Attention all authors! What do you do to get into the mood for writing the hot scenes in your books?
- I think about Josh Holloway
- and read sensuous fiction by other authors (Anne Rice is my favourite)
- or excerpts from my own books
The Hot and Bothered Cocktail Recipe
Pour Buttershots, Bailey's and Godiva into a mug of hot coffee, stir and serve.
That afternoon, Tanya stretched out on a massage table in one of the resort’s over-the-water bungalows. The strain was getting to her. Jack was not responding to her emails and she couldn’t find him in any of their usual chat rooms. It was a disaster.
“Something energizing?” asked the masseuse. “Something fun?”
She buried her face in the padded opening in the table. The floor was glass and she could see the ocean below. She heard the waves lapping against the bungalow’s wooden poles. The smell of frangipani and sandalwood oils hit her nostrils and she relaxed.
Strong slim fingers pressed into her shoulders, massaging away the knots and the stress bubbles. Tanya’s long sigh of relief grew into a soft moan of pleasure.
The woman’s hands never left Tanya’s skin as they rubbed tiny circles into her shoulders. Tanya’s muscles loosened, her body went deliciously slack and her thoughts turned to jelly. The woman stroked her back lower and lower, all the way to her buttocks. A far-away part of her brain wondered whether that was really appropriate, but it didn’t care for the answer.
Buttocks, legs, calves. Heel, ball of the foot, toes. The spaces between the toes. The sweet smell and the self-assured fingers. Bliss.
“Please turn over.”
“Huh?” Tanya didn’t want to move.
“Here, let me help.” The masseuse cradled her like a child against the twin pillows of her breasts, rolled her onto her side, then onto her back. The fingers resumed their magic. Quick staccato, like raindrops, on the scalp, temples, cheeks, jaw line. Long kneading strokes on the arms, hands, fingers. Feather caresses on the stomach, comforting yet oddly arousing. Through the haze of her tranquility, Tanya’s body began to respond to the pulse of the massage, her breath matching the tempo of the masseuse’s fingers.
It was all Andy’s fault.