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Published: May 5,
2014
Stories and Authors
Eight
mistresses of the erotic bring you eight original, never before published
stories to excite and arouse, including USA Today Bestsellers Alessandra Torre
and CD Reiss, and NY Times Bestseller K. Bromberg.
*******************************************
These
are not your mother's erotic stories.
We're
not giggling about foul language over tea, or avoiding smut talk at the
Tupperware party.
This
book is slick fingers and flesh on your lips. It's twisted bodies late at night
when the city sleeps and the moans fall where no one can hear them. This book
is pain and pleasure, lust and passion, a body brought to the breaking point.
It's drenched in the the musk of sweat, shuddering at the touch of a Master.
It's
not your mother's erotica. It's yours.
*****************************************
Red & Wolfe
Part I - An erotic telling of Little Red Riding Hood.
by Ella James
TWITTER: @author_ellaj
EXCERPT
I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.
The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving frenziedly. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips.
I shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag, lean against my hood, and wait.
What will Gertrude look like? I watch the boats docked, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a muggy but swift breeze, and I wonder which of the boats could be hers.
My phone vibrates. “Walk closer to the dock. The boat name is ‘Fog.’” My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start walking. I walk along the long plank of the dock, passing boats—“Double Trouble,” “Choppy Cass,” “Stupid Does.” The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips. I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, looking down a few slots, watching for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth. I’m walking slowly I see him: a tall man with broad shoulders, a short beard, and piercing black-brown eyes. He’s wearing a pair of slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.
Before his eyes even meet mine, my body flares like a lit match. He takes a few strides toward me, and his gaze touches my face. The heat fades from my cheeks, replaced by bloodless cold.
“You’re Red,” a low voice says.
“You’re not my grandmother.”
The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving frenziedly. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches to the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips.
I shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag, lean against my hood, and wait.
What will Gertrude look like? I watch the boats docked, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a muggy but swift breeze, and I wonder which of the boats could be hers.
My phone vibrates. “Walk closer to the dock. The boat name is ‘Fog.’” My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start walking. I walk along the long plank of the dock, passing boats—“Double Trouble,” “Choppy Cass,” “Stupid Does.” The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips. I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, looking down a few slots, watching for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth. I’m walking slowly I see him: a tall man with broad shoulders, a short beard, and piercing black-brown eyes. He’s wearing a pair of slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.
Before his eyes even meet mine, my body flares like a lit match. He takes a few strides toward me, and his gaze touches my face. The heat fades from my cheeks, replaced by bloodless cold.
“You’re Red,” a low voice says.
“You’re not my grandmother.”
The Erotica Consortium was the brain child of CD
Reiss. In December 2013 she asked JA Huss to help her pull together the hottest
erotica writers to start a private Facebook group that would encourage support
in all areas of bookish things. Members of The Erotica Consortium were
personally invited by JA and CD and the group is complete with six additional
authors: Shay Savage, Andrea Smith, KI Lynn, K Bromberg, Ella James, and
Alessandra Torre. BEND is their first anthology together
Giveaway
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