goose, gander, sauce
It's odd, reading this scene for process. I wrote it a good long time ago, maybe eight years now. The whole novel was a challenge for a lot of reasons -- Bantam bought it before I wrote a single word, because they wanted a sequel to Into the Wilderness. I had no idea if I could pull it off; I didn't know if I could keep the characters interesting. And other things were going on in my life, some of them very traumatic. We moved across country, and it was during the time I was writing this book that I made the decision to leave academia and give up tenure.
Now that I've made all these excuses, the question: does this scene work?
It does, mostly, even eight years later. If I were going to rewrite it now, I would tighten it up a little bit, but mostly I'd leave it intact. There's a playfulness about it that gives way to intensity, and both those things work for me. Elizabeth's thought processes feel right -- she's still the upper class English daughter who was never supposed to marry. She has learned many things about herself since she married Nathaniel, one of them being that she likes sex precisely because she has to give up some control; but some things come hard to her and always will. So she's aroused but cautious; she likes being convinced, won over, seduced.
There are some good details -- the shock of bare skin pressed to cold window glass, the images in the glass, the way the nightgown is folded up to her waist.
This scene actually goes much farther than is normal for the sex scenes I write. I almost always stop before things get really athletic. This time I let the story roll on, but I can't remember what the process was -- I don't think there was one, at least not a conscious one. Probably the hardest decision in this scene was whether or not to use the work cock, which sounded right to my ear and still, I worried that it would strike a false note, that my editor would think it too much, or the readers. But it was the only possible word, and so I did use it, and the editor never even queried, and thus there it is on the printed page, that four letter word you see so rarely. Like male frontal nudity on film, the word cock generally is avoided in mainstream novels. Even in romance novels -- especially, I would have to say, in romance novels.
This final question, then: could this scene have been replaced with "and then they had sex" without hurting the storyline? Does it do anything to move the narrative and the characterizations along? It does give us one more step forward in Elizabeth's evolution, her separation from her upbringing. Beyond that, I think this is the most playful Nathaniel has ever been, so that indicates something about him, given the context of this scene. It's not hugely significant, though, so maybe it could have been left out; that's something I can't really say, as I have little perspective on the issue in this case.
So there you have it, a piecemeal look at a sex scene I wrote. To be precise: this one.
The splash of oars brought her up out of a half doze, heart pounding. A bateaux or a whaleboat, for a canoe would not make so much noise. She heard men's voices, but could not make out the language and so she put her face closer to the glass. The boat had already moved on out of sight. On the other shore cook fires sputtered like random coals in a cold hearth.
Behind her a door opened. There was a murmuring of voices: Moncrieff, and Nathaniel. Elizabeth stilled, tucking her bare feet up under herself; she had no wish to entertain Angus Moncrieff in her nightdress. After a moment the door opened and closed again.
She waited, and heard nothing. Just when she thought it might be safe to slip out, Nathaniel's voice came to her, not five inches away.
"Boots," he said. "You'd make a god-awful spy."
Elizabeth yelped in surprise and tried to rise from the cushions, only to find it was suddenly impossible to negotiate her feet out from underneath herself. But it was too late: Nathaniel had already come inside, the draperies falling to a close. They were almost eye to eye, for she was kneeling on the high bench in front of him. The gentle twitching at the corner of his mouth pleased her not at all.
"Why would I make such a terrible spy?" she demanded.
"Because your shawl was hanging out there for all the world to see. That's why Moncrieff took off so quick."
She pulled the end of the offending garment free of the drapery and wrapped it more securely around herself. "It is just as well, Nathaniel. I am not dressed to receive visitors."
"So I see." He lowered his voice and leaned forward as if to tell her a secret. "I dinna think he wad ha' minded, ava. He's got a verra keen e'e for the lasses, does oor Angus. And ye're lookin' aye fine this evenin', Mrs. Bonner, wi' yer hair aa soft an' curled aboot yer bonnie face."
Elizabeth let out a high hoot of laughter. "I had no idea you were such a good mimic."
One brow shot up. "Ah larned guid Scots at ma mither's knee, woman, an' Ah'll thank ye no' tae forgit it."
She choked back a laugh. "Is that so? And what other talents have you been hiding from me then?"
He blinked at her thoughtfully as one finger began to skate down the front of her nightdress. "Talents?" His own voice now, as strong and purposeful as the flick of a finger which opened first one button, and then another. "I can't think of any, off hand. Except maybe this knack I've got for making you blush." Three more buttons, and the white linen gaped open from neck to waist.
"See?"
He was tugging at her shawl. She tugged back, but without effect. "Nathaniel! Perhaps this demonstration should wait—"
But he cut her off neatly, catching her up against him, his arm like a vise at her waist so that she could feel him from knee to shoulder. A flush started in the pit of her stomach and curled up like smoke. Oh yes, he had that knack. If she let him start, she would not be able to stop him — or herself.
She turned her head so that his mouth caught her cheek. "It grieves me to say this, Nathaniel, but this is not the time nor the place."
"And why not?" His fingers were tangled in her hair where it fell to the small of her back, jerking every nerve into near painful wakefulness.
"Your father and Robbie—"
"Hip-deep in Pickering's gun collection and not about to come back here, Boots. I'll have to fetch them when Bears shows up."
"Yes, exactly. Runs-from-Bears and Will should be back any moment."
"If that's all you're worried about," Nathaniel said hoarsely. "Then don't. We'll be the first to see the canoe from here."
She struggled harder. "Yes, and they will see us. The whole river can see us here." With a wiggle she was out of his arms. She turned, putting her hands against the casement to steady herself. "Look!"
The river was empty. Ships rocked gently at docks for as far as they could see, and not a light burned in any of them.
"Aye, Boots. I'm looking."
His hands were everywhere. She tried to turn back to him but he held her still with his body, his mouth at her ear. "Tell me you don't want me."
"I don't want you."
"Liar." His hand slipped inside her nightdress, fingers moving restlessly.
"Yes, yes, yes. I am a liar," she said, struggling against him in vain. "But oh Nathaniel, the windows—"
"Damn the windows," he muttered. In one motion he pulled the open nightdress down over her shoulders, pressing her forward, bare breasts to the cold glass so that she jerked with the shock of it. Then he let her go and stripped before she could gather her thoughts — did she want this? dear God, yes, but the windows — and then he was there again.
He crowded up behind her and put his mouth to her neck, breathing a slow litany of promises into her ear while his hands moved over her, folding the hem of her nightdress up around her waist. The words held her in a trance, startling, powerful words. He could coax water from stone with this voice of his, but she was not stone, nothing like stone. Against the cleft of her buttocks his cock was proof enough of that. His hands insistent on her thighs; all was lost.
"The windows," she muttered. To be cursed both with mind and heart. And with eyes: for there they were, faint reflections in the window glass, coupling for themselves and for all the world.
"We mustn't."
He paused, his mouth hovering over her shoulder. "Don't you want me, Elizabeth?"
"I want you, yes," she hissed. Because she could not lie to him, or herself. "But I can't, I can't."
"Oh but you can, darlin." And so he showed her, bent her to his will, and to her own. Covered her and filled her, his mouth on her neck, one arm like a pillar, supporting both of them. The other arm was around her waist, pulling her up and back to meet him. And even the world gave in, retreated and left nothing behind but Nathaniel, the long muscles of his thighs tensed behind her, the heat and the heft of him, his body deep in hers and all around her and still he struggled, they struggled together to bring him closer.
And in the window glass she watched it all, saw their faces torn apart with furious need and stitched back together thrust by thrust. His cheek pressed against her temple and his eyes flashing with the beat of her heart, ready to burst for him. She watched it happen. She would remember it as long as she lived.