Early Passion

On the shelves a couple of weeks ahead of schedule is Rachel Kramer Bussel's Passion: Erotic Romance for Women anthology, looking ravishing with its lustrous red title font.

I have a story in this collection – my first erotic romance venture in print – and the line-up is truly impressive. You can find tales from: Donna George Storey ; Jacqueline Applebee ; Angela Caperton ; Wickham Boyle ; Suzanne V Slate ; Isabelle Gray ; Lana Fox ; Rachel Kramer Bussel ; Monica Day ; A M Hartnett ; Annabeth Leong ; Charlene Teglia ; Lizzy Chambers ; Saskia Walker ; Emerald ; Teresa Noelle Roberts ; Delilah Devlin ; Portia Da Costa ; and Kathleen Bradean.

My story is called Lingua Franca. Here is a short excerpt:

"Instantly I am caught up in his embrace once more, my legs held up by his in case they give way, which is not unlikely. He walks me backward, painstakingly, until I fall on to one of the red plush sofas, and then he is looming over me, one hand next to my head, preventing my escape, and the other takes hold of my white uniform blouse and rips it open. A pearl button pings on to a nearby table and I gasp, part thrilled and part outraged. "Karel!"

"I sew it," he grins, then his head is down there, his hair brushing my throat while he explores my cleavage with the full force of his lips and tongue. His hand works busily at my other buttons, undoing them in a less destructive way, until my lace bra is exposed to him, and his stubble prickles downward, seeking out the overspill of my breasts.

He lures my nipples out of the cups using the tip of his tongue, licking and sucking, taking his time, savouring the flavour. I plant my fingers in his hair, which is reddish-brown and falls over his brow, plentiful and sometimes a little lank. I stroke and knead automatically, my wits absent, everything of me concentrated at my nerve endings – especially those between my legs.

He seems to understand instinctively that attention is needed there. He lays me down along the length of the sofa, pulling off my skirt and burying his face in my belly while his fingers stray down beyond the elastic waistband of my knickers. They almost dance, they are so light and nimble. I arch my back and squirm, inviting him to increase the pressure and move on downwards, but he loves to tease me and to watch my expression as it grows more frantic with need, laughing softly, looking up at me through the valley of my breasts.

"Touch me," I gasp.

"No talk," he admonishes, almost-but-not-quite delving into the folds of my vulva. The fingertips are barely-there on my outer lips and I try to buck so that he is tricked into the fast-flowing juices, but he is wise to me and simply gives my thigh a light slap, laughing again, a laughing demon. "OK," he says eventually, relenting, and I ease out a low sigh at the sudden invasion of his fingers, properly in and on and around me, pressing and pushing, finding me more than ready for whatever he has in mind. While his fingers work, he watches me, intently, catching every nuance of my response to him, every pained twitch, every flutter of eyelid. "I see what you like," he tells me, now using two fingers to skewer me, in and out, getting coated with the evidence of my arousal. "I like it too. You want me? Inside?"

It seems a redundant question, given the rate at which I am flipping about on his fingers, but I am glad that he has asked it. He is not – as I vaguely feared – using me for some kind of sexual revenge. My pleasure matters to him just as his does to me."