Greetings from the Slush Pile

Every author has to cut scenes she loves from a book. Today we visit one cut from Dracula's Secret. I loved the sensuality and the ideas of traditional femininity. But it slowed down the plot to a snail's pace, so it had to go.

***

      Valerie examined the headless body in front of her. This might be the most difficult thing she had ever faced. She touched the pit of her neck, the rest of her petrified by the sight.

      The dressmaker’s dummy, dressed in exquisite sunset orange European silk and cream-colored lace, paralyzed her.

      Jane’s Vanity was a small, unassuming, and thoroughly intimidating lingerie store. The vampire took a hesitant step towards the door and clutched the door handle. Her vision wavered. Hundreds of years of habit held her outside the store. Valerie had never worn any sort of sexually attractive undergarments since she’d begun dressing as a woman. Her quest had kept her focused on the all-consuming goal. Her expensive outerwear had been an investment in camouflage and disguise. Honesty forced her to admit that she had bought her dragon-embroidered coat for pleasure.

      Now she had the chance to wear something for pleasure. A terrifying thought.

      Fearlessness, she reminded herself as she swung open the gleaming door. A little bell rang cheerily as she entered the tiny store. As Valerie stroked a Belgian lace parasol, a small drama unfolded before her.  A shy-looking Indian woman swung a pink silk gown off the rack and held it in front of herself. The color brought out the gleam of her thick black hair and brought a healthy warmth to her brown skin. She smoothed the fabric against her body as she looked in the mirror.

      Valerie licked her lips at the sound of skin on silk, heat building in her belly. Centuries as a man had given her a deep seated appreciation of women.

Want to read the real story of Dracula? Read Dracula's Secret!

Amazon , Barnes and Noble, Kobos

Courting the Chippendale's dancers.

Last week, I did something I'd wanted to do since I was in high school:

I saw the Chippendales show!!

Me and the boys. Aren't they wonderful sports?

 The venue was at the Rio Casino in Las Vegas. What a group of talented men - they can sing, they can dance, they can make taking off a pair of gloves incredibly sexy.

I asked their dance captain if  I could interview him. Of course, the Chippendales are an internationally renowned dance troupe, and I'm a romance writer, but I really want to know their opinions on a number of subjects. Here are the questions I came up with before (and after) the show.

1. Chippendales has been at the forefront of women's sexual liberation since 1979. How have the shows and the fantasies changed? What remains the same?

2. What three pieces of advice would you give to men to be more confident in their sexuality?

3. Quite frankly, the men of Chippendales know how to work in front of a camera. Can you share the secrets of how to pose??

First kisses

Here is a repost from June 10, 2010. Of the first kiss in my first novel.

I'm in the mood for a first kiss.

From Dracula's Secret - Valerie and Lance's first kiss:

Lance ambled forward, his gaze locked on her lips. He clasped her hand, caressing his thumb over the thin skin of her wrist. Her eyes stayed on him as he wrapped his other hand around her neck and, pulling her to him, touched his lips to hers. Her mouth surprised him. Such a starkly beautiful woman shouldn’t be so soft and plush.

For a few wild seconds, she stared into his eyes, seeming to assess his sincerity.

Then, slowly, deliberately, she closed her eyelids. Her hands wrapped around his back and held on as she opened her mouth and let him in.

He kissed her again and again, learning her mouth. Vampires didn’t taste of old blood or decay. Valerie, at least, tasted resinous and earthy, like rosemary. Like sex outdoors on a blanket under young redwood trees.

Their lips separated just far enough for him to look into her heavy-lidded hazel eyes. The hungry look on her face made his cock swell even harder until he ached to be inside of her.

She scratched at his nipples with her short nails. He hissed as he pressed into her touch. He clasped her chin with one hand. Clasping the other around her waist, he pushed her against a wall. Lance smiled as her eyes widened. He had his own gifts of supernatural-level strength.

Grabbing her ass, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and pushed against her hot crotch against his thumping erection. Their teeth clicked in a fierce kiss.

His hands kneaded the firm flesh of her bottom. Even through her pants he felt her muscles flex and quiver. She growled and slid her hands under his leather coat. His next powerful thrust had her raking her nails down his back. Lance offered no quarter. Neither did she. They fought for dominance with kisses.

She couldn’t overpower him. He met her, strength for strength, stroke for stroke, then matched her, and finally controlled her.

They broke apart. As they stared into each other’s eyes, he panted into her mouth. She took the unnecessary air into her lungs.

Vampires didn’t breathe, except to speak or scent. Oxygen, like alcohol in humans, made them euphoric, light-headed, and uninhibited. The undead hated being out of control. Her pupils dilated until the barest ring of hazel held. What would she do?

Valerie dug her hands into his hair. “More.”

Question of the Ages.

Today's topic:

Men's underwear.

The Seducer, by Gregg Homme

What is the sexiest to you?

Hitting it, Minnesota style.

A friend of mine (yes, a Minnesotan) asked for some sexy times in a ice fishing hut. And this is what I came up with.

Ice hard

Minnesota in winter was a hard place.

But not nearly hard enough, Mrs. Bjorn Johnson concluded. That damn Bjorn, fishing addict he was, had been up in that there damn ice fishing hut for the entire weekend, tending to the entirely wrong set of holes.

How was a woman supposed to get any lovin’ this way? She’d even wore her sexiest nightie -the long insulated green one without any feet – to bed last night, but her beloved Big B merely gave her a wet smacking kiss on the cheek and rolled over.

Discouraged, she’d put her footie pajamas back on and spent the night coming up with her cunning plan. If Mohammad couldn’t come to the mountain….

Already dressed in her warmest garments, Julika, sturdy, independent woman she was, strode across the three foot thick ice and throw the blowing snow to Bjorn’s sizable ice-fishing hut.

Not even knocking, she flung open the door. “Hello, darling,” she sing songed, walking into the heated room.

“Holeee cannooooli, Julika, what are you doing here?” Bjorn’s arousing Minnesotan drawl tingled her neglected places as he leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair he’d been perched on watching the black waters under the ice. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, revealing strong forearms, just like Paul Bunyan. Julika pressed her thighs together at the sight.

“Why, can’t a devoted wife see to her husband’s comfort?” she purred, peeling off her thermal mittens, her scarf, ear muffs, and stocking cap with the panache and confident cocked hip of a showgirl.

Bjorn gulped.

She unzipped her down coat, tooth by agonizing tooth, holding Bjorn’s gaze the entire time. He swallowed as she tossed it onto his small table, scattering fishing magazines and a lone copy of Maxim. She’d pin his ears back good about that later. Right now, this real life woman’s real life needs demanded attention. She was on a mission.

Her insulated vest went next. She peeled and tugged and unzipped and unbuttoned until she stood before him in her boots and clinging silk thermal long johns.

“Bjorn, I just had to know how your…pole…was doing.” Julika ran her hands up and down her torso and breasts just like she’d seen in the stripper aerobics tape Annika had snuck to her under the table at the last Church Ladies’ Social.

Her man’s blue eyes bugged out at her hard nipples and unbound hair. A gratifying lump appeared in his flannel lined jeans.

Leaning against the table, she spread her legs, letting him get a good look at her puffy hoo-ha pressed against her longies. Her fingers delved past the waist band of the drawers and stroked aching flesh.

“Now, you gonna provide for your woman, Bjorn Johnson, or am I going to have to become a DIY gal?”

****************************

What is your favorite "not the usual location" setting?

A highly intimate question.

Ok, men. I'm writing a fellatio scene and I want to do it from a man's point of view. What it is about fellatio that you enjoy? The warmth? The tightness, the visual? And give me your emotions, too. What goes on in your brain and heart during that time? Do you touch her? Praise her? Tell me what would make this scene come alive for a male reader.

I really want to avoid language that involves words like "member" or "manhood", because those make me laugh, and I'm assuming it would make you laugh. Or does the thought of someone thinking of your equipment (another giggler, but I'm trying to be delicate here, if not in the manuscript) as your essence excite you?

And remember, this is for posterity, so be honest.

Quick, name that quote!

Whose fantasies are they?

When I told my fellow writers that I was posting my characters' sexual fantasies, they said, "I can't believe you are sharing your sexual fantasies with the world!"

I was startled. These postings haven't been my fantasies. They are the heated imaginings of imaginary people.

"But doesn't that make them yours?" I can hear you asking. The answer is, not really. Oh, of course, every character a writer discovers has elements of that character inside of the. Like Sophia, I am very organized and often overwhelmed by the dominant personalities in my family of birth as well as in my family of choice. Like Celeste, I love flamboyant clothing and have trouble believing that people will help me. And for my delicious hero, Gabriel, I, too, am afraid of my temper. Like Zane, I have vast ambitions.

But they aren't all me. These characters also have elements of people I've met, other fictional characters I've read, and experiences I've heard from others.

For example, I have never fantasized about sex on a horse. (My poor back! The horse's poor back!) Then where did this idea come from?

Back in 1990, Laura Kinsale wrote her groundbreaking Prince of Midnight.  (Thank heavens it has been re-issued. Read it! It's brilliant)

The final love scene between Leigh (the heroine) and S.T. (the hero) is one of the most passionate, intimate love scenes I'd ever read. Let me repeat. This was in 1990. Over twenty years is a long time remember one love scene in one book that I read once.  I cannot forget the visuals of the sunlight in the riding ring where S.T. was practicing his horsemanship, how he coaxed Leigh onto the horse and onto his lap.

I will point out, I read a LOT.

The memory of that fictional encounter inspired me. Can *I* write a love scene worthy of the gifted Ms. Kinsale? Can I pull out the emotion, the passion, the emotional connection between those two very different people that Laura did? Can I express the pleasure that she so skillfully wrote?

Like I said. I have vast ambitions. If I'm going to challenge myself, I'm going to do it big.

Whose fantasies are they? I hope the ones I write will be yours, too.

Fantasies for all: Part two

I continued with my experiments on building character by exploring their sexual fantasies. And it was *fun*! I highly recommend this game.

My hero, Gabriel Rector, is a bit of a tight ass. He's Mr. Under Control for a good reason - he sees dead people. And he fears that some day his visions will destroy his sanity.

His fantasies are the only place where he safely experiences loss of control.

• Gabriel's Anytime, Anyplace fantasy: This one surprised me - Gabe would give his left arm for a woman to perform enthusiastic fellatio on him. A woman who wants to lick and suck as though she can't get enough of him - she would place her hands on his ass and set the pace until she makes him explode. 
• Gabriel's With Reservations fantasy: Gabe is a bit of a geek. And what geek doesn't dream of being a young Dick Grayson as Robin being sexually initiated by a slinky and confident Catwoman? And then turning the tables on her until she is a panting, wet, begging kitty-cat? But there is no way he could even bring up a dream like that without being sure that his partner wouldn't laugh.
• Gabriel's No Way in Hell: This one is so forbidden because it feeds on both his need to control and be out of control. It's a variant on a gangbang - three men on one woman, tying her up, fucking her, and everyone cumming as much as possible. That is waaayy to scary for Mr. Buttoned Up from Oklahoma.

What do you think? Are there any differences between figuring out a man's sexual fantasy versus a woman's?

Fantasies for all: Part one

My heroine in my latest work in progress is Sophia Barros, a Portuguese-American woman who lives in the Seattle area. At the beginning of the book, she has an earthy but unexplored sensuality. When I got into her erotic mind, this is what I found. 

1. Sophia's Make It Real Anytime, Anyplace, No Reservations At All Fantasy.

     She wants a lover who would hold her and kiss her passionately in public. Tongue for bonus points. And ass grabbing. When she's feeling particularly bold, she imagines them engaging in frottage (that is commonly called dry-humping or grinding). 

I was pleased to find this fantasy inside of my heroine. This tells me she is willing to take risks. So I dug a little further.

2. Sophia's Make It Real ONLY Under Certain Conditions Fantasy.

    She wants to be in control. As a grade school librarian, she is at the mercy of administrators, teachers, students, and parents. Sophia wants to take a man and use him as she wants.

My girl surprised me with this one. But it was nothing compared to what she thought should be kept only in her mind.


3. Sophia's No Way, Only in My Mind, It Could Never Work Fantasies:
    My little minx wants to be the only girl in the middle of three men! All those mouths, cocks, and hands working over her body. And from there, she went on to imagine lovemaking on top of a horse - the movement of the animal forcing her lover's penis inside of her harder and harder.


Well! I was amazed to find what she kept tightly under wraps. I now know just want kind of challenges I'm going to throw her way. I think Sophia is in for more of an adventure than she could ever imagine.

Where has all the sexy gone??

For the past several months, I've been blogging about self-doubt, writing rituals, and the RWA National Conference. I have been properly informative and full of profound thoughts.

How very respectable of me!

Meanwhile, my work in progress was going in fits and starts. Even worse, it sounded like some sort of tight-ass had written it. Where was the spark? Where was the white-hot action I promise??

I had forgotten than I am always more creative and prolific when I am not respectable.

In an effort to charge my batteries, I opened Susie Bright's book, How to Read/Write an Erotic Story.

As one of the leaders of the modern erotic writing movement, Susie surely knew some ways to overcome inhibition!

On page 83, I found a writing game that rocked me right out of my rut. Here's the game:

Write down an erotic fantasy about a sexual experience you would have in a minute if it were offered to you, no questions asked. It should be something that you would have no reservations or conditions about doing in real life.

Write down an erotic fantasy about a sexual experience you would only have under certain circumstances. You could give yourself up wholeheartedly under these conditions, but otherwise, not at all.

Write down an erotic fantasy about a sexual experience that is completely satisfying to you in your imagination, but which you could not do because it is either physically impossible, or something you could never bring yourself to do in real life....Yet in your mind, it is completely hot and fulfilling.

The first thing I did was write down my own thoughts, then I did the exercise for each of my main characters. I had a great time, and now I know my characters much more than I did.

I'll be posting what I learned about my characters in the following entries. As for mine....We'll have to see if I can overcome my self-editing all the way!

Advice to men, from a romance writer.

I'm a romance writer. This means I am a student of interactions between people- especially interactions that involve sexual or romantic tension.

Basically, the above is a nice way to say that I  spend a lot of time watching men.

While I'm watching men, I study their body language, the way they talk, the way they move, and how they present themselves.*

If it is true that men think of sex every seven seconds,  they certainly do not dress in a way that invites the female to think sexy thoughts about them. And forget getting them interested to approach the guy!

When I've been out and about, I've seen far too many heterosexual couples out on a date where the lady has put on a flattering outfit, worn stylish jewelry and pretty shoes, and applied makeup, while the gentleman (and I'm using the term loosely here) looks like he has just finished mowing the lawn in his flip flops, droopy shorts, and baseball cap.

Let me tell you that under these circumstances, the ladies never displayed any preening behaviors, or exhibited attraction in her body language. None of them were impressed.

For the next few days, I will present a romance writer's guide to male style. After all, I want to use you as inspiration for a romance hero!

*(If you are a guy and you see an extra-curvy, middle-aged [yet glamorous] woman staring at you, then taking notes, square your shoulders, spread your legs a little and give me a wink. I promise I'll blush).

Men, women, and sex: It's not what you think it may be.

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Men, women, and sex: It's not quid pro quo.

A long time ago, my mother told me that men traded love in order to have sex and that women traded sex in order to have love. In other words, men will put up with cuddling and speaking gentle words as long as the woman allows him access to her vagina. Likewise, she will tolerate his thrusting for what she really wants - companionship and warmth.

My mother was a wise and generous woman.  Throughout her far too short life, she had given me a great deal of stellar advice. In this case, though, I intuitively knew this was complete bull-pucky.

This belief turns a lover's trailing caress into a transaction, bought and paid for. Not a shared pleasure, not in invitation to play or share, but an exchange best for a brothel.  I could feel it in my teenaged bones - if you treat your partner like a prostitute, it will lead to resentment, anger, and the death of something that once was joyful and a source of delight.

Quite frankly, a real prostitute gets more respect from the open exchange of money than anyone involved in the hostile exchange described above.

A brothel picture from Pompeii.

The nastiest part of that saying? It's an insidious belief, one that is not spoken of directly. Instead, it lurks in our unspoken assumptions, leading us into a starvation economy of affection, touch, and attention.

I want lovers to come to each other for pleasure, a sharing of passion and excitement.  I'm doing my best to destroy this pernicious saying.

And I want you to help me. Tell me what stereotypes about love and relationships you want to eliminate.

The meat of the matter.

In romance and erotica writing, the men have large penises. I've not read a story about a man's thin or short cock, even though every single heterosexual woman out there knows that they come in all shapes and sizes.  And every single one is capable of bringing great pleasure. Not only that, we also know that too-big cocks can hurt.

So why the obsession?  After reading Nancy Friday for many years, I culled the following theories:

1. Fantasies are symbolic of what someone wants in their life. A dream of a big penis, a huge, giant monster that fills you up and satisfies you - well. Sounds like a shout for MORE MORE MORE, doesn't it?

2.That MORE MORE MORE isn't just about sex. It's about wanting more excitement, more time to relax, more ease and just plain more fun. Nothing represents a really great day better than a big, hard penis.

3. It's also a bit of a boast - "I'm such a powerful woman, it takes something powerful to satiate me and please me."

4. That shout of MORE can also represent frustration with the "Good Girl" role - you know, the one where a woman is shamed if she initiates, shares her fantasies, is experimental, or just plain curious. Talk about a rebellion! Desire for more starts every revolution, even a small one where an individual simply wants the freedom to read what she truly wants.

Those are my theories. What are yours?

Inspiration!

Ideas are everywhere, but my favorite place to get hot images and  thoughts is Filament Magazine.

You want images of skinny men with tattoos, piercings, and letting their freak flag fly?

They have them.

You like more a more traditional, masculine look?

They have that, too.

What they don't have? Diets, celebrity gossip, and fashion. This magazine assumes that women are intelligent, sexual, varied, and curious.

Go over to their Facebook page and check out their hot, hot men. And subscribe!

(all photos from Filament. No copyright infringement intended, nor am I getting any presents for talking about this magazine. I'm posting these because I want every writer and photographer out there to look at this groundbreaking work!)

Research

Some days, you just gotta do some research on blue-eyed men who deliver the cool - Paul Newman and Daniel Craig for today.

Why I fear description.

I do fear description. If I'm going to write a story that actually has plot and action, I tend to scrimp on setting. And I'll show you why. Here's a quick, off the top of my head snippet to show what happens when I describe.

In Champaign, Illinois, the main road through the University of Illinois campus is Green Street. On the north side of the street reside the engineers. To the south are liberal arts, ag, LIS, and the rest. And the cities of Urbana and Champaign had been built over a swamp that had been drained. So when it rains, the water table rises quickly and fiercely. The Boneyard Creek flows fast and hard and the streets flood (along with basements and sewers). On Green Street, when it rains, the water gathers and runs in the gutters, overspilling into the street turning this road into a fountain.

During the brutally hot summers we get here, the summer rains are a blessing and a curse. Sometimes they bring cool relief, sometimes they just bring more steam. But they bring flooding to the cities, too, dangerous, slippery. And they fill the streets with water, warm, inviting, cleansing. I have splashed in puddles as deep as my ankles and waded in ponds up to my hips on Green Street.

One very rainy day, my lover and I had walked to get food at AJ Wingers. This was a very special man. Of course, all of my lovers were wonderful but this one....Ah, words fail me. Skilled, compassionate, loving, passionate, uninhibited, no words can fully explain this one. Someone once tried to pin me down on his most wonderful trait. Stammering, I had replied that he was a good listener.

As we walked, the rain kept coming. We watched the rain fall as we ate and we kissed the sauce off of each other's faces. We began the walk back - giggling over our folly at not driving or taking the bus. The rain kept falling. Our shoes immediately drenched through, no matter how much we tried to avoid the puddles. Our jeans clung to our skin. We took off our shoes and splashed through parking lots, curbs, and streets. Cars would pass and splash water as high as our heads.

We got to his apartment, and shrieking with laughter at ourselves, we peeled our clothes off and draped them over chairs and doors. We wrung out our socks in the bathroom sink, and put our shoes over radiator vents. We eventually showered, embracing the heat and steam of this water as gleefully as we had embraced the rain. We kissed and kissed and kissed under the hissing showerhead. His hands, so large and competent, lathered my back and legs, rubbing circulation back into my feet and neck. I stroked soap into his chest and armpits, playing with his body hair. We kissed some more. For the rest of my life, I will see him like this, his head tilted under the streaming water, his hair slicked back, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open at the pleasure of taking a shower.

We dried off using his one towel (for all of his wonderful traits, sometimes he was almost a stereotypical single man), still kissing, still giggling. His kisses remain on my mind - so intense that the sensation of his lips blotted out the world and destroyed rational thought. How to describe it? He kissed like my mouth, my pleasure and his, were the only things that existed or ever will exist. He kissed as if kissing alone were the most divine pleasure ever given, not as a prelude or introduction, something perfunctorily done to satisfy protocol. He kissed me like my mouth was his Holy Grail and his True Cross combined. He kissed as though he meant it.

We shimmied under his covers and our bodies entwined, wrapping around each other. Sometimes I felt like our bodies were two pieces of rope, coming together in a knot. We kissed and touched and sucked. We made love.

Even now, my hips curl and my stomach clenches at the memory of that afternoon - at a lovemaking so profound, so powerful, so intense. It was the sum of my universe - it was slow and powerful, it was fast and fierce.

We were falling in love.

In a way we never had before, and never will again.

And our bodies betrayed it.

It's emotional and lovely and nothing happens. There is no plot, there is no conflict, there is no character development.

I was going for a little slice of life with this piece- I wanted to record a beautiful memory. I succeeded at that. Unfortunately, I can't use it anywhere else since it doesn't move any action forward.

Dammit!

Sexy, sexy, sexy.

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Getting Silly.

In my short story challenge, another friend dared me to challenge the stereotypes of absolute dominance and submission.

The deepest submission

“Tonight, our pet, is the final test. If you pass this one, you will be our fully collared live-in slave, both owned and cherished.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine and through my cock, making the bell on the end of its cage chime.  I kept my lips firmly pressed to the shining floor by her foot. What would my Master and Mistress do to me? They had tested me over and over since I approached them to be their slave.

Their stern hands and whispered orders gave delights, and revealed my secrets. They peeled me open like an artichoke, demanding I give up my tender heart.

“Wait for us in your basket,” his deep rumbling voice ordered. I kissed his feet, careful not to brush my stubble against his skin, and scooted to my dog den -a deep wicker basket lined with cushions. To be kept like a dog, waiting on their whim, was all I wanted. I yearned to found worthy of their permanent collar.

My Master and Mistress were flawless physical specimens of dominant power. She towered at six feet, with radiant skin and glossy black hair. He was even taller, and surely heaven would forgive me if I thought of a Tom of Finland drawing whenever I saw his sculpted body and strong features.

The heavy tread of his boots heralded his arrival.

“Come here.”

I crawled out of my nest and touched my lips to the boots I had learned to polish to his exacting standards.

“Look at me.”

Smiling in delight, I let my gaze range up his perfect body encased in black leather. His strong calves, muscular thighs lead to an enticing bulge in his codpiece. I always knew I had done well when he rewarded me by letting me look at his rippling belly and chest. I finally reached his face, and gasped.

A bright red clown nose sat in the middle of his Greek god features.


Astonished, I flicked my eyes to my Mistress. Her face carried no such outrageous adornment. Her corset and opera gloves hugged her body as closely as I yearned to touch her. A six foot long singletail slithered behind her.

But instead of her usual sky high heels, pink fuzzy bunny slippers waggled their ears at me as she stepped forward.

“Well?” Her imperious voice snapped me out of my stare.

I looked at the object in her hand.

“Do you accept our token?” he asked.

I stared between them. A grin broke out on my face. I grabbed the deely bobbers from her hand and shoved it on my head. The bright green glittery shamrocks wobbled back and forth as I sat up.

“I’m yours,” I declared.

Ice Hard.

A long time ago, I challenged my good friends to stretch my erotic imagination. Give me a scenario, a kernal of an idea, and I'd come up with a short story from it. One person said I should write a sexy scene in an ice fishing hut.

It's a Minnesota thing. Just roll with it.

***

Ice hard

Minnesota in winter was a hard place.

But not nearly hard enough, Mrs. Bjorn Johnson concluded. That damn Bjorn, fishing addict he was, had been up in that there damn ice fishing hut for the entire weekend, tending to the entirely wrong set of holes.

How was a woman supposed to get any lovin’ this way? She’d even wore her sexiest nightie -the long insulated green one without any feet – to bed last night, but her beloved Big B merely gave her a wet smacking kiss on the cheek and rolled over.

Discouraged, she’d put her footie pajamas back on and spent the night coming up with her cunning plan. If Mohammad couldn’t come to the mountain….

Already dressed in her warmest garments, Julika, sturdy, independent woman she was, strode across the three foot thick ice and throw the blowing snow to Bjorn’s sizable red ice-fishing hut.

Not even knocking, she flung open the door. “Hello, darling,” she sing songed, walking into the heated room.

“Holeee cannooooli, Julika, what are you doing here?” Bjorn’s arousing Minnesotan drawl tingled her neglected places as he leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair he’d been perched on watching the black waters under the ice. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Julika pressed her thighs together at the sight.

“Why, can’t a devoted wife see to her husband’s comfort?” she purred, peeling off her thermal mittens, her scarf, ear muffs, and stocking cap with the panache and confident cocked hip of a showgirl.

Bjorn gulped.

She unzipped her down coat, tooth by agonizing tooth, holding Bjorn’s gaze the entire time. He swallowed as she tossed it onto his small table, scattering fishing magazines and a lone copy of Maxim. She’d pin his ears back good about that later. Right now, this real life woman’s real life needs demanded attention. She was on a mission.

Her insulated vest went next. She peeled and tugged and unzipped and unbuttoned until she stood before him in her boots and clinging silk thermal long johns.

“Bjorn, I just had to know how your…pole…was doing.” Julika ran her hands up and down her torso and breasts just like she’d seen in the stripper aerobics tape Annika had snuck to her under the table at the last Church Ladies’ Social.

Her man’s blue eyes bugged out at her hard nipples and unbound hair. A gratifying lump appeared in his flannel lined jeans.

Leaning against the table, she spread her legs, letting him get a good look at her puffy hoo-ha pressed against her longies. Her fingers delved past the waist band of the drawers and stroked aching flesh.

“Now, you gonna provide for your woman, Bjorn Johnson, or am I going to have to become a DIY gal?”