I believe that a writer must love their story in order for it to be any good.  I write stories about women who save themselves, women who choose their own happiness, and women who are brave enough to honor their own desires.  
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This is not a trope we see enough of, especially in historical romance.  Surely there were some women who struggled with their sensual desires?  Could not one lady brazenly feel up a hot neighbor without being branded an unconscionable harlot?  Must we all be so very reluctant?  In youth (or any age, really), love and sex are jumbled together, and we make mistakes.  What better drama than the shame that comes from enjoying a good-yet-forbidden ravishing? 

Yet, the reality of the priggish worldview during the Regency era in England was genuinely sobering.  Promiscuity, homosexuality, and generally deviant sexual pleasures were legitimately dangerous propositions.  Did that stop them from happening?  Of course not.

The challenge of writing historical erotic fiction is toeing that line between social expectations (and the dire consequences of expulsion) and the indomitable sexual desires inherent to humanity.  That said, it is an extremely satisfying exercise.

​It was a kiss overdue, and he felt a need to make up for so much time.  Her lips, her breath, her skin, soft giggles and softer moans-- it was completely intoxicating.

He let her free for a moment, stared into her eyes, and just as she was formulating a wisecrack, he kissed her again, making it clear that now was not the time for banter.  He gently pulled her hat off in one hand, slipped her coat from her shoulder with the other, and she let it fall to the floor where they stood.  He popped open the button of his jacket, and she easily peeled it from his shoulders and pulled loose his tie.  

She bit his lip gently, then began to slowly kiss his neck, taking a breath from the urgency of their kiss, biting his ear gently, as her fingers opened his shirt and pulled it from his body.  She pressed him against his desk, running her fingers in his hair, softly kissing his mouth, his eyelids, his cheek, his neck.  She seemed to be taking him in, one kiss at a time, giving herself the time to connect with each detail.

Jack watched her do this, breathing deeply, his heart pounding, slipping his hands along her body, grasping her arms, her back, her ass.  He gently, firmly pressed her against him, revealing how much he wanted her.  God, he was desperate for her.

Her fingers worked a slip knot in her dress, allowing it to fall open to him-- her skin, perfect and creamy as ever, in striking contrast with the deep emerald of her silken lingerie.  He scooped her up and nuzzled her breasts, kissing and breathing in the perfume he had kept in his memory since the day she flew away from him.  She laughed breathlessly as he wrapped her legs around his waist, took her ass in both hands and carried her to the fainting couch.  As he sat down, keeping her on his lap, he pulled her face to his, biting her lip, kissing her passionately, hungrily.  She returned in kind, breathless and passionate, scratching his shoulders and grasping his hair.
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