A warm welcome to authors Ariel Tachna & Nicki Bennett joining us today to talk about their new release “All for One” 🙂
Starting with a Sex Scene
The opening scene of any book needs to establish a certain number of things: setting (both time period and location), characters (names, descriptions, social status, relationship with each other if there is one), and conflict (romantic or otherwise). So what did we decide to write as the opening scene for All for One? A sex scene, of course.
It sounds perhaps counterintuitive, but we like to think it works. Aristide, Perrin, and Léandre are not strangers at the beginning of the book. They are best friends, comrades in arms, and casual lovers. They are musketeers for whom the bonds of loyalty to each other and to the corps are paramount. They come from different walks of life, but they have put those class differences aside in favor of the uniform of the Royal Musketeers.
The trick, then, is conveying all of this while still writing an erotic threesome.
The opening lines—“When did Aristide say he got off duty?” Perrin asked languidly, running his hand down Léandre’s naked back. “It’s been too long since we last fucked him.”—establish names, obviously, that they’re lovers, and that they’re soldiers. And Léandre’s reply—“You should know him by now, Perrin—he’ll suck you anytime you like, but he’ll not give his ass to anyone.”—fills in a little detail about how they interact as lovers. We could have told you, of course, that Aristide doesn’t bottom, but where’s the fun in that?
These few lines, and those that follow, convey a wealth of information about our main characters. Perrin is brash, exuberant, and has a short fuse—in more ways than one, as we’ll learn. Léandre has a bit more experience and finesse—or at least, that’s how he presents himself. Before Aristide arrives on the scene in person, his role as unspoken leader of the threesome is apparent, and the fact that he sets some limits with his lovers hints at a past even they may not fully know or understand.
Then there’s this little exchange:
“The only reason you can take Aristide or me is that you’re such a cock whore—though you’re wasting your time looking for anyone else with our natural gifts.”
Perrin snorted. “You’d be wasting your time trying to find anyone else willing to ‘waste their time’ with your ‘gifts,’” he snapped back instantly, stroking Léandre’s hair to soften the insult.
“Children,” Aristide chided with the hint of a chuckle in his voice, “if you can’t play nicely with your toys, they’ll be taken away.”
Perrin and Léandre banter insults with each other as easily as they breathe, while Aristide plays the peacekeeper between them. He’s also the oldest of the three (and of the highest rank, although that was a lifetime ago and a place he never intends to return), but even he isn’t above a little jab now and then.
“I’ve got Perrin’s ass all stretched and slick for you.” Léandre smirked, stroking a hand over the come still coating his cock. He might have just climaxed, but watching Aristide slowly reveal his magnificent body as he removed his uniform was a sight that never failed to rouse him, however tired or sated he might be. “Or we can let him suck you for a bit, and then you can fuck a real man.”
“Oh, have you got one hidden somewhere?” Aristide taunted, smiling as he tossed the last of his clothing over a chair and stretched mightily. “Putain, I’m looking forward to some time off,” he groaned, sliding into the wide bed between his fellow swordsmen. “This latest batch of recruits is trying even my patience.”
Aristide’s dedication to duty, even when faced with the undeniable temptations of his two lovers, will prove an important point later in the story. The full scene incorporates physical description, personalities, and the interrelationships between our characters in a way that’s a lot more fun than a stodgy data dump. And while the story will incorporate plenty more sex (we do love our bawdy musketeers!), this first scene sets a tone that lets those going forward tell their own story about the changing relationships between Perrin, Léandre, and Aristide.
Aristide, Léandre, and Perrin pledge only three loyalties in life: their king, their captain, and their passion for each other. So when the musketeers discover a plan to accuse M. de Tréville of treason, the initial impulse to kill the messenger, Benoît, is tempered by their need to unmask the plotter. But their first two suspects, the English ambassador and Cardinal Richelieu, prove to be innocent, forcing the musketeers to delve deeper into the inner machinations of the French court.
Meanwhile, Aristide finds himself falling in love with the ill-fated messenger, a blacksmith without a home who rouses all of his protective, possessive instincts. Benoît, however, has no interest in any man. Torn between desire and duty, Aristide must find a way to protect the king and clear his captain’s name—all while heeding the demands of his heart.
Rocking in counterpoint as Perrin did his best to fuck him through the mattress, Léandre fought the impulse to reach for himself—not that there was a pouce of space between their bodies anyway. Instead he worked a third finger into Perrin’s ass, stretching him nearly as wide as Perrin was stretching him. His fingers might be a poor substitute for Aristide filling Perrin from behind, but Léandre was determined to bring him to nearly as hard a climax before he came himself. He still had hopes of burying himself in that firm—and now well prepared—ass when he did so. “Allez, Perrin,” he rasped, tearing his lips away to suck air into his heaving lungs. “Give it up. You know you can’t outlast me.”
With a frustrated roar, Perrin climaxed. One day he’d manage to stay in control long enough to fuck Léandre to orgasm, but until then, he’d satisfy him some other way. Pulling back as soon as the tremors racking his muscles eased enough for him to move, he rocked onto his knees, intending to take Léandre in his mouth and ease the heavy erection.
Not that Perrin didn’t have a supremely talented mouth, but Léandre had another target in mind for his cock. Taking advantage of Perrin’s still-relaxed state, Léandre lunged forward, driving him onto his back. Locking his arms under Perrin’s knees, he pulled his legs up and back to open him completely. With a deep, satisfied groan, he drove into Perrin’s well-stretched hole, hissing when the walls closed around him in a hot, velvety sheath.
Perrin howled his pleasure as he felt Léandre’s cock pierce him, his hips rocking into the thrust mindlessly. “Feel like a real man now?” he taunted, knowing he’d get a more enthusiastic ride if he pricked Léandre’s temper. And since he liked it the harder the better, pricking Léandre’s temper was essential.
“If Aristide was here… he could stuff something… in your mouth… to shut you up,” Léandre panted, hitching Perrin’s hips higher and pounding into him with all his considerable strength. His pulse roared in his ears, and though he vaguely heard a bang he assumed was Perrin’s skull hitting the headboard, he was too consumed by his impending climax to care. Throwing back his head, he shouted in triumph as his release surged through him, sparking every nerve in his body with pleasure.
Hearing his name, the third member of the trio paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of golden buttocks driving between widespread thighs dusted with darker hair. Léandre fucking Perrin, then. He’d made a mental wager with himself which man would be topping the other when he returned from patrol to the small town house the three of them shared near the musketeer headquarters in Paris. Grinning as his assumption proved correct, he kicked the door closed and leaned against the frame, pulling off his gloves. “Starting without me again?” he drawled.
Growing up in Chicago, Nicki Bennett spent every Saturday at the central library, losing herself in the world of books. A voracious reader, she eventually found it difficult to find enough of the kind of stories she liked to read and decided to start writing them herself.
When Ariel Tachna was twelve years old, she discovered two things: the French language and romance novels. Those two loves have defined her ever since. By the time she finished high school, she’d written four novels, none of which anyone would want to read now, featuring a young woman who was—you guessed it—bilingual. That girl was everything Ariel wanted to be at age twelve and wasn’t.
She now lives on the outskirts of Houston with her husband (who also speaks French), her kids (who understand French even when they’re too lazy to speak it back), and their two dogs (who steadfastly refuse to answer any French commands).