Romancey Pants

Welcome, friends! It’s me, The Brit (they/them), beaming in from Planet RomanceyPants to share our latest read. Right now, The Man and I are deeply ensconced in a few things. (Not like that, smutty.) Thing one: dry roasted peanuts. Thing two: writing novel manuscripts. Thing three: A category romance from Harlequin entitled The Sicilian Marriage by Sandra Marton.

The truth is, we start a lot of category romances but we don’t finish all of them. This one’s really sticking with us—partly because the author’s voice is so strong. You feel like you’re in really good hands. And who among us doesn’t like to be in really good hands?

(Don’t answer that. At least, not here.)

The Sicilian Marriage was first published during a time when apparently it was okay to grab hold of a woman and just sort of chuck her on the bed in the hopes that she appreciated your dominant, brazen-as-pluck masculinity. Or maybe that’s just our hero, Gianni. Anyway, it’s a Presents novel, so Gianni has to be tamed by the heroine, Bree. There’s also the small issue of the fact that they HATE each other but also have to RAISE A CHILD TOGETHER. (And I thought MY Tuesday morning was a tad off-color.)

Yes, after Bree and Gianni’s married best friends have died, the pile-of-pants will names Gianni and Bree as guardian of said couple’s daughter. Lucia is to be raised by the two people these old friends care most about, namely Bree and Gianni. However, our two feisty heroes are ALSO fans of hurling metaphorical cream pies at one another.

But the desire? OH, THE DESIRE! (Apologies for the cream reference back there.)

Back when I was teaching romance writing classes, I talked a lot about feeling on the page. Many of my students had problems doing this—especially when it came to writing sex and desire. At the start, it isn’t always easy to bare your heart as a writer. It makes you feel strangely naked. And when there’s a kiss—or more—involved, writerly minds often cry, “This is private! You can’t express to any reader how this feels or there’ll be some massive attack by the Forces of Righteousness, who, we have heard, carry flaming swords!”

Well, if author Sandra Marton has ever felt afraid of said flaming swords, she’d graciously flipped her reticence the bird by the time she wrote The Sicilian Marriage. We’re about halfway through the book and ALL WE WANT TO SEE is Bree and Gianni kissing. The fact that Gianni gets all Humphrey Bogart by crushing his lips against Bree’s when she’s protesting—and HOW—seems to pale into significance (in romance, not in life!) when we see how she reacts to this dominant tongue-greased churlishness.

How does she react? By winding her arms around his neck. Let me show you a smidge. Everyone’s fully clothed here, by the way, but if you don’t like the mention of thrusts, skip the quote:

“Bastard,” she panted, “you no good bas—”

And then she wound her arms around his neck and opened her mouth to his. The first taste of her and he was lost. She fell back against the wall of the car, her body arching against his, breasts soft against his chest, hips lifting to the thrust of his.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh please …”

Gianni groaned, cupped her backside and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around him, pressed herself…”

Language, in general, is like music to me, and the beats of those lines sing of longing. I’m grounded in the scene—I know exactly what’s happening and where. And the poetry of it all—lost … soft … cupped … pressed—is naked rather than flowery, direct rather than overdressed. It’s poignant for me. Their connection feels precious, luxurious, and steamy AF. And thank you, Sandra Marton, for allowing your hero to let out a noise of satisfaction. When male characters are silent during clinches, I feel colder than a very dead fish.

For all we know, they’re actually thinking about haddock.

The first time I wrote a sex scene, (terrible segue! terrible!) I was in a writing class. Following my instructor’s teachings, I wrote what I felt was a hundred words of far-too-simple language, monosyllable upon monosyllable, that I was embarrassed to read out. They were stuffed with feeling, but they seemed basic, naked, undeserving. Yet according to said instructor, those lines I’d written were gold. And you know what? He was right. That “too simple” writing landed me first prize in a flash fiction contest—the first writing prize I ever received.

Sandra Marton is GREAT at love scenes. When she writes lines like those, she feels them—and so do I. She bears her heart and doesn’t dress it up it fancy language—she doesn’t mask. Given how many love scenes she’s published, I bet she doesn’t feel naked about them at all.

We, on the other hand, might. And I mean that in the best of ways.

It’s a good read, peeps—especially the love scenes. Give it a go. If you like it, I might offer you a peanut.