There’s a difference in writing erotic love scenes and in writing dirty. The primary difference I see is in the language used to describe the events. Word choice determines if a sexual encounter between physically attracted couple described on paper will read as a love scene or a raunchy retelling of events.
I like to think I don’t write dirty. I don’t write erotica. I do write about the intimacy shared by an aroused couple deeply attracted to each other who experience and act on their strong sexual desires.
This does not mean they have hot monkey sex in public. They might, but are just as likely to visit a deserted gold course late at night for such public displays of affection.
My personal favorite location is in an elevator. The likelihood of being interrupted makes the daring tryst all the more exciting.
In erotic novels, the sexual dance the couple enjoys prior to completing the act lasts far longer than the act itself. This is where word choice plays an important part.
Here’s an excerpt from Christmas Eve, my upcoming release by Evernight Publishing:
He’d insisted the architect include this exterior wall of glass in his plans, and now was doubly appreciative of his decision. His original intent a selfish one: to admire the dense stand of trees on his property while taking a bath.
Nick grinned. He’d never dreamed that someday he’d be standing on the outside, looking in. A far more delightful view.
Eve’s upraised arms lifted her breasts to the perfect angle to fill palms already itching to feel her soap-slickened flesh. The gentle spray made Eve’s fair skin glisten.
And Croupier surge to life.
She turned, giving Nick a tempting view of her butt as she tilted her head and rinsed shampoo from her hair. He let his gaze roam freely over her body, caressing the straight line of her perfect back, the gentle curve of her buttocks, the tempting length of her thighs and calves, right down to her carefully painted toenails, all the while with Croupier trying to escape the close confines of Nick’s jeans.
Eve shook her head, sending wet drops in every direction, then tossed back her hair, an action that made her butt shimmy. Nick’s mouth went dry.
And further on:
She turned away for a moment, to put the soap away, he saw, a movement that brought her closer to the window, to his pleased delight. She squeezed something from a tube and began washing her face, allowing him a full frontal view of her glorious body.
Yes, he knew it well. He had loved and admired every inch, but never tired of the sight.
He flattened his palms on the window, forgetting for a moment the wall of glass preventing him from touching that abundance of glowing flesh. Eve tilted her head back, letting the spray stream down her face, rush like waterfalls over her breasts, cascade down her legs.
She shook her head, once again flipping her hair back off her face, then opened her eyes. Not in the least upset to see him standing there, she stepped right up to the glass and beckoned to him, smiling.
He didn’t need a second invitation. Instead, he flew down the steps and around the corner, his heart pounding, his blood running hot. Sometime or other he’d unbuttoned his pants and wool shirt. He shed his boots on the porch, his shirt just inside the kitchen.
His unzipped jeans puddled around his ankles when he rounded the corner leading down the hall and he nearly tripped. With an aggravated kick he freed one foot. Unhampered now, he hurried on, only to skid to a halt just inside the bathroom where Eve waited, her arms outstretched to him.
He peeled out of his jeans, his briefs and socks.
Stepped into the shower.
And let Eve work more of her magic on him.
This is the dance my sexually attracted couple enjoys over and over throughout the book. Just rereading this scene has me squirming in my desk chair, and the two of them were not even sharing the same room for most of this scene.
Flame hangs out here:
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