Out Now! A Harmless Little Game (The Harmless Series) by Meli Raine (@meliraineauthor)

Release date: October 18, 2016

Genre: Romantic Suspense, Political Thriller



Four years ago I lost my virginity on live, streaming television.

Too bad I wasn’t awake for it.

The video went viral. Of course it would. A Senator’s daughter on camera? Wouldn’t you click “share”? Besides, that’s what three of the four guys in the video did.


They shared me.

But that fourth guy? The nondescript one in the background in the upper left corner of the screen, just sitting on the couch? The only one who did nothing?

Not one single thing.

That was my boyfriend, Drew.

And that was the last time I saw him.

Until today, when my father—now on a path to the White House—hired him as head of security for my new team as I return home after four years of “recovering” in an undisclosed location that involved white lab coats, needles, pills and damage control.

You see, the other three guys never went to jail. Never had charges pressed.

Never faced consequences.

Until today.

Game on.


* * *

A Harmless Little Game is the first in this political thriller/romantic suspense trilogy by USA Today bestselling author Meli Raine. This series includes:

A Harmless Little Ruse (release date November 18, 2016)

A Harmless Little Plan (release date December 13, 2016)


Buy links:

Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2edOSLx
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2eoILbY
Nook/BN: http://bit.ly/2bNpPAM
Kobo: http://bit.ly/2bNpGh4
iBooks: http://apple.co/2bNpEFI
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/2dP1zPO


Author Bio:

Meli Raine writes romantic suspense with hot bikers, intense undercover DEA agents, bad boys turned good, and Special Ops heroes — and the women who love them.

Meli rode her first motorcycle when she was five years old, but she played in the ocean long before that. She lives in New England with her family.

Social Media Links:

Website:  http://meliraine.com/

Newsletter:  http://eepurl.com/beV0gf

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/meliraine

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/meliraineauthor




“I’m sorry,” he says. My ear is pressed against his broad, hard chest. I feel the words more than I hear them. The vibration and cadence make it clear he’s apologizing. Heat radiates off him like he’s the sun and I’m in his orbit.

I break away. I’m not his moon.

“You should be sorry,” I snap, marching toward my destination, fighting the soft ground. I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to do this. Not now.Definitely not right now. I haven’t seen him for four years. Four long, painful, horrible years. More than 1,400 days of waking every morning knowing I wasn’t with him. Knowing he sat there that night and did nothing while three men raped me. Degraded me. Used and abused me and enjoyed it.

My body goes into a full-blown supernova, skin on fire at the thought. My rage cannot be contained by a mere mortal body.

I turn around. He’s right there, following me.

“Go the fuck away, Drew. I told you. I hate your guts. Leave me alone.”

At least, I think that’s what I say. My mind can’t process words and thoughts right now. I am fixated on the red door at the back entrance of the house, the sprawling mansion that is the only home I’ve ever known, aside from Daddy’s townhome in Washington D.C. If I can make it to that red door without Drew touching me, if I can make it to my bedroom and to my medications where I can take enough to fall asleep, maybe I can get my brain to work again.

And stop the flood of emotions that are making me crazy.


Release blitz hosted by Writer Marketing Services.


Road Trip Time! Sunday Selfie: Migrations



I’m a road trip sort of girl. Put me in a car for the long haul with some great scenery and lots of open country and I’m SO there! And there’s nothing worse than having a good road trip ruined by traveling companions who are just not compatible. Lucky for me, I do most of my traveling with my hubby, who’s the best road trip partner ever, but I have had those road trips from hell, and it was one such road trip that inspired Migrations. Enjoy!


Migrations Blurb:

VAL HASTINGS, assisted by her do-gooder cousin, SALLY CLINE, is shanghaied into driving their AUNT ROSE across the US to visit her son. What begins as the trip from hell turns into a sexy adventure when they find themselves sharing the interstate with a mysterious, leather-clad biker. Aunt Rose and Sally are convinced he’s up to no good. But after Val catches him mid-wank at a rest area, and he offers her some steamy help to make her journey more enjoyable, she’s convinced he’s her nasty saviour.

Is HAWK, the biker, a murderer, a free spirit, or something else? Whatever he is, animal attraction wins out over caution, as he joins the ladies for a cross country romp that keeps Sally and Aunt Rose nervous and Val hotter than her overheating engine.


Migrations Excerpt:

Warning! X-Rated Excerpt HAWT!


Chapter One

‘IT’S THE ROAD TRIP from hell! I knew it would be. I just knew it!’ Val didn’t bother to speak quietly. After what she’d cariad-cover-for-migrationsbeen through, no one could possibly blame her for losing it and talking to herself. And this was just the beginning! How the hell was she going to survive this little misadventure all the way to Oregon? She glanced quickly over her shoulder as she stepped behind the bathrooms at the rest area, trying desperately to block out the memory of Aunt Rose accusing the elderly gentleman at the vending machine of stealing her change.

She needed to vent or she’d explode. Once behind the building she turned her face to the wall and banged her head against it. ‘Why me? I’m not a bad person. I never murdered anyone, I always recycle. I volunteer for the autumn fucking bird count. Why?’ She banged her head for emphasis. ‘… the hell.’ Bang bang bang. ‘… Me?’ Bang, bang.

‘Sounds like you could use a good wank.’

She couldn’t have stopped the yelp that escaped her throat if she’d tried, but as she spun around to make a run for the car, what she saw stopped her in her tracks.

‘Sh!’ A man in a faded blue T-shirt and jeans that were even more faded raised a finger to his lips. It was impossible not to notice that the other hand was occupied, wrapped around the big stiffy that looked as though it had parted his fly like Moses parting the Red Sea, and my, what a staff!

When he was sure he had her full attention, as if there was any doubt of that, he spoke. ‘Quiet.’ He glanced around quickly. ‘If word gets out,’ he nodded to his stretching cock, ‘everyone’ll be back here getting a little relief from the road.


Though, in your case …’ he leaned closer and she could see startling blue eyes peeking over the mirrored shades that slid down his sun-freckled nose, ‘… I reckon you need it more than most.’

She pressed her back against the wall and moaned, not taking her eyes off the fascinating handwork on his cock. ‘You saw then.’

He nodded and gave a little grunt and a flutter of sun- bleached lashes as he lifted his balls free from the peek-a-boo squish of his fly. ‘And heard. Hard not to really.’

‘Fuck!’ She cursed.

He chuckled. ‘I never fuck on a first date, but I’m happy to choke the chicken in solidarity.’

She nodded to his efforts. ‘It really helps?’

‘Absolutely,’ he grunted at a particularly rough tugging of his cock. ‘Best kept secret in the world,’ he said following her gaze, giving his balls a smile and a grope as though he’d just realised they were there. ‘The world would be a much better place if everyone would just chill and treat themselves to a little self-love every now and again. Can you imagine the bliss? Go on, indulge yourself.’ He nodded to her trousers. ‘I’d say you could use the relief.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t have time. Aunt Rose will be on me like a screaming banshee if she catches me.’

‘Of course you’ve got time. If I’m not mistaken, she took her copy of The National Enquirer into the bathroom with her, didn’t she? And your cousin, she is your cousin, isn’t she? Well, she’s on her cell phone with her kids, something about not pouring tomato soup in the toaster.’

‘Jesus, you heard?’

‘Sweet cheeks, everybody heard,’ he said with a tug on his schlong for emphasis. Trust me; the misdeeds of your cousin’s little angels and the condition of your auntie’s bowels are now common knowledge at this rest stop.’

‘Fuck,’ she said again, running a hand through her hair, now beginning to curl around her temples from the unseasonably warm spring heat.

‘Really, darlin’,’ he nodded again to her trousers. ‘It’ll make 2

you feel better. I won’t look if you don’t want me to.’
Maybe it was just a testament to how desperate she was, or how loopy she had already become, but she opened her fly and stuck her hand down inside her panties. When she made contact, her breath caught and her body gave a little

involuntary jerk.
Without missing a beat, he gave her an appreciative nod.

‘There now. That’s better, isn’t it? You wet?’
She nodded. ‘How’d you know?’
‘No surprise really. Anger and frustration can often be a

turn-on. Well not a turn-on per-se, but the body compensates for the stress in the best way it knows to make itself feel better.’ He shrugged. ‘Plus watching someone else handle their junk usually will do the trick too.’

‘Sh!’ she hissed. ‘Don’t talk, just touch it, and let me watch, and relieve my stress.’

He did as she asked, easing his jeans down enough that she could see the lovely straight lines of his hips perfectly balanced by the muscular swell of his ass-cheeks, which clenched and relaxed with each thrust. ‘What else?’ he grunted.


‘What else do you want to see? Not that I’m an exhibitionist or anything,’ his breath accelerated noticeably, ‘but I’m sympathetic to your circumstances, and right now this is so working for me.’

It wasn’t doing too badly for her either, as she slipped two fingers in between her swell and began to scissor them while her thumb went to work on her clit. ‘Turn around a little,’ she breathed. ‘I want to see your ass.’

He did as she asked, half bending over to give her an exquisite view, and she felt herself gush, as he spread his ass- cheeks. ‘Oh my!’ she gasped.

‘You like that, do you? You wanna see my back hole?’
‘Oh God, yes.’
‘And you’d like me to finger it while I wank, wouldn’t

you?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. And he really didn’t need to. Almost as though he knew what was going on in her panties, he stuck a thick middle finger into his mouth and


sucked it until it was wet and shiny with his saliva. For a moment, she found what he was doing to his finger with his yummy mouth almost as hot as what he was doing to his cock. Through all of his efforts, his eyes, peeking over the mirrored sun shades, never left hers.

Watching her over his shoulder, making sure he was at just the right angle for her to see what was going on in front and behind, he bent over still further and spread his legs so that the twitch of his asshole was centre stage. With a tight breath released between his teeth, almost like he’d touched something hot, he eased his finger in to his back grip. ‘Ah, that’s nice,’ he breathed. ‘Such a tight fit, and my asshole’s so sensitive.’ Then he shoved it all the way in. His eyelids fluttered, his ass cheeks clenched and he positively growled and bucked against himself, tugging at his penis as though it were in serious need of subjugation.

Her panties were beyond wet, and she now gave herself the whole hand hump, four fingers shoving and wriggling inside her wet snatch while her palm exerted exquisite, almost painful pressure against her mons, which put the squeeze on her burgeoning clit. She shoved the other hand inside her blouse and manoeuvred her left breast free from her bra, at least free enough that she could knead it while pinching and stroking the nipple until it was tight and engorged and raw.

‘What else,’ he gasped.

‘I want to see you come.’ Her voice was a harsh whisper, and she felt the blush crawl up her face that she would even ask such a thing. And yet, her pussy clenched against her fingers at the thought, and her clit surged. ‘I know you’re close. You look like you’re about to burst, so go ahead. I want to see you unload on the ground like the nasty man that you are. I want to watch you spurt.’ Jesus, what was the matter with her, talking like some street whore, but even as she spoke, she felt wet slippery approval from her cunt.

‘Your wish is my command,’ he grunted. Three hard jerks balanced by the finger digging at his asshole, and he shot thick white streamers of semen across the well-manicured grass.

‘Valareee! Valerie Louise, where are you?’ The shrill voice 4

of Aunt Rose broke the mood.
‘Oh Jesus! Oh God!’ Val jerked her wet hand from her

panties and stared at it as though it were a total surprise to her while she shoved her tit back into her bra then tried to close her fly with one hand.

Wank Man handed her a pristine white hankie and she frantically wiped her fingers. Before she could wonder what to do with the hankie, he snatched it away.

‘I’ll take that,’ he said, as Aunt Rose bellowed for her niece again, this time loud enough to wake the dead in the next county. ‘I’m a frequent wanker,’ he lifted the hankie to his nose and inhaled deeply before stuffing it back in his pocket. ‘I’m always happy for some nice props.’ Then the smile slipped from his face. ‘But you didn’t come.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she whispered between her teeth. ‘So now I’m horny as hell as well as stressed out. And I have to somehow make it all the way to Oregon with at least a little sanity intact.’

Aunt Rose bellowed again.

‘Two words,’ he said, stuffing his still heavy cock nimbly back into his jeans and adjusting the tell-tale bulge to sit comfortably against his groin.

‘Two words?’ She breathed.
‘Car engines.’
‘Car engines, sweet cheeks. Car engines are nothing more

than built-in vibes. Just shift around on the seat.’ He demonstrated with a slow undulation of his hips that did nothing to ease the road rage in her cunt. ‘And then when you find the sweet spot, open your legs and let the car do the rest.’ He spread his stance until he reminded her of a cowboy who’d been in the saddle too long. Then he offered her a wicked smile. ‘Your aunt will never be the wiser.’

‘Valerie, there you are!’ Aunt Rose erupted from around the corner. ‘What in the world are you doing back here? I was beginning to worry that some pervert had abducted you.’

‘Birds,’ Valerie managed. ‘Some meadow larks, and when I came around here, Mr –’ She turned around to find Wank Man


gone. The only trace of him was the white streaks of jizz on the grass, but Aunt Rose didn’t notice that. She grabbed her niece with the hard grip that Val and her cousin, Sally, jokingly referred to as the claw, and tugged her back toward the parking lot.

‘You and your silly birds. We’ll never make it to Portland in time for my poor Harry’s surgery with you stopping to look at everything that has feathers. Now come on. We’ve got a long way to go. You’re walking funny, dear. Are you chafing?’ Aunt Rose’s voice wafted loud and clear across the rest area and the wheat field beyond. ‘I certainly would be if I wore those scratchy denim jeans you young people all wear, and in this heat too. Anything that tight against your crotch can’t be good. I have some talcum powder if you need it. A little bit of that between your thighs and some decent cotton panties, not those stringy little thongy things you girls wear now. One hundred per cent cotton, that’s what you need. That and a little talc and you’ll feel right as rain.’

The teenagers at the vending machine shot them a curious glance and sniggered. Two elderly women coming out of the rest room looked up, then quickly looked away, pretending not to have noticed Aunt Rose’s personal comfort lecture. Just then Sally, still on her cell phone, fell into step next to them telling her husband not to feed the dog bacon because it gives him diarrhoea and the last time he’d pooped in the middle of the children’s sand box.

Val mentally cringed, as they got into the car under the surreptitious stare of everyone at the rest area. As she belted herself in, her pussy twitched with nearly painful need, then her stomach clenched as Aunt Rose pulled a bottle of antihistamine spray out of her enormous bag, shoved it up each nostril and sniffed hard enough to inhale a fencepost. It was going to be a very long trip.

Amazon UK
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The Romance Review“I very highly recommend this book and give it 5 out of 5 stars! The writing is superb with a story that is wonderfully refreshing. This story has a little bit of everything to make it extremely entertaining. At times it’s laugh-out-loud hilarious; it has family drama, mystery, and romance. While the heat level is high, there is also much more to this fun story that will keep you completely glued to the pages from start to finish. I absolutely loved this book and it’s one that I could read over and over again!” The Romance Reviews


“A fast paced read with lots of super hot passionate “rip off your shirt sex” scattered throughout, which was believably written with intensity and passion and plenty of sexual tension which I love in a book. I loved how they grabbed their sexual exploits throughout the journey and how she was gradually falling for this sexy hunk of a stranger oblivious to the whitterings of her relatives.” Midnight Boudoir



Weekend at Wilderhope Manor by Lucy Felthouse Now Available in Audiobook Format! #lesfic #lesbian #halloween #audiobook #romance #erotica #ghost #PNR

The critically acclaimed paranormal/ghost erotic short story, Weekend at Wilderhope Manor by Lucy Felthouse, is now available in audiobook format. Narrated by voice artist Xanthia Bloom, you can now listen to this spooky tale on the go!


When Stephanie and Jenny go to a Murder Mystery Halloween weekend at Wilderhope Manor, they’re expecting fun and games. But following creaky floorboards, spooky noises and an alarming encounter in the Manor’s grounds, the girls begin to wonder if there’s more to Wilderhope Manor than meets the eye. As they find frequent comfort in one another’s arms – and their bed – will the girls discover what’s causing the bumps in the night, or will they run scared?

Audio links:

Amazon UK
Amazon US
Audible UK
Audible US
iTunes UK
iTunes US

eBook links available here: http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/published-works/weekend-at-wilderhope-manor/



“The passion and humour Lucy injects into all her characters is a real delight… they have such depth and scream sexuality along with the cries of terror, the chemistry of the two as they share their toe curling sensual kisses and have fun in the library is wonderful and makes for a really enchanting read. Weekend at Wilderhope Manor was Short, Sweet and Spooky… One for the Things that go bump and make you want to hump pile!” 5 out of 5, Erotic Whispers


“Among the festivities, the authentic relationship between Stephanie and Jenny comes through in a playful manner, and the chills build. A classic and sexy ghost story, Weekend at Wilderhope Manor titillates on multiple levels.” Night Owl Reviews Magazine


“Stephanie and Jenny are so expressive in their love for each other it makes this story practically burst in flames. They spend so much time heating up the sheets that the rest of the story is merely a byline to their love affair. I would really like to see them be more interactive with their surroundings, but the sexual exploits are top notch. This is a great treat and will easily warm up any chilly day.” Coffee Time Romance


Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of, and an Amazon bestseller), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s 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 http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk, or on Twitter or Facebook. Sign up for automatic updates on Amazon or BookBub. You can also subscribe to her monthly newsletter at: http://eepurl.com/gMQb9


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Smutty Seaside Shameless Selfie



Yup! That’s me on the  Cobb in the wind channeling my inner Meryl Streep, or perhaps my inner Selkie. Having just gotten back from Lyme Regis totally inspired and had a fabulous Saturday at Smut Manchester celebrating the launch of The Tutor, I thought it the perfect time for a smutty seaside girly story that was inspired by a trip to Lyme Regis for the fabulous anthology, Smut By The Sea. Enjoy!


Skins Blurb:

When the mysterious Celia follows Tess home in a rainstorm, the sexy encounter that follows is totally unexpected, and yet somehow, Celia is strangely familiar.


smut-by-the-sea Skins Excerpt:

I had to do a double-take. One lone person stood on the Cobb in the middle of the storm. How could there be anyone out there? I was hurrying back my cottage, not the smartest person on the beach for being out in this weather; well actually I was the only person on the beach, except for the person on the Cobb. The storm had come up suddenly. When I’d headed out a few hours ago, it was sunny and warm. I had been sketching a lone harbor seal off and on for the past two days. She had been sunning herself on the rocks. Seals were something I seldom saw around Lyme Regis, so it had been a special treat to get so close to her. But when the weather took a sudden turn for the worse, we both went our separate ways, she probably more comfortably than I. I would miss her.

‘Hey! Hey! Get off there! Are you crazy?’ I yelled and waved my arms like a nutter, the wind catching me and nearly toppling me over. I knew it was a waste of breath. Whoever it was out there on the Cobb couldn’t have heard me above the roar of the wind and the waves. Stupidly, I thought of The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing there looking out to sea. Then I blinked and whoever it was had vanished. Heart racing in my chest, I fumbled for my phone to call 999. But then I rubbed my eyes and it hit me, there wasn’t really anyone there. It had to have been my imagination. I could barely stand up in the wind on the beach. No one could have been standing out there. Even if someone had been, I certainly couldn’t have seen them in this weather.

I was still thinking about the imagined person on the Cobb when I arrived at my cottage to find I wasn’t alone.

‘May I help you?’ I made no attempt to keep the irritation out of my voice, hoping it would cover my nerves at the sight of the young man standing on the porch of my cottage. Yes it was tipping it down, horizontal rain, and the wind felt like it blew right off the polar ice cap, but an adolescent standing in an oversized anorak with nothing but the tip of a nose and the jut of a chin sticking out from under the hood did nothing to make me feel at ease.

‘I’m sorry. I just needed a place out of the rain for a few minutes.’ The voice was the gravelly voice of an adolescent, not quite a man, yet no longer a child either, and the accent was strange, as though the shapes of the words were somehow new to lip and tongue. As I got closer to the porch, the boy threw back the hood and I realized that the boy was actually a young woman drenched to the skin even through the anorak. Her auburn hair hung in dripping tendrils around her face and onto her shoulders.

‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I heard you call and.’ She shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’

My insides, which were already knotted, knotted still tighter. ‘You heard me call?’

‘From the Cobb, yes. I heard you call, and I just followed you.’

‘But you’re here before me, how could you have followed me.’

‘I just got here, honest.’ She spoke between chattering teeth. ‘I was hoping for a place to wait out the storm.’ She motioned back into Lyme Regis. ‘But there’s no place there.’

‘Certainly there’s no place on the Cobb. What were you thinking?’ I said, then I nodded up the stairs. ‘Well you can’t stay out here. Come on inside where it’s dry.’ God, was I out of my mind? I didn’t even know this chick and the whole thing felt sort of strange and stalker-ish.

‘You don’t mind?’ She asked.

‘Of course not.’ I wasn’t sure if I was lying of not, but I couldn’t leave her out in this horrid weather.

‘I’m Celia,’ she said, as she followed me up the stairs, muddy walking shoes that looked way pass their sell-by date gripped in one hand.

‘I’m Tess,’ I called over my shoulder as I unlocked the door, and stood aside for her to go in.

Inside she shrugged out of the oversized anorak, which looked, if anything, even older and rattier than the boots, then she stood dripping on the rug in the hallway, looking diminished and fragile in the anemic light of the late afternoon storm.

‘Right. You need dry clothes,’ I said. ‘I can lend you something. It’ll be huge on you, but it’ll do for now. I’ll put your clothes in the drying room to dry, then make us some tea, would you like that? Bathroom’s there,’ I pointed.

When I returned with a track suit and a t-shirt, I nearly dropped them on the floor at the sight of her. The door was wide open and she stood naked and goose-fleshed wringing the water from her clothes into the sink. She turned to face me as though being naked in the bathroom of a total stranger was nothing out of the ordinary, and my mouth went dry.

Honestly, I never look at other women’s breasts. I mean I’m aware of my own, and I fondle them when I masturbate and rather enjoy the feel of them, but it took all I could do to pull my eyes away from Celia’s breasts. Hers were the kind of breasts all women dream of having, high and firm, like heavily iced cupcakes displayed in a bakery window, just enough to fill the cup of a hand and spill over the top to offer a soft swell to be kissed and nuzzled. And strangely enough I could picture myself doing just that. Her nipples pearled dark mauve and heavy atop the raspberry stippling of areolae that were impossibly tight and swollen from the chill, and I found myself wanting to chafe them in my hand and warm them with my breath, with my lips, with my tongue.

Embarrassed, I lowered my eyes, but that wasn’t much better as my gaze followed the flat, hard muscles of her belly down to the tight nest of auburn curls resting protectively above her sex.

‘ … Would that be alright?’

I suddenly realized she was speaking to me. I forced my attention back to what she was saying, forced my gaze back to her lightly freckled face and milk chocolate eyes. ‘It’s just the most amazing bathtub, and I was just wondering if it would be alright. If I had a bath? I haven’t had a hot bath in a long time, at least not a real one. I mean I’ll understand if you don’t want me too, cuz you really don’t know me, do you? And a bath is sort an intimate thing, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can have a bath,’ I said, finding my voice with difficulty. ‘The big bathtub’s part of the reason I rent this particular cottage every year. Go ahead. It’ll warm you up faster than anything.’ I nodded to the rose geranium bath bubbles on the edge of the tub, but she was already ahead of me. With a squeal of delight, she turned on the water full blast and bent to pour in bubbles leaving me with a view of the tightly muscled half domes of her buttocks, which, when she leaned forward to swish the water with her hand and test the temperature, resting one knee on the edge of the tub, spread like two halves of ripe fruit displaying the dark round O of her anus and the flower-petalled folds of her pink pussy. I thought I would hyperventilate. I was suddenly wetter than I could ever remember being. I wanted desperately to touch her. I wanted to caress the valley that displayed her from back hole to marbled clit. I wanted to slip a finger up into the opening shielded almost shyly by the folds of her labia. The air was thick with the rising steam of the bath. The scent of rose geranium, barely masked the base note that was the tide pool scent of a woman.

I somehow managed to settle the clothes onto the chest at the end of the tub. ‘Can I bring you something to drink? Tea, coffee, I have some wine?’

She offered me an enthusiastic smile. ‘Red?’

‘Red it is then,’ I said.

When I returned, she was lying back in the large tub, her eyes closed, a soft smile pressed to her full lips. I could just make out the shapes of her breasts above the rising foam. She took the glass from me with a nod of appreciation and said, ‘please stay.’ She motioned to the closed lid of the toilet. ‘I’ve not had anyone to talk to for a while and I’d like the company — that is if I’m not keeping you from anything important.’

‘Nothing important. I’m here on holiday,’ I said, settling onto the closed toilet, pleased that she’d asked me to stay. ‘I’m an artist.’ I shrugged. ‘Well I’m a very good hobbyist and I come here every year to paint and draw and walk and be inspired. You?’

‘Lyme Regis is pretty far south for me, actually. I’ve never been before, but I’m glad I came. I can see why it inspires you.’ She took the sponge and ran it along her neck and one shoulder, drizzling fragrant water over the pucker of her nipples. ‘I could never be far from the sea. I’d be lost without it. Would you wash my back?’ She handed me the sponge and I completely forgot all the questions I was going to ask her. My mouth was dry again, however my pussy was anything but. I reached for the soap and brushed my arm against hers as she leaned forward exposing the exquisite curve of her back, delicate as an ivory carving and yet the muscles that spread outward from the undulations of the vertebrae in her spine were strong and deep. She was delicate of build, but clearly not weak.

She sighed softly as I ran the soap down the length of her spine, stopping just where her buttocks flared and cushioned her pelvic girdle. Then I moved it upward in tight circles on either side of the vertebrae and out over the fan of her ribs below her arms almost to where the swell of her breasts began.

‘Mmm, that feels delicious,’ she said. ‘I don’t want it ever to end.’

I didn’t either. I had sloshed water down the front of my shirt, and my own nipples pressed out like they were desperate to get closer to her. It was then she cupped my hand where it rested on her shoulder and said, ‘you’re still in wet clothes.’

In all honesty, I hadn’t even noticed until she mentioned it.

‘You must be freezing too. I saw you drawing the harbor seal on the beach when the storm hit.’ She scooted down to one end of the tub. ‘Come on. There’s plenty of room.’

Before I could ask how she’d seen me when I was sure I was alone, she grabbed the bottom of my t-shirt with wet hands and worried it off over my head, pulling me forward enough in the process that while I was temporarily blinded by my own top, she reached behind me and unhooked my bra. My much larger, much heavier tits spilled forward into her hands as she slid the bra off, brushing her thumbs against my nipples in the process. ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it? Let’s get all those wet and clammy clothes away from you lovely skin. Now stand up.’

I did as she said, and she went to work on my walking trousers, then she slid her hands inside, hooked fingers into the elastic of my knickers and tugged both down. ‘Now step out of them. That’s right. Mmm you smell delicious. You smell like the sea. Somehow I knew that you would.’

As I lifted my leg to step out of the trousers and knickers now pooled around my ankles, Celia did not look away. I could feel her gaze on what nestled beneath my own tight curls. I normally would have been shy. I normally would have tried to preserve my modesty, but I wanted her to see my pussy. I wanted her to see what I looked like down there. She made room for me, and I stepped into the warm sudsy water. Then we maneuvered for space and she, being much smaller than I, scooted closer, lifting her thighs over mine.

That done she leaned up until she was practically in my lap and brushed a kiss against my lips. ‘Please, let me wash you. You have such beautiful skin.’ She ran a finger along my collar bone and then brushed her palm over my left breast and I sucked in a tight breath. ‘You’re so soft and round and full. You look like a woman is supposed to look. I could never look like you.’ Before I could tell her how beautiful I thought she was and how I admired her body, she took the sponge and drizzled warm water across my breasts. ‘Please tell me it’s alright.’

All I could do was whimper and nod, as the sponge moved down my sternum and under and around each of my heavy breasts in turn. Then she took up the soap. I sat hypnotized and wet in ways that had nothing to do with the bath as she lathered and cupped and kneaded my breasts until they looked like they were covered with a soapy white shirt. Then she pushed me back, until I lay with my head resting on the edge of the big tub, and she straddled me. Her soft curls brushed mine, as she drizzled water over my breasts and down my belly. She sponged me in soft caressing motions, moving ever lower onto my belly until I could no longer resist shifting and rocking my hips, grinding my arse into the unforgiving bottom of the tub. She was practically lying on top of me as she let go of the sponge and cupped my pubis with the palm of her hand.

‘Women smell of the sea as men never can,’ she breathed against my face. ‘I love that about women. With women I’m always close to the sea.’


 By Smut By the Sea Vol I Here:


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Emmanuelle de Maupassant Talks About Women Writing the Erotic

I can’t tell you how excited I am to have Emmanuelle de Maupassant as my guest today. If anyone knows the hearts and minds of women writing the erotic, Emmanuelle does. She knows because she’s interviewed nearly a hundred of them — I’m honoured to be one  — and many of you have been reading her fascinating articles with their very personal, very honest, view into the minds of  these amazing woman. If you haven’t but would like to, find them all on Emmanuelle’s Blog. Today she is going to share a little overview of her findings with a Hopeful Romantic.


Having interviewed almost a hundred women authors who explore sexuality through their fiction, Emmanuelle de Maupassant has created a series of articles capturing their thoughts on the importance of the ‘erotic’ genre.


Here, she gives us a glimpse at her findings.




I’m delighted to say that more women than ever are letting rip on the page, opening up their sexual imagination. We continue to battle for equal rights, respect and recognition, across every sphere imaginable, but when it comes to erotic fiction, our feet are firmly under the table.


Of course, there are some truly talented men writing erotic fiction too. Many would argue that gender is irrelevant in how we approach the page as writers: that we have the ability to portray any human being, from any time in history, and from anywhere.


It’s certainly true that some elements of the human condition are universal.


We all know what it is to love, to despair, to smile, or to regret. We know the fragility of life and we share wonder in the world we inhabit. And yet, as women, aren’t we best placed to portray what it’s like to walk in our skin?


Writing Women’s Sexuality


 As little girls, we’re taught all the things we should never mention, and never do; for many of us, it’s a lifelong journey to free ourselves of inhibition.




Adrea Kore reminds us, “Women writing and speaking about their own desire, being open with what gives them pleasure and turns them on … even finding the words for that is something that is still seen as taboo in corners of Western culture, let alone in comparison to cultures where women are more repressed ideologically, and socially.”


In expressing our understanding of our sexual self, looking at how erotic impulse shapes us, we recognize that we are more than intellect, and more than emotion. We are also ‘of the body’.


Tabitha Rayne notes that writing erotic fiction, “felt like discovering a new colour‘ and ‘opening a door to myself.”‘


Kristina Lloyd echoes this, saying, “Through writing, I’ve learned so much about my own sexuality and desire.”


Rose Caraway, speaking of her work in audio narration of erotic fiction, tells us, “Together, we’re helping people awaken… Each story narrated acknowledges sexuality, our own and others’, because it’s being read aloud. Those words want to be heard, making us stronger, so that we can better express and own our sexuality.”


Erotica is diverse as a genre, in content and style. We’re individuals, each with our tastes, our own ‘kinks’ and our own fantasies. Really, the possibilities are infinite!


With that in mind, a strong response coming through was that writers want to look beyond common ‘formulas’ in fiction. They want to write the unexpected. They want to explore not only our passions but our vulnerabilities, and our flaws. They want to show what drives us to make certain choices and the consequences of those decisions.

KD Grace asserts, “Few actions can change a story more dramatically than sex properly placed. I can’t imagine trying to tell a story without sex included. Neither can I imagine writing sex that isn’t an integral part of a story.”




Mirrors to versions of the ‘self’

In exploring the psychology of desire, erotic fiction has the power to delve not just our fantasies but our truths. It holds a mirror to versions of our ‘self’ rarely let out in polite company.

It commonly explores themes of identity, of connection, of yearning, of truth and deceit, of freedom and constraint.

Erotic fiction lends itself to exploration of ‘grey areas of morality’, as Tobsha Learner calls them: to the small lies we tell ourselves, and to the ways in which we manipulate or make use of others.




Remittance Girl states her desire ‘to write what frightens and unsettles us, as well as what delights us’. 

Erotic fiction has the potential not only to electrify us sexually but to deliver a punch to the emotional gut and to caress our intellect. Like all great storytelling, it has the power to provoke us at many levels.


Adrea Kore emphasizes, “Erotica writes into areas of the human sexual psyche and behaviour that some genres gloss over or shy away from. Erotica brings into the light contradictions between our inner sexual desires and our outward behaviour. What do we secretly long for, and to attain that, what lengths would we go to?”




Fantasy v. Realism

Fantasy (all the ‘what ifs’ of our imagination) is a well-recognized aspect of erotic fiction. If not here then where else can we explore ‘the forbidden’. Janine Ashbless sees fiction as ‘a safe area in which to let our darker selves, our fears and our desires, out for a little exercise…’

It may seem contradictory to seek out greater realism within erotic fiction but many writers assert a desire to create recognizable, diverse characters (for instance, of all ages, and who vary from typical ideals of physical ‘perfection’) and characters with psychological depth, to better allow readers to empathize, and enter into alternate possibilities.

KD Grace explains, “I’m sick to death of weak, cardboard women being written as subs and mean, unlikable, men being written as Doms (or, even worse, as really creepy, stalker types). I want depth, I want a connection that has more to do with what drives the characters, and with the chemistry between them, and less to do with the trappings.”


Why Read Erotic Fiction




Reading Erotic fiction can open our eyes to new understanding of our sexuality (and our broader psyche). It encourages us to push aside shame and it empowers us to express our needs and desires. For many of us, it’s the catalyst in finding our sexual voice. It can help erode sexual stigma, encouraging women, and men, to voice their desire more honestly.

Tobsha Learner notes the struggle to find ‘a sexy word for vagina – something that purrs as well as has claws’. Her comment is playful but she touches upon an issue at the heart of women’s writing of the erotic.

Our sexuality is multi-layered, and the ways in which we express our desire are just as complex. We are fluid. We are changeable. We are the tiger and we are the pussy cat.

We, as writers, are exploring the many facets of desire.

We are liberating our voices.

As the reader, you can liberate yours too.


To read the full series of articles, or to find out more about erotic fiction, visit Emmanuelle’s website: www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com




About Emmanuelle: 

Emmanuelle de Maupassant lives with her husband (maker of fruit cake) and her hairy pudding terrier. She is the author of ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’ (recommended by Stylist Magazine as one of the sexiest reads of 2015) and of ‘Cautionary Tales’ (inspired by Slavonic superstitions and folklore).

You can find Emmanuelle on Amazon: viewAuthor.at/EmdeM

On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/EMaupassant

And on Twitter: https://twitter.com/EmmanuelledeM

© 2016 K D Grace
The Romance Reviews

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