I’m relatively new to the writing world—well, new in terms of books. I just finished writing my sixth novel and am embarking on my seventh—compared to authors like Nora Roberts, Christine Feehan and Linda Howard, I’m an infant.
Recently I was talking to one of my kids about the fabulous JK Rowling. I wondered if she’d ever write anything again now that Harry Potter is done. My youngest said, “Why would she? She’s stinkin’ rich.”
The thing is, being a writer isn’t just about a job and it’s rarely about the pay check. A very small number of writers actually make a living at it. The rest of us do it because we love it (hate it, obsess over it, crave it—fill in your own descriptor here). I fall in that latter group. It’s a love/hate relationship that changes on a daily basis. I love having a contract to write a new book, I hate having to finish a new book by a set date, I love having the deadline that forces me to finish the book, I hate meeting the deadline—especially when it’s down to the wire. 
But the bottom line: I love crafting the kind of story I like to read. That part never changes. And no matter if I’m loving or hating being a writer, it is always so much more than what I do. It defines a part of who I am. A very important part.
I never felt this more as I did when I finished my last book, HAUNTING DESIRE, Berkley Trade; March 1, 2011, Book #3 in the Haunting Series. HAUNTING DESIRE was a very challenging book for me to write for many reasons. I was stressed for time and having a hard time getting over the hero in HAUNTING WARRIOR, Book #2 in the series, who I’d fallen madly in love with. But the beauty of creating your own stories and characters, is that you can make them everything you desire. Once I finished the first draft of HAUNTING DESIRE I knew that Tiarnan, the hero of the new book, was every bit the kind of man I could fall in love with.
HAUNTING DESIRE hasn’t even been edited yet, but I’d love share an excerpt with you. This is the scene when Tiarnan and Shealy first come together.
Everything Tiarnan had told Shealy was there, stuffed into her head until she felt like her skull might crack from the pressure. She’d come to a land that wasn’t real, in a place that didn’t exist, where time ran deviant and the laws of nature were ruled by a Druid called Brandubh. It was the stuff of the cinema, yet she was here, lying in a bed made of leather straps and wood, covered in furs and held by a man she’d been dreaming about for weeks on end.
And it was all very real.
The heat of Tiarnan’s body blazed down her back, silken and hot against the gap in her hospital gown. He was aroused, but trying not to move. Still, she could feel the weight and pressure of his erection against her, knew instinctively that he was holding onto his self control by a very thin thread. She didn’t know how many people lived on this Inis Brandubh, but she didn’t imagine there was a lot of hooking up in Tiarnan’s life. He was too serious, too intense for that. Too stern and unapproachable.
They’d both almost died today . . . or yesterday . . . or last year, if
Tiarnan could be believed—and she thought he could. On a very visceral level, she sensed that Tiarnan was a man of truth and honor. If he said the sky was yellow, then yellow it would be. But right now, he wasn’t saying anything. His breathing was strained, coming in short hot bursts against her ear. The muscles in his arms bunched tight, but his hands were gentle where they held her, almost apologetic as they stroked.
Shealy didn’t let herself think. Thinking would break her completely because even now she felt logic trying to barge in and dispute that which it couldn’t accept. At that moment, she needed to feel. She needed to know that however bizarre this place was, she, at least, was real.
Before she could change her mind, she turned in his arms, feeling him resist for just an instant as he tried to hold her still. Then she was pressed against him, her gown twisted at her hips, her face level with his. For a long moment they stared at one another, searching the shadows that concealed their expressions, each seeking mercy, absolution perhaps.
She caught a glimpse of pain in his golden brown eyes and for a panicked moment she thought he might reject her and pressed closer, letting him feel every curved inch of her body. She didn’t care if it was selfish. It was too late to turn back.
She ran her hands up his bare chest, reveling in the feel of him. He was hard slabbed muscle beneath hot, silken skin. Every inch of him, strong and hewn. Her fingers slid up the column of his throat then back to tangle in his dark brown hair, twisting in it to bring his lips closer to hers. He made a sound in his throat that lit a fire deep inside her and then he pulled her tight against him with an anguished groan and that too, fanned the inferno, as if having him against his will made the forbidden moment that much sweeter.
His reluctance didn’t extend to his body, though and he rolled, pulling her beneath the satisfying weight of him, crushing her in a way that screamed sex through every nerve ending. One massive thigh slid between her legs and she arched up, rubbing against it, thrilling in the intimate friction. He brushed his lips against hers, the kiss soft and she opened to him, letting him know he was welcome wherever he might want to venture. The feel of his tongue, so hot and velvet, so foreign and somehow exotic in her mouth, made her moan and her fingers clench in his hair.
From that moment on, Tiarnan absolutely had my heart. I knew I would continue to write my stories because of men like Tiarnan. How could I not?
Talk to me about anything and two lucky commenters will get an autographed copy of HAUNTING BEAUTY (Book 1 in the Haunting Series), ECHOES or WHISPERS (writing as Erin Grady). Thanks for stopping by!
