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And if dreams were real, Elana would have the courage to approach him. But is his possessive side too much for her to handle? Can he open his home to her and keep his jeans closed? If he has his way. But to the staff at The Golden Mail, Wes is just an ordinary, workaholic editor. Wes is sure that nobody can ever get close enough to uncover his secret. That is until he hires Julia, one of the best journalists. Boxed set of three full-length, award-winning paranormal romance novels.

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Enjoy this suspenseful romance novel with recipes including Hummingbird cake and Bourbon Peach pie. Amazon bestselling author Emmaline Wade chronicles the lives and friendships of the wealthy Carrie family. This first book installment is a delightful beginning to the splendor of what is going to be a dynamic tale. Lose yourself in romance, adventure, and Happily Ever After. Over pages of five clean and wholesome, inspirational romances for free! Full-length contemporary romance. Kindle Echo Canyon Brides Box Set by Linda Bridey: Immerse yourself in the Echo Canyon Brides series that critics describe as a powerful spellbinding blend of mystery, romance, and humor showing strong women in difficult situations.

Turmoil follows as a powerful and influential matriarch causes upheaval. A previous violent act causes tensions to explode at a high profile fundraiser. Love and marriages are threatened — the secrets of long ago have a very public climax in their world of wealth and privilege. The only people who can stem its advance are the Silver, a vampiric race who offer a simple exchange: protection in return for blood and subservience.

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Rather than idly lingering on Earth, she focuses on finding her killer. Uncovering the truth means asking for help from her psychic ex-boyfriend. High in the Rockies, she feels secure, especially when love begins to bloom with the local veterinarian, Rick.

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Four full-length standalone novels for die-hard billionaire romance fans! But with only thirty days, will Melanie leave with another broken heart or will Preston be able to get her to stay? I do not keep a bevy of cats. I cook, clean, read, and write. I sing in the choir. I do volunteer work. Isobel is taken to be forced into an unwanted marriage.

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The only problem? Many people believe you can get closer to God through a practice of sacred sensuality by raising your erotic energy. Learn lovemaking positions so you and your lover can connect with higher powers and create deeper intimacy through spiritual teachings, breathing and meditative exercises that expand both mind and body. It's not sex therapy yet sacred sexuality and lovemaking techniques can be used for erotic issues such as anorgasmia, premature ejaculation, Dirtybitpodcast home of erotic audio stories Read by Sherry.

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Welcome to the A to Z of Sex! While exploring, you will learn more about desire, how to express your desires and how to spice up your relationships and create that long lasting sizzling hot relationship you have always wanted. My guests and I will share solid science, practical techniques and real life stories. The Sexually Liberated Woman highlights, celebrates, and encourages the sexually liberated woman—not just the idea of her, but her true-blue erotic empowerment in the flesh.

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More great books at LoyalBooks. How to get it, and how to avoid it.

Curtains (Sexual Awakenings #4)

Davey Wavey and his best friend Matthew Thomas discuss Davey's breakup, a sex game called hat trick and blowing guys in the airport. By Davey Wavey. French feminist pornography Olympe de G joins the show to talk about audio porn and the inspiration for her latest creation. By hostservices voiceamerica. VOXXX is an audio program, leaving space for intimate fantasies, rather than providing images ready to consume. VOXXX has been created with participants of all genders, to stimulate all the kinds of attractions. She'll ta You can not effectively communicate with someone else if your not willing to be honest with yourself.

Their flesh is innocent and warm. In the end she is arranged across the pillows, a ritual she accepts without a word. It is half an hour before they fall apart, spent, and call for breakfast. She eats both her rolls and one of his. She begins to make him hard again. In a few minutes he rolls her over and puts it in as if the intermission were ended. This time she is wild. The great bed begins creaking. Her breath becomes short. Dean has to brace his hands on the wall. He hooks his knees outside her legs and drives himself deeper.

When he comes, it downs them both. They crumble like sand. He returns from the bathroom and picks up the covers from the floor. She has not moved. She lies just where she has fallen. Goldman rolled the stockings down and Evelyn stepped out of her stockings. She held her arms across her breasts. Goldman stood and turned her around slowly for inspection, a frown on her face. Lie down. Evelyn sat down on the bed and looked at what was coming out of the black bag.

On your stomach, Goldman said. She was holding a bottle and tilting the contents of the bottle into her cupped hand. Evelyn lay down on her stomach and Goldman applied the liquid where the marks of the stays reddened the flesh. Ow, Evelyn cried. It stings! Evelyn was squirming and her flesh cringing with each application. She buried her face in the pillow to smother her cries. I know, I know, Goldman said. But you will thank me. She was shivering now and her buttocks were clenched against the invigorating chill of the astringent.

Her legs squeezed together. Goldman rubbed the oil into her skin until her body found its own natural rosy white being and began to stir with self-perception. Turn over, Goldman commanded. Her eyes were closed and her lips stretched in an involuntary smile as Goldman massaged her breasts, her stomach, her legs. Yes, even this, Emma Goldman said, briskly passing her hand over the mons. You must have the courage to live. The bedside lamp seemed to dim for a moment.

Evelyn put her own hands on her breasts and her palms rotated the nipples. Her hands swam down along her flanks. She rubbed her hips. Her pelvis rose from the bed as if seeking something in the air. Goldman was now at the bureau, capping her bottled emollient, her back to Evelyn as the younger woman began to ripple on the bed like a wave on the sea.

He was clutching in his hands, as if trying to choke it, a rampant penis which, scornful of his intentions, whipped him about the floor, launching to his cries of ecstasy or despair, great filamented spurts of jism that traced the air like bullets and then settled slowly over Evelyn in her bed like falling ticker tape. We reached the multi-storey car-park behind the air-freight building.

I drove around the canted concrete floors of this oblique and ambiguous building and parked in an empty bay among the cars on the sloping roof. After tucking the banknotes away in her silver handbag, the woman lowered her preoccupied face across my lap, expertly releasing my zip with one hand. She began to work systematically at my penis with both mouth and hand, spreading her arms comfortably across my knees.

I flinched from the pressure of her hard elbows …. As she brought my penis to life I looked down at her strong back, at the junction between the contours of her shoulders demarked by the straps of her brassiere and the elaborately decorated instrument panel of this American car, between her thick buttock in my left hand and the pastel-shaded binnacles of the clock and the speedometer.

Encouraged by these hooded dials, my left ring-finger moved towards her anus. It took Sabina some time before she could bring herself to slip out of the robe entirely. The situation she found herself in was proving a bit more difficult han she had expected. The two women were joined by the same magic word. Instead of stroking, flattering, pleading, he would issue a command, issue it abruptly, unexpectedly, softly yet firmly and authoritatively, and at a distance: at such moments he never touched the woman he was addressing.

He often used it on Tereza as well, and even though he said it softly, even though he whispered it, it was a command, and obeying never failed to arouse her. Sabina took the camera from her, and Tereza took off her clothes. There she stood before Sabina naked and disarmed. Literally disarmed: deprived of the apparatus she had been using to cover her face and aim at Sabina like a weapon. This beautiful submission intoxicated Tereza. She wished that the moments she stood naked opposite Sabina would never end.

But after clicking the shutter two or three times, almost frightened by the enchantment and eager to dispel it, she burst into loud laughter. Milan Kundera is famous for writing sensual books. Also check out:. She gives him a look. No, instead, instant docility—she slides to her knees. Down on the floor, nose level with an electrical outlet, she imagines for a second she can see some great brightness of power just behind the parallel slits.

Something scurries at the edge of her vision, the size of a mouse, and it is Lester Traipse, the shy, wronged soul of Lester, in need of sanctuary, abandoned, not least by Maxine. He stands in front of the outlet, reaches in, parts the sides of one slit like a doorway, glances back apologetically, slides into the annihilating brightness. So Thomas Pynchon has some pretty hilarious and classic sex scenes.

Try reading:. She straddled him. Her hair was loose. It was cut straight across at the level of her shoulders. It was hanging forward, hiding her face, except for her eyes, which she was holding shut tight. She was being careful about his cock, leaving it alone so far. On his back meant fun for him, Iris taking her time.

He had to push his anxiety away. He had to forget about that. Some of their best sex had been with her on top, using him as a dildo, taking her sweet time. One thing he loved that she sometimes did was to align their nipples and rub. Hers would be hard and his would be too.

There was too much. She was dragging her hair across his eyes. She lightly bit his shoulder. She was lowering herself more. She was brushing her breasts across his face. He wanted to take one of her breasts into his mouth, either one. He was frantic. He wanted to get as much of one of her breasts into his mouth as he could.

Her breasts were killing him, her blunt instruments. He had called them that and she had laughed, long ago. He drove himself harder into her. She was whining with pleasure and that was good. She would climax again right away. He kept on, slowing himself. He pushed her knees up higher. He was almost there and so was she, again. And then the knot at the root of his cock dissolved in fire, melting.

He shouted when he came. Then she was snorting, trying to say something. She was telling him to stop. She had come a second time and she wanted him to stop. They disengaged, shaking. They were sitting on the floor leaning into the corner of the room, her mouth on his nipple, her hand moving his dick slowly. An intricate science, his whole body imprisoned there, a ship in a bottle. Come in my mouth. Moving forward, his fingers pulling back her hair like torn silk, he ejaculated, disappearing into her.

She crooked her finger, motioning, and he bent down and put his mouth on hers. I had a confusion of feelings and thoughts: embrace her, weep with her, kiss her, pull her hair, laugh, pretend to sexual experience and instruct her in a learned voice, distancing her with words just at the moment of greatest closeness. But in the end there was only the hostile thought that I was washing her, from her hair to the soles of her feet, early in the morning, just so that Stefano could sully her in the course of the night. I imagined her naked as she was at that moment, entwined with her husband, in the bed in the new house, while the train clattered under their windows and his violent flesh entered her with a sharp blow, like the cork pushed by the palm into the neck of a wine bottle.

And it suddenly seemed to me that the only remedy against the pain I was feeling, that I would feel, was to find a corner secluded enough so that Antonio could do to me, at the same time, the exact same thing. Yes, it has to be given. And the kiss continued on past the point where he usually broke off. Then, slowly, he pulled away. I groped for him, as though I were blind. And he was kissing me again, and slipping the shorty nightgown over my head.

His strong and gentle hands began to stroke me, his hands, his lips, his tongue. Not frightening. Knowing what he was doing. I felt my nipples rise, and it startled me. Ammu, naked now, crouched over Velutha, her mouth on his. He drew her hair around them like a tent. Like her children did when they wanted to exclude the outside world. She slid further down, introducing herself to the rest of him. His neck. His nipples. His chocolate brown stomach.

She sipped the last of the river from the hollow of his navel. She pressed the heat of his erection against her eyelids. She tasted him, salty, in her mouth. He sat up and drew her back to him. She felt his belly tighten under her, hard as a board. She felt her wetness slipping on his skin.

He took her nipple in his mouth and cradled her other breast in his calloused palm. Velvet gloved in sandpaper. So that was our love affair. Wordless, blinkered, a nighttime thing, a dream thing. There were reasons on my side for this as well. Whatever it was that I was was best revealed slowly, in flattering light. Which meant not much light at all. You try things out in the dark. You get drunk or stoned and extemporize. Think back to your backseats, your pup tents, your beach bonfire parties. Did you ever find yourself, without admitting it, tangled up with your best friend? Or in a dorm room bed with two people instead of one, while Bach played on the chintzy stereo, orchestrating the fugue?

Before the routine sets in, or the love. Back when the groping is largely anonymous. Sandbox sex. It starts in the teens and lasts until twenty or twenty-one. Sometimes when I climbed on top of the Object she would almost wake up. She would move to accommodate me, spreading her legs or throwing an arm around my back. She swam up to the surface of consciousness before diving again. Her eyelids fluttered. A responsiveness entered her body, a flex of abdomen in rhythm with mine, her head thrown back to offer up her throat. I waited for more.

I wanted her to acknowledge what we were doing, but I was scared, too. So the sleek dolphin rose, leapt through the ring of my legs, and disappeared again, leaving me bobbing, trying to keep my balance. Everything was wet down there. I laid my head on her chest beneath the bunched-up T-shirt. Her underarms smelled like overripe fruit. The hair there was very sparse.

One night, as I was doing this and other things, I noticed a shadow on the wall. I thought it was a moth. Her hand was completely awake.

It clenched and unclenched, siphoning all the ecstasy from her body into its secret flowerings. What the Object and I did together was played out under these loose rules. What pressed on our attention was that it was happening, sex was happening. That was the great fact. How it happened exactly, what went where, was secondary.

Nothing but our night in the shack with Rex and Jerome. Luce will tell you that female monkeys exhibit mounting behavior when administered male hormones.

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They seize, they thrust. Not me. Or at least not at first. The blooming of the crocus was an impersonal phenomenon. But, apparently, effective enough. Because after the first few nights, she was eager for it. Eager, that is, while ostensibly remaining unconscious. Nothing was made ready or caressed. Nothing was aimed. But practice brought about a fluid gymnastics to our sleep couplings.

She moved under me as a sleeping girl might while being ravished by an incubus. She was like somebody having a dirty dream, confusing her pillow for a lover.

Sometimes, before or afterward, I switched on the bedside lamp. I pulled her T-shirt up as far as it would go and slid her underpants down below her knees. And then I lay there, letting my eyes have their fill. What else compares? Gold filings shifted around the magnet of her navel. Her ribs were as thin as candy canes. The spread of her hips, so different from mine, looked like a bowl offering up red fruit. And then there was my favorite spot, the place where her ribcage softened into breast, the smooth, white dune there.

I turned the light off. I pressed against the Object. I took the backs of her thighs in my hands, adjusting her legs around my waist. I reached under her. I brought her up to me. And then my body, like a cathedral, broke out into ringing. The hunchback in the belfry had jumped and was swinging madly on the rope. She started to tell him something but then thought no.

They fell together, folded toward each other, and then she leaned back, arching, shored on her back-braced arms, and she let him pace the occasion. At some point she opened her eyes and saw him watching her, measuring her progress, and he looked a little isolated and wan and she pulled his head down to her and sucked salt from his tongue and heard the sort of breast-slap, the splash of upper bodies and the banging bed. Then it was a matter of close concentration. The nameless girl spread her legs under the sheets. What I mean is, the drawer holds fear and photographs and men who can never be found, as well as papers.

So the cop turned out the light and unzipped his fly. The girl closed her eyes when he turned her face down. She felt his pants against her buttocks and the metallic cold of the belt buckle. He was on his side, but she still had her head buried in the sheets. His index and middle finger probed her ass, massaged her sphincter, and she opened her mouth without a sound. He pushed his fingers all the way in, the girl moaned and raised her haunches, he felt the tips of his fingers brush something to which he instantly gave the name stalagmite.

Then he thought it might be shit, but the color of the body that he was touching kept blazing green and white, like his first impression. The girl moaned hoarsely. He worked his fingers in and out. The words came to a stop in the middle of a metro station. There was no one there. The policeman blinked. I guess the risk of the gaze was partly overcome by the exercise of his profession. The girl was sweating profusely and moved her legs with great care.

Her ass was wet and occasionally quivered. They kissed, and it was in this moment of relative optimism for Florence that she felt his arms tense, and suddenly, in one deft athletic move, he had rolled on top of her, and though his weight was mostly through his elbows and forearms planted on either side of her head, she was pinned down and helpless, and a little breathless beneath his bulk.

She felt disappointment that he had not lingered to stroke her pubic area again and set off that strange and spreading thrill. But her immediate preoccupation — an improvement on revulsion or fear — was to keep up appearances, not to let him down or humiliate herself, or seem a poor choice among all the women he had known. She was going to get through this. She would never let him know what a struggle it was, what it cost her, to appear calm. She was without any other desire but to please him and make this night a success, and without any other sensation beyond an awareness of the end of his penis, strangely cool, repeatedly jabbing and bumping into and around her urethra.

Her panic and disgust, she thought, were under control, she loved Edward, and all her thoughts were on helping him have what he so dearly wanted and to make him love her all the more. It was in this spirit that she slid her right hand down between his groin and hers. He lifted a little to let her through. She found his testicles first and, not at all afraid now, she curled her fingers softly round this extraordinary bristling item she had seen in different forms on dogs and horses, but had never quite believed could fit comfortably on adult humans.

Drawing her fingers across its underside, she arrived at the base of his penis, which she held with extreme care, for she had no idea how sensitive or robust it was. She trailed her fingers along its length, noting with interest its silky texture, right to the tip, which she lightly stroked; and then, amazed by her own boldness, she moved back down a little, to take his penis firmly, about halfway along, and pulled it downwards, a slight adjustment, until she felt it just touching her labia. How could she have known what a terrible mistake she was making? Had she pulled on the wrong thing? Had she gripped too tight?

He gave out a wail, a complicated series of agonised, rising vowels, the sort of sound she had heard once in a comedy film when a waiter, weaving this way and that, appeared to be about to drop a towering pile of soup plates. In horror she let go, as Edward, rising up with a bewildered look, his muscular back arching in spasms, emptied himself over her in gouts, in vigorous but diminishing quantities, filling her navel, coating her belly, thighs, and even a portion of her chin and kneecap in tepid, viscous fluid. One of them wrestled her to the cold damp sand, hard-packed as dirt.

Norma Jeane grabbed at him desperately, arms around his head, Eddy G sank to his knees beside them and fumbled with the panties, finally ripping them off. Her mouth moved down, then farther. He touched the top of her head, her fragile skull under wet hair, pulled her up gently. He wanted slowness, warmth, kissing. She pressed down again, her body against his chest, and at last her mouth found his.

He imagined the quiet street outside shining in the lights, the millions of souls warm and listening to the rain in their beds. He was close but held off, until at last she whispered, Go. Come out and joust. A genius. Lotto had long known it in his bones. Since he was a tiny boy, shouting on a chair, making grown men grow pink and weep. But how nice to get such confirmation, and in such a format, too. Under the golden ceiling, under the golden wife. All right, then. He could be a playwright. He watched as the Lotto he thought he had been stood up in his greasepaint and jerkin, his doublet sweated through, panting, the roar inside him going external as the audience rose in ovation.

Ghostly out of his body he went, giving an elaborate bow, passing for good through the closed door of the apartment. There should have been nothing left. And yet, some kind of Lotto remained. A separate him, a new one, below his wife, who was sliding her face up his stomach, pushing the string of her thong to one side, enveloping him.

His hands were opening her robe to show her breasts like nestlings, her chin tipped up toward their vaguely reflected bodies. No more Lotto. We will make this happen. If it meant his wife smiling through her blond lashes at him again, his wife posting atop him like a prize equestrienne, he could change. He could become what she wanted. No longer failed actor. Potential playwright. And still a sort of pain, a loss. He closed his eyes against it and moved in the dark toward what, just now, only Mathilde could see so clearly.

Half an hour later, his eyes closed, then suddenly opened, tears and sweat dripping down onto her, he calls out her name, and in response Jamie comes at the same time that he does. Her facial expression is one of pleasure mixed with horrified surprise. After a moment—she has broken out into quick shocked laughter—he looks into her eyes and imagines that her spirit, without knowing how or why, has suddenly disobeyed the force of gravity that has governed it.

Her soul, no longer a myth but now a fact, ascends above her body. Like a little metallic bird unused to flight, unsteady in its progress, her soul rises and falls, frightened by the heights and by what it sees, but excited, too, by being married to him for a few seconds, just before it plummets back to earth. He turned his head so his cheek was flat against her. He could feel her muscles moving softly — her coming was more in her mind still; when she got closer she would become a single band of muscle, like a fish — all of her would move at once, flickering and curving, unified from jaw to tail.

His mind was half in hers. He felt her still loose-jointed drift — only an occasional little coil in the current tugging at her harder, moving her toward the flood. Then she breathed — he felt her body move as if her mouth opened on all of him — she took a breath and let herself go tumbling. After a while they moved up the bank as though they had to escape the flood. They clambered onto the table of higher ground, onto the spartina. He got his feet out of his pants and made a bed of them for her on the long flattened stalks. Everything was brighter than in the creek — all around them the even tops of the spartina caught flat shadowless starlight.

He reached under her back to smooth out broken stems.