Thursday, March 13, 2014

Writing Sexiness, Titan Style by Cristin Harber ('Savage Secrets')

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Writing Sexiness, Titan Style

My Google search history would make a porn star blush. Titan characters have played their own versions of strip poker, have worn cowboy hats to bed (or at least to the couch…), and even broken into their Haagen Dazs stash.

When I first began to write Roc and Cat, I figured their sexy scenes would be swing-from-the-rafters sex because at first glance, they’re wild. Surprise, surprise. These two got—wait for it—sweet. Ahem, let me clarify, the scenes aren’t written sweet. There are plenty of fun details that make the sex scenes just as saucy and sexy as previous books. But the characters were intense. Their feelings ran deep and the scenes were emotional. So while we all love a screw-against-the-wall, Rocco and Cat deliver that and more.

True personalities come out in bed. When a reader falls into a story, they see every facet of the character’s relationship. That kind of intimacy makes a love story come alive. We can experience their growth and enjoy their happily ever after. And who doesn’t want a HEA that you’ve earned as a reader? After shaking your fist, throwing your Kindle, crying both happy and sad tears, I hope you think back on Savage Secrets and say absolutely, that was one heck of a happily ever after.

CristinHarber_SavageSecrets_1400px Caterina Cruz has no home. No loyalties. No objection to exacting torturous revenge. Her life’s mission is to destroy the terrorist who murdered her family. Then she steps into an elaborate game of charades alongside a Titan Group operative posing as an arms dealer—and her newlywed husband. The sexy distraction may be more than she can handle.

Attacked with a psychedelic drug weeks before, Rocco Savage is plagued with hallucinations that threaten his new rank as Titan’s second-in-command. No one knows and he wants to keep it that way. Throwing him further off his game, he now has a wife with her own secrets he can’t crack and an agenda he can’t control.

Their mission—an elaborate deception of heated glances and passionate kisses—spins out of control. With Rocco's mind already compromised, can he keep his secret and his distance? And with Caterina's tragic past controlling her every move, can she keep the con up long enough to secure her revenge? Or will both go down in flames?


Excerpt: Terrorist drop off

Rocco dropped his delivery and the sack of flesh and bones thudded on the concrete floor.

“Signed. Sealed. Delivered.” He dusted his hands together. “He’s your problem now. Adios.”

“Adios?” The words danced in the air. Soft to the hardness of the calloused room. Sexy and exotic. Accented. And gorgeous. “Fine. Adios if that’s what you want.”

He turned on the heel of his boot, lasering in on a shadowy corner sheathed by a partition. A woman? A silhouetted figure stood with a hand on a cocked hip, behind a screen. Long legs and a pony tail stood outlined in a magnificent shadow. Holy hell. Nothing about that belonged in this room.

This place was violence and atrocity. She was a gauzy reflection of soft edges and a smooth voice. Hell. He hadn’t even seen her, touched her. Yet. But that fact didn’t stop his gut tightening and his eyes from popping. Nah, must have been all the adrenaline from snatching the terrorist not ten minutes before. But damn if he wasn’t wishing for coulda, woulda, shoulda met this girl someplace else.

He swallowed against the boulder in this throat. “What I want has nothing to do with mission objective.”

The metallic clang of tools hitting the cement floor clattered from behind the partition. She let loose a swell of what were probably curses, in Spanish, then her sing-song called to him, still hidden behind the screen. “Ah, the American who plays by the rules. How interesting.”

Her cursing made him chuckle, and made him…interested. This whole place did. What the hell was she saying anyway? It was a rollercoaster of pissed off words, complete with rolled Rs that nearly swayed over his senses. He wanted her to keep talking. Another step closer and damn if he didn’t want to see her face, knowing it would do far more justice to the rockin’ silhouette painted behind the partition. “Says the Brit who speaks like a Spaniard.” And swear like a— “I’m not British.”

What else could he learn about her in the next, oh, minute and a half he was expected to be here? Maybe she would keep talking. He’d jump through all kinds of hoops if that woman let loose her accent again. Please, keep talking. “And I don’t play by the rules. But you—”

She laughed and the sound slid over his body, winding down his spine. He took in a deep breath, embracing the sensation. The laugh was better than her words, and he wanted to make it happen again.

“Today.” She was back to work. “It looks like you do.”

“I came bearing a gift.” He looked to the man lying on the floor. “My mission objective is complete and your invite comes just a little too late.” That and he’d left a team of men sitting outside. If he didn’t walk out soon, they’d make an appearance, guns pointed and on a search-and-destroy mission. Rocco not coming out was most definitely not on their itinerary.

“I see.”

No, you don’t. You can’t see anything, and I’m dying to see you. It was just a voice. But hell. She was too… something. Rare. Offbeat. Familiar? She worked behind the screen and walked toward the edge of the partition. Such a tease. Like she knew he was ready to knock the thing over to get a good look at what housed that voice, her laugh, and those never ending legs.

“Fine. Go.” She shooed him away with a grand sweep of her arm. “Team Titan off to the next job.”

The sound of the Ts rolling off her tongue made his chest crash into itself. Ribs crumbling. Lungs deflating. A reaction based solely on intuition. “You know more about me than I know about you. Come on out of your hiding place.”

“Almost done with my prep work.” More of that accent that had him turned-on and unable to walk out of the room. A pause dangled in the air. A zap of electricity and bright white sparks sprayed from behind the divider. Shock therapy was in store for the man still groaning on the floor, and for a brief second, Rocco almost pitied the terrorist. Almost.

“Perfect,” she whispered. More sparks. More zaps.

Without his control, his eyes slammed shut. Only for a half second. Long enough that a shiver ran down his shoulders. But he had this. No flashbacks or star-sightings would happen right now. Those zaps were real as the body behind that screen. There was no way in hell this was a hallucination. She stepped out. An image of beauty in a desolate, craptastic interrogation site. One long leg, then the next teased him to the point of distraction. He followed the length of her boot, drinking in the skin tight black pants over the sway of her hips. A black shirt covered her torso and stretched over what he knew were the definition of perfect breasts. Finally, Rocco let his focus caress the curve of her lips, the deepness and darkness of her intense stare. More than model gorgeous. More than manufactured beauty. She was sweet and sultry. A vision. Standing there, with electrical cables and a torture table at the ready, she couldn’t have been more out of place. Yet, this was her room. She owned it and that kind of confidence was unshakeable.

He cleared his throat. “Do you need a hand?”

“Does it look like I do?” She looked over her shoulder, smiling a half grin. Knowing the connotation behind his question. Challenging him to say it out loud. She stopped. Turned around and stared, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. Then she smiled again, nodding. “Do you believe in coincidence?”

Coincidence? More like luck, walking into a room manned by a woman as deadly and dangerous as she was beautiful and breathtaking? He heard noises from the outer room. Seems he’d overstayed his prescribed amount of time before back up was ready to check in. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

“See you around. Handsome.”


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