Okay, the whole issue of how many tabs and slots there ACTUALLY are aside, what about character? Isn't that what writing, ultimately, is all about?
What moves a love scene? Well, for move, it isn't tab anything or slot anything else. It's how the hero or heroine's inner self is revealed by how they move the moving parts.
Here's a first-kiss tidbit from three of my Biting Love romances. Are they all the same? You tell me.
I licked my lips. His gaze dropped precipitously to follow, his pupils dilating big as dimes. He yanked me in. Hot lips descended.
Bo kissed me.
His mouth, warm and firm, pressed against mine. Circled masterfully. A tongue licked the seam of my lips with bold expertise.
My trembling increased. My hands fell onto his cotton-covered chest. It was like palming velvet-covered boulders. My lips parted slightly in amazement.
His tongue flicked at the opening. Little sparklers lit where he licked, small crackles of sensation, tiny zaps that made my lips swell and throb. He kissed me, silky soft, licking little shivers at the corners and edges of my mouth until I wanted to scream.
“Nixie.” Julian’s voice. But not his usual cultured drawl. No, this voice was tight and strained. The kind of voice you got when all your blood drained from your vocal cords to your baseball-bat-sized cock. Ooh, he really did carry foot-long things in his clothes. I rubbed my hips against Mr. Big Gavel. That drew more blood down. “Nixie,” he said again, even more strained. I found I liked Julian’s voice all stiff and growly.
“Stop that. I’m trying to untie your hood.”
Damn. Aroused, but in control of himself. How disappointing.
In my dark cave, I blinked. Disappointing? No way. I was not disappointed that Julian Emerson, stodgy old hoag, was not interested in me. Well, feeling his big nightstick flex, maybe he was interested. But not enough to be out of control about it. And that was a good thing, right?
Except I was burning up. That thick rod pulsing against my crotch, the smell of fighting male, the feel of his hard body under me…I was wet enough to grease a Cadillac.
So when my hoodie came loose, I took one look at his beautiful, dark-bronze mouth and kissed him good.
He tasted like war. Like fast rides with a powerful motorcycle between my thighs. Like getting drunk on expensive champagne. I ran my tongue over his lips and drank.
Julian’s hands, in the process of putting me down, stopped. Came back around me. Crushed me to him.
His mouth opened against mine. With a raw groan, he kissed me back.
“Who’s the cop here?” I scowled up.
He scowled down. “Who’s the midget here?”
“Why you…” I grabbed his ears to bring his head to my level and stun him speechless with my cop glare, a cross between Medusa and an ocular fist that I’d seen Elena do and practiced daily in the mirror until I knocked myself out with it.
But somehow when his face got within reach of my mouth I leaned up and he leaned down—and we fused lips. My tongue pried and he opened, and I was plunging as deep as I could get into hot male heaven. He tasted of espresso edged with cinnamon and danger; his scent enveloping me was just as spicy.
He groaned. His arms came around me, pulling me flush to him. I clutched his biceps, warm satin-covered rocks, and moaned into his mouth. As if it was a cue he crushed me to him, his embrace hot as a woodburner and his torso as hard as his biceps. Even through the thick wool of my cop carapace I felt every ridge of him.
I twined arms around his neck and pressed into him in return. I was shivery hot and melding with him instinctively, writhing and rubbing against him with primal need.
My undulating must have been another signal, because he began to take the lead. His tongue thrust powerfully into my mouth. I groaned and a ripple of sheer need ran the length of my body. I opened wider for him; his tongue filled me again and again.
That driving power was how he’d make love. At the thought, my sex drenched.
Who's your favorite fictional couple? Any favorite love scenes? (I remember a Johanna Lindsey scene on a horse...)