Sunday, March 26, 2017

Smut Sunday: Anonymous Sex (#anonymous #incognito #sundaysmut)

Smut Sunday button

I was trying to decide which of my books would be considered the “smuttiest”. But how do you define “smutty”? Does it depend on the variety of the sexual activities or interests involved? How intense or extreme they are? Or is smut a state of mind, a way of thinking and feeling that’s independent of your physical activities?

However you define the concept, my second novel Incognito (recently re-released in an expanded version by Totally Bound) has to be up near the top. My heroine Miranda is trapped between her fear of intimacy and her powerful libido. She engages in outrageous scenes with strangers, but pushes away the attentive and charismatic young professor who might actually care about her.

Her adventures incognito are triggered by an unexpected anonymous coupling in a disco. Here’s a bit from that first scene, which sets the tone for Miranda’s further explorations.

When you’ve recovered...head back to Victoria’s for more delicious Sunday smut.

She felt damp and disheveled. She made her way through the dark corridor that led to the ladies room. There, the light was bright enough to make her blink. A bevy of young women sparkled around her in tight dresses and spike heels, preening and perfecting their beauty like exotic and colorful birds. Miranda gazed at herself in the mirror. A stranger gazed back, long limbs and ripe curves, creamy skin flushed with excitement.

I should go home, Miranda thought, as she reapplied her lipstick and adjusted her clinging garments. Enough is enough.

She stepped into the shadowed hallway, seeing nothing but the flash of the strobe at the opposite end. All at once, from behind her, she felt a hand firmly grasp her wrist. “What…?” she began, then there was a finger at her lips, urging her to silence. She was pulled backward, against someone’s body, a man’s body—the evidence bulged against her, pushing into the small of her back. The finger at her lips brushed her cheek then flicked at her right nipple.

I should scream. The thought was fleeting, abstract. Meanwhile there were hands in the dark, silent and skillful. There was no force here, only invitation, temptation. She did not resist as her unknown companion guided her through some curtains, into a place of deeper darkness where the beat of the rock and roll was muffled and distant. There was a metallic sound of coat hangers disturbed by their entrance.

He did not speak, but Miranda heard his rough breathing as he cradled her breasts in his palms. Was it her partner from the dance floor? she wondered. She sniffed for his cologne but caught only the scent of male sweat and her own arousal.

A wave of lust washed over her. Miranda groped behind her, seeking that hard ridge of flesh she knew she’d find there. Blind, she brushed against it. Then one of her breasts was released and she heard a zipper tearing open. Now his cock was naked in her hand, pulsing hot, steel encased in velvet. It was strange and thrilling to have him slide back and forth in her palm, to sense his excitement in the hardening, swelling bulk she fondled.

The hand on her breast tugged, pulling her top down to her waist. Then it resumed its bold caresses, tightening thumb and forefinger on her nipple until she almost cried out. Heat flowed through her. She felt herself melting from the inside out, dampening, softening, opening like some tropical flower.

Her partner used both hands to raise her skirt. She rested her palms against a wall and arched her back, forcing her bottom out toward him, inviting him on. He stroked and fondled her buttocks. Each touch made her hungrier, more greedy for the sensation of his huge, unseen cock inside her.

A soft moan escaped her as he reached between her legs to cup her pubis. “Shh,” he whispered. She did not recognize the voice. Impatient, unbearably eager for him, Miranda grabbed her brief bikini panties and pulled them down to her knees. They were soaked, she realized, as she struggled to remove them entirely.

Her partner took hold of the garment. There was the sound of rending fabric as he tore them off her. Yes, thought Miranda, crazed with desire. Please. She spread her legs wide and rubbed her hind cheeks against the hardness springing from his groin.

She felt his fingers groping in the dark, seeking the entrance among the folds. They slipped into her. She pushed, trying to force them deeper. Now the head of his cock prodded her pussy, while his fingers still played there, opening, stretching, guiding. At last, the whole wonderful length of him slid into her.

She bit her lip, struggling to maintain their tacit vow of silence. He worked her, plunging deep and hard, sensing her needs without words. The shrouded beat of the music, the beat of her heart, the synchronized rhythm of their breathing—it was another dance, and Miranda poured herself into it.

The darkness was total. Still, Miranda, driven by instinct, closed her eyes. Other senses took over. The cloakroom was heavy with the animal smell of sex. Sound was muffled, subtle, no voices, nothing but the quickening rasp of air through open mouths. Wanting taste, Miranda burrowed her face into the crook of her arm, to find salt and a hint of musk. Touch, though, was the reigning sense, the glide of his cock in and out of her slick folds, the little twinge when he caught the opening of her womb. His coarse pubic hair like burlap against her thighs when he buried himself to the hilt. The sharp bite of his fingernails as he pried her cheeks apart, seeking deeper access, more complete possession.

* * *

So, was that smutty enough for you?

If not, tune in next Sunday!

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Writing at My Own Risk (#erotica #history #giveaway)

Under the Sign of the Dragon cover

By Jean Roberta (Guest Blogger)

One thing I’ve learned about writing anything at all is that there is no safe subject.

When I was a teenager in the 1960s, living on the Canadian prairies, I wrote a funny story about independent sex organs that live in trees in a jungle in Africa, and have a friendly relationship with the local humans.

At the time, I had never heard of Giant West African Land Snails. I made their acquaintance in 1973 in London, England, when I met a Nigerian student who became my boyfriend, and later my husband. The feet of the snails look like vaginal lips, and they must be separated from the snail “meat” before it is boiled and eaten, much like the meat of shellfish. I thought I had made them up!

Why on earth did I show my story to my mother soon after I wrote it? She was horrified, probably for several reasons. I stopped writing about sex while living with my parents.

In my twenties, I wrote poems, and got several published in magazines. In my thirties, I wrote more fiction than poetry. In an effort to sound dignified, I wrote a story in the voice of a sixty-year-old prairie widow. It won a prize in a writing contest, and was locally-published in an anthology. I felt encouraged, but I wondered how authentic I would sound if I continued to write gently-nostalgic pieces told by narrators of my parents’ generation.

In my actual life, potential conflict greeted me wherever I went. As a divorced mother, I lived in a co-op for low-income single parents, where I had an elected position. My unpaid job required me to deal with stressed-out parents (mostly women), rambunctious children, leaky pipes, and threatening baby-daddies.

I also belonged to several feminist organizations, and I edited a lesbian newsletter that eventually exchanged copies with several more polished feminist and queer publications of the time. All this topical reading-matter gave me a front-row seat in the Feminist Sex Wars of the 1980s.

Discussing sex with any woman always seemed to raise tension. Discussing sex with a man was likely to elicit a joke about body parts.

I found a one-woman publisher who published my collection of lesbian stories (not sexually explicit) between slick, deep-pink covers. It was positively reviewed in a few small lesbian-feminist journals.

Thus encouraged, I wrote a long fantasy story about an all-female community which is increasingly divided by cultural/ethical differences among the four quarters of the village. Vesta, my narrator (village midwife and elected governor of the farmers’ quarter), is desperate to prevent a civil war which would make the women's village vulnerable to the male-dominated tribe nearby.

The independent women, like Amazons of old, meet with the neighboring men every few months to trade for various needed things, including sperm for babies. The peace between villages is fragile. And Vesta’s sister-villagers can’t reach an agreement about whether violence is ever necessary.

I sent this story to my lesbian-feminist publisher, hoping she would recognize a core of contemporary reality in it. I also hoped she would like my characters as much as I did. She wrote back to tell me the story needed a lot of work because the narrator was "very weak."

Turning Vesta, my unglamorous but practical heroine, into a kick-ass cartoon character seemed impossible, even if I could be sure there was a waiting audience for a recycled version of Wonder Woman. To this day, that story has remained unpublished.

When I read a call-for-submissions for erotic lesbian stories in 1988, I was encouraged to try writing about sex, as dangerous as this seemed.

I wrote three stories, sent them off, and eventually got an actual letter in my mailbox saying that all three were accepted. Then the publisher went bust. Undiscouraged, I wrote about male-female lust, threesomes, and even male-male encounters. No one was actually reading my stories yet.

One call-for-submissions on the website of the Erotic Readers Association asked for stories about lesbians and their sex toys. This topic was inspiring but scary. As a veteran of the Feminist Sex Wars, I knew that women could be written off every guest list for suggesting that womyn-loving womyn could enjoy any device that resembled a penis.

I recklessly wrote a story that featured a hand-carved wooden dildo, heavily shellacked and artfully designed not to look like anything known to man. My story was ironically titled “Something Natural.”

Naturally, I sent it by air-mail on a long journey to the editor, Alison Tyler, in California. Her first publisher went bust (adding to my suspicion that I was a jinx), but British publisher Diva Books offered to publish, and my story was accepted. I was thrilled when a paperback copy of Batteries Not Included arrived in my mailbox in 1999. I was between the covers with famous sex-writers!

Since then, I’ve written numerous erotic stories because it’s too much fun to stop. While fame and wealth have eluded me, I’ve never been threatened with death, imprisonment, or permanent exile to a place more remote than the Canadian prairies.

Horror writer Anne Rice once advised other writers to write what appeals to them rather than what is expected to sell. This advice is encouraging for writers who dread outraged critics as well as the Inner Censor. Her own career shows how well this strategy can work; her first novel, a cautionary tale told by a vampire, appeared in the 1970s, when vampire fiction was associated only with (un)dead men of the Victorian Age. Instead of following a trend, Anne Rice created one.

Few living writers can claim as much, but every story worth reading has the potential to offend someone, and taking risks becomes easier with practice. Now that I’m sixty-five and have naturally silver hair, I’m no longer tempted to write gently-nostalgic meditations on a waning life.

Instead, I like to find the sex in history, legend and myth. Under the Sign of the Dragon is my erotic story based on the messy triangle that results in the birth of King Arthur, as described by Sir Thomas Malory in Le Morte d’Arthur in 1485.

In my version, young Igraine is married to the Duke of Cornwall, a man as old as her father. On her wedding night, King Uther Pendragon claims his right to deflower her. There is a catch: he must have her full consent because otherwise he will die, due to a witch’s curse. She can’t resist him, and he can’t stay away after one night. Neither of them wants to offend the Duke, but as Igraine reminds the King, the situation can’t be resolved peacefully.

Before armed hostility breaks out, the lovers find more delight than either of them expected:

Uther seemed determined to dispel my sorrow and my fears with ribaldry. “Igraine, if you are wise in the ways of men with men, would it please you to serve as my squire this night?” He grasped my arm above the elbow and squeezed gently, as though testing my muscles. He did the same to my other arm, and his expression provoked me to laugh through my tears. “A fine lad you are, Alan,” he said. “You shall make a worthy bedfellow.”

The man raised me until I sat upright. He embraced me from behind, and held my breasts in his two hands. “The bosom of a warrior,” he remarked, pinching my nipples, “in the fullness of time, of course.” He stretched one hand downward to the hair that covered my opening. “You lack something of a man, Alan, but no matter.”

My lord,” I responded in the spirit of the game, “I regret falling short of your expectations.”

Well, allow me to continue my inspection, and perhaps we will each find compensations in the other. Lie on your belly, lad.”

The bed rose before me, draped with a soft coverlet and pillows stuffed with goose down. Had I been alone, I would have locked the door, undone my laces, stripped off every stitch of my clothing, and lain down at ease.

Igraine, my dear, you are no court lady, and for that I am grateful.” He turned me to face him, and wrapped his arms about me. He pressed his lips to mine, and I felt as if I could melt.

Little white swan,” he said, laughing into my eyes. He held me by the waist, and raised me off the ground. “Your weight is like feathers, but you are no light wench.” He smiled at his own wit. I was relieved that he did not consider me a whore. He kissed my chin, and tipped it upwards so that he could leave a trial of hot kisses along my neck, and down to my bodice.

 The King’s breathing increased until it sounded like wind in my ears, and my own kept pace with his. I felt lightheaded. I wrapped my arms round his back to hold myself steady, and this seemed to please him beyond words. “Lady, you would tempt a hermit in his cell.” The King’s voice seemed to stroke the skin under my clothes, and resonate in my very head.

I could feel myself trembling, and a certain tingling throughout my lower parts reminded me that my desire matched his, regardless of my intentions. He was more than the King of England. He was the man who had courted me in dreams so secret that I had never confided them to anyone.

Buy Links

The first three people to comment on this post will win a copy of Under the Sign of the Dragon.

Or win a complete collection of historical erotica by Jean Roberta, The Princess and the Outlaw: Tales of the Torrid Past (Lethe Press, 2014).

Here is a description:

The women awaiting you in these pages might be fierce Amazons in ancient Greece, maidens and princesses of the medieval era, ingenues like Alice awaiting new and more sensual adventures beyond the rabbit hole, or outlaws and pirates. But each and every one is open to the delights and passions of flesh and fantasy.”

To win a PDF of this collection, answer this question:

In what year did women gain the right to vote in Great Britain, in Canada, or in the United States?

About the Author

Jean Roberta lives on the Canadian prairies, where the vastness of land and sky encourage daydreaming. She has taught English in the local university for over 25 years, and now teaches creative writing there. Her diverse fiction (mostly erotic) has appeared in many print anthologies, an out-of-print novel, two out-of-print story collections, and two available collections: Obsession (Renaissance), The Princess and the Outlaw (Lethe Press) plus The Flight of the Black Swan: A Bawdy Novella (Lethe, also in audio). She coedited Heiresses of Russ 2015 (Lethe), an annual anthology of the year’s best lesbian speculative fiction. The opinion pieces she wrote for a monthly column, Sex Is All Metaphors (based on a line in a poem by Dylan Thomas), are available as an e-book by that title (

She has been legally married to her long-term companera (Spanish-speaking seductress) since Halloween 2010.

She now blogs here: every other Friday, and here: on the 26th of each month.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Sneak Peek: Sheik's Rule by @RyshiaKennie (#romantic #suspense #giveaway)

Sheik's Rule cover


His sister's life is at stake, and despite his wealth and power, Sheik Emir Al-Nassar feels helpless. At least heading his family's security agency provides him with resources to track down her kidnappers. But when the ace profiler he's sent turns out to be K. J.—Kate—Gelinsky, Emir is furious. Finding the kidnappers' desert hideout is dangerous enough without the distraction of a beautiful woman.

But K.J. is unlike any woman he's ever known. Her fearlessness and incisive mind inspires Emir's admiration. And her compassion breaches his guarded heart. Still, rescuing his sister is a perilous mission. And allowing desire to cloud his focus could endanger them all.


Just looking at that hand confirmed every doubt he had. It wasn’t just about customs, she was female and because of that and so many other things, she was the wrong person for the job.

I’ll help you find your sister. You just need to trust me.”

No!” The word came out with the pent-up fury that had built since the fateful call from Tara’s kidnappers and now the full impact of it sparked in his eyes as his temple pounded and his fists clenched.

No,” he said with less edge but with no room for negotiation. He was wasting time, had wasted time, first waiting and now in a senseless airport run. “I don’t care what you specialized in. You’re a woman and because of that you’re going home,” he said bluntly. “I’ve wasted enough time. I’ll speak to the pilot and we’ll get you out of here.”

You’re not being fair.”

I’m not being fair,” he repeated, emphasizing each word. If she’d been a man he would have had her by the collar up against the wall, his face in hers. But she wasn’t and that was the problem. “You’re useless to me. I’d have to watch out for both you and me. That’s a distraction. Look at you – you couldn’t swing a punch or…”

One minute he was seething, glaring at her, and the next he was flat on his back.

You bloody flipped me,” he snarled, leaping to his feet.

About Me

The Canadian prairies are my home and while the prairie landscape is blessed with beautiful blue skies, it also has four seasons that come on full throttle – especially winter and because of that I like to travel. Often on those trips, stories are born.

In 2011 I won my city's writing award, and was the first romance writer to do so since its inception. In 2013 my romantic suspense was a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Awards. Published in historic romance and paranormal romance as well as romantic suspense, in February 2016, my first novel was published by Harlequin Intrigue.

There’s no lack of places to set a story as my imagination and the too long prairie winters may find me seeking adventure. The memories of those worlds both near and far, the words of a stranger, the furtive look one man gives another, often become the catalyst for a suspenseful story with a deadly villain and an intrepid hero and heroine who must battle for their right to love or even their right to live.

When not dreaming of other stories, I can be found scouting out a garage sale or two, dusting off my roller blades or just thinking about the next adventure that may be miles away or in my own backyard.

Buy Links



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Wednesday, March 22, 2017

My Not-So-Evil Day Job (#work #passion #amwriting)

Business woman image

I complain a lot. Anyone who's been in touch with me lately has heard about how I'm busier this term than I've ever been; how I'm teaching two brand new courses and don't have time to breathe with all the preparation, let alone write; how I leave at 9:00 AM and don't get home until 9:30 PM some nights; how I feel like Alice in Through the Looking Glass- I have to run as fast as I can just to stay in one place.

You might assume, listening to me, that I hate my work and would rather be writing every day. Indeed, for many writers, that's the ideal: to make enough money from book sales that you can quite your ordinary, boring day job and write full time.

Honestly, I don't feel that way. Perhaps that suggests that I'm not a “serious” writer. So be it. Despite the stress I sometimes feel – especially when I try to balance the demands of writing and marketing with the requirements of my public profession – I'd never want to give up my “real world” job.

My work requires a huge investment of time and energy, but it also provides great rewards. I don't mean financial rewards – I make just enough to meet my needs – but I've never aspired to wealth . I'm talking about less tangible benefits: the opportunity to be creative, the freedom to try new approaches, the respect of my colleagues and (sometimes, at least) my students, the satisfaction that comes from knowing that I've been a positive influence on the lives of at least a few young people every year. I also enjoy the fact that I'm able to use my long years of study and experience in positive and productive ways. And finally, my day job is just plain fun.

Writing is fun too, of course. I wouldn't do it if I didn't enjoy it. (I think the secret of happiness may be to only do what you enjoy, or conversely, to enjoy whatever you do.) One reason I don't have much of a desire to make my living off my writing is that I suspect that might kill the joy. If I were forced to write, day after day, I strongly suspect that the stress would leach away any creativity I can claim now.

I believe that I could support myself, at least at a basic level, by writing erotic romance or BDSM smut. I think I know what sells, and I could churn that out if I had to. I write quickly and my first drafts are generally in a lot better shape than many authors. I could put out one or two 15-20K novellas a month, if I had to.

I really would rather not. In fact, I find myself deliberately choosing to write genres and styles that don't sell as well, out of a kind of perversity, I guess. My M/M books have outsold anything else I've written, by several times. I find myself shying away from writing more because I don't want to make money my object.

Plus I hate stress. I can function when the chips are down. I can make tight deadlines if I have to. But the pressure takes its toll, draining me of psychic energy and basically making me miserable. Yes, my day job is stressful, too, but it provides enough variety to keep me excited. It also includes natural breaks, for midterm and final exams, vacation periods and so on. If I were writing full time, none of that would be true. I know authors who support themselves with their work, and you really can't take much of a break. You have to produce that three or four or five thousand words per day, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, or you'll fall behind. You'll miss deadlines. You'll lose readers.

My husband tells me that much of the stress is of my own making. I think there's some truth in that. Probably I need to learn how to say no. Maybe my unwillingness to refuse requests can be traced back to my submissive nature. Hard to say!

In any case, I'm not a wage slave. I'm not oppressed by my employer. I work long hours, but not at some repetitive, meaningless occupation. I'm incredibly lucky.

I tell my students that money will not make them happy. The first key to happiness (according to what I've learned in more than six decades of life on earth) is having a partner whom you love and whose company you enjoy. The second key, almost as important, is finding work that feeds your soul, work that ignites your passion. I'm fortunate to have succeeded in both these areas. Really, I have no right at all to complain.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Review Tuesday: Hard Rhythm by @CeciliaTan (#review #rockstar #kink)

HardRhythm cover

Hard Rhythm by Cecilia Tan
Forever – Hachette Group, 2017

Madison Rofel knows her way around a dungeon. A kink club hostess and a sex toy blogger, she’s red-haired and voluptuous, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, ready to top or bottom as the occasion requires. Certainly she’s never been the type to fall at a man’s feet. She’s curious about Chino Garcia, the heavily-inked drummer for rock band The Rough, but she finds his cocky self-confidence annoying. So when he saunters into The Governor’s Club and challenges her to an endurance contest involving a studded leather paddle, she jumps at the chance to put him in his place.

Chino’s had his eye on Madison for a while. His band mates Axel and Mal are coupled with the club’s owners, Ricki and Gwen Hamilton, but Chino’s always been a bit of a loner. His easy smile hides the pain of his difficult past. Being with Madison, though, somehow makes him feel comfortable and in control.

Hard Rhythm is the third volume in Cecilia Tan’s Secrets of a Rock Stars series. As soon as the novel was released, I badgered the publisher for a review copy, because I enjoyed the first two books so much.

It’s no secret that I’m a fan of erotic fiction involving power exchange. I know of few authors who can capture the complex dynamics of a D/s relationship with the skill of Cecilia Tan. She writes with subtlety and insight, revealing important truths about BDSM. Each kinky relationship is as different as the individuals involved. Honest communication is the key to making BDSM work. And when it does work, there’s nothing hotter—or more profound.

The novel kicks off with an intensely arousing scene between Madison and Chino, and doesn’t let up. Vibrators and sex videos, play parties at secluded bungalows, bondage, spankings, blindfolds and mind games—if you’re looking for erotic excitement, you will not be disappointed by Hard Rhythm. At the same time, this book is a convincing and satisfying romance. All the sexual experimentation flows from the protagonists’ efforts to know one another. They’re drawn to one another but despite their undeniable chemistry, each has trouble being truly open.

The conflicts keeping Madison and Chino apart aren’t as dramatic as the obstacles faced by Gwen and Mal in the previous book (Wild Licks). The emotional highs and lows are not as extreme. The kink is gentler, too. Chino’s a Dom, but not a dedicated sadist, and Maddie’s not your typical slave. I loved watching them discover the unique shape of their personal D/s connection. The message comes through loud and clear. Nobody can tell you what it means to be kinky. You have to find that out by yourself, with the right partnersomeone you can trust.

One complaint sometimes leveled at BDSM by the uninitiated is that it’s nothing more than thinly disguised abuse. Hard Rhythm confronts this belief head on by showing readers what a real abusive relationship looks like—a stark contrast to Chino’s and Maddie’s loving, consensual kink.

There are lots of reasons to read this book: for arousal, for the romance, to appreciate Ms. Tan’s adeptness with words and images. But there’s also a powerful message here. Readers whose main acquaintance with BDSM is through FSOG will find Hard Rhythm something of an education.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Sneak Peek: An Interesting Find by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985 #menage #mmm #gay)

An Interesting Find cover


Nathan and Lee are on a relaxing summer holiday in the UK. They plan to do lots of walking and exploring in the beautiful English countryside. Naturally, typical British weather derails their plans on their first day, leaving them cooped up indoors with little to do but read.

When the weather clears, the men eagerly put on their hiking boots and head out for a walk. However, when they reach their destination—a pond a little distance from their holiday cottage—they make a shocking discovery. An odd-looking bundle of rags turns out to be an unconscious man. With no one else around, and no mobile phone signal to call for help, they manage to get the stranger back to their cottage to get him warm and dry, and figure out what to do next.

When their unexpected house guest regains consciousness, however, things just get more complicated. The stranger—a British soldier called Jonny—doesn’t want the authorities to be notified of his presence. As the three men try to come to some agreement, the sexual tension in the air becomes apparent, and suddenly the last thing on any of their minds is leaving the cottage…


Closing his book with a very final slap, Nathan then put it on the coffee table in front of him. He leaned back in his chair. Stretching languidly, he said, “Bloody good, that was. Though, admittedly, I thought it’d last me all week. Wasn’t expecting to get through it on day one.”

Raising an eyebrow, Lee shot Nathan an amused glance. “Not far off myself. Fucking storm. Stupid us, eh, going on holiday in the UK in summertime—not like you can guarantee the sodding weather, is it? Should’ve gone to the Canaries.”

No, we can’t guarantee the weather, but…” Nathan gave the window a sidelong glance, “I do have some good news.”


Yeah. The torrential downpour has stopped.”

Seriously?” Lee slammed his own book closed and scurried over to the window. “Oh, wow, it’s cleared right up, and I can see a rainbow. Wanna head out? Just a little wander down to that pond we saw on the way here, maybe? Get some fresh air. We’ve got loads of daylight left, haven’t we?”

Nathan checked his watch. “Yeah, plenty. Especially if we’re only nipping to the pond. It’s probably only a fifteen-minute walk.”

Fantastic. I was going a bit fucking stir crazy in here. I’ll grab our coats and shoes.”

Lee had disappeared into the hallway of their rented holiday cottage before Nathan had the chance to reply. Shaking his head with a smile, Nathan collected their empty mugs from the coffee table and took them into the kitchen, then got a bottle of water from the fridge. He doubted they’d need a drink during their short trek along the road, but he could just shove the bottle in his coat pocket and forget about it. At least it’d be there if they wanted it.

When he returned to the living room, Lee was just about to tie up his laces.

I got water,” Nathan said, brandishing the bottle.

Cool. Shoes are there.” He nodded to the chair Nathan had been sitting in. Sure enough, his trail shoes were waiting on the floor in front of it.


Within a few minutes, they were headed out of the door. Nathan locked up, pocketed the key, then checked the handle. He doubted very much the place would get broken into—they were in the middle of nowhere, after all. There were farms nearby, but the closest village was about a mile and a half away. So any thieves would have to make a considerable effort to get to the cottage in the first place, never mind attempt to break into it. Rolling his eyes at his own paranoia, he turned and followed Lee, who’d already started walking slowly along the road in the direction of the pond.

After falling into step beside Lee, Nathan pulled in some deep breaths, enjoying the fresh air after being cooped up in the cottage. It was a beautiful and cozy place, but it was supposed to be a base for them to go walking—somewhere for them to eat, sleep and shower, not to be stuck in for hours on end, staring at the walls. Or climbing them.

He admired the rainbow as they walked, its vivid colors painted across the watery sky. It seemed the clouds had literally exhausted themselves—only occasional wispy streaks of white now interrupted the never-ending blue. The sun beamed down, heating up the ground and beginning to evaporate the huge puddles. It would take some doing—one such puddle stretched across the width of the road, and they had to skirt around its edge to avoid getting wet feet.

Nathan smiled. Though the storm itself had been grim, the washed-out aftermath made everything feel fresh, clean somehow.

You look thoughtful,” Lee said, breaking into his reverie. “A penny for them?”

Mmm. It’s one of those things that sounds better in your head than said out loud.”

Try me.”

Shrugging, Nathan replied. “Nothing major. Just admiring the rainbow, the sky, the clouds… Thinking how everything looks so fresh and clean after a good storm. Like it’s been purified, or something… Ugh, it’s stupid.”

Lee stopped and reached for Nathan’s hand. His green eyes were wide and filled with wonder. “No, it isn’t. Not at all—I was thinking something similar myself. It’s kinda romantic, isn’t it? Purification, rebirth, and all that.”

In a roundabout way, maybe. I dunno.” He shrugged again.

Lee’s eyes narrowed, and his lips curved into a wicked grin. “We could make it romantic.”

How so?”

Come here, and I’ll show you.” Still gripping Nathan’s hand, Lee tugged him close and moved in for a kiss. Nathan went into the embrace willingly, the smile on his face soon smothered by Lee’s hot lips.

Buy links

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About the Author

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of 100 Modern Erotic Classics That Youve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Cafés Best Ménage Book 2015 award, and an Amazon bestseller) and The Persecution of the Wolves. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 150 publications to her name. She owns Erotica For All, and is one eighth of The Brit Babes. Find out more about her writing at, or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. You can also subscribe to her monthly newsletter at:

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