one minute, the next she became sensuous and pouty, eyes flashing, hair flying. Her dark eyes and red full lips contrasted startlingly against the white of her face. His throat ached with the rapid beating of his heart and he passingly wondered why a Mexican girl's skin was so pale.

* * * * *

From ANCIENT TIES, alas, not available at the moment - coming soon!

…focus, choreograph, and circling like a camera…

©  "Take it off me," she countered.
His breath caught in his throat. Aroused beyond what he thought possible by her demand and the low rumble of her voice, he roughly jerked her tunic to her waist. Her bare breasts swollen and quivering, his mouth watered at the compelling sight of their cherry red tight nipples. Groaning, he bent his head and closed his mouth around one, suckling hard, massaging her with his tongue. Sweet woman. Salty from sweat and tasting of desire. He curled his big hands around her middle and pulled her up, wanting her closer. She squirmed and wiggled, cried out, raked her fingernails on his shoulders. Arousal building to the bursting point, he drew on her breast and rolled her nipple with his tongue until he heard her shrill moans over the pounding of his heart.
Abruptly, he released her and dragged his bare chest across her soft breasts. Gripping her cheeks, he angled his head and took possession of her lips. Parting them, he swept his tongue roughly in, greedily invading every corner the same way he wanted to shove his cock into her ripe pussy.
The tunic clinging to her hips had to come off. Reaching behind his neck, he grabbed her wrists, pulling her arms above her head, pinning them to the wooden door.
"Yes," Janney growled. The man he'd fought, it had been the man from last night.
This was a different Marek. The primal warrior she'd only glimpsed last night. His breathing, harsh and loud, puffed on her face and neck as he kissed her hard. Her breasts bobbed with her choppy breaths. He roughly palmed them, cupping and squeezing then together in one large hand. Groaning gutturally, she arched into him. He jerked her tunic down. She twisted her hips, frantic for him.
The soft material of his leggings barely restrained his taut erection. She wanted that. Wanted his thick cock. Inside her. She rubbed her pussy against his thigh and panted, "Fuck me!" Hot and ready, begging. "Please…"
Two quick shoves and his leggings came off. Kicked away.
She was dizzy at the sight of his jutting cock, as hard and feral as he was. His muscles glistened—bulging shoulders and thighs. He was huge, overwhelming, overpowering and she wanted him to master her. To surround her in his potent heat.
His eyes glittered savagely and he raked his gaze over her body from her confined wrists to her bare scrunching toes. He ground his cock on her belly, his body slipping and sliding with sweat against hers.
She hissed in carnal excitement.
With an answering growl, he released her hands, roughly gripped her bottom and lifted her. "Spread your legs."
He thrust. Deeply.
Triumphant, she tightened her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.
Belly to belly. Chest to breast. He was in. Her slick pussy closed around his heat, taking him home. "God, yes…" The cry tore out of her. She rocked, felt her interior muscles fiercely massage him, tighten around him. Started coming.

* * * * *

Here are a few questions that have been asked about erotic writing. These are just my opinions, so anyone else should jump in here too:

1.         What makes erotic romance good?

If it turns you, as the writer or reader, on then it's good. What's the point of it otherwise? Warm and fuzzy, hot and bothered, or you need to run into the other room for your partner or a device — whatever — that's the point of erotic romance. Whether there's a story or not, if it doesn't turn you on, then it's not erotic. Sweet or mild sex may turn you on, but erotic must!

2.         Do you write only what appeals to you or cater to the marketplace?

You write both. You can do both if you're creative. Readers expect certain acts from certain authors or certain publishers. I've had to creatively write to that without sacrificing how I want my scene to be. If there are scenes or sex acts or words that you do not want to write, then look around for another publisher or publish the book yourself. There's a heat level for every taste out there.

3.         Do you incorporate scenes toward the male audience?

I think we primarily write for women. I think romance novels are a primer for love making. They show men how women like things done and what women like. They should be "required reading" for the male population.  *;) winking

4.         What appeals to males?

I cut out an article from Cosmo a couple years ago called, "101 Hot Sex Tips from Guys." I thought it would come in handy. There were some very interesting and surprising things listed from the very obvious to the very specific. For example:

Say my name.
Nibble my bottom lip.
Never knock your body.
Watch me go in and out of you.
Wear high heels.
Suck on my stomach right below my belly button. (Now, that's pretty specific!)

* * * * *

Bio for Jane Leopold Quinn
Sensual fantasies were locked in my mind for years until a friend said, "Why don't you write them down?" Why not, indeed? One spiral notebook, a pen and the unleashing of my imagination later, and here I am with more than a dozen books published. The craft of writing erotic romance has become my passion and my niche in life. I love every part of the creative process — developing characters, designing the plot, even drawing the layout of physical spaces from my stories. My careers have been varied — third grade school teacher, bookkeeper, secretary — none of which gave me a bit of inspiration. But now I'm lucky enough to write romance full time — the best job in the universe!

My Books
Ellora's Cave
Lost and Found
Valentine's Day
His Hers & His
The Keeper
Soldier, Come Home
Winning Violetta
A Promise at Dawn
Jake and Ivy
Wooing the Librarian
Home to Stay
The Long Road to You (coming soon)
Undercover Lover
Mercenary Desires
I'll Be Your Last

Jane Leopold Quinn
My Romance:  Love With a Scorching Sensuality

Monday, November 17, 2014

Welcome to Mystic Shade!

Did you notice the new tab at the top? I've finally gotten around to giving Mystic Shade her own page here at the website. Check out the page by clicking on the tab above (or click here if you are on a mobile).

But be warned! Mystic's books are not for the faint of heart!!! She's not writing romances, she's writing erotica that is sometimes dark in nature. Remember, she writes,

...for the shadier sides of our desires....

Play safe!

Sunday, November 09, 2014

Second life workshop

I'll be in Second Life in about an hour, giving a workshop for NaNoWriMo on "Building the Novel of your World." It starts at 2 PM SLT time (Pacific time to the rest of us). :)

You can find the SURL here. Just scroll down the page a little to today's date. The Virtual Writers have a great site, so take a look around it while you're there.

Hope to see you inworld!


Monday, November 03, 2014

A little learning is a dangerous thing...

I need to share something I’ve learned in my research about the American Revolution that absolutely has me stunned. Because my story focuses on the British occupation of New York, I’ve had to delve deep into the Loyalist position.

Now understand this…I have always seen myself as a patriot. I’ve visited Boston and walked the Freedom Trail, I’ve gone to Philadelphia and put my hand in the crack of the Liberty Bell. I’ve watched 1776 more times than I can count and I’ve gone to Valley Forge, Monticello and Mount Vernon…some of them more than once. I like Benjamin Franklin and Jefferson, would probably fight with John Adams and be a little bit shy of George Washington. If you asked me the woman from history I’d most like to meet? Hands down, no contest…Abigail Adams. I have so many questions I’d love to ask her!

Because I so closely identify with the side of the rebellion here, I have never really understood the Tory side. Those who called themselves “Loyalists” always seemed blind to me. How could they want to remain with the oppressor unless they were 1) evil or 2) stupid?

Well, of course, they weren’t the first. With the exception of a few who advocated for what today we call a “scorched earth” policy (New York’s own Governor Tryon among the worst of that lot!), most of the British officers felt they were in the right to punish malcontents who disrupted the peace. And make no mistake…the rebels had their share of nasty characters. Tarring and feathering is painful – and often deadly.

And my research is showing me the Loyalists weren’t stupid, either. Most shared the rebel’s opinions concerning the wrongness of the taxes, the abandonment of civil rule for martial law, and the quartering of British soldiers in their homes. That is what has stunned me. Loyalists felt the same way as the patriots did.

So why didn’t they join the rebellion? That had me stumped for quite a while, but I get it now. The key lies in the phrase “Unnatural rebellion.” There’s a book by that title that provides a wonderful, balanced presentation of opinions by Ruma Chopra and I highly recommend it. She’s not the only one to explain it, but she’s the one who helped me understand it the most.

To the patriots, separation from the Mother Country was the only logical step left for them. They’d tried all the legal means and Parliament and the King refused to acknowledge the depth of their grievances. The men of the Second Continental Congress understood and were grateful for all the help England had given the colonies over the years, but the reality was, we needed to grow and they didn’t understand that. Separation was the only alternative.

But to the Loyalists, separation was anathema. It wasn’t legal. It could never be right. Yes, Parliament didn’t understand the needs of the colonies, but they only needed the right words, the right speaker and they would understand. The British military forces were the greatest in the world—why would one not want to be a part of that? Oaths of loyalty had been taken to King and Country – those were not to be broken.

So even though New York was under martial law starting the day after the Howe brothers sailed into the harbor, Loyalists flocked to the city from all over the colonies not because they felt the British were in the right, but because they felt the Patriots were in the wrong.

It’s really an Erasmus/Martin Luther situation. Those two were great friends, both of whom chafed under what they saw as corruption and wrongdoing in the church they served as priests just a century and a half before the Revolution. Erasmus counseled for change within the system. Martin Luther felt a more radical approach was needed, finally listing the ninety-five things that needed addressing and going very public with them.

We know the upshot of that little list. Because Martin Luther wouldn’t back down, despite his friend’s pleas to stay with in the church and work with the other priests, he was tossed out and his followers started a new church.

Of course, this led to others taking that step as well and the single church now became many. Those who stayed the course needed a name for their religion to distinguish it from all the others and chose the word “catholic” – a word that means “universal.” Those who left were “protest-ants” because they were protesting the wrongs within the church. Hence, they became the “Protestants.”*

I’m sure there are many more examples throughout history, but the point is, I’m getting it now. When people are stomped on and their rights taken away, when they are not paid a living wage and are starving and hungry, some will go outside the law and rebel and others will work within the law to change the situation.

I just realized something else. Tomorrow Americans head to the polls to vote for Governors and state representatives. Some of us also have law proposals on the ballot that we need to make decisions about. It is our chance to work within the law to make changes we feel strongly about.

Am I still a patriot? Yes. Breaking with the rulers who didn’t understand was the right thing to do then. Am I a rebel today? Less so. I feel my vote counts and am willing to stay within the system to make a change. Does that make me a Loyalist? I’m beginning to wonder…

Play safe, VOTE, and thanks for listening :)

*A simplistic telling of events, but you get my point. I hope.