I've always loved books. It started with Nurse Matilda Comes To Town and Ballet Shoes and then quickly progressed to anything I could get my hands on. We didn't have books at home so I worked my way through my local library, plundering the stacks every week for something new. Wedged into those little plastic seats that looked like upside-down yoghurt pots, I would leaf through any new book, weighing up whether it made the grade to be taken home.

I've taken home a lot of books in my time. From growing up without bookshelves, I've had special shelves made in my house for all my books. And they're stacked two deep.

Books gave me a glimpse into another world where people let their desires dictate their lives. Their lives were exciting and sometimes dangerous. This world expanded again when I discovered foreign films and watched them avidly on a small TV in my bedroom. They were poetic, shocking and far too sophisticated for my age but I loved them. They led me onto Anais Nin, Henry Miller and eventually the more popular stuff. I discovered that sexy books didn't have to come from a university reading list; funny, sharp mainstream books could be just as full of complex emotion, drama and romance. Sylvia Day, Olivia Cunning and Anna Todd create three-dimensional women who have complex histories and ambitions. And they like sex. I devoured them all and one day sat down and wrote what I wanted to read. I wrote about Liv. Liv meets a man as complicated as she is. He makes her cry but also fill with love and scream in ecstasy. She has to work out if finding a path through the emotional minefield to be with him is worth it in the end. There's no doubt she wants him and he wants her but are they good for each other?