I’m not big on alpha heroes. Give me one of Vicki Lewis Thompson’s nerds in shining armor, a beta sweetheart like Freddy Standen out of Georgette Heyer, or my own Bobbyjay Morton from Fools Paradise. Beta guys make great husbands and they have a sense of humor about themselves.
But for The Brass Bed, rereleasing today at Book View Café as The Hinky Brass Bed, I needed an alpha male. A bosstastic control freak who walks on the dial-9-1-1 side of first dates. His job was to be the kind of arrogant jerk who would be bad in bed and then blame the woman; who would be horrified when she turned him into a sex demon and cursed him: “You don’t get out of this brass bed until you have satisfied one hundred women!” The kind of man who has never had to serve anybody, ever.
I needed Randolph Llew Carstairs Athelbury Darner, Third Earl Pontarsais. He was perfect.
Now I could make him suffer.
That’s how authors think.
He had no sense of humor about himself. He was, like, a haughty aristocrat who would think my heroine was beneath him and she would kick his butt and make fun of him all the time. Plus, if they have a fight, he’d end up trapped in another bed, and he couldn’t get out unless he gave her an orgasm.
The only way he could fully express his alpha side would be…in bed.
I expected to enjoy making fun of him. I expected to enjoy writing about his fantabulous slippery potent magical sex prowess.
I didn’t expect to fall for him. You know. Just a little crush. Where you dream about him at night and wake up and write a scene where something nice happens to him, because you feel just a tiny bit guilty for messing him over all the time. He has big black eyes and a warrior-god body and a very magical, authoritative, yet sensitive way of satisfying a woman. And he won’t quit until you’re satisfied. A lot.
I’m not gonna apologize for what I do to Randy in The Hinky Brass Bed.
But I will promise him—and you—that he will have a much better time, at least once in a while, in the next five books.