Eric Ross: Blog

Yesterday morning, I posted the final chapter of The Veil of Shadows.

Thank you to everyone who read my first novella, and an extra thank you to those who voted or added it to your libraries—the feedback has meant more than I can say.

I wrote The Veil of Shadows as an erotic journey through shame, vulnerability, resilience, and redemption. At its heart, it’s a story of transformation—how desire, pain, and trust can forge new identities from old wounds. These themes resonate deeply with me, reflecting parts of my own journey, though without the kink that drives Elise and Rowan’s world.

Across twelve chapters, Elise and Rowan navigate a world where judgment is swift and intimacy is dangerous. The story opens with themes of injustice, obedience, and human frailty, as Elise steps into a secret club that both mirrors and defies the rigid expectations she was raised with. As she and Rowan collide and connect, they confront their shared sorrows and discover unexpected community.

The middle arc wrestles with compassion, failure, and the fierce, unglamorous work of reclaiming power after collapse. Their erotic connection becomes more than pleasure—it becomes a crucible for healing, defiance, and purpose—culminating in public acts that transform shame into pride.

The final chapters dive even deeper into vulnerability, sacrifice, and ultimate self-giving, culminating in a redemptive, hopeful way forward, where past pain becomes the raw material for creation.

Elise and Rowan don’t simply escape their cages—they transform them into art, into love, into something fierce and free.

I wanted The Veil of Shadows to be unapologetically sensual, ruthlessly emotional, and, most of all, deeply human. Because what is more human, after all, than love and sexuality?

Eric

The Mask and the Chain began as a response to a song I’ve always found both irresistible and deeply troubling: the Rolling Stones’ Brown Sugar. That riff is iconic. But the lyrics? They eroticize slavery and reduce a Black woman to a metaphor—“Brown Sugar,” sweet and nameless. It’s a song written entirely from the outside, a white fantasy that never considers the humanity of the woman it sexualizes.

I wanted to write an answer to that.

Amara, the protagonist of The Mask and the Chain, is not a fantasy. She’s a free woman of color in 1850s New Orleans, navigating a world that seeks to define her by race, by class, by gender—and refusing every label she doesn’t choose for herself. She walks into the ballroom knowing exactly how they see her. She walks out having rewritten the rules.

This story is about power, pleasure, and history. It doesn’t shy away from the brutal context of slavery or the legacy it leaves in every glance and touch. But it also doesn’t hand that history the final word. It gives voice—and agency—to the woman at the center. Her desire is not submissive. Her body is not a symbol. She owns her story.

The Mask and the Chain asks: what happens when the woman in the song finally gets to speak? And what if she’s not asking for permission?

Eric

Chapter 11 is the penultimate chapter to the Veil of Shadows.

After their performance at the gallery in Chapter 10, Elise and Rowan return to the club to reclaim it for themselves. It's a baptism in wax and rope, a ritual of trust forged in the wreckage of betrayal. Where once there were spectators, now there are only witnesses. Elise takes the lead with reverent hands; Rowan offers himself not in submission, but in devotion. Their scene unfolds like liturgy—sacred knots, candlelight, the sting of wax as prayer. And when the ropes are undone, what remains is not spectacle but stillness.

Enjoy!

I really enjoyed the exercise of writing "Trouble at Table 3". It was a good challenge to write a story that was completely dialog driven, and Mel was just a fun cheeky character. So here's another Mel story!

In “Hot Flow, Slow Burn,” Mel returns in all her glory—this time in a yoga studio where the instructor is hotter than a sun salutation at noon. What begins as a cheeky commentary on tight hips and sandalwood sweat quickly spirals into a full-body fantasy that doesn’t end at Shavasana. With her best friend Cara barely managing (failing actually) to hold her back, Mel pushes every boundary between practice and pleasure—until the final pose is horizontal, private, and utterly satisfying. It’s playful, filthy, and flexibly feral. Expect sex with a stretch, sass with savasana, and a climax worthy of a mantra.

Namaste!

Chapter 10: The Exposure is up. It's one of my favorites in the entire story as it brings many of the themes together in one spot.

In this intense chapter, Elise is blindsided by a slut-shaming email exposing intimate photos of her in a harness, sent to art world elites with cruel labels like “Slut” and “Fraud.” The violation strips her private moment of context, aiming to ruin her. Shock and shame surge, but Elise locks her office door, her fractured reflection in the glass signaling resilience. She calls Rowan and they plot a bold response.

At Rowan’s loft, they channel fury into art, sketching a defiant performance. In the gallery, before a judgmental crowd, Elise and Rowan take the stage. Clad in silk and leather, they dance—a raw, sacred act of power and love, culminating in unapologetic intimacy. The crowd’s scorn fades as the gallery becomes their temple, their bond unbroken.

The chapter explores vulnerability, resilience, and art as defiance. Plus, Elise and Rowan reclaim their narrative, proving their strength against shame.

Enjoy!