Love

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 86 of 184 · 20 per page

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He tugged the tie at her waist and pushed the two halves of her dress open. He released the center clasp of her bra, freeing her breasts into his waiting palms. Her pussy tightened around him, echoing the gentle rolling of her nipples between his talented fingers. “I’m so sorry.” He was flushed and shiny with sweat, his beautiful hazel eyes as red as hers felt. “So damn fucking sorry that I ever let you think, for even a moment, that you were nothing but a convenient piece of ass to me. I loved you the moment I saw you. I should have told you—” “I need things from you.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists, anchoring herself as the pleasure threatened to sweep her away. “I know.” His hips rocked in a slow and easy tempo. “I need things from you, too.” That caught her. She wanted him to need her. She wanted to be valuable to him, to serve a purpose in his life. To share his life. “Such as?” “I need your travel schedule.” His lips kicked into a smile when she scowled. “So I can plan my trips to match up with yours. And I need you to move in with me. Your jewelry business is you, right? You can design your pieces anywhere?” Robin nodded, unable to speak while he was saying everything she’d longed to hear and fucking her so perfectly. The fluid, rhythmic plunges of his cock were driving her half out of her mind. Her entire body was straining with the need to come, her hips lifting to meet his downstrokes. He was so hard and it felt so good to be with him again. To smell the scent of his skin and feel his flesh beneath her hands. “I’m stuck for now with the brewery in Portland.” His words slurred slightly as the pleasure built for him, too. “But if you don’t like the city or the house or anything, I’ll go where you’re happy. I just need time, time I don’t want to spend without you.” “Harder,” she urged, grabbing his taut perfect ass in her hands. Her neck arched, her head pressing into the bedding as her climax hovered just out of reach. “Fuck me hard.” Gripping her waist, Paul gave her what she needed. His aggressive strokes set her off in a rush. “I’m right there with you,” he groaned, driving powerfully into her. He made that sexy little noise that made her hot, a cross between a grunt and a hum that said more than words how much pleasure she gave him. “Right there...Right. There. ” His gaze locked with hers as he came, the heady rush of pleasure shared between them. “I love you,” he grated, shaking with the force of his climax.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  The authors in this collection know that opening one’s heart comes with great risks and often greater rewards and that open communication and a spirit of adventure can make for a scorching sex life. They have created characters who believe all is fair in love and war and who take no prisoners in their quest for emotional and sexual fulfillment. Here you will find lovers exploring their desires in bedrooms, heating things up in the kitchen, splashing around in the bathtub, playing with sex toys, drinking champagne, getting it on in hotel rooms, staying warm in winter cabins, flirting in trucks and bars, making out in the great outdoors, and making love at dawn and midnight—all in the name of that greatest of all human desires: true love. So, dear reader, I invite you to explore this delicious collection of erotic romance selected especially for you. I think you will find that what makes a story the best of its kind is the same intangible that makes people fall in love. It’s magic, I think. And when it comes to love and war, there’s only one thing I know for sure: love wins. Love always wins. Kristina Wright In love in Chesapeake, Virginia WHAT HAPPENED IN VEGAS Sylvia Day It was 115 degrees in Las Vegas, but Paul Laurens could have sworn the temperature dropped from the chill in his former lover’s gaze. Robin Turner entered the Mondego Hotel’s ground-floor lounge like a gust of arctic air. Her long blonde hair was restrained in a sleek chignon and her lush body was encased in a pale blue dress that wrapped around her curves and tied at the waist. Nude-colored heels gave the impression that she was barefoot, while a chunky aquamarine necklace circled her throat like ice cubes. Paul’s grip on his beer bottle tightened and his dick thickened in his jeans. How they’d ended up in bed together was still a mystery to him. One minute they were riding the same elevator and the next he was riding her, the attraction so fierce and immediate he couldn’t remember how they reached his room or even shed their clothes. Taking a long pull on his beer, his gaze followed Robin’s progress across the barroom. She approached a booth where a guy in a suit stood to greet her. The man kissed each of her cheeks before they sat. Paul knew he couldn’t stay in the same room with her and not have her, so he gestured for the bartender and ordered a martini extra-dirty to be sent to her table. “Your brews are popular,” one of the cocktail waitresses said as she collected the drink and placed it on her tray. Her smile was an invitation. The way she looked him over made sure he got the message.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Maddy O’Hara was out of his league. Except they’d met, officially, for the first time in a ballpark. Dustan playing for the farm team, Maddy’s brothers playing for the townies. The farm team had won, and they were heading off for drinks, when this girl in a daisy-yellow sundress and white sandals crossed the field, calling his name. “Dustan,” she said, although everyone else called him Dusty so he didn’t know it was his name she was saying until she got close and touched his shoulder. “Can I go out with the winning team?” she’d asked. The first time he’d seen those eyes, that smile that gave her one dimple on the side, a pushed-in petal. His teammates were there, standing with him, but he couldn’t hear or see them. He could only see the freckles on her chest and the way the sundress cut into her pale shoulders just enough to make red marks. “I, uh...” His stuttering had been bad then, words more than just an enemy, words a cow kick to the gut that he couldn’t step out of the way of. “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl,” she’d said, as though he’d actually said all of the things that were in his brain. The what and the why and the way these boys, these farm boys, got drunk and wild beyond what she could have possibly seen, and how the whole other part of him was saying Please, yes, please . “Besides,” she’d said, raising her voice in the direction of the other team. “Those town boys are b-o-r-i-n-g.” Later, she said that was their first date, although he hardly counted it. It was beers with the boys and darts. She’d flitted among them like some exotic insect, but one who clearly liked them. And even more clearly liked Dustan. He still had no idea what she’d seen really in him that day or that night, or the days after, even though she’d told him a million times. “It was that farm-boy muscle in those baseball pants,” is what she always said, putting the emphasis on muscle . Singular. She’d let him love her then, and she was still letting him love her now, she was crossing a field of clover and honeybees in her bare feet to bring her pricker-and-honey love to him, to stand on his booted feet and wiggle against him. “So, you have time for a quickie, Mr. Fence Fixer?” Her words accompanied by her fingers tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt. “Or do I have to go back to the house all sweating and unsatisfied?” “What, here?” Words came better, without the stutter, but still slow. One or two syllables to her elaborate sentences. She was nibbling at his neck, laughing. “Mmm, you taste like sweat. And sunshine. More, please.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  When his cheeks hollowed on a drawing pull, she moaned his name and gave him what he wanted. “I love you, Paul. You’re everything to me.” When he lifted his head, the fiercely tender look on his face was one she’d remember for the rest of her life. Or she could just make him show it to her again. She had a lifetime to work on it. DRIVE ME CRAZY Delilah Devlin Just a glimpse of him standing in profile, arms crossed over his well-developed chest and leaning his firm, round butt against the dispatch counter, was enough to shore up my weakening resolve. Dressed in faded blue jeans, a black, chest-hugging T-shirt, and a red Razorback ball cap turned backward on his dark shaggy hair, he was every woman’s blue-collar fantasy. My mouth dried as I glanced down his tall, muscled frame. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want one night with all that ripped hotness? And that’s all it could be—one night. I’d waited until the last possible moment to make my move. The midnight drive to the dispatch office had given me plenty of time to argue my way out of what had seemed like a good plan earlier when I’d realized that the planets had aligned to give me this one last chance to fulfill my long-standing fantasy. There’d never been the right time. For the longest time, I was married. When my husband dumped me, Danny had been living with a woman with two kids and seemed to be heading down a straight road to marriage. We’d flirted; he’d issued lazy invitations for dates or a quickie at the Motel 6 down the road. But I’d never detected even a hint of serious interest. If something was going to happen, I had to be the one to make a move. Today had been my last day at Henderson Transport. It was now or never. All the reasons why I was crazy to consider it fell away as I ticked through them in my mind: He’s too young. He’ll be happy because I won’t have any expectations , I said to myself. Well, none beyond a really good time. I’m management and he’s a driver . Midnight had just ticked past, so not true anymore. We were both free agents. Both consenting adults. All he had to do was say yes. “You’ll never see him again,” I muttered under my breath as I rubbed my cold hands together. “If he turns you down, you won’t have to live with his smug smile.”

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  Reply to Objection 2: Union has a threefold relation to love. There is union which causes love; and this is substantial union, as regards the love with which one loves oneself; while as regards the love wherewith one loves other things, it is the union of likeness, as stated above ([1235]Q[27], A[3]). There is also a union which is essentially love itself. This union is according to a bond of affection, and is likened to substantial union, inasmuch as the lover stands to the object of his love, as to himself, if it be love of friendship; as to something belonging to himself, if it be love of concupiscence. Again there is a union, which is the effect of love. This is real union, which the lover seeks with the object of his love. Moreover this union is in keeping with the demands of love: for as the Philosopher relates (Polit. ii, 1), “Aristophanes stated that lovers would wish to be united both into one,” but since “this would result in either one or both being destroyed,” they seek a suitable and becoming union—to live together, speak together, and be united together in other like things. Reply to Objection 3: Knowledge is perfected by the thing known being united, through its likeness, to the knower. But the effect of love is that the thing itself which is loved, is, in a way, united to the lover, as stated above. Consequently the union caused by love is closer than that which is caused by knowledge. Whether mutual indwelling is an effect of love?Objection 1: It would seem that love does not cause mutual indwelling, so that the lover be in the beloved and vice versa. For that which is in another is contained in it. But the same cannot be container and contents. Therefore love cannot cause mutual indwelling, so that the lover be in the beloved and vice versa. Objection 2: Further, nothing can penetrate within a whole, except by means of a division of the whole. But it is the function of the reason, not of the appetite where love resides, to divide things that are really united. Therefore mutual indwelling is not an effect of love. Objection 3: Further, if love involves the lover being in the beloved and vice versa, it follows that the beloved is united to the lover, in the same way as the lover is united to the beloved. But the union itself is love, as stated above [1236](A[1]). Therefore it follows that the lover is always loved by the object of his love; which is evidently false. Therefore mutual indwelling is not an effect of love. On the contrary, It is written (1 Jn. 4:16): “He that abideth in charity abideth in God, and God in him.” Now charity is the love of God. Therefore, for the same reason, every love makes the beloved to be in the lover, and vice versa.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Latching on, he kissed her pussy, drawing softly with gentle suction while he rubbed her clit with his tongue. She cried out and fell apart beneath his avid and tender mouth, her body melting into a boneless, breathless, teary puddle on his bed. “I love you.” He pushed to his feet and tossed the condom in the trash. “You love fucking me,” she whispered, knowing that when the passion was sated and reality intruded, he would withdraw again as he’d done before. Paul leaned over her, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of her waist. “I’m in this for the long haul.” “You think same time, same place, two weeks from now is a commitment?” She hated the tinge of bitterness in her voice. He’d never made her promises, never alluded to more than what they had during their Vegas liaisons. It wasn’t fair that she was angry at him for not giving her more, but she couldn’t help how she felt. “That’s not enough for me.” Straightening, he yanked his T-shirt over his head. Her eyes swept hungrily over his torso, admiring the tight lacing of abdominal muscles that flexed as he moved. He was so virile. Truly breathtaking. Tattoos covered both of his arms from shoulder to elbow in gorgeous half-sleeves. His chest was broad, golden, and bare...except for her name, which crossed the pectoral over his heart. “It was never going to be enough.” Robin sucked in a tremulous breath, stunned by the sight of ink that hadn’t been there previously. Her gaze rested on the new tattoo, her vision blurring with tears. “Paul…” “I do love fucking you.” He pulled a fresh condom out of the nightstand drawer and rolled it on. “When I’m not inside you, I’m thinking about it.” Setting his hands on her inner thighs, he pushed into her. She whimpered, her tender pussy tightened by her recent orgasms. “God, you feel good,” he breathed. “I’ve needed you so much.” His size, so long and thick, was perfect. As if he’d been made for her. Pushing onto her elbows, Robin watched his glistening cock pull free. The heavily veined length was as brutal looking as the rest of him. The sight of it turned her on further. It made her feel powerfully feminine, like a freakin’ sex goddess, to incite the raging lust of a man who was so potently masculine and primal in his sexuality. Robin’s tongue traced the curve of her lower lip. “Please,” she whispered, feeling empty without him. She’d been feeling empty since she walked out on him, physically and emotionally. He sank back into her with a low hiss of pleasure. “You’re so sexy, baby. So damn perfect and beautiful. I have no fucking idea what you’re doing with a guy like me, but I’m grateful. Every damn day.” God help her. She loved him so much.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  What they’d had in their year together—not counting the four miserable months apart—was emails, phone calls, six days a month of the hottest sex of her life... ...and a sharp, pure feeling of connection that had hit them both like lightning the moment they’d laid eyes on each other. “I know it’s crazy,” he said, reading her mind, as he so often did. “But we’ve been crazy over each other from the start. I’m lovesick over you, baby. I swear you’ll never regret taking a chance on me. I’ll make you happier than you’ve ever been in your life.” Swallowing hard, she thumbed open the box. “Oh, Paul,” she breathed, her fingers shaking. “Do you like it?” His rich, deep voice was laced with a rare note of anxiety. “We can exchange it if you don’t. You can pick out whatever you want. Something more traditional maybe—” “Shut up.” The ring was perfect. It was unusual, almost quirky, with a massive diamond—around four carats was her educated guess—surrounded by irregular swirls of multisized rubies. “When I look at it,” he said quietly, “it reminds me of how I feel about you.” She saw that in the ring, too. The unusual design conveyed passionate chaos, and the fact that he registered that quality in the setting cemented her belief that he was the perfect man for her. Climbing over him, Robin straddled his hips and extended her hand. “Put it on me.” The feel of the cool band sliding over her knuckle was so sublime it caused goose bumps to sweep across her skin. She wanted this so badly, wanted him. Her rough-edged brewmaster with his gentle hands and insatiable hunger for her body. The man who listened to her talk about gem clarity and design theory and who patiently explained the difference between lager and ale. “Yes,” she answered him, placing her hand on his chest next to her name over his heart. Paul framed her rib cage with his hands, his thumbs stroking the lower curve of her breasts. “And what do you need from me?” “I needed this.” She gestured between them. “A commitment from you. I’ll also need a room that’s mine alone, a workshop with lots of light and space.” “Done.” “And I need you to promise not to change your style for me.” His brows rose. “I have a style?” “I love you just the way you are. Don’t cut your hair or—” He rolled abruptly, taking the top. “Say that again.” Laughing, Robin looked up into his impossibly handsome face. “Don’t cut your hair?” He snorted. “The part before that.” “Don’t change your style?” Bending his head, Paul caught her nipple between his teeth. She made a soft noise at the unexpected bite, then arched her back when his tongue soothed the slight sting. When his cheeks hollowed on a drawing pull, she moaned his name and gave him what he wanted. “I love you, Paul. You’re everything to me.”

• From Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood (2016)

  The truth came spilling out. Of course she’d known: the car. It had been missing the whole time. I’d been so wrapped up in dealing with jail and covering my tracks I’d forgotten that the proof of my crime was right there in the yard, the red Mazda missing from the driveway. And of course when I called my friend and he’d asked his dad for the money for the lawyer, the dad had pressed him on what the money was for and, being a parent himself, had called my mother immediately. She’d given my friend the money to pay the lawyer. She’d given my cousin the money to pay my bail. I’d spent the whole week in jail thinking I was so slick. But she’d known everything the whole time. “I know you see me as some crazy old bitch nagging at you,” she said, “but you forget the reason I ride you so hard and give you so much shit is because I love you. Everything I have ever done I’ve done from a place of love. If I don’t punish you, the world will punish you even worse. The world doesn’t love you. If the police get you, the police don’t love you. When I beat you, I’m trying to save you. When they beat you, they’re trying to kill you.” [image file=image_rsrc2UW.jpg] My favorite thing to eat as a kid, and still my favorite dessert of all time, was custard and jelly, what Americans would call Jell-O. One Saturday my mom was planning for a big family celebration and she made a huge bowl of custard and jelly and put it in the fridge. It had every flavor: red, green, and yellow. I couldn’t resist it. That whole day, every time I walked past the fridge I’d pop my head in with a spoon and sneak a bite. This was a giant bowl, meant to last for a week for the whole family. I finished it in one day by myself. That night I went to bed and I got absolutely butchered by mosquitoes. Mosquitoes love to feast on me, and when I was a kid it was bad. They would destroy me at night. I would wake up covered with bites and feel ill to my stomach and itchy all over. Which was exactly what happened this particular Sunday morning. Covered with mosquito bites, my stomach bloated with custard and jelly, I could barely get out of bed. I felt like I was going to vomit. Then my mom walked in. “Get dressed,” she said. “We’re going to church.” “I don’t feel well.” “That’s why we’re going to church. That’s where Jesus is going to heal you.” “Eh, I’m not sure that’s how it works.” My mom and I had different ideas about how Jesus worked. She believed that you pray to Jesus and then Jesus pitches up and does the thing that you need. My views on Jesus were more reality-based.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  Then one day, several months after being abandoned, he wandered through the streets of Taganrog and suddenly felt welling up from within a tremendous and overwhelming sense of empathy and love for his parents. Where did this come from? He had never felt this before. In the days leading up to this moment he had been thinking long and hard about his father. Was he really to blame for all their problems? Pavel’s father, Yegor Mikhailovich, had been born a serf, serfdom being a form of indentured slavery. The Chekhovs had been serfs for several generations. Yegor had finally been able to buy the family’s freedom, and he set his three sons up in different fields, Pavel designated as the family merchant. But Pavel could not cope. He had an artistic temperament, could have been a talented painter or musician. He felt bitter at his fate—a grocery store and six children. His father had beaten him, and so he beat his children. Although no longer a serf, Pavel still bowed and kissed the hand of every local official and landowner. He remained a serf at heart. Anton could see that he and his siblings were falling into the same pattern—bitter, secretly feeling worthless, and wanting to take their anger out on others. Now that he was alone and taking care of himself, Anton yearned to be free in the truest sense of the word. He wanted to be free of the past, free of his father. And here, as he walked the streets of Taganrog, the answer came to him from these new and sudden emotions. Understanding his father, he could accept and even love him. He was not some imposing tyrant but a rather helpless old man. With a bit of distance, he could feel compassion and forgive the beatings. He would not become enmeshed in all of the negative feelings his father inspired. And he could finally value as well his kind mother, and not blame her for being so weak. With his mind emptied of rancor and obsessive thoughts of his lost childhood, it was as if a great weight had been suddenly lifted off him. He made a vow to himself: no more bowing and apologizing to people; no more complaining and blaming; no more disorderly living and wasting time. The answer to everything was work and love, work and love. He had to spread this message to his family and save them. He had to share it with mankind through his stories and plays. Finally in 1879 Anton moved to Moscow to be with his family and to attend medical school, and what he saw there made him despondent. The Chekhovs and a few boarders were all crammed in a single room in the basement of a tenement, in the middle of the red-light district. The room had little ventilation and almost no light. Worst of all was the morale of the group. His mother was beaten

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Someone who danced at the edges of life, who flattened himself against walls to keep from brushing against her? Yes, she thought as she closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. That supple, skillful mouth working against her now, that flicking and licking and sucking. Only a quiet man could be that good. Only someone who listened, who was sensitive to the minute ebb and flow of things. Without the bath of music she was used to, her ears reached out to find the smaller noises. In the gap of silence, she heard a new tiny, intimate melody, so unfamiliar it was nearly embarrassing. There were only the wet sounds of him eating her. The creak of the futon spring under the weight of their swaying, rocking bodies. And her own ragged breath, quickening, rising to meet his silent intent. She wound her hands into his hair. “Come up here,” she said quietly. He nodded, gave her pussy one last loud smacking kiss, and slid up and over her body, like he was polishing the curves of a cello with his own skin. “Make love to me,” she whispered. All the joy and angst of the night was melting under the dry heat of his body, the pleasant digs of his bones, and the scrabble of his hair against her own softer, smoother flesh. She let out a sigh, and the breath made her body give a little, made space for him to slip inside her. John offered his cock to her, sliding it gracefully over the mouth of her slit and into her hot wet drum. As he did so, they locked eyes. “Jane,” he said. “Yes.” He plunged into her, fucked her with a decisiveness that took his own breath away. He fucked her enthusiastically but artlessly, his hips moving in time with the silent tick of the alarm clock upstairs that he couldn’t see, bucking in again and again and again as if he couldn’t help himself. “Oh, oh, oh,” she said, each time. John lifted his head. He took a deep breath and smiled. He knew better. He broke the rhythm. Paused, so that they could beat softly against one another—hear each other’s pulse and tremor. Her body echoed his. Outside, a blackbird shrieked. “Don’t stop,” she said, “I could do this forever.” “Yes,” he said, pushing. “At least, with breaks in between to do other things.” “No,” she said, “just fucking.” He held back. “You don’t want me to kiss you, maybe?” His lips danced over hers. “Like that?” “Okay,” she said, nuzzling at him, nipping at his lower lip. “That too. But more of the fucking, also.” “Counterpoint?” he said, eating her mouth and starting, slowly, to fuck her again.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He’d been dead when she came into his life, frozen in grief over the death of his son and the subsequent dissolution of his already-broken marriage. That first elevator ride with Robin had been like a flipped switch, jolting him out of his coma. She’d forced the air back into his lungs and the blood back through his veins. He had begun to live for the weekends he spent with her, craving her laughter and smiles, her touch and her scent. But when she’d suggested they take their relationship to the next level, he had panicked, prompting her to walk out on him with her head held high and his heart in her hands. Reminded of how damned lucky he was to have her ready and willing again, Paul pinned her slender body against the door and took her mouth in a lush, hot kiss. His lips sealed over hers, his tongue gliding along the lower curve before slipping inside. She was stiff at first, resistant, which got his guard up. When it came to physical intimacy, they’d never had any barriers between them. As he stroked his tongue along hers, Robin reached for his cock and slung one leg around his waist. She jacked him with both hands, making him so hard and thick he groaned into her mouth and slickened her fingers with pre-cum. She used him to prime herself, massaging the tiny knot of her clitoris with the head of his dick. Impatient, he brushed her hands aside and tucked his cockhead into her slit. She was so ready, he slipped through her wetness and sank an inch inside her. As her cunt fluttered around him, his chest heaved with the loss of his control. What he wanted was to nail her to the door with pounding thrusts; what she needed was to know that he was committed to making their relationship work. “Hurry,” she hissed. Before he could rein himself in, her hands gripped his ass and yanked him into her. The unexpected thrust sent him tunneling deep. His palms hit the door on either side of her head and a curse burst from his lips. “Robin, baby,” he growled. “Give me a damn minute.” But she was already coming. With her head thrown back against the door and a purely erotic moan of pleasure, her cunt tightened around his aching dick like a tender fist. When the delicate muscles began milking his length in incredible ripples, he lost it. “Ah, shit,” he gasped, feeling his balls tighten and semen rush to the tip of his cock. Gripping her ass in the palms of his hands, Paul fucked her convulsing pussy like a mad man, banging her with hammering strokes. The violent orgasm was the rawest of his life, the pleasure so pure and hot he couldn’t stop the growls that tore from his throat. Or the words. “Robin...fuck...I love you, baby. Love you...”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Romance opens worlds for us. It teaches us to reach for what seems too far away. Enjoy the fight, the conflict, the growth of these characters. Romance is often called a flight of fancy, a genre in which to lose oneself, but there is a truth to romance that serves the greater good. We need to escape our day-to-day lives. We need our happy endings. We need to believe that we can be complete. Join us on this journey and let your fantasies feed a deeper truth. We are not alone. We are only whole when we truly love both ourselves and another human being. And the journey never ends...Enjoy. INTRODUCTION: SIMPLY THE BEST What does it take to be the best? That’s the question I kept in the forefront of my mind as I edited Best Erotic Romance. And so, when I sat down to sift through the submissions, I found myself reading many of the stories two or three times. It’s a complicated process, trying to determine what makes a story the very best of the genre. Obviously, excellent writing and storytelling are key, but I also looked for stories with characters I could believe in and root for. Characters I could fall in love with, just as they were falling in love (or finding ways to stay in love). I am delighted to present this inaugural collection of Best Erotic Romance, the collection that I hope will set the bar for future editions. These are the stories that touched my heart and ignited my libido, that made me think about the nature of desire and the unpredictability of the human heart. Each of these seventeen stories weaves love and passion so tightly that one cannot be separated from the other. And isn’t that what a lasting relationship is all about? The need for connection and commitment, memories and history—and hot, wanton, uninhibited sex with a partner who knows us better than we know ourselves. From tales of love (and lust) at first sight, such as Delilah Devlin’s “Drive Me Crazy” and Nikki Magennis’s “Dawn Chorus” to stories of established couples still passionate for each other, such as Andrea Dale’s “Memories for Sale” and Kate Pearce’s “Cheating Time,” the stories in this collection show that true love lasts, real passion never waivers, and lovers who are meant to be will always find their way back to each other. These lovers aren’t afraid of going after what they want, whether it’s long-lost love in “Blame It on Facebook” by Kate Dominic or a hot threesome between a married couple and a female friend in Erobintica’s “Till the Storm Breaks.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  He’d been dead when she came into his life, frozen in grief over the death of his son and the subsequent dissolution of his already-broken marriage. That first elevator ride with Robin had been like a flipped switch, jolting him out of his coma. She’d forced the air back into his lungs and the blood back through his veins. He had begun to live for the weekends he spent with her, craving her laughter and smiles, her touch and her scent. But when she’d suggested they take their relationship to the next level, he had panicked, prompting her to walk out on him with her head held high and his heart in her hands. Reminded of how damned lucky he was to have her ready and willing again, Paul pinned her slender body against the door and took her mouth in a lush, hot kiss. His lips sealed over hers, his tongue gliding along the lower curve before slipping inside. She was stiff at first, resistant, which got his guard up. When it came to physical intimacy, they’d never had any barriers between them. As he stroked his tongue along hers, Robin reached for his cock and slung one leg around his waist. She jacked him with both hands, making him so hard and thick he groaned into her mouth and slickened her fingers with pre-cum. She used him to prime herself, massaging the tiny knot of her clitoris with the head of his dick. Impatient, he brushed her hands aside and tucked his cockhead into her slit. She was so ready, he slipped through her wetness and sank an inch inside her. As her cunt fluttered around him, his chest heaved with the loss of his control. What he wanted was to nail her to the door with pounding thrusts; what she needed was to know that he was committed to making their relationship work. “Hurry,” she hissed. Before he could rein himself in, her hands gripped his ass and yanked him into her. The unexpected thrust sent him tunneling deep. His palms hit the door on either side of her head and a curse burst from his lips. “Robin, baby,” he growled. “Give me a damn minute.” But she was already coming. With her head thrown back against the door and a purely erotic moan of pleasure, her cunt tightened around his aching dick like a tender fist. When the delicate muscles began milking his length in incredible ripples, he lost it. “Ah, shit,” he gasped, feeling his balls tighten and semen rush to the tip of his cock. Gripping her ass in the palms of his hands, Paul fucked her convulsing pussy like a mad man, banging her with hammering strokes. The violent orgasm was the rawest of his life, the pleasure so pure and hot he couldn’t stop the growls that tore from his throat.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  “I’ve been dying to eat you,” he said gruffly. “I’ve jacked off a dozen times thinking about it. Get comfortable, baby. We’ll be here awhile.” “I have meetings to attend!” she protested. “I can’t—oh, god!” The first stroke of his tongue stole her wits. It was a soft, slow lick that fired every sensitive nerve ending. The next pass was more deliberate, working her clit with the ball of his barbell piercing. His groan vibrated against her, making her pussy spasm in want of his cock to fill it. Her hands fisted the comforter. “You’re so sweet,” he praised hoarsely, his hands sliding down to her inner thighs. “Your cunt is so soft.” A soft noise escaped her. His mouth sealed over her clit in a heated circle, his pierced tongue fluttering over the hard knot with devastating strokes. Her hips moved without her volition, thrusting and rocking as she chased another orgasm. In her past, she’d been lucky to come once with a partner. With Paul, the more he touched her, the more sensitized she became. Each climax came quicker than the one before it until she was coming in rolling waves that seemed to have no end or beginning. “Fuck me with your tongue,” she gasped, draping one leg over his powerful shoulder to urge him closer. Her back arched as he obliged her, teasing her quivering slit with shallow thrusts. Gripping his overlong hair, she rode his mouth, shameless in the extremity of her need. She’d watched people dismiss Paul out of hand because of his appearance. Those who clung to stereotypes saw mobile homes and biker gangs when they looked at him. They couldn’t see past the stubble-shadowed jaw and visible tattoos. But beneath the body jewelry, ink, and shaggy hair was a gorgeous face that was classical in its lines and features. Paul could have graced an ancient coin or inspired a statue in a temple, and he was far wealthier than people would ascertain from his laid-back style. Cupping her buttocks, he lifted her hips and tilted his head. His tongue pushed deeper, and her pussy clutched helplessly around the rhythmic impalement. Robin squeezed her aching breasts inside her bra, pinching her nipples to ease their tightness. Her hips churning restlessly, she begged, “Make me come.” Latching on, he kissed her pussy, drawing softly with gentle suction while he rubbed her clit with his tongue. She cried out and fell apart beneath his avid and tender mouth, her body melting into a boneless, breathless, teary puddle on his bed. “I love you.” He pushed to his feet and tossed the condom in the trash. “You love fucking me,” she whispered, knowing that when the passion was sated and reality intruded, he would withdraw again as he’d done before. Paul leaned over her, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of her waist. “I’m in this for the long haul.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Our foray into role-playing took longer and didn’t really take hold until after a particularly good time at a Halloween party. I had never found Dracula sexy before, but Blake convinced me to join him in my sister’s guest room, and he turned me from a sexy kitty to a kitty in heat in no time flat. After that night, I bought more outfits to act out fantasies of all types. I chose the naughty nurse; Blake had a thing for lady cops, which we managed to accomplish with the help of a fake nightstick and the back seat of our car on a deserted dirt road. It had all been passionate and fun and, I thought, completely worth it. There wasn’t a boring night of sex in months, and we both seemed to be enjoying the ride. The dominatrix fantasy was mostly my idea, but Blake seemed more than a little interested. The outfit was the most expensive one yet, but I relished putting it on and the power I felt holding the whip was undeniable. I had hoped that Blake would be a good little submissive, but his willful eyes left me no choice but to reach over and untie him. “I’m sorry, Blakey. I thought this would be fun, but if you don’t want to do it, maybe we can save it for another time.” After I freed him, I felt even more foolish in my getup than I did before. He rubbed his wrists, and I moved off the bed to change out of my new personae. Blake shook his head and grabbed my arm to pull me back down next to him. “Daisy, I’m sorry. I really am. But, I don’t know. Do you think we could just have sex tonight?” “We were going to have sex, Blake. That was the point of this whole thing.” He stared at me until I looked up, embarrassment making my cheeks flush. “No. I mean sex. Like we used to have. Just you and me, on our bed. You know, sex. I hate to use the word normal, but it somehow seems appropriate.” “You mean boring sex?” “God, fuck! I wish I’d never said that. That’s what all this has been about, hasn’t it? Because I said we were boring in bed.” “No.” Blake didn’t say a word, but he made it clear with his eyes that he knew I was lying. “Okay, fine Blake. Fine. Yes. I was trying to make our sex life less boring. You seemed to enjoy it. What’s changed?” “Nothing. And, I did like most of it. But, I miss being with you. Is it so crazy to want to feel you, be with you and watch you come? No bells, no whistles, no whips. Just you and me.” Secretly, they were the words I wanted to hear since our sexcapades began. I had been afraid to say it, but hearing Blake confess made my resolve melt away.

• From Best Erotic Romance

  It was. They sipped and talked, long into the night, long past the three-quarter moon’s shimmer on the water. Eventually they staggered to the bedroom, spread the sleeping bag he’d brought onto the bed, and made love again. Slower, this time, and more bittersweet, perhaps, as Bella cradled his head in her hands and he buried his face in her shoulder as they came. They were roused the next morning not by the stream of sunlight across the bed but the sound of the front door being unlocked. Ethan scrambled into pants and shirt, giving Bella time to dive for the bathroom. She was vaguely amazed she had no hangover. And no heartache. In the bathroom mirror, she saw that her hair was a tangle, her lips puffy from kisses, and her eyes sparkling from pleasure despite the circles beneath them. She pulled herself together as best she could. She had no idea where her bra had ended up, but there was nothing she could do about that right now. Shirt and skirt would suffice. She emerged to find Jane, the realtor, clutching bread mix (because the scent of baking bread was a huge lure to buyers) and fresh flowers. Ethan, meanwhile, had Bella’s bra clutched behind his back. Bless his heart. “Bella!” Jane’s astonishment was clear. “You’re here, too.” Bella gave a weak wave. “Morning, Jane.” “Well.” Jane’s voice turned brisk as she went into professional mode. “We’ll have to get things cleaned up before the open house starts. There’s already a line of cars at the end of the drive. I’ll get the bread going. The sofa cushions need to be straightened, and that candle…” “We appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Ethan said. “But we’ve reconsidered, and we’ve decided not to sell.” “We have?” Bella asked. Her heart rose even as her stomach plummeted, her emotions in a tangle. “I’m not ready to sell,” Ethan said, taking her hand. “That would be selling all the memories we have here. I think we have a chance to make more memories. If you’re willing to try, that is.” “It won’t be easy,” Bella said cautiously. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Communication, and all that.” Ethan drew her into his arms. “I realized something. When we’re here, we’ve never had problems talking. We were able to leave our problems behind; this was always a place where nothing else mattered except us.” Bella took a deep breath. “Take down the ‘For Sale’ sign and cancel the open house,” she said to Jane. But it was Ethan she was looking at when she said, “This isn’t for sale anymore.” HONEY CHANGES EVERYTHING Emerald Kim wrestled her armload of groceries through the back door and kicked it shut behind her.

• From The Laws of Human Nature (2018)

  a radiance that almost everyone who met him in this period could feel. Understand: The story of Anton Chekhov is really a paradigm for what we all face in life. We carry with us traumas and hurts from early childhood. In our social life, as we get older, we accumulate disappointments and slights. We too are often haunted by a sense of worthlessness, of not really deserving the good things in life. We all have moments of great doubt about ourselves. These emotions can lead to obsessive thoughts that dominate our minds. They make us curtail what we experience as a way to manage our anxiety and disappointments. They make us turn to alcohol or any kind of habit to numb the pain. Without realizing it, we assume a negative and fearful attitude toward life. This becomes our self-imposed prison. But this is not how it has to be. The freedom that Chekhov experienced came from a choice, a different way of looking at the world, a change in attitude. We can all follow such a path. This freedom essentially comes from adopting a generous spirit— toward others and toward ourselves. By accepting people, by understanding and if possible even loving them for their human nature, we can liberate our minds from obsessive and petty emotions. We can stop reacting to everything people do and say. We can have some distance and stop ourselves from taking everything personally. Mental space is freed up for higher pursuits. When we feel generous toward others, they feel drawn to us and want to match our spirit. When we feel generous toward ourselves, we no longer feel the need to bow and scrape and play the game of false humility while secretly resenting our lack of success. Through our work and through getting what we need on our own, without depending on others, we can stand tall and realize our potential as humans. We can stop reproducing the negative emotions around us. Once we feel the exhilarating power from this new attitude, we will want to take it as far as possible. Years later, in a letter to a friend, Chekhov tried to summarize his experience in Taganrog, referring to himself in the third person: “Write about how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself drop by drop and how one fine morning he awakes to find that the blood coursing through his veins is no longer the blood of a slave but that of a real human being.” The greatest discovery of my generation is the fact that human beings can alter their lives by altering their attitudes of mind. —Wil iam James Keys to Human Nature We humans like to imagine that we have an objective knowledge of the world. We take it for granted that what we perceive on a daily basis is reality—this reality being more or less the same for everybody. But this is an illusion. No two people see or experience

• From Stone Butch Blues (1993)

  me, but she restrained herself. So did I. I kissed the cheek she offered me. I saw Grant near the jukebox. A moment later I heard “Stand By Your Man” playing. Thanks, Grant. I asked Theresa to dance. She took her time smoothing my collar and adjusting my tie before she led me to the dance floor. We moved beautifully together. Meg told me later we looked as good as Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. All the while we were dancing, Theresa traced the back of my neck above my collar with her fingernails. She was driving me mad. I guess that was the point. I know I was driving her crazy, too, but I was being very, very careful doing it. Sometimes when you just move a little, carefully, it’s a whole lot more powerful than grinding, When the song finished I let go of her, but Theresa pulled me back. “I wasn’t trying to be mean to you at the plant. Did you think I was?” “No, it felt good.” She smiled. “TI don’t think I was very nice to you. I was just teasing you, to get your attention. I liked you.” I blushed. “Nobody ever flirted with me outside a bar before—I mean in the real world, you know? It made me feel normal.” She nodded like she really understood. We talked for a while about out lives. She was a rural girl from Appleton. She came right out and told me she got friends to drive her to this bar just to look for me. Then someone tapped Theresa on the shoulder. The women she rode to Buffalo with were leaving. She took my face in both her hands and kissed my mouth. I blushed from head to toe. She stood back and grinned at my color, proud of her work. “Tl make you dinner at my house next Saturday night if you want,” she offered. “You're on,” I said, still blushing. She scribbled her phone number down on a cocktail napkin. “Call me,” she shouted over her shoulder. “You can bet on it,” I answered. I was still blushing. You would have thought I’d won the Kentucky Derby the way everybody came over to congratulate me. I felt like a million bucks. I just wondered if P’d ever stop blushing. It took me all day Saturday to get ready—pick out the right clothes, bathe, shower, shower again. Then there were questions like which tie, cologne or no cologne? Something so sweet took a lot of care. I brought Theresa daffodils. When I handed them to her, her eyes filled with tears. I had a feeling nobody had treated her like someone special before. I silently vowed to always make her feel that way.

• From The Hours (1998)

  She conquers the desire to go quietly back upstairs, to her bed and book. She conquers her irritation at the sound of her husband’s voice, saying something to Richie about napkins (why does his voice remind her sometimes of a potato being grated?). She descends the last three stairs, crosses the narrow foyer, enters the kitchen. She thinks of the cake she will bake, the flowers she’ll buy. She thinks of roses surrounded by gifts. Her husband has made the coffee, poured cereal for himself and their son. On the tabletop, a dozen white roses offer their complex, slightly sinister beauty. Through the clear glass vase Laura can see the bubbles, fine as grains of sand, clinging to their stems. Beside the roses stand cereal box and milk carton, with their words and pictures. “Good morning,” her husband says, raising his eyebrows as if he is surprised but delighted to see her. “Happy birthday,” she says. “Thank you.” “Oh, Dan. Roses. On your birthday. You’re too much, really.” She sees him see that she is angry. She smiles. “It wouldn’t mean much of anything without you, would it?” he says. “But you should have woken me. Really.” He looks at Richie, lifts his brows another centimeter, so that his forehead is creased and his lustrous black hair twitches slightly. “We thought it’d be better if you slept in a little, didn’t we?” he says. Richie, three years old, says, “Yes.” He nods avidly. He wears blue pajamas. He is happy to see her, and more than happy; he is rescued, resurrected, transported by love. Laura reaches into the pocket of her robe for a cigarette, changes her mind, raises her hand instead to her hair. It is almost perfect, it is almost enough, to be a young mother in a yellow kitchen touching her thick, dark hair, pregnant with another child. There are leaf shadows on the curtains; there is fresh coffee. “G’morning, Bug,” she says to Richie. “I’m having cereal,” he says. He grins. It could be said that he leers. He is transparently smitten with her; he is comic and tragic in his hopeless love. He makes her think sometimes of a mouse singing amorous ballads under the window of a giantess. “Good,” she answers. “That’s very good.” He nods again, as if they share a secret. “But honestly,” she says to her husband. “Why should I wake you?” he answers. “Why shouldn’t you sleep?” “It’s your birthday,” she says. “You need to rest.”

• From Best Erotic Romance

  Dustan playing for the farm team, Maddy’s brothers playing for the townies. The farm team had won, and they were heading off for drinks, when this girl in a daisy-yellow sundress and white sandals crossed the field, calling his name. “Dustan,” she said, although everyone else called him Dusty so he didn’t know it was his name she was saying until she got close and touched his shoulder. “Can I go out with the winning team?” she’d asked. The first time he’d seen those eyes, that smile that gave her one dimple on the side, a pushed-in petal. His teammates were there, standing with him, but he couldn’t hear or see them. He could only see the freckles on her chest and the way the sundress cut into her pale shoulders just enough to make red marks. “I, uh...” His stuttering had been bad then, words more than just an enemy, words a cow kick to the gut that he couldn’t step out of the way of. “Oh, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl,” she’d said, as though he’d actually said all of the things that were in his brain. The what and the why and the way these boys, these farm boys, got drunk and wild beyond what she could have possibly seen, and how the whole other part of him was saying Please, yes, please. “Besides,” she’d said, raising her voice in the direction of the other team. “Those town boys are b-o-r-i-n-g.” Later, she said that was their first date, although he hardly counted it. It was beers with the boys and darts. She’d flitted among them like some exotic insect, but one who clearly liked them. And even more clearly liked Dustan. He still had no idea what she’d seen really in him that day or that night, or the days after, even though she’d told him a million times. “It was that farm-boy muscle in those baseball pants,” is what she always said, putting the emphasis on muscle. Singular. She’d let him love her then, and she was still letting him love her now, she was crossing a field of clover and honeybees in her bare feet to bring her pricker-and-honey love to him, to stand on his booted feet and wiggle against him. “So, you have time for a quickie, Mr. Fence Fixer?” Her words accompanied by her fingers tugging at the bottom of his T-shirt. “Or do I have to go back to the house all sweating and unsatisfied?” “What, here?” Words came better, without the stutter, but still slow. One or two syllables to her elaborate sentences. She was nibbling at his neck, laughing. “Mmm, you taste like sweat. And sunshine. More, please.” He meant to resist. He had work to do.