Writing suspense instead of sex

I am wading with words into a world I’ve never been before. I’ve been told to include a little romance.

Okay, so this is it.

I’ve thought about it for a long time.

I have been promising to do it for a long time.

The time has finally arrived, I thought

I would be writing a genuine romance scene in my novel. I was only about a dozen chapters away from the finale, so I’m running out of words.

My hero is on a train, heading through the snows of Poland toward Berlin.

The lady is traveling with him.

He is rugged and ugly and obviously much too old for her.

She is blonde and petite and not easily persuaded.

He’s American.

She’s Polish.

He’s a spy.

She’s a Partisan.

The only thing they have in common is a gun.

Take your pick.

Any gun will do.

He brought his British Enfield pistol with him when he landed in Poland.

She stole her Lugar from a dead German officer.

The snow is falling.

It’s cold.

Wintertime has everyone in a death grip.

And they only have one compartment with a berth.

The berth is only big enough to accommodate one person.

She says she won’t take up much room.

She smiles.

She winks.

And the door shuts quietly behind them.

They can only find warmth in each other’s arms.

Beneath a blanket.

While the train rocks along.

Tomorrow they may die.

Tonight may be the only chance they ever have.

Tonight may be the last chance they ever have.

So I am wading with words into a world I’ve never been before.

I’ve been told to include a little romance.

It’s been suggested time and again to add a little love.

Women like that, the critics say.

Women buy books, the critics say.

Don’t disappoint them, the critics say.

Write a tender scene.

Warm.

And intimate.

And full of passion.

There may even be some lust thrown in.

But I know what’s going to happen.

I’ve been there before.

She removes her clothes.

He removes his clothes.

She rolls into his arms.

Their lips touch.

And somebody yanks the cord that stops the train.

The door opens.

He looks out.

And a Stormtrooper has the barrel of a pistol jammed against his forehead.

I’m familiar with one “S” word.

I’m not familiar with the other.

I can write suspense.

I’m still working on sex.

But then, aren’t we all?

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