A feast for the senses!

Hi friends of the 69 Shades of Smut!

Well, its that time of year again. American Thanksgiving was recently celebrated and I’m still seeing posts on Facebook about how full everyone is. Here in Canada, we had Thanksgiving a month ago, and I still can’t handle the thought of turkey for a while.

Admit it, as much as we moan and complain about those annual holidays that make us feel like gluttons, it is satisfying indulging the senses for a spell. There’s nothing better than walking into a house where a turkey has been slowly roasting all day, and catching a delightful whiff of all those trimmings.

We’re pretty lucky to be able to enjoy that.

And let’s face it, there’s something absolutely sensuous about eating and drinking delicious foods. It engages all our senses: we touch the food, smell it, hear it roasting or crackling or simmering, we see it come to a boil or thickening in the pot. And of course, we taste it, swallowing it down, remembering its unique flavor. Sounds an awful lot like lovemaking to me!

I wanted to capture some of that feeling in my paranormal romance The Selkie.   In my book, selkies are sensual creatures, driven by smell and taste. I describe their unique sensibility and liken them to cats. They can smell a fragrance, that sense of smell transfers to their tastebuds, and they can suddenly taste. An intriguing thought, when standing in front of an aroused individual!

Has there ever been a smell that has driven you wild? I know I have some. My favorite has to be cocoa butter. I smell it and am immediately transported to a sandy beach. I can almost feel the water lapping at my toes. Is there a sound or taste that has remained in your memoryback, conjuring delicious images? I’d love to know. Is it the flavor of sweet wine, or perhaps the feel of leather? What sense memories stimulate you?

While you’re pondering this, I’ve leave you with a little snippet from The Selkie. Hopefully my selkie man will engage your senses!


This was supposed to be her year. However, after losing her job and discovering her fiancé cheating, Maggie Collins has her doubts. When her grandmother dies, she hits rock bottom. Maggie travels to her grandmother’s home in Orkney, Scotland to sort through her gran’s things, only to discover the old woman has left her a seal pelt as her inheritance. She also learns that others are after the pelt.
To add to her frustration, Maggie’s dreams are filled with luscious images of a long-haired man, images that draw her to the magical beaches in Orkney. Although she’s lost her trust in men, this dream man inspires her with a lust she’s never known before.
Calan Kirk has also been dreaming. Dreaming of Maggie, the mortal woman who arouses him as no other woman ever has. Meeting her in the flesh when she arrives in Orkney is nothing short of spontaneous sexual combustion. But she is a human, and not to be trusted. He needs the seal pelt, not a red-haired temptress.
As a thief ransacks Maggie’s grandmother’s house, Maggie and Calan are thrust together. They must search for the animal skin, a mythical relic which once found, will either bring them together or rip them apart forever.

The woman addressed only Calan, as if in a stupor. “What would you like, handsome? Please tell me it’s forty-year-old blondes with a couple of kiddies at home.”

He merely grinned, as if he got that response from women all the time. “A bottle of red wine, please, pet. Oh, and a shrimp plate, the buttered scallops, the lobster pasta, and the oyster special.” He turned to Maggie. “What’ll you have, love?”

She couldn’t stop her eyes from popping. “None of that was for me?”

He leaned over and whispered, grinning lasciviously. “I did warn you about selkie appetites.”

She tried to ignore the luscious ripple of sexual promise that wobbled through her core.

A short time later, Maggie was polishing off her lunch-sized portion of fish and chips, watching as her strange companion swallowed back the last oyster with gusto. He’d eaten all of it, every last morsel, although he’d tried to share a great deal of it with her. And he’d ordered two more bottles of red wine, too. She’d had a glass. He’d had the rest. And he was as sober as a novice on her first day at the convent.

“Do you always eat like this?”

Calan laughed. “I’ll share something with you. Selkie folk are sensualists. We live to feel, Maggie. We live to touch, to smell, to taste.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss so redolent of buttered shrimp that she almost thought she was at Red Lobster. “And we like to eat, mostly shellfish, but I’d take a good burger any day.”

She couldn’t help laughing at his enthusiasm. It was as infectious as his kisses.

“And,” he continued, “I do have a weakness for fine red wines. And one of the perks of being selkie is that it takes a lot to get me drunk.”


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