When I’m writing like a fiend, I don’t read. Months can pass without my ever doing more than sighing at my overstuffed bookcase.

Until last week. And since then, I’ve been inhaling them. Nothing wonderful, nothing great, something truly awful that I made myself read until the very end. I won’t mention the names of those ones just to be polite, and because one person’s trash is another’s art.

Last night I snuggled into my leather couch with a cup of tea, thinking I’d read a page or two of the next TBR book before going to bed…

Well, I was enchanted, aroused, and ready to order the woman’s backlist I liked it so well. So, I’ll definitley send along a recommendation for Noelle Mack’s Nights in Black Satin.

Truthfully, it wasn’t the most elegant book, or the most poetic, or the crazy-sexiest book I ever read, and the love story of a woman on vacation who falls in love with a mysterious man in Venice might sound a little cliche, but she turned it upside down. The detail in setting and atmosphere, the blend of sensory detail, the heroine’s wonderful internal dialogue and sheer hotness of her sexual journey…

Well, I’m gonna read it again and check Expedia to see how much it costs to fly to Venice.