Progress and a short excerpt from my latest novel, tentatively called The Servant.
I love writing erotica shorts and novellas. They're fun, they're creative, and perhaps most importantly, they're incredibly sexy! However, I've been spending most of my time lately working on my next full length paranormal, semi-historical vampire romance novel: a story about a naive young woman who unknowingly goes to work as a servant for a household owned by two handsome vampire bachelors. It takes place just outside of New Orleans, Louisiana in the year 1917 (just shortly after the period where the United States joined her allies to fight in World War I).
So far, it has been an absolute joy to write. It has vampires, early 20th century history, romance, tons of sex---just about everything I love in a romance.
So, here is a very, very quick excerpt from my upcoming romance novel, tentatively called The Servant:
There was something unusual about the man. He sat opposite from me at a large wooden desk, twirling a quill idly between his fingers. His hair was shoulder length, thick, white. His skin, too, was a shade so pale that it seemed almost silvery and blue.
I stared at his nails. They were clear—not a speck of dust or grime dirtied those dainty fingers—and a bit too long, yet manicured perfectly into sharp points.
He had insisted that the interview be conducted at night. I had found it a bit peculiar, but I was in desperate need of work. It was late autumn, and though the southern Louisiana heat had died down significantly over the past few months, the air still felt heavy and wet with humidity.
"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss, ah, what was the name again?" His eyes were a striking grey with a little ring of gold around the irises. He looked at me attentively, never once breaking his gaze.
"Estelle," I stammered. "Lémieux." Don't stutter, Estelle! You need this job!
He set the quill atop the desk and slowly leaned back into his chair. He was an attractive man, though rather slender and perhaps a bit youthful in appearance. He had a kind of androgyny about him, with delicate high cheekbones and soft, full red lips that stood out starkly against his pallid flesh.
He raised his brow and studied me curiously. "Estelle Lémieux?"
"Yes," I nodded timidly. "I answered your advert and you responded to me via letter. I previously worked at the—"
He waved his hand lazily. "Oh, I know who you are my dear," he said calmly—his voice was soft with a singsong like quality to it. "I merely forgot your name. You're from the Comtois residence."
"I have my references." I dug into my purse and fished out the letter. I set it on the desk and pushed it over to him. "They've had to cut down on hired help. Unfortunately, I was recently let go—"
"I told you, Estelle," he interrupted. "I know who you are."
