the problem with this recurrent low-grade fever I am dealing with is how it encourages my brain to throw up the dumbest possible ideas for a book ever.
last night it was a regency romance where the hero is a vampire and wants the heroine’s land which, due to some convoluted entailment issue, requires marrying her. why does he want this land? excellent caves for vampiric slumber.
heroine, tired of men pursuing her for her beauty, is thrilled to find a man who wants her literal caves rather than her vagina-as-cave-metaphor.
they get married, live happily ever after. she mostly reads, possible eventual affair with curates daughter. he does vampire things. she doesn’t inquire too closely.
the end.
Take my money
teakepp 