Today, we’re visiting with Akinyi Princess of K’Orinda Yimbo (A P Von K’Ory). She’s here to talk about her upcoming romance novels and has brought with her a couple of sensuous excerpts to share.
Tricia: Tell us about yourself and why you decided to be a writer.
Akinyi: The standard reply: For as long as I can remember. If I wasn’t writing something down I was running it in my head or telling it orally as a storyteller by the fireside would. At the time I was editor of my school’s Literature Club Magazine. When I solicited stories and articles for the magazine I embellished them whenever I could, and to my surprise and delight the authors of such stories and articles would be so impressed with the changes and additions that they actually inspired me to delve more into writing. One day our literature teacher said to me, “Akinyi, this is your calling, not just talent.” And that was my epiphany.
Tricia: How would you categorize your romantic writing?
Akinyi: I call my romances sensuous rather than sensual. I explain the difference in article on my new Facebook page http://facebook.com/AuthorAPVonKOry . Sensual is for me too physical. When two people are really into each other and have sex, it’s more than just the sensations of their bodies; it’s a convergence of their entire range of senses. They feel, they smell, they hear, they taste, they see, even with closed eyes.
Tricia: Tell us about your romantic writing.
Akinyi: I’m a big fan of intercultural/interracial romance simply because of the uniqueness of such relationships. They have depths that cannot be explored in other relationships, relationships that tend to be same old same old. Dark against pale sparks. Gold turns silver into platinum. White pearls diminish in visibility when set against black pearls. And when cultures clash where love demands autarchy, you have explosive, unique conflicts.
Tricia: Who is your favorite romance writer?
Akinyi: I’d say Penny Vincenzi although I do enjoy many others too including Douglas Kennedy. I’m sort of more literary women’s than just romance and like not only being entertained but also being informed. Vincenzi thrills me with informative, more-ish and champagne bubbles blockbuster romance and Kennedy is my absolute hero in love stories with heart-stopping twists.
Tricia: What are the qualities of a perfect romantic hero?
Akinyi: Like my Bound to Tradition Trilogy hero Erik. Big in all the right places, flawed in character, arrogant, self-made billionaires not in London or New York but in Asia or Africa. You know, right royal bastards who can afford to be so, like in James Clavell’s Noble House and Tai-Pan. Adventurous rogues who dare to go into unknown cultures and make it, who love them and leave them but singularly worship their adored chosen one and ready to kill to protect their family.
Tricia: What is your greatest challenge as a romance writer?
Akinyi: Throwing challenges and obstacles their way, especially having them lose someone they love. I write those chapters and scenes with a full packet of Kleenex next to my keyboard.
Here are two “steamies” of Erik and Khira, and Helena and Ramón, on their wedding nights respectively:
“What don’t I understand, hmm?” he murmured still planting soft kisses on her skin.
Oh, this was truly humiliating! “Well…” she began hesitantly then continued with determination, speaking to his chest. “I’m, ah, undisturbed. I mean you were the first man to touch me intimately that Saturday morning in Mombasa, heart. And later during the two nights we slept together. What took place between us then is all the experience I have with men. I, ah, never saw you… this, ah, intimidating before… I mean completely naked and…”
He stopped kissing her abruptly and held her at arms’ length. His Adam’s Apple worked up and down several times.
“Khira, are you telling me that you’ve never slept with any man ever?”
She nodded. “Except you, heart.”
“Thor och Odin!” he said turning his face to the ceiling with his eyes closed, and then continuing to mutter away in his native tongue.
She anxiously watched his tilted face and the movements of his Adam’s Apple. He seemed to take forever about whatever he was muttering. Was he disappointed that she was not modern and sophisticated? Had she ruined his joy even before it began?
“Litet barn…” he murmured looking at her at last. Looking at her as if she was something sacred. “Litet barn… “
He slowly began kissing her whole face. As softly as drifting mist, down to her neck and shoulders. Her flesh caught at her again and she shivered briefly. He sensed this. He now sensed even her mute breath. He carried her to the cushions by the hearthrug.
“Come, my exquisite Goddess, you’re about to be worshipped.”
She could have died with relief. He had at last understood her. “Forgive me, my life,” she said, that bedroom voice back again. “But do teach me how to make you happy and fulfilled.”
He raised his head from a breast to say, “Yes, my own. Oh, yes. But first, I’m going to do everything, Gudinna, for your joy and fulfilment. You’re mine and mine and mine again.”
He began to kiss her again, his lips travelling languorously from her breasts, up her neck, until they were upon hers. The scent of wine in his breath pleased her, defined the maleness of him to her. Bolts of heat shot through her body in the frenzied patterns of the lightning. “I love you, my pure white dove. I love you…” he whispered in her ear again and again.
Soft, drawn-out cries like the moans of one delirious and weak with fever escaped her. The sound of her cries were to him as tender and as vulnerable as she was. He dismissed his own urgency with an ease that was unknown to him.
“I love you, my heart … my life … oh, I love you…”
“And I worship you, Gudinna … my pure little white dove…”
His hand separated her thighs with tender strokes.
She discovered her body undulating on its own volition. The frenzied bolts went all out for the Confusions Olympic Gold. She darted her hands to his powerful shoulders and held on tightly to him, shuddering. “I, ah…Oh, my all…my life…!”
It had never been like this even with him during the two nights they had slept together.
Calm again, she felt his lips slide down her belly, his tongue twirl in her navel while his hands gently caressed her breasts making her nipples pulsate. He seemed – incredibly, to her – able to do all sorts of things to her with all parts of his body and all at once. He now positioned himself between her legs, slowly raising them up. She thought: Oh, Mahma, here we go!
But she was wrong. Only his lips descended warmly over her and proceeded to make her feel on the edge of an implosion. Then his tongue ventured into her, a passionate but cautious pioneer, sliding languidly on a voyage of discovery.
Now, what he was doing to her she had never even heard of. Not even experienced Candy had mentioned this. Her body was a myriad minefields, sometimes exploding and imploding all at once, sometimes in quick successions. She could not tell the end of one rapture from the beginning of the next. She held on to his muscular shoulders as if for dear life, and repeatedly cried out his Luo warrior name.
“Please… stop… no… don’t… stop… yes… no… oh, heart… my life… my all… I… don’t know… anything… anymore…”
He didn’t stop until he sensed that she was just about ready to pass out. He watched her head rolling from side to side a while longer, until she was calm enough to realise that he had stopped. She finally raised herself up on her elbows, breathing hard, and looked into his eyes, tears suddenly running down her cheeks.
He silently touched the tears away. They could find no words to say to each other.
He rose and picked her up like a Chou Dynasty porcelain and carried her to the turned down bed. He stood watching her for a moment. The time had come for him to go home, yet a voice in his mind incessantly insisted: Vara bara barnet! Vara bara barnet!
He went and poured himself a fresh glass of champagne, threw a few logs into the fire, came back with his glass and stood watching her. Drinking champagne slowly and drinking in the sight of her on snow white silk bedclothes. Exquisite.
He was unsmiling. Solemn. Reverent. He didn’t know where to begin. But he must not ruin it for her. It must be supreme. It must be as exquisite as she was, so exquisite that it would be both a dedication to her and a personal hallmark of his as a lifetime’s gift.
To his creation. She was his.
Her eyes, almost as if hypnotised, travelled the length of his body to glance at him. She could now take in his body without any fear. The crystal tear was now a fine silken syrupy thread suspended in the air like a single silvery spider web with a tiny weight at the end. How very curious men were. She raised her arms to him.
“Come to me, my heart. Please do, my male…”
He took his own time, as always in everything he does except in matters of the calculus, getting her out of her gown, releasing her hair from the tiara and lace mantilla veil, the elongated pearl-and-diamond-splattered hairnet. When she trembled with impatience he put a finger to his own lips, as if trembling could be silenced. When her luxurious tresses, as black as midnight, snaked free as if they had a life of their own, and crawled down her bare golden back to cover the dents above her perfectly rounded buttocks, he made sounds in his throat. The lowing set of plough oxen in the windy moor lands. Free. The voluminous tresses were like a cloak over her shoulders and arms, partially covering her breasts. Wild. When he knelt before her, fully dressed in the day’s snowy whites, and placed her feet, one after the other, on his raised knee to take her shoes and stockings off, her legs turned to fruit gums.
He rose, turned her around and bent her before him wordlessly, by applying gentle pressure at the nape of her neck. Then with both hands he swept the live mane forward to spread on the floor before her face. Making his noises, noises that rattled her whole system, she felt him bend over her back and kiss the exposed nape of her neck, slip his hands between her shoulders and neck and place his palms on her cheeks.
His face rested on her neck.
“Straighten up, mi amor.” He’d always had a thousand fantasies about her hair, from that moment he’d watched her walking away along the corridor of Limassol Palace.
She gasped at the murmur in her ear, not having expected more than his throaty noises.
“Toss it back. All over me, furiously all over us like an untameable filly, my Helena.”
“I… my whole body is all… rubbery… feel like a squid…”
“Do it. I’m here with you, mi vida…”
She did her best for him, teetered, and he steadied her. Buried under it, he run his palms on it while running his lips on her naked back until she felt his hot breath on the cleft between her buttocks. She folded up and he caught her. With his noises and arms.
He placed her on the bed, arranging the mane around her before he straightened up and began to undress himself while looking at her. Undressed like a preparation for a ritual.
She had seen him completely naked in Timberlake Priory. But then he had not been physically aroused. Watching him naked but dressed in tons of desire and a willingness to at last take her to the place of pure loving was this time awesome. The muscles on his belly stood out like in a medical textbook. Every muscle on him was rippling, and his virile self was quivering erratically, as if it was being used by a water diviner in the desert to trace underground water and had just detected a vast subterranean sea. His whole body, even his height, seemed to have doubled and tripled. Or maybe it was her pent-up desire, her longing for him like for nothing else on earth – perhaps all that warped her mind and body. When her eyes returned to his face, the Spartan of the Battle of Thermopylae‘s cheeks were dimpled in that boyish smile that revealed no teeth. In his eyes leapt flames. His chest heaved rhythmically as if he was doing some deliberate breathing exercise. A myriad things in one.
“If I touch you anywhere now, mi vida, if I even peck at the top of your head, you’re going to scream that intoxicating wild passion of yours out loud. As always.”
He was shaking his head slowly from side to side.
“I… know, darling. You always make me… your presence alone has… a frighteningly solid knowledge of… my system. I can’t…”
She already felt the intensity of her desire for him wrecking her resilience.
“Don’t. Give me a chance.”
“Mi querido…. both guilty. We have the universal record… in foreplay…months…”
“Just don’t, mi vida, okay? Don’t. For me.”
Standing there stark naked before her in all his glory and demanding the impossible!
“Then I need… more protection… from you.”
She swept her knickers off as gracefully as if she had just turned ninety-nine a week ago. Better that than him removing them. Even her scalp was tingling so much she was sure her earlobes were flapping inarticulately. Has any woman ever…? This borders on the pathological!
“Oh, Helena…” He remained standing where he was.
Watching the exquisite shambling of her feminine wiring and the shuddering of her limbs, some heavy voltage thumped down his spine, shooting his control. He earthed it fast by closing his eyes and turning his face up, the ceiling his divinity. Her musk subtly veiled her bottled scent in the room. He imagined several studs would whinny and break out of their stables. He swooped down from the thermal to the terrestrial again and opened his eyes on her.
He needed his sanctuary. So he joined her and fused, fighting with himself to make it as slow as ever could be without remaining strictly motionless.
“Mi amor… La bomba estalló justo en medio de la…” he murmured into her mouth, pushing her scream back down her throat while he squeezed in deeper until he could go no further. Her scream ricocheted up into his mouth and down his own throat like a muffled little rocket and smashed his control to smithereens.
She felt the force of the hot squirts in her and went berserk with the pristine urgefühl of procreation, screaming down his throat, while he lowed against the screams, steadying her head with his strong jaws and sensuous mouth because his hands were busy elsewhere. No stopping her waves – which he too could feel – anywhere too soon.
Oh God, yes! This is her. She’s come to me…
He’d known from the first breath of her sight. Known she was for him, he for her.
She finally came back.
“We’re innocence, mi vida. To each other.”
“Not delicious… evil?”
“Uh-uh. Perfect holiness, pure harmony, mi amor.”
He remained in her, hard again, lowing.
“Nearly killed me, mi amor, the waiting.”
Her eyes opened in sleepy slits, her parted lips swollen and crimson. “So why?”
“Not now. Not tonight, mi vida, ‘kay?” Her head bobbed subtly. “I’m the priest of your temple, Valentine Helena Brianna Regina… Charlotte Ruíz de Alarcón … y Lovat y Savvides… y Inverbroch. And you’re the priestess of my temple…”
She took off again. He kept tight reins on himself, control was now his rescue. Because she sent him mental with the sensations of her pleasure.
For the first time she discovered the difference between having sex and making love. What Ramón did with her was so unique. He seemed to have more hands than Siva on a Saturday night, destroying all else that had been before him, making her his votaress. His mere breath on her bare skin inflamed it. He turned her body into a musical instrument only he could tune and play. He could mask one thrill and thereby accentuate five others.
“Ramón… Ramón… Ramón… my darling… mi querido…”
“You’re… overtaking again…”
“Catch up… when I slow down… at the next curve…”
“Mi vida…” Pure torture. Heaven.
He turned her body into a temple where he was the only priest who knew its rites and rituals. He made her his kingdom and built a citadel around her that no army could ever scathe, let alone storm. He worked out strategies on her body and heart that no other general could ever comprehend. He planted activators and detonators. But only he knew the locations of the buttons. It was as if this was the first time a man ever touched her body.
“Now… you’ll have to… catch up, mi vida…”
Two connoisseurs tasting and delighting in all they had. When their eyes locked, the double eruption at a single moment was exquisite. They were in a place of intimate reverence. Their place. Their temple. Their time.
She was bewitched. His words, noises he made, unleashed a rush of emotions, some primordial recognition that had always been there in her gender of what he was to her and she to him. He touched her like the only wonder in the universe, moved in her as if he was counting each cell he proceeded to or receded away from. She, on the other hand, couldn’t help but be more pronounced, starved, forcing him to pace her, to match and meet her, leaving him no choice but to drive and dare summoning the meteorites. Then the waves subsided and their eyes held, the sound from their voices a hybrid of chuckles and sobs.
“Ramón, darling husband. I’m aching… with love for you…”
“Te amo, mi amor… de todo corazón, tesoro… You’re my perfection.”
“Your perfection wants to crawl into your veins, flow in your blood, darling…”
“And I into yours… I want to be in you, be part of you like our baby is, mi vida…”
He kissed her from hair to ear, from eyes to throat, from nipples to navel, from the silky pelt of curls covering her secrets to the soles of her feet. Then he turned her over and repeated. He flipped onto his back and lifted her on top of him, and then leapt out of his mind at the sight of her, half hidden in her voluminous black curls. He spied her experiencing so much sexual might with him that she was intoxicated enough to shudder like a wet canine shaking off water. He moaned with delight when her hair spilled over his naked skin, warm over his chest and thighs, blocking off their point of union, giving him the sensation of sliding in and out of a mass of mysterious heated black silk.
“De…struc…tive, Spartan warrior.”
“Con…struc…tive, my Scylla.”
Straddling him, she watched his muscles tensing, rippling, bunching, his teeth gritted and bared while his eyes feasted on her. His tongue peeped out of the side of his mouth while he battled with negotiating the finest safety points in volcanology. It gave her a heady sensation. He made her realise how vulnerable each was to the other in this magnificent conquest of their bodies and hearts.
“Ecstasy… mi amor… Complete seizure…”
“Heart… or… power?”
“Everything, my Helena…”
Then he held her firmly under him by the hips and went through the stages of loving manhood, virile, venturing as far as he could go, storming secret depths.
His tongue explored while his fingers prised open, and his eyes fed on the beautiful swollen contrasting colours and contours of her amazing womanhood, before he applied himself to it again, a thirsty sojourner suddenly stumbling on an oasis. Soak, soak, soak to the marrow.
He took them both off to another orbit where they remained suspended for all eternity before hurtling back to the present.
When they finally took their weeping bodies to the bathroom, he asked somebody, through a phone on the wall, to come and change the sheets in the bedroom. As they showered, they heard the distant crowing of the cocks in the estate. They saw, through the large bathroom window, that the horizon hugging the Mediterranean Sea was the colour of molten gold and lilac. A new day had begun.
Whoever had made the fresh bed and cleared away their scattered clothes had also left various carafes filled with chilled drinks of freshly squeezed lemon juice, pomegranates, pineapples and oranges, all seasoned in assortments with cinnamon, ginger and mint, each carafe covered with circles of white lace. Other small bowls had cubes of fruit salads.
“Something for the fertility rites?”
“Somebody suspected we were flaying our hearts, mi vida. Makes one sweat a lot.”
“We’re a textbook case, handsome.”
They lay back on the bed, propped up, and drank litres while nibbling on fruits.
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