On 20th August 2017, Sinful Press welcomes you to lose yourself in Sinful Pleasures, their new anthology of erotic tales. Created by some of the best new and established voices in the erotica genre, the book tempts you to weave your way from mainstream erotic romance to surreal sex-filled dreamscapes and everything in between…
Featuring new writing from Janine Ashbless, Ella Scandal, Sonni de Soto, Jo Henny Wolf, Lily Harlem, Lady Divine, Gail Williams, Samantha MacLeod, Tony Fyler, Ellie Barker and Lisa McCarthy, stories included in this enticing new tome include “The Dream Feeder”, “The Black Orchid”, “Fireworks”, “The Man In The Mask” and “Taking It”.
To get you in the mood, we have an exclusive extract from “Lazy Sunday” by Tony Fyler:
A clotted cream spring clean duvet on a Sunday morning. There’s nothing better in the world.
That first breath in that wakes, translates, orientates you in the world of all that’s good, and then, if you’re the luckiest of men, you realise you’re wrong. There’s something better in the world. There’s Her, your American beauty, right there with you in among the folds of cream and sunlight on a British Sunday morning, there because you once had courage, and you dared to ask, and she found a something in your eyes that made her stay.
Soft back skin, shoulders like a freckled statue. Hair that smells of shampoo, sleep and something else that you just know as Her.
A kiss, a simple not-resisting thank you for the years of still being here, on that shoulder, and the stirring of her body underneath your lips.
She yawns a Snoopy yawn and arches back to find you, pressing against a thought you haven’t even had, a promise of pleasure, a kiss of her own…
Carrie moves against me, stretches like a napping cat on waking, and then collapses down again, all Sleeping Beauty hair and grin.
The thing they never tell you when you’re young is that as you go on together, life gets better. Life gets easier, and hotter, and more fun if you dare to let it.
We’ve been together fifteen years now, this napping cat and I. I know what works. I know what can’t be, never is, resisted.
Some women love the hands-on type, a taker who can bring them with him where he leads. Some love to love a listener, who lets them breathe the heat in through their skin with the rarity of choice. Some love a man who’ll talk them down in deep degrees of flaming words, like warm wax down their spine to make them burn with not-in-daylight fire. Some love their white knight, bringing breakfast and a simple grin, the kind to woo a princess.
With Carrie it’s:
“A new day, love, awaits our lovers’ twist,
The sun is up, and he is not alone.”
She groans at my Richard Burton, burnt cork rumble at her shoulder. It’ll never win any awards, but the simple act of poetry, made up just for her and given a Welsh burr, is Carrie’s special weakness.
“No fair,” she whines, but the giggle breaks through too.
“So who are we mere mortals to resist,
The myriad delights we may be shown.”
“Unff,” she grunts, not at the immortal quality of the verse, but at its soft and rhythmic growl, that fifteen years lets me know is snaking in through her ears and shivering down her spine, landing somewhere down beneath the duvet, whispering to her like a serpent in the garden.
She rolls beneath the clotted cream and flings it off her back. Four simple lines have earned me the warmth of her back to kiss.
I put my hands on her, like tiny wing-prints either side of her spine, and think hot thoughts, feeling my palms warm, feeling her softness beneath my fingers, and already the touch of her, the stroke of her sends its own serpent through my mind, stretching into me, pulling the skin taut in places I won’t think of yet. If I focus on her being here, on her being here and soft and naked beneath my hands, the moment will have come and gone and lost its power in a heartbeat, and I’m not going to let it do that.
I bend and kiss her shoulders, the nape of her neck, breathing the sleep-smell of my lover in from the crease there, growling out my next lines.
“Though lovers may consent to knotted be,
And never know the sun upon their back…”
She sighs softly, and I kiss my way across her shoulders, down her spine, still chaste because it drives her mad. My hands slide, firm, so’s not to tickle, down each side of her, to the waist she swears she hasn’t got, till I’m talking, rhapsodising to the first curve of her hip, the first duvet-hidden promise of what she calls her butt.
“The sun himself will weep for those who see,
But never know what pleasures they may lack.”
She kicks out roughly, shoves at the covering till it falls off her, slides down her legs like every teenage yes ever whispered.
I take her bottom in my hands like a prayer, squeezing soft, kissing down to the dip at the base of her spine, the dimple there. Warm as she is, the first goosebumps flush on the peach-flesh under my hands, and I slide off the end of the bed, standing in the pooled clotted cream, looking up the length of this woman I love. This woman I’ve steadied on drunken, laughing up the wall nights. This woman who’s woken me at 2 a.m. to share the wonder of a full moon. This woman who brings me coffee when she knows I need it, but am working too hard to realise I need it. This woman who stops to take pictures of tourist couples, so their memories are of being together.
This woman whose every inch I know, who knows me inside, outside, up and down, who I’ve seen shudder, and cum, and cry, who’s shared that with me all these years, and who, lying here bathed in kisses and poetry, is more beautiful to me now than she was when we were young and dumb and wonderfully certain of ourselves.
Sinful Pleasures will be available in paperback and eBook from Amazon, iTunes, Google Play, Barnes and Noble and other leading online bookstores.