As a romantic suspense author, it always amazes me when people ask about the sexy parts, as if the scenes are orchestrated in my very own bedroom. Sadly, no, this isn’t the case. Otherwise, I’d have no time for writing. If you must know, I credit the sexy parts to the washing machine repairman and a vivid imagination.
If I look at him just so, in the dim light of my basement; he has flowing sable hair, sultry bedroom eyes, a devastating smile, biceps flexing as he unscrews the agitator, washboard abs and heavily muscled haunches as he squats near a toolbox. T-shirt stretched taut across a powerful chest, he wears cargo pants—commando style—no boxers or briefs.
In reality and with my glasses on; he’s five-three, close to seventy years old, bald as a billiard ball, chicken necked, works his false teeth in and out of his mouth while focusing on the machine, is bowlegged and wears khaki coveralls.
Yep, a vivid imagination comes in handy. I wonder why no-one ever asks me about the suspenseful parts...