Start your week off with some newly released surprises from
Yellow Silk Dreams. This group of independent authors have banded together to release a myriad of fiction.
Let's start with an anthology. Do you believe in magically ever after?
Four of the best writers of modern erotic fiction have created a different story of the magical enchantment of love and passion.
Enchanted includes pieces from
Gemma Parkes,
Jocelyn Modo,
Cindy Jacks and
Jaqueline George.
Rebecca Lorenson brings Shakespeare's fairies to life again in
Midsummer Dreaming. Two dreamy voyages, guided by Puck, bring romance for some and mischief for others. Sarah and Anna are both searching without hope for true love and Puck can bring both mayhem and good fortune.
Old memories are like old red wine - all the richer for time passed. And the kisses taste sweeter too.
Muffy Wilson bring us three romantic and very sexy stories take us back to things as they once were in
Memories and Kisses.
A grieving woman rescued from the sea, two childhood friends growing old friendship into passionate loving, and two long separated teenagers finding that time has mellowed them both, all three stories of rekindled love are ready to burst into flame.
And here is an excerpt from The Storm.
I walk to the surf, heaving for breath, weak from running against the rain, fighting the
storm, the sadness, my loss - your death. I walk into the surf and keep walking. It is
surprisingly warm and enveloping. I suddenly feel comforted, my heartbreak no longer
a penetrating pain. I know you are with me and I seek out your embrace. I cry again,
scream at the thunderous surf, and then I am gone. I can’t breathe and I am falling,
rolling, tumbling in a hazy grey darkness that is wet, ferocious, demanding. Suddenly
my dizzy comfort turns to fear and I struggle against the pounding, relentless waves.
What have I done? I am a good swimmer and an athlete, but can I beat this? Instinct
overcomes me. My heart pounds. I start to kick wildly. Moving my arms toward the
surface, the current catches me again, tumbling me over and over. My lungs burn. I
lose my bearing—which way is up, down? I start to get a sickening feeling of death, my
own impending death, and, just as I start to give in, I feel the hand of God grab my
hair and hood in a fierce grip and yank me to the surface. I feel the sky darken and
the surf diminish. Everything tastes salty, gritty, and then my body heaves, relaxed,
and my world goes black.
I awake to pounding on my chest; I am being rattled and something is covering my
mouth and nose. I cough, retch, and then vomit the last vestiges of the ocean from
my body. My mouth is filled with grit, sand, and the salty taste of taffy. I open my
eyes and see God reaching down toward me. He leans over me and the salty ocean
water drips from his face to mine. He is big, strong, and gasping; he is surrounded in a
glowing aura which intensifies his white hair and white beard. I am frightened. I must
be dead. But that cannot be! How foolish I am. He sits me up, tenderly and gently
helps me to my feet, all the while holding me securely with large strong hands and
then he speaks to me.
“Are you alright, miss? You scared me near to death when I saw you walk into the
surf. Why in the world….Where do you live?”
I am alive to my senses.
“Wha. . . ?” My knees weaken and I fall further into his arms. Quickly, he catches my
descent and carries me to a bench where he sits me down, moving the errant curls of
hair from my cheeks, and speaks to me again.
“Where are you staying? Shall I call the police?”
I can feel my heart pounding against his chest.
“No, please, I’m . . . I’ll be fine. My key, my pocket; it’s in my pocket. Please…”
I can’t remember my hotel or where I am or why. As he unzips my pocket and
removes my hotel key, he pulls my hood up over my head to shelter my face from the
pelting rain. Collecting me under his arm, my body firmly in his grip, we walk slowly
back to the hotel. The traffic is still sparse, no taxis to be seen. It seems to take
forever. The storm is so much worse, the surf so high, sucking the wind into the
watery folds as it retreats to the ocean. At once, I am so scared that I begin to
tremble and yet, I feel protected.
As we walk into the hotel lobby, the bell captain approaches us and asks if I need the
hotel doctor, whereupon my guardian says, “No, that won’t be necessary, thank you.”
We take the elevator to my floor and I am finally in the sanctity of my room, as lonely
as it is. My savior, my hero sits me in the desk chair while he goes to the bathroom
and starts the shower. He returns. He is saying something to me that I can’t
understand, but he starts to take my shoes off. Then he leans me forward, removes
my windbreaker and sports bra, and helps me stand while he pulls relentlessly at my
wet spandex knee-highs. He kicks off his own running shoes and removes his blazer.
He carries me to the shower but I feel as if I’m watching the scene unfold from
outside my own body. I am unafraid of this stranger.
The water is hot and piercing, but he is gentle, loving, and tender. He bathes me and
washes my hair, lifting the removable nozzle to rinse the sand, grit, and seaweed
from my hair and lithe body. My skin is a deep pink from the intense extreme of the
cold grasp of the ocean and the heated comfort of the hot shower. His hands are
everywhere, on every curve, gently caressing my skin with his soapy fingertips. He
deftly, tenderly, washes my breasts, my taunt stomach and pussy. He controls
himself, but I can’t let him stop. I look up at him, and notice he is watching himself
bathe me. He seems to caress my buttocks as he cleans the sand from between my
rounded cheeks. Unembarrassed, he rinses my body thoroughly, running his fingers
though my shoulder-length brown hair. I feel safe, warmed, yet surprisingly aroused,
weakened by my ordeal.
For the first time, it seems, he looks down at me. He takes me in as I look up at him,
transfixed by his control. I am naked in my sorrow and my pain; he, fully clothed
except for his windbreaker and shoes, smiles, touching my heart. I did not notice his
erection in the shower, he is a complete gentleman. My breasts, the curve of my belly
to my thigh, my face against his chest glisten in the shower, as I trust him to help me.
If you are a publisher or author and have new releases, email me, authorangelicadawson at gmail.com
