Writing Rituals
One of the primary questions I am asked in
interviews is “Do you have any writing rituals?” or “Is there anything you need
before you start writing?”
I always have an image of crimson candles
and pentagrams, my two cats circling as a rhythmic chant fills the smoky air.
Oh, how much more interesting interviews would be if I gave that as an answer.
It would certainly liven up the house if I did that every morning.
Sadly, the answer I usually give is much
more mundane. I need to get dressed before I start writing. Despite the
oft-repeated benefit that a writer can do her work while wearing pyjamas and
slippers, I can’t – if I’m in my dressing gown I will sit and surf all day. So
weekends spent in the altogether are out of the question, unless I want to
spend all my time on Slush Pile Hell.
A connected question is “Do you drink while
you write?” I’m told the standard answer to this is “Yes, coffee.” Nope. It is
one of the banes of my life that I don’t like coffee; it makes trips to
Starbucks extremely dull for a start, as the wonders of a gingerbread latte are
forever forbidden to me. I will admit, though, that I like to write with a
glass of wine or a can of Strongbow. I am the kind of person who could sit and
stare at a paragraph all day; after a glass of wine I find it much easier to
get the words flowing.
And finally, I am often asked if I can
write amid distractions.
Frankly, I have to. I have a husband who
will probably have “Sons of Guns” on in the background, neighbours who like to
have screaming arguments followed by screaming sex, and two cats who like to
wrestle with each other before coming to me with demands to be petted.
Fortunately I can type with one hand, because the other is generally occupied
placating a mewing feline while the other tries to barge its way in.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte & Tanitha Davenport
Total E-bound
**Author Note- has a spanking scene
The tenant of Wildfell Hall has a secret one man desires her to share…
Into the quiet village of Lindenhope comes Helen Graham, an attractive young widow and mother. Living alone with her son at Wildfell Hall, her seclusion attracts curiosity from the local people, in particular Gilbert Markham, whose interest in her is soon edged with desire—and Helen, despite herself, begins to reciprocate his love for her.
But when scandalous rumours begin to circulate about Helen’s behaviour, Gilbert is filled with anger and jealousy. Helen attempts to clear her name by offering Gilbert her diary, which reveals the dark, passionate story of her former marriage to debauched rake Arthur Huntingdon, whose sexual and sensual desires fill her with excitement and pleasure but precipitate a gradual descent into hell.
Gilbert believes he could forgive her anything, but the lies continue to spread, threatening Helen’s peace of mind and, above all, her physical safety. Will the secrets of Helen’s past get in the way of their future?
Teaser Excerpt:
He was already in the room when I
entered. I felt his hands rest on my shoulders from behind and he gave a low
chuckle at my gasp of surprise. I was in my nightgown—Rachel had helped me
disrobe before retiring herself—and his breath heated the nape of my neck as he
teased his fingers along the silk edging. I had chosen the material
deliberately. It clung to my body, the sheen of the fabric highlighting every
curve.
“Would you like me to undress,
Arthur?” I asked.
“No, Helen,” he answered,
pressing a kiss to my shoulder and sending a chill along my spine. “I want to
undress you myself.”
My heart quickened, but I held
myself still as slowly he slid the gown from my shoulders. The cool air on my
skin made me shiver, my nipples hardening as the soft material dropped past my
waist to land lightly around my feet, exposing my naked body to his gaze. I
closed my eyes, feeling conscious of my bare skin, the curls at my quim, the
growing wetness inside me.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, and with
his fingers he began a slow, tortuous glide along the curve of my spine. I felt
one hand slide around my ribs to cup my breast, his thumb brushing against my
nipple, and I was unable to suppress a moan as sparks of pleasure radiated from
that tender spot. Instantly the movement was repeated, his other hand mirroring
the motion until I cried out, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensation.
“I love that this is all so new
to you, my Helen,” Arthur whispered in my ear as I let my head fall back onto
his shoulder, my body weakening as he continued his sweet assault on my
breasts. My knees began to tremble. I clenched my fingers tightly, aching for
his hands to move lower, to touch me where I had touched myself so often while
thinking of him, but afraid he would think me too wanton if I asked. So new to
me, indeed! What would he think if I touched myself in front of him? Would he
be surprised? No—he would not, I was sure. But he might insist on pleasuring me
himself, and my clit pulsed at the thought, imagining myself on the edge of
ecstasy, him removing my hands and holding them until I begged him to bring me
to completion.
He slid his hands down to my
hips, leaving me moaning at the loss, and turned me to face him. Before I could
stop myself, I reached my hand out to touch his swollen member, which jutted
towards me, almost brushing against my stomach. He groaned as I closed my hand
around the tip, which was glistening and sticky with moisture, hardening farther
under my touch.
How strange it was to know that I
had such power, that I could bring him such pleasure with only a simple touch!
I tightened my grip, feeling the skin move as I tugged, but before I could
continue he had caught both my hands in his and was holding them at my waist.
“My darling,” he said, with a
smile, manoeuvring me backwards as he spoke until my calves hit the edge of the
bed. “If I let you do that, I shall lose all control, and that will never do.
Lie back for me—let me see you waiting for me.”
Trembling, I lay back on the bed,
my breath coming faster as he stood watching me, his casual gaze lowering to
rest at my quim. Instinctively I parted my legs, blushing as I felt the
moisture seep from inside me and dampen my folds.
The smile on his face took on a
possessive, lascivious quality.
“How beautiful you are,” he
whispered. Slowly he placed one knee then the other on the bed, the mattress
dipping under his weight as he moved towards me. He laid one hand on my breast,
my heart beating rapidly beneath.
“Arthur,” I gasped.
He lowered his head and kissed my
nipple, laving it with his tongue, then trailed more kisses down my body—my
ribs, my stomach, my hips—until I was trembling with anticipation. His breath
rushed over my quim, and for a moment I thought he would kiss me there—oh! How
I wanted that!—but instead he paused, watching me with desirous eyes, and
slowly slid one finger inside me to the second knuckle.
“So pure,” he whispered,
caressing me as I moaned. He reached forward with his thumb and swept it back
and forth over my clit. I cried out at the sensation, my body convulsing. It
was so much sweeter, so much more pleasurable than when I had touched myself,
and I longed for him to continue.
“Helen,” he growled, “tell me you
want this.” I recognised the words from our first kiss, and felt my heart bound
and my quim tighten at the knowledge that now I could be truthful. Now I could
tell him what I wanted.
“I want this, Arthur.”
“Tell me how much you want this.”
“I want this more than anything,”
I moaned. His finger was still moving inside me, his thumb still applying
delicious pressure, and my wetness was leaking onto his hand and the bed.
“How long have you wanted this,
Helen?”
Oh, he was torturing me! “Since I
first met you,” I whispered, shifting my hips to match his touch. He smiled and
crooked his finger inside me, touching a spot that made me clap a hand over my
mouth and shriek—the pleasure was exquisite, and I was on the verge of begging
him to take me.
“Tell me what you want, and I’ll
do it.”
I arched my back, aching for him.
“Please, Arthur, take me.”
About the Author
Tanith Davenport began writing erotica at
the age of 27 by way of the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’
Scheme. Her debut novel “The Hand He Dealt” was released by Total-e-Bound in
June 2011 and was shortlisted for the Joan Hessayon Award for 2012.
Tanith has had short stories published by
Naughty Nights Press and House of Erotica. She loves to travel and dreams of
one day taking a driving tour of the United States, preferably in a classic
1950s pink Cadillac Eldorado.
Tanith’s idea of heaven is an Indian head
massage with a Mojito at her side.
1 comment:
Thanks for having me on here!
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