Should I be embarrassed? We’re not teenagers anymore.

You and I was my first erotica release in 2017. It began as an experiment in steamy “sudden fiction”, then later became a five-piece series of flash fiction chapters. I was reading a lot of Literotica back then and wanted to see how things would turn out if you shot for the same level of heat but with a more introspective tone.

Hope you enjoy this little excerpt from my early foray into rude writing 💜

The credits finish. In reality, a second passes, but it seems to take forever. It’s so quiet, I can hear the tap drip in the kitchen. Should I be embarrassed? We’re not teenagers anymore. But we’ve never been this close before and my skin is burning.

“Should I get up?” I ask. I’m exposed and awkward, unsure of where this goes. What would it mean to you, if I sat up? Should we pretend this never happened? The questions in a question.

Your mouth moves, silently at first. Then you say: “You don’t have to. I mean, if you don’t want to.”

You look in my eyes and I wonder if you can tell I’ve thought about us being here. I wonder if you know I borrow the clothes you leave behind when you crash after a big night; if you know I know they smell the way you do up close. With my face pressed against you and my belly in knots.

Fuck it. I don’t want to keep wondering.

“I’ll stay a bit,” I say. I smile and move my head, press a little harder; you breathe deep. “Hey, I don’t have to be anywhere tonight. Do you?”

“Nowhere,” you shake your head. “Nothing planned.”

“Can I take this?” I ask. I tug at the waistband of your shorts. A wispy tuft peeks out from the gap between your shirt and underwear.

You look like you’re about to say something; either ask me to stop or to keep going. I wait to feel your hands on the back of my head, wait to hear you tell me, direct, to put your dick in my mouth and suck it until you come. But that’s only how I imagine you. You’re too polite for that. You just nod and wait for me.

You lift your hips and I slip your shorts off. The cut of your v-line surprises me. It really shouldn’t. I’ve seen you countless times, shirt off, passed out drunk exactly where I’m lying now. But not like this, I suppose. Not where you’re inches from my face with your eyes on me and your abdomen rising and falling like unbreaking waves.

Read the rest of You and I

This book (short story) is a freebie if you get it from most outlets.

Or it’s 99c on Amazon.
A beautiful brunette woman is embraced from behind by a masculine pair of arms. She closes her eyes and revels in it.

Abandon all shyness, ye who enter here…

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Fresh Find: The Pornographer’s Apprentice by Lisabet Sarai

I’m honoured to be taking part in Lisabet Sarai’s book blast for her latest release, The Pornographer’s Apprentice, a steampunk erotica novel featuring BDSM, menage, Victorian delights, and a feminist heroine.

Here’s Lisabet to tell us a little more…

Born Again Victorian

by Lisabet Sarai

Sometimes I think I lived a past life in the Victorian age. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been drawn to architecture and costumes from the period. My siblings used to tease me about how much I liked “gingerbread” houses. In my high school yearbook picture, I’m wearing a high-necked, 1880’s style blouse with an antique cameo brooch at my throat. I’ve been a huge fan of Gilbert and Sullivan – the consummate chroniclers of Victorian culture – since I was introduced to their operettas at age five. I had devoured the complete Sherlock Holmes before I turned fifteen.

Although I haven’t yet found the patience to write a full-fledged Victorian historical novel, my erotic romance Miranda’s Masks features a parallel plot that unfolds in nineteenth-century Boston. I’ve also penned a number of steam punk stories, all set in an alternative Victorian world with more advanced technology than actually existed (although in fact the latter half of the eighteen hundreds was a hotbed of invention and entrepreneurship). Possibly due to all the nineteenth century fiction I’ve consumed, I find it surprisingly easy to write dialogue and description that can pass as Victorian. I certainly can’t produce the same level of authenticity for any other historical era.

It might seem strange that I’m so attracted to things Victorian. Given my interest in sexuality (both literary and personal), I probably would have had difficulty adapting to the prudish societal norms of the time. Of course, perennially popular Victorian erotica like The Pearl and My Secret Life suggest that there was a quite a gap between what people professed in public and what they did in private (or in the company of like-minded libertines).

That’s my theory, anyway: that the Victorians were a far lustier group than they pretended. That’s certainly true of the characters in my Victorian-themed novels, including The Pornographer’s Apprentice.

A woman with her eyes obscured, dressed in Victorian garb, on the cover of The Pornographer's Apprentice by Lisabet Sarai

The Pornographer’s Apprentice by Lisabet Sarai

She wants to build sex toys… if they’ll let her.

In prudish, patriarchal Victorian England, nineteen year old prodigy Gillian Smith finds a secret society dedicated to the erotic arts. She’ll need both her intellect and her physical charms to earn the permanent position she craves.

If you like steam punk erotica with a kinky feminist bent, you’ll love The Pornographer’s Apprentice.

The Toymakers Guild series: Defying the repressive morality of the Victorian era, the Toymakers Guild uses advanced technology to fabricate bespoke sexual artifacts for the discrete pleasure of select clients. Its members are not only brilliant engineers but also sexual renegades seeking freedom from the prudish society that surrounds them. These are their stories.

Excerpt

Amelia rested her hands on Gillian’s bare shoulders and leaned in to kiss her. Bold as brass, the intruder used her tongue to tease Gillian’s lips open, then plunged inside. With distinctly unladylike ferocity, she took possession of Gillian’s mouth.

Thoroughly awake now, and more aroused by the second, Gillian met Amelia’s kiss with equal passion. Meanwhile, confident that Amelia would not object, she reached out to cradle and caress the woman’s full bosom. Amelia’s magnificent breasts, far more opulent than Lettie’s, felt wonderfully firm and pliant in her hands. The taut nipples that poked through the thin cotton nightdress spoke volumes about their owner’s excitement. Gillian gave one nub a light pinch. With gratifying swiftness, it hardened further.

“By the gods, you’re delicious,” Amelia sighed. Her mouth slid away from Gillian’s to nibble along the jaw line, then she licked her way down Gillian’s throat to the hollow between her breasts. “Every inch of you,” she added.

Gillian rolled both of Amelia’s nips between her fingertips. She gave them a tug. Amelia released a choked cry, then dove in to suckle Gillian’s teats.

Now it was the young apprentice’s turn to moan, as bright pleasure shimmered from her peaks down to the valley of her loins. She tightened her thighs for a moment, savouring the friction that created against her throbbing clit. Then she spread her legs wide, baring her secret garden to the other woman’s eyes.

“Take me,” she pleaded. “I’m wet as rain for you, Amelia.”

About Lisabet Sarai

Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – over one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website, along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance, she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, Pinterest, and Twitter. Join her VIP email list.

About Henry on The Good Bits Podcast

One of the good bits from About Henry is now available on The Good Bits Podcast!

A suit and tie, with illustrated flames coming out of the neck

The Good Bits Podcast is a sexy audio collection of good bits from erotic books. It’s such an honour to have my work featured alongside the likes of Alessandra Torre, Fiona Zedde, Sierra Simone, Clare Connelly and other incredible writers.

She is helpless against it, and I watch.

Birdwatchers started as an early practice piece for first-person perspective and deep POV. I was obsessed with the effect of the “unreliable narrator” on the reading journey, and this is what came of a couple evenings’ study. I also wanted to write a story that included birds because bird stuff is cool.

Anyway, please enjoy this excerpt of Birdwatchers, a short story about an erotic encounter on a summer afternoon:

She reaches behind her and tugs at the strings. They come apart and her white bikini top falls around her waist. She gathers her hair and wraps it in a scarf on top of her head. Then she lies back. She reaches for her book. Her breasts settle on her chest. Her nipples, the colour of wrens, face the blue sky.

It’s quiet here. Tourists don’t hike this far up the mountain. She must know it; she doesn’t bother looking around before slipping a hand into her bikini bottom. The motion of her fingers is obvious beneath the fluttering fabric.

Her breathing deepens into a rhythm. Her chest rises and falls, lifting and lowering the book she clutches in her left hand while her right one shudders between her legs. Her belly is tight. Her crimson lips are soft and pouting.

“Oh!” she cries. But her voice is swallowed by the forest.

Her canary yellow picnic blanket is crumpled in a nest around her. Her body is turbulent, swept away by a squall. It whips her until she starts to tremble, her headscarf comes loose and, finally, she drops the book.

“Oh!” she cries again, and arches her back against the rock bed. Her sunglasses topple off her face. Her eyes are hummingbird green and beating their wings in the storm.

And then, she sees me.

Hands fly to cover her naked breasts, but the tempest rages on. She is helpless against it, and I watch. She rolls onto her belly, body still billowing. Her legs curl beneath her, knees to chest, and she buries her face in the blanket.

The gale becomes a breeze and fades into the distance.

She looks at me and sits up. Her body is exposed now, breasts heaving as her breath comes back to her. She keeps her eyes on me while she re-does her hair and rests the sunglasses on her head. She smiles.

“Why didn’t you take a picture?” she asks. “That’s what you came here for, wasn’t it?”

“N… no,” I say. I hold up the camera, fighting the weight of the lens. “I came to watch the birds.”

She sits back and crosses her legs in front of her. She points her toes towards me, then at the sky, then back to me. She licks her lips.

“So…” Her smile deepens. “Watch the birds then.”

Read the rest of Birdwatchers

Birdwatchers is available at major ebook retailers.

Birdwatchers cover

In the mood for more?

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I remember him catching my wrist. I remember a kiss.

By rayen lazghab on Unsplash

Julie couldn’t help it. After her brief dalliance with the charming, carefree, married Henry Aston, he was well and truly under her skin. Mr. and Mrs. Aston were only out of town for a couple of weeks when reality sank in—little Julie Ho was just a summer fling.

Here’s how it all turned out in the end. What happened when the Astons got back from their road trip. What happened after a chance meeting in a cocktail bar on the other side of town. And what happened when Henry finally introduced Julie to his wife…

Excerpt from About Her by JL Peridot:

I don’t recall everything as well as I’d like. I remember the lights not working. I remember my bra hook getting caught in my hair. And I remember Henry’s socks. Now, I hate the sock thing as much as the next girl, but I remember telling him to keep them on. I liked that they were a gift from his wife.

I remember looking up with him kneeling over me, my knees over his shoulders, his arms around my waist, and his face between my legs. His tongue worked sharp, soft, textured, slow, then fast in just the right place. I was drunk, I was numb and warm and scattered and helpless in his grasp. Every muscle in my body tense with anticipation. I was on the edge—right on the fucking edge—ready to go over. But then he pulled away.

“God, why—”

“Not yet.”

Henry opened the window. The night breeze rolled through the room, cooling my skin. My nipples tightened from the sudden chill—I love how they look when they get that way. I hoped to see them cast on the wall, but that detail was lost in the shadows. And with a flick of a switch, those shadows went too, the only light now coming from outside, teasing the contours of Henry’s taught body and magnificent cock as he stood by the bedside lamp.

He shoved the bed against the window. Effortless. This guy was stronger than he looked. When he was done, I leaned across the bed and ran my fingers down his abs. I remember him catching my wrist. I remember a kiss.

Read the rest of About Her

About Her, the long-awaited follow-up to About Henry, is available for free on Vocal.

Woman stands by the window in a hotel room. Text reads: "About Her"

More steam down here

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About Her — an erotic short story

About Her is now out of my hands and into the world.

Thank you for waiting for this story, and for voicing your support on Twitter and Insta while I was agonising over the draft. Every manuscript somehow manages to be a psychological and emotional trip to hell and back—yeah, even happy stories. The creative process can be such a B.

Thank you for reading About Henry when it came out in the CapriLuxe Chronicles. I hope you enjoy this denouement of Julie Ho’s little adventure.

Woman stands by the window in a hotel room. Text reads: "About Her"

Special shoutouts to my partner for always rooting for me and taking me to all the lovely places Julie and Henry visited around Perth; to my editor Charlie Knight for the personal attention and care she gave this story; to the indelible Autumn Faraday for her inspiring CapriLuxe creation; to the amazingly talented authors who I’m honoured to have been featured alongside; and to you, yes you, for reading and writing with me 💜

The Only Question That Matters — out now

My latest novella, The Only Question That Matters, is available now.

Amazon | Kobo | B&N | iTunes | Smashwords

Here’s a little teaser…

When we are naked, I stop to take him in. His shoulders, his chest, the contours of his stomach—they are sinewy and strong, sculpted, perfect. His arms and legs look forged by a life of adventure, not writing alone in his room. I wonder if he lives the stories he writes. I wonder, will he write about us one day?

Then I realise he is watching me too. I blush, I think. I’m not sure. The room is not yet warm, but I am hot all over from his touch, his gaze. My posture closes. I don’t want to be modest now, but I can’t help myself. He rolls us over.

“Don’t be shy,” he teases, looking down at me. “I like what I see as well.”

How arrogant! I laugh out loud. It’s a burst of ungraceful noise, but the music continues and I don’t feel shy anymore. The bedspread is cool under my back; he burns above me. His hubris gives me confidence—this is a game, the good kind, just for fun. I won’t be trapped between the bed and his body. Not yet.

I push him upward. He falls back to his knees. I rise to meet him and kiss his lips, his soft and bristly chin, his neck. When I reach his collarbone, he shudders. He is ticklish. Ah, to manipulate his body with just a touch. His hands are at my shoulders, but he barely touches me.

Silhouette of a couple kissing under a night sky. Book cover for "The Only Question That Matters" by JL Peridot.

Fresh Find: Submitted to Housework by Stefanie Simpson — a free read

Loved this saucy and sweet flash story by Stefanie Simpson.

OK, so “saucy” is a bit of an understatement. Have a look for yourself…

I tapped the wooden arm of the bedroom chair, clicking my nails, watching.

The nude man on the other side of the room glided an iron across a freshly washed bed sheet. He neatly folded it and set it down on the perfectly placed pile next to him.

Bored, I got up, but he didn’t lift his face and started on a blouse. I stood next to him, steam rising, the smell of heated cotton and the vague scent of him close by made me want. I palmed his naked bottom, squeezing it, but he didn’t pause.

I leant right in, still feeling him. “You’re doing a terrible job.”

“Sorry, I’ll do better.”

“You say that every time. And yet you never improve. Bend.”

He hovered, the smallest doubt in his eyes as he turned his head slightly, but he obeyed. He held the ironing board and bent a little.

“More.”

His chest rose silently, and he went further. I pinched hard, making him tense.

“Ready?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Read the rest…