I have a zillion printed pages of Mistress by Midnight to go through with a fine-tooth comb, a red pen and a stack of stickies. I want to revise. I do. *snort* I’ve even started. But mostly I’m riding into the sunset (well, actually dawn—I write much better early in the morning) with my new WIP, Mistress by Mistake instead.
I always gallop in the beginning. The dust hasn’t been kicked up, and there’s no horsesh*t yet. Hi-Ho-Silver-Away! Silver isn’t tarnished or lame or swaybacked in the middle. I wrote 15,000 words this week! I worry I’m like the John Travolta character in Phenomenon, who gets a burst of creativity and then croaks. Pray for me.
Here’s a snippet. Remind me later to beat myself with a riding crop to finish. Set up: Our heroine Charlotte Fallon is mistaken for her sister Deborah, a notorious courtesan. (hence the title) Hilarity ensues. To sooth you from your icky thoughts, the hero Sir Michael has engaged the services of Deborah as his mistress but has not yet had the opportunity to seal the deal, so to speak.
As if she heard his thoughts, she stiffened beneath him. And then she screamed.
Ear-piercingly. Perhaps she had not recognized him when she woke. But honestly, who could she be expecting? She was his.
He looked up at her, suspicious. She gave him a look he’d seen only in battle, when the other side was hopelessly outnumbered, pushed beyond recklessness and there was nothing left to lose. He hoped very much that she was not sleeping with a French bayonet beneath the mattress.
“You! You!” she sputtered.
“Yes, my pet, it is I. I know I gave you no notice, but thank you for your very warm welcome last night. It was worth every minute of the harrowing six weeks we spent apart.” He set back to massaging her nipple again with his tongue.
She hit him on the head with a fist. “Get off me! This instant! You are much mistaken, Sir Michael. I am not Deborah.”
Was this some sort of fantasy? Perhaps she liked her loveplay rough. To be the reluctant virgin, he the barbarian conqueror. His ex-mistress Angelique had liked to play highwayman and victim, as he recalled. He was the victim, and a most willing one. He stood, and he delivered.
“I shall call you anything you like, sweet, but please don’t strike me again. It’s not a bit sporting when I don’t know the rules of your game. But I’m willing to learn.”
“This is not a game, you stupid man! Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you are under a severe misapprehension, sir.”
She was scrambling under him quite provocatively. Her skin was on fire for him, blushing most delightfully. And here he had thought La Fallon cool and a little calculating.
“Hush, my dove.” His lips captured hers and she squeaked. Soon he would make her sigh again. See, she was softening already. Her lips opened and he swept into the warmth. His tongue tangled with hers in a dance as old as time. He was fisting his cock to slide between her smooth thighs when she bit him.
Where are you now in your writing/reading? The bright beginning, the muddy middle, or the glue factory?