I was nineteen years old and I had never been touched by a man.
Not for lack of wanting. God, not for lack of wanting. My body had been a coiled spring since I was thirteen, since the first time I accidentally pressed a pillow between my thighs while reading a particularly descriptive passage in one of my mother's hidden romance novels. The heroine had been ravished by a pirate king, her bodice torn, her breasts bared to the salt air, and my own body had answered with a clenching, wet ache that I did not understand but desperately wanted to repeat.
Support helps me create the kind of stories that breathe fire, raw, emotional, and unafraid of desire. My goal is to write with honesty, explore the depth of power and surrender, and build a space where readers who crave intensity feel seen. Every bit of support lets me go deeper into the world I’m crafting… and stay committed to telling the truth of these characters.
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