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Jack’s Naughty Bits: Rosemarie Rogers, Sweet Savage Love

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Jack's Naughty Bits


Okay, I never would

have believed it, but romance novels make for pretty damn good reading. I

wouldn’t want to read them all the time, but still, all those smoking-hot

virgins liquefying in the arms of their swarthy, unyielding seducers — that’s

excellent! I just can’t believe these things are for women, at least as much as I

understand sexual relations. I had always thought the idea of coercing women

into abandonment stemmed more from the male than the female side of the

world of fantasy; now it seems that I might have been wrong (although

gentlemen, need I but mention the cop/lady criminal, producer/aspiring actress or

professor/student scenario to set your hearts a-pounding? Aren’t these the

sugarplums of our waking and sleeping dreams? Is it only me?) A friend of

mine once dreamt that he was a pagan god to whom a tribal culture would

ritually sacrifice nubile virgins — and at the time, silly me, I thought that was

an archetypal male fantasy! Not unlike the great high school

realization that women like sex too, the very thought that my

fantasies might be shared by the fairer sex implied that I wasn’t quite the

monster I thought I was. Who’d have thought?


    

Though perhaps it’s a cultural thing, for certainly had I been seen with

copies of Complete Surrender and One Strong Man under my

arm during graduate school, I don’t think I would have made many friends

among the women in my department. But those days are gone, so now

you’re likely to catch me furtively flipping pages in the aisles of Wal-Marts

everywhere. And, members of the jury, I won’t be reading Field and

Stream.



The excerpt below is from one the “classics” of the contemporary romance

genre, Rosemary Rogers’ Sweet Savage Love. It takes place in the

Wild West amidst a constant threat of Indian attack, but I bet you never saw

this on Gunsmoke!



* * *



From Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers



Without knowing why, or what she was doing, her arms lifted, went around his neck and

clung. She felt his hand move slowly and caressingly up her back, then tug impatiently at

her hair, loosening it from its tidy, coiled braids. She felt her hair tumble down her

shoulders, and his mouth made a burning trail from her parted lips to her earlobe.

“Ginny — Ginny — ” the words sounded like a groan, and a shiver of apprehension

went through her as she felt his fingers start to unbutton the thin silk shirt she had worn

with her riding skirt.


    

He mustn’t — she mustn’t let him — but his mouth found the hollow at the base of

her throat and she made a little, helpless sound; feeling the shirt open under his hands, his

fingers burn against her breast.


    

He held her close against him, one arm supporting her weak, trembling body, and

when she would have protested against the liberties he was taking, his lips covered her

open mouth, taking possession of it, stifling the words she tried to utter . . .

Suddenly, he had bent his head, he was kissing her breasts, his tongue tracing light,

teasing patterns over their sensitive peaks.


    

She struggled then, but only half-heartedly; both his arms imprisoned her again,

she closed her eyes and let him have his way, feeling the desire to struggle or even to

protest slipping away from her to be replaced by something else — something that grew like

a tight, hard knot inside her belly, spreading a burning flush over her whole body.


    

He must have sensed her sudden, abject surrender. From somewhere far away she

heard him laugh softly, and then, catching her roughly against him, he was kissing her

again, his hands slipped under her shirt to caress the bare skin of her back.


    

This time Ginny arched up against him, half-sobbing, not yet understanding the

strange new emotions that he had awakened in her body. She was all too conscious of the

pressure of his long, hard-muscled legs against hers, of the feel of his shirt against her

bare, tingling breasts, the crisp feel of his hair under her clutching fingers.


    

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind was the thought: So this is how it feels —

like a fever, like a coiled snake in the belly, growing, spreading heat like honey in her

loins, rendering her incapable of everything but feeling . . .



© Rosemary Rogers