Guest Author Patricia Pellicane

I am so pleased to welcome Author Patricia Pellicane to the blog! I smiled when I saw her subject for the blog. This is a conversation I have had over and over and over. There is no question that I am proud to write erotic romance but I do not write porn. If more people understood what myself and fellow authors wrote about I would shout from the roof tops about my books. Sadly I have to be careful about who I tell because of my family.

Patricia wrote a fantasic blog that I am happy to share with you! Also included is an excerpt from her book Happy Birthday Baby that will be released from Total-E-Bound on March 15th!

http://www.total-e-bound.com/product.asp?strParents=&CAT_ID=&P_ID=722

So mark your calender for her release and have a look at her blog. Feel free to comment and let us know about your experience with erotica. Is it something you have to hide? I hope not!!!


Welcome Patricia!!!!!


Is it Porn or Erotica?




I have a friend who thinks I write porn. I tell her no, I write erotica, but she can’t see the difference. And there is a difference.




Porn is sex simply for the sake of sex. It can be entertaining, but that’s not what I do.




We’ve all read an occasional piece that reads like a truly raunchy story, a flimsy cover for a book long sex scene, but that’s not erotica. It’s not what I write or what most erotica authors write.



Any erotica that’s worth its stuff is first a story. Most of them are good stories, satisfying reads. Many good enough to stand on their own. Some have real depth of emotion; others might be light and whimsical, humorous or tell of suspense or mystery. All entertain and are labeled erotica because they cover the sex in a story with some intensity, with clear visualization and description, but most always with emotional depth.



And it’s emotional depth that satisfies. It doesn’t matter if it’s M/M or M/F, a good read always has it.



Women and men, no matter how we insist on equality, are different. What we need from each other is different. Answer the door naked. That’s all he needs. Not to say things like that aren’t fun. They are. But the truth is that kind of fun is enough for a man, while a woman needs just a bit more.



She may not need tenderness, but she needs depth of emotion. Torrid love scenes turn a woman on. Those little books sold in sex stores leave you flat and searching for something more.



Why? Because they’re not erotica. They are smut. Now smut has its place, no one says it doesn’t, but to satisfy a woman, she needs erotica. Those little books are true porn, but without pictures and that leaves me wondering. Men are visual creatures. They get turned on by looking at pictures of women. A woman gets turned on by romance, a kiss can do it, a look can do it, a tender or slightly rougher touch can do it. The full attention of a man can do it. Again, emotion.



So who reads these little smutty stories? I’ve got no clue.



If I wrote them, I wouldn’t brag on it. But I do brag on writing erotica romance. Even though eyes might widen when I say the word erotica, what I do fills a need. Luckily for me, it’s something I love doing.


Now here is an excerpt from Patricia Pellicane release Happy Birthday Baby that will be released March 15th from Total-E-Bound.


Happy Birthday Baby
By
Patricia Pellicane


Inside the lodge, just beyond the front door, a man pressed her against the wall. A moment later, her coat hung next to his.
Meg was exhausted and colder than she’d ever been in her life. She concentrated on locking her jaw, lest her teeth chatter, for she couldn’t stop trembling and wondered how she was able to stand, so intense were her shivers. The same man who had helped her inside and taken her coat handed her a glass. Oddly enough and despite nearly drowning in the storm, she was thirsty—freezing, hungry and thirsty, if the truth be told.
In one long thoughtless gulp, she downed just over three fingers of cognac.
It took less than an instant for her to realise the brew ingested wasn’t anything at all as she’d initially expected. She hadn’t given the contents of the glass a moment’s thought. Too late, she realised she should have. Her eyes widened in shock and began to tear as she struggled to breathe, only nothing happened. Either to breathe in or out was suddenly quite beyond her ability.
The man was talking to her, saying something about a carriage. Couldn’t he see she wasn’t breathing? She stared at him for a long moment until her suddenly burning stomach seemed to somehow connect with her airless yet ever-heaving chest and, at last, to her brain as a huge and loud gasp of air was finally, gratefully sucked deep into her lungs.
She coughed loud and hard as tears ran unnoticed down a wet face. Her gasp widened his gaze with obvious surprise.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right? Have you taken a chill?

“What was that?” she asked, nodding towards the now empty glass still in her hand.
“Cognac, of course,” he returned, a bit puzzled for she acted as if she’d never tasted the brew before. “Are you all right?”
Despite her continued tremors, she suddenly realised she was indeed all right. Having not eaten since early that morning—and that meal consisting of only a hot cup of tea and one slice of bread—and never having encountered a brew half so potent, she gave a slow blink and the slightest of smiles as she realised she was a sight better than ‘all right’.
Meg’s smile grew into a grin, suddenly, feeling much more herself. In truth she felt even better than herself and, for some odd reason, couldn’t stop a ridiculous and overwhelming need to laugh. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“You’re soaked to the skin. Take off your clothes.”
“I like this,” she said with a smile, as she held up the glass, having forgotten she was about to question his odd request, having forgotten the request itself.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Here, let me help you,” he said as he took away her wet hat and after rummaging through a bag in the corner of the room, rubbed a cloth over her hair. A moment later, he opened the buttons of her blue riding jacket.
“It’s warm in here,” she said, switching her glass from one hand to the other as he stripped away the sodden material.
“This will dry if I hang it near the fire.”
Meg thought that was a most amazing concept. Of course, the fire would dry her things. Vaguely, she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it and merely watched as he hung the jacket to the side of the fire on a nail.
He returned to her and smiled. “And now the rest,” he said as he reached for the fastening at her waist.
“Just a minute,” she said, and if her words were just a bit slower and slightly slurred, neither seemed to notice. “I can’t take off my clothes now, with you here.”
The man laughed. “What’s your name?”
“Meg,” she returned then narrowed her gaze. “What’s yours?”
“Mike didn’t tell you?”
“Who’s Mike?”
His grin was sly as he joined her in her game. “My name is Jack. Why are you here, if you don’t know Mike?”
“I was riding and got lost. Do you know the Kimberly place?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. I’m not from around here.”
“You’re not? You live here, but you’re not from around here?”
He grinned. “You are delicious, and I don’t live here.”
“Oh,” Meg returned with a frown, unable to come to grips with the oddity of living here, while not living here. “I was hoping I could…”
“I’m sure I’m not feeling quite myself. Have you a chair?”
“I’m sorry there are none, but you could sit on one of the pillows.”
“Oh, I couldn’t, I’m sure.” Meg had no intention of sitting on a pillow. Because there were no chairs, she had no intention of sitting at all. She leaned her back against the wall behind her and forced her knees to hold her weight. “I wonder if I might have a bit of bread. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
“Of course. Please, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll make up a plate.”
Meg wondered how she might go about making herself comfortable? Her wet clothes weighed more than she did. No, she reasoned, it would be some time before she found a measure of comfort.
She shivered again from the cool, wet discomfort, despite the warmth of the room and emptied her glass in one final swallow. “I’m so sorry to impose, but do you think I could borrow something while my clothes dry?”
“Of course,” Jack said as he took a robe from the same bag that had produced the towel and handed it to her.
She looked around the room again and asked, “Is there nowhere private where I might change?”
“I’m sorry. As you can see the building consists of but one room.”
Oh dear, this was impossible, she silently mused and, for just a moment, wondered why the thought should occur? She watched him refill her glass for the third time and tried to remember her thoughts. Oh yes! She couldn’t disrobe in the presence of a man. That was it. Dare she ask him to leave the warmth of his own place and step into that torrent outside? What was she to do? “Will you turn around please?”
Jack did as she asked, even as he breathed an unhappy sigh. “You’re carrying this game a bit far, don’t you think?”
“What? What game?” she asked, knowing not a shred of fear, for the alcohol had done an excellent job of easing away any clear thought and had completely disposed of any possible trepidation.
“Oh Lord, this isn’t working…” she began, unable to understand her sudden lack of coordination. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she manage the most ordinary movements? She couldn’t seem to undress while holding to her glass and had never thought to put the glass down. She never realised she hadn’t finished her comment as she suddenly found this lovely man had once again come to her rescue. He took the glass from her hand and put it on a nearby small table.
Meg frowned, wondering why she hadn’t thought to do that.
A moment later, he was opening the buttons of her blouse.
Meg never realised she was suffering under the influence of drink. Having never before partaken of the brew, she therefore had no knowledge of its devastating effects and was unaware that she wasn’t acting her usual self.
“Thank you,” she said. “I was having a time of it. My fingers are so stiff, and I couldn’t seem to work the…”
He grinned and said suggestively, “More than fingers are stiff today.”
“Is that right?” she asked sweetly, her gaze obviously confused. “You mean because of the rain?”
Jack laughed. “That innocent act is adorable.” Then in answer to her question went on with, “It could be the rain, I suppose, but I’m thinking you have something to do with it.”
The room spun around her, and she had to blink a number of times before it stopped.
“Me?” she asked confused. “What did I do?”
Jack laughed again. “You’re a special lady.”
“Thank you, but I…” Meg never finished. Her thoughts suddenly took on a totally new vein as his mouth teased the corner of her lip. Very slowly, she pulled back and asked, “What are you doing?”
Meg hadn’t a notion that her movements, being unusually slow, only further enticed.
Jack smiled. “I was wrong. I thought at first to get right down to business, but this is so much better.”
She looked into his eyes. “What?”
“You had something on the side of your mouth. I was brushing it away.”
She looked up and blinked slowly, naively, never thinking he could have used his finger and said, “Oh, thank you.”
Again, his lips brushed over hers, and she looked again into his eyes and asked trustingly, “More? What was it?”
“Just a crumb,” he said against her mouth.
Had she a grain of her usual common sense, had her mind not been muddled with drink, Meg would have surely reminded him that a crumb could not have existed. The storm had rained upon her for nigh on two hours or more and obviously had cleaned her face very well indeed. But after two glasses of cognac, Meg was drunk and at a distinct disadvantage in her ignorance of that inebriated state. Any thoughts she had were fleeting at best.
Meg frowned, wondering at the oddity of him cleaning her lips with his mouth, and only seconds later, she forgot to wonder, forgot everything but the lovely feel of his mouth against hers.
“You shouldn’t do that,” she said, knowing, despite her current state of dizziness, that for some reason he shouldn’t. She pulled a few inches away, then with her balance a thing of the past, she leaned forward again, closer than ever this time.
“Delightful,” he muttered with a tender smile, his mouth once again against hers.
Meg had never realised two people could talk while their mouths touched. She might have thought it strange indeed had she been able to think, but the power to think had disappeared, but not the power to feel. Indeed as the power to think dissipated the power to feel only seemed to increase. And she thought she liked talking against his mouth very much. “Because I’m already dizzy.”
Jack smiled. “You’re supposed to be dizzy.”
“Oh,” she returned, “am I?”
“I love the taste of your mouth.”
Meg could count on one finger the number of men who had told her that. It never occurred to her that this man shouldn’t be saying it now, even as she returned sweetly, “Thank you.”
Jack laughed. “Haven’t you something to say in return?”
She took perhaps three seconds longer than she should have to answer him. “I think so.”
“What?” Jack was obviously entranced.
“I have a secret.”
“Have you? Can you tell me what it is?”
“The secret is I’ve never kissed a man before.”
Jack smiled and nodded. “If I didn’t know better…” He let the sentence drop and asked, “What other secrets do you have?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a tantalising grin as she leaned away then into him again, her eyes wide with laughter. “What kind do you want?”
Jack’s fingers were busy as she swayed. “You are lovely.”
Her skirt fell to her feet, her petticoats as well. A moment later, her blouse and shift were gone. She stood clothed only in her drawers and stockings. Feeling the warm air against her damp, cool skin, she looked down at her mostly naked form without a hint of surprise or embarrassment then looked up at him again with a smile. “Where are my clothes?”
“I’m going to dry them before the fire.”
“Thank you,” she said as she shivered.
“Here,” he said, “take my shirt. I don’t want you to get cold.”
“Oh, you are so nice.” And then she sighed as he helped her into the soft shirt, still warm from the heat of his body. “This really feels good.” She pressed the fabric to her nose and said in all honesty, “I like the way this smells.”
Jack only groaned at her words.
Meg tried to close the shirt, but he refused to allow it. Instead, he pulled her closer and began to play with her breasts, to rub them against his warm chest, to roll her nipples between his fingers. She giggled and shook her head. “I know you shouldn’t be doing this.”
Jack smiled. “Why?”
“’Cause,” she said smiling while biting her bottom lip, watching his wicked grin.
“’Cause why?”
“’Cause I don’t know why.”
He chuckled. “But you like it?”
“Like what?” She blinked in confusion.
“Damn, but you really are a luscious piece. Do you like what I’m doing?”
“Oh,” she nodded eagerly then moaned as the movement made the room swim around her. It took a moment before the room stopped moving, and she finally said, “Very much. Isn’t that strange?”
“No. Most everyone likes it.”
“Do they? How odd that no one has ever told me.”
His lips brushed over hers. Softly, gently, asking nothing but to touch, to sip at her sweetness. “Mmm…” she moaned against his mouth. “Lovely.”