Why I’m allowed to lust for other men

In the last eight years, I’ve had torrid affairs with at least a dozen men.

I’ve gazed into their eyes and clutched their biceps and raked my fingernails down their backs.

My husband is supportive. In fact, he encourages it.

That’s probably because the men aren’t real. They’re the heroes in my novels, and every time I create a new one, it’s like falling in love all over again.

Or lust, if you want to split hairs. Usually, the two go hand in hand.

I’ve had people ask me if I have a favorite hero in any of the books I’ve written, and I always have to think about it. I mean really think about it. I picture them lined up in a row, all different ages and hair colors and body types and then I usually get a little dizzy and have to go lie down for awhile.

But the real answer to the question is that I always love the hero I’m working on at that moment better than any of the others.

Getting to know him is exhilarating and leaves me feeling tingly and breathless. I want to hear everything he’s thinking. I want to learn exactly how it feels to twist my fingers in his hair or sink my teeth into his shoulder. The deeper I go into the book, the more enraptured I become.

In those final pages, I am completely convinced that I’ll never adore another imaginary man this much.

And then I start a new book. And it starts all over again.

The last romantic comedy I wrote was BELIEVE IT OR NOT – the second in my three-book contract – and I remember falling so hard for Drew that I was sure I’d never write another hero who could compare. I loved his dry sense of humor and rumpled hair and cocksure attitude and his hands, ohmygod, his hands.

But then I met Clay. He’s the hero in my new book, LET IT BREATHE. And while he couldn’t be more different from Drew, I’m crazy for this guy. He’s rough around the edges and beautifully flawed, but with a sweetness even he doesn’t realize is there.

And I’ll be honest, he looks so good in a T-shirt that I don’t think I’ll dress him in anything else for the entire book.

Pythagoras came home the other day to find me gazing at my manuscript with a dreamy expression.

“You invented another man to lust after?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “Isn’t it great?”

“Totally. Want to go for a bike ride?”

Is it just me? Am I the only one who falls so head-over-heels in lust with men of my own creation? Tell me in the comments.

I have to go lie down now.