I’m not usually a fan of the “one handed reads”, and I fully acknowledge that I like a little plot with my sex. As a result, I’ve probably been more than a bit harsh in my opinion of quite a few sex-centric books that didn’t deliver much in the way of a storyline.
So, why is Impromptu any different than the myriad other short stories I’ve read that were basically just a sex scene taken out of the context of what seems to be a larger picture, with history and backstory and characters who apparently relate in ways other than physically?
Because Impromptu is poetry in emotion. I look at it and think, but they’re just words, yet that’s so untrue. I mean, they are words, of course, but the reading of those words is more than simply seeing and interpreting. Carole Cummings makes these words a sensory experience, like a stroke to the cerebral cortex that triggers everything—feelings, images, scents, sounds—that draw you into the room with Ailin and Garreth and make you feel like the world’s biggest voyeur. And really, you’re just happy to be there.
They are men with a history, but their future has now been altered by a single, incendiary moment of spontaneous physical combustion, the kind that happens when the friction of flesh and feelings meet in perfect eroticism.
And that’s what made it sublime.
Buy Impromptu HERE.