~ CAROLYN CRANE ~
Heroes and chest hair: my five top reasons!
Okay, everybody has their little reading quirks, and one of mine is that when a hero has a mysteriously smooth chest in a book, then my mind goes to, how did he get that mysteriously smooth chest? And I imagine himself fussily grooming himself, and it destroys my fantasy a little. Like an evil little hero-image destroying gremlin, hacking away at the hero’s sexiness. It’s not like I’m all against whatever makes men feel good about themselves in real life, but this is fantasy.
So, unless he is of an ethnicity that naturally has a hairless chest (or a bike racer, but let’s face it, the only bike racers I’m reading about have giant motors on their bikes), I like to imagine him with chest hair. I don’t need the hero to have a rug, or a massive thicket, but some hair. A smattering of hair will do.
Therefore, as an author, I make sure to write chest hair onto my heroes that would naturally have chest hair. Are you totally fascinated yet? Read on!
1. I don’t like to imagine my heroes shaving their chests.
As established above, it just seems totally unmanly and kind of fussy to me. The Asian member of my gang gets to have both a naturally smooth chest and extreme badassness. As for the rest? Like, a man standing in front of the mirror and shaving his chest?
No, dude, if you are in a book of mine, you and your chest hair are using your time punching out guys, having super dirty sex, or somewhere on that spectrum. You will not have time to shave your chest hair.
2. Lack of hair balance.
Beards and scruff are hot, but it looks totally off to this reader if a hero is all Ken Doll on the chest, but with a wildly scruffy face. Or manly leg hair. My heroes, brilliant spies that they are, are only just slightly evolved beyond a cave man in certain other departments. So, for the ones who would naturally have hair various places, they’re keeping it.
3. A chest five o’clock shadow? No thanks!
A little facial stubble is hot, and can actually come in handy in sex scenes, or at least the ones I sometimes write, but whiskers on the chest? No. That will never be handy.
Though, come to think of it, prickly chest stubble might make a nice villain detail. Excuse me for a second while I add something to a certain list that I’ve been keeping….
4. Where does it end?
What about the armpits? Shall the hero shave those? Legs? Elsewhere? No, hero, you shall not do that. That is one of the nice things about being an author, you can make decrees like that. My heroes would not be above the occasional trim if certain hair is growing out of control (omg Under the Covers, are you guys SO glad you’ve let me onto your blog? Are you going to ban me from posts from now on? nooooo!) I wouldn’t put trimming actually in a book, but an author needs to know everything about her heroes, even if it’s not used in any scene. A hero of mine would be casual about such a trim. It would just a occur to them, and they would grab some scissors and do it before they put on their pants and gun holsters. And they would not be manscaping or designing it. Well, I guess I might not rule some funky design out for an Annika Martin book, because those heroes have wild attitudes. But not in a Carolyn Crane book.
5. Fun facts!
This isn’t a reason, it’s two fun facts!
#1: Did you know that it was illegal for men to have bare chests in the U.S. until the mid 1900’s? A man could be fined for taking off his shirt in Central Park in NYC as late as 1960!
#2: The razor industry is actually losing money from the trend of scruffy beards. I’m not too broken up about that. All you men with your face scruff and hot beards and your smattering of chest hair, you go guys!
SHE MAY BE HIS WORST ENEMY…
For deadly secret agent Peter Macmillan, language is a weapon—one he uses to hunt criminals, destroy plots, and charm enemies. Seducing information out of a beautiful singer in Bangkok hotel should be easy…except this particular singer has the power to destroy his cool façade, and with it, his last defense against a dark past.
HE MAY BE HER ONLY HOPE…
He tricked her. He helped himself to her body and her secrets. He has enemies everywhere. Laney Lancaster should hate Peter, but when she discovers him shirtless, sweaty, and chained up in the hotel’s dungeon, all she can think about is freeing him. Because she knows what it’s like to be trapped and alone. And she could use a dangerous friend.
They may be wrong for each other, but the instant they join forces, Laney and Peter are plunged into an odyssey of hot sex and dark danger. To survive, they must trust each other with their lives—and their hearts.
He kissed her neck, ferociously almost, as he walked her to the bed.
He threw her down over the mess she’d made of the quilt. “I need you naked. Beneath me. Now.” He didn’t wait for her to comply; feverishly he pulled off her dress, and she wriggled and helped him, then he took off her underwear, so that she was naked except for the knee-highs.
Her heart pounded. Peter. She propped herself up on her elbows.
He wore boxers and he pushed them down, freeing his golden cock, primitive and thickheaded, as though some force of nature had sent extra cave-man essence to that part of his body. It was darker near the head and totally hot.
He pulled off his glasses. This wasn’t the controlled Maxwell of their first encounter who took his glasses off slowly and wanted to talk about the word fuck. This was a new man. She found this new man frightening and exciting and real as hell.
She scooted away, desperate for him to come to her with that loose, fierce passion.
That glint of humor was gone. Peter was serious, eyes shadowed, mouth in a strong line, bright white tape binding his chest.
She slid a finger under one of the knee-high socks. “And these?” He had a thing about them. He loved them.
“Say it again,” he grated. “Say it.”
Peter, he meant. His real name—not his spy name. “Peter.”
Something new came into his eyes. He was shining and brilliant. He crawled over the bed to her. She thought she’d lose it right there—Peter, crawling to her like a beast.
She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, baring her neck, wanting to feel him take her like a lion. She would give him everything now. He didn’t understand how cracked open she was.
He crawled over her until his hands were on either side of her. She gloried in the way his movement stirred the humid air, causing ghostly wisps of cool to kiss her bare, sweat-drenched skin. Her nipples felt rock hard, straining to be touched.
He stilled, a predator surveying the full panorama of his feast. And then he lowered his head and kissed her with unforgiving strength that sent waves of pleasure clear down through her belly. She lay back and grabbed his steely, sweaty forearms as he plundered her mouth, lowering himself, moving against her.
She loved the roughness of his chest hairs against her breasts, the feel of his cock pressing at her belly, and the sweaty weight of him.
He planted kisses on the tender skin below her ear, nearly sending her into oblivion. Again he pressed his lips to that spot, as if to drink up her racing pulse. She tightened her grip on his forearms as he kissed an unrelenting downward line, sending rich rays of feeling into her overheated core.
When he reached her breast, he took her nipple between lips hard as teeth, sucking and tonguing, feasting on her as he slid his cock against her slick folds.
But really, she was the one feasting, and she would never be sated. She moved under him, panting, burning for more.
He pulled away, stood on the edge of the bed.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He devoured her with his eyes, letting his fingers play lightly on her ankles.
Nowhere, she thought, in answer to her own question. He slid his hands up and down the length of her calves, and then he gripped her ankles—hard—and yanked her across the bedspread to him so that she was laid out before him. He gave her a dark look, just a little bit savage, and bent over her, planting hot, wet kisses on her sweaty thighs.
Like a man possessed, he shoved apart her thighs and put his mouth to her sex, prowling her sensitive folds with his tongue and teeth.
“Yes,” she whispered, grabbing fistfuls of golden hair. He’d been so verbal before, fucking her half with words, but this was just raw.
I’m giving away two sets of ebooks #1 and #2 of the Associates!! Which features a secret agent linguistics expert complete with chest hair, to a random commenter.
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