Rough hands glided
over her calf, forging a fiery trail up her leg before falling from her skin.
She moaned at the loss, begging for the sweet sting of his palm on her—
“Mom, can I have a
Popsicle?”
Does this sound like any romance novel you’ve ever read?
Yeah, well, me neither. And it sure wasn’t in the parenting brochures.
My friends would tell you that I’m a big fan of sex. A huge,
massive, epic kind of fan. But most of my friends are writers. We tend to
exaggerate. I won’t deny that I love me some lovin’, but it stopped being the
scream-out-loud kind somewhere between “It’s positive!” and “Will he ever stop
crying?” At least for the most part.
Every parent has their horror stories about getting busted
in the buff. If you have children and it hasn’t happened to you yet, never
fear: It will.
My boys are seven and nine. We haven’t had The Talk
yet—praise be—but I’m sure it will sound a lot like when my brother got the
crash course from the seven-year-old tramp down the street.
He looked up at my parents, hands clasped before him,
unmasked hope burning in his wide hazel eyes.
“Please, please
tell me you’ve never done that.”
Dad shrugged. “Well, son, I don’t know what to tell you.
You’re here, aren’t you?”
My poor, disillusioned brother shook his little head.
“I am so
disappointed in you.”
Now, here’s the thing. My parents could have taken that to
heart, stifled their love to keep from “disappointing” us further. Or maybe
they couldn’t have; I swear they’re part bunny. But they didn’t. They laughed
and continued to gross us out with their constant make-out sessions. Hell, they
still do.
Some people might say that’s irresponsible parenting. All I know
is they were never crude, and my brother and I never had to worry that they
would wind up divorced. They wore their love for one another, love on every
level, for anyone to see.
So, to all you parents out there who pale at the thought of
being interrupted in the middle of a spank session for a Popsicle or who live
in fear of your toddler going Hulk and busting down your door, I say perfect
the art of the quickie and buy a sturdy lock. Life’s too short to get your
panties in a bunch about your sex life. Your sex life’s a lot more fun without
the panties, anyway. Don’t let the passion die when that little stinker
sniggers on the other side of that locked door and says, “Sounds like Daddy’s
getting a spanking.”
Turn to your partner in crime and whisper, “No. But Mommy’s
been a bad, bad girl.”
Eva Siedler was born in Columbus, Ohio to parents who enjoy
the kind of epic love most people only read about. She didn’t inhale books or
scribble stories in a notebook during study hall. Because writing necessitated
reading. And she HATED reading. Every paragraph was a battle, and she couldn’t
seem to stay awake through the first ten pages. It wasn’t until her own love
story unfolded and a colicky baby started keeping her up at night that Eva
discovered what good fiction can do for the soul. Writing wasn’t the path she
imagined. It’s the path she was born for, and so much better than she could
have dreamed.
Coastal Airlines mechanic Sebastian Brisbane is on his way
to Las Vegas to fix a broken jet. But after one look at his sexy, travel-sized
seatmate, he’s more concerned with revving her engine than fixing the plane’s.
Clara Howe will do anything to fulfill her aunt’s last
wishes to have her ashes spread in Vegas. A one-night stand isn’t on the
itinerary, but when Clara accidentally pricks Sebastian’s temper, along with
his passion, only one thing is certain: It’s bound to be a bumpy ride.
