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Synopsis
Twenty-five unashamedly modern short romances which don''t shy away at the bedroom door from the crème de la crème of contemporary romance writers, including Lilith Saintcrow, Louisa Burton, Anna Windsor, Susan Sizemore, Michelle M. Pillow, Rebecca York, Charlotte Stein, Shiloh Walker, Victoria Janssen, Saskia Walker and Cathy Clamp.
This is writing which is more direct, less euphemistic, and frankly accepting of sexuality - fiercely hot stories of flesh and blood and feelings which will entrance and beguile romance readers.
Release date: July 21, 2011
Publisher: Robinson
Print pages: 546
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance
Sonia Florens
There’s romance, and then there’s romance. Let me rephrase that: there’s old-style romance and new, modern romance.
In days of old, exemplified by the Golden Age of Mills & Boon and Harlequin, one of the great charms of romance stories was the sheer giddiness of the love stories they incorporated and the purity with which that love between male and female characters expressed itself. Few readers wanted to know more about what happened when the bedroom door closed and the happy ending reached its glorious conclusion. Things were better left to the imagination. Why spoil with unnecessary realism what was essentially a dream?
In recent years, as permissiveness has pervaded the society we live in, many fans now demand more grittiness in the stories they prefer to read. After all, we’ve long known about the birds and the bees, they feel, so why not find out more about the mysteries of love, once the mental epiphany has been reached and the time has rightly come for the heat and wonders of the flesh to manifest themselves in all their natural beauty? Which does not mean that there is anything wrong with the old style of romance where so much is left to the imagination; it is still here and available to all.
But for the readers in search of more modern material, with fewer euphemisms and added realism, the romance field has undergone a transformative tsunami. First of all, the bawdy world of the so-called bodice-rippers came into its own with shocking effect, both in a historical and contemporary context, soon followed within popular romance sub-genres by the fleshly romps of Native American romances with their ripple-chested Indian braves so often conquering the hearts and bodies of our heroines. And on and on. In the last decade, with the advent of supernatural and urban romances, realism has been at even more of a premium. After all, when vampires or werewolves bite, is it not a metaphor for sexual activity to say the least, and how could writers leave one crucial element in the equation out whilst delving on the other?
Fantasy? Wish fulfilment? Daydream? It’s not for me to judge, but the fact that a frank and open manifestation of sexuality is now an essential component of romance writing is, I feel, a reason to rejoice, as it makes the literary genre we all cherish so much more relevant, and not as easy to be dismissed any longer as mere minor and derivative entertainment divorced from everyday reality.
Yes, many of the stories I’ve assembled here from the crème de la crème of modern romance authors, who were given a free hand to come up with fiercely hot stories involving human beings of flesh and blood and feelings, are explicit in their dealings with sexuality. But they have all come up trumps with torrid tales that will entrance, fascinate and beguile you, the reader.
Ladies, this is the premier division, no less, of new romance writing at work and play. So switch that fan on and start turning the pages. It’s going to be hot, hot, hot!
Sonia Florens
Susan Sizemore
Ginger was certain that there must have been a time when she found public fornication shocking. Now, crossing the courtyard between the baths and the sanctuary of the sacred spring, she barely glanced at the naked couple coupling on the altar at the centre. What the pair was doing was a sacred rite meant to please the gods. She did take a moment to glance their way and smile appreciatively, for the lad had a truly fine ass, the way his broad back narrowed down to his waist was truly a work of art. But the lust being shared out in the open did nothing to arouse her at the moment. Her attention was more on the upcoming meeting than on the pleasures of the flesh. Especially when those pleasures weren’t hers to share.
It was spring, festival time, and people were crowding in from all over the countryside of southern Britain. It was a joyful time for most people, but for those with knowledge of the darkness moving towards them it was also worrying.
As priestess of the spring, Ginger was deeply concerned that the Lord of Ched had called for his senior people to gather in the precinct where she presided. She already knew that the next few days were going to be very hard on her, and she was certain that her talent as a seeress was going to be called upon on this day when she was supposed to be resting up for the festival.
Lord Ched was there when she arrived. He was a big man going to fat, his grizzled hair cut short in the Roman manner. Despite being near fifty he was still handsome. It was obvious where his daughter Morga got her beauty. Morga was chosen of the Mother and she and the year king should have been here instead of outside worshipping on the altar. Ginger wondered at the exclusion, but it wasn’t a warning from her extrasensory perception that twisted her belly with apprehension. She hadn’t always been the priestess of the well. The machinations of power and politics were as much a part of her original world as science and psychic research. Travelling back in time hadn’t made life any simpler. Of course, back home she’d been more of an observer than a player. She was also well aware of the irony that the disaster of a time transfer gone wrong had turned her from the observer she was supposed to be into a person of importance in this time and place.
Not much importance, thank goodness. She wasn’t trying to change history – even if she wasn’t sure what the history was supposed to be. She was trying to survive in a dangerous, alien world where at least her psychic gift gave her a small edge. Well, a job to be more precise. She very rarely saw anything about her own future, but the seeress gig put a roof over her head, two meals a day and the protection of the most powerful person in the region. But all that could change soon if the invaders moved inland from their raids on the coast.
It seemed a certainty, really. Except that her recent visions had shown her fire and death, but no clear images of who the victors would be.
The steward of the manor followed Ginger into the sanctuary. After him came the harried-looking commander of the guard. The bishop visiting from Wales came inside as well. It was not a large space, though the entrance was wide and open to the courtyard. The four of them gathered around the tiled basin into which the waters of the sacred spring trickled from the back of the sanctuary. Ginger made up a quick prayer to the goddess of the water and to the new God of the cross and when she was done with the blessing they got down to business.
The guardsman did not wait for his lord to speak. “Can we make this quick? With the crowds coming in—”
“We need a new war leader,” Lord Ched said, cutting him off. He looked around the gathering, expression hard, daring them to argue. “Right now. This very day would be good. Do you want the job?” he demanded of the guardsman.
A scar ran over the empty socket of the guard’s left eye. He glanced towards the courtyard with his one good eye. They all followed his gaze. The couple was still busy on the altar. Morga’s thighs were wrapped tightly around the year king’s slender waist and the beautiful young man was pistoning away with hard, swift strokes. He was covered with a glowing sheen of sweat, his muscles bulging.
Damn, but that boy had stamina!
“He’s perfect,” the guard said. “How could I take his place?”
“He’s not perfect,” Lord Ched said. “He’s an idiot, a fool and a braggart. He pleases my daughter and her belly’s already swelling with a second brat, but he’s useless for anything but fucking.”
“In normal times that would be enough,” the steward spoke up. He rubbed his jaw, the tough stubble on his cheeks made scratching sounds. “I suppose we could go back to the old ways and sacrifice him come the Planting Ceremony instead of just letting the lads wrestle for rights to Morga this year. The gods might like that. The crowd certainly would.”
“Morga would not,” Ginger said.
“Nor would I,” added the bishop.
They were both ignored.
“Even if we return to the old ways,” the lord said. “We need someone to replace the year king first. Someone who can fight. Someone who can lead. I’m too old. Morga’s son is still with the wet nurse. Tradition dictates that the year king lead us into battle. A battle is coming, and that boy out there isn’t up to the job.”
All Ginger wanted was a little peace and quiet while trying to find a way home, but the invaders marching up from the coast weren’t likely to leave anyone in peace. Or even alive if the rumours of complete slaughter proved to be true. The whole point of returning to the Dark Ages was to find out what happened, but, on the other hand, she was stuck in the Dark Ages where she didn’t know what happened.
At least on a grand, historical scale. She was a board-certified psychic. But her gift only went so far, in certain directions, and after that she was as on her own as anyone else.
She found herself staring at the couple again. They were moaning and thrashing and happily rutting, unaware that the sacred pool was deciding their fate. She didn’t like the year king or bitchy, vain Morga for that matter, but she was struck with a sudden burst of compassion for them.
Her thoughts were interrupted quickly enough by Lord Ched. “What shall we do, priestess? Look into the water and tell us what the gods say.”
As she had suspected would happen all along, their fate was in her hands. Oh, she always tried to tell the truth of what she saw in water, but divination was one thing and politics was another. Right now it looked like she was going to have to find the right balance of both.
Ginger sighed, but didn’t argue about her duty. She owed the lord of the manor her life as well as understanding his concerns. His world was threatening to fall apart; the people he was sworn to protect were in danger. She gestured for the men to stand back and knelt by the pool. They moved with great alacrity, obviously delighted the decision was in her hands and not theirs. If things turned out wrong later they could always claim that the priestess read the signs incorrectly.
Ginger brushed away any bitterness, in fact she put the men out of her mind altogether with easy practice. She looked into the crystal-clear water, her awareness going far deeper than the eight-inch depth of the pool. As always, she was amazed at how quickly her perceptions attuned to the energies present at this energy nexus.
From a long way away she heard herself ask, “Question?”
From even farther away the lord’s voice came to her in an echoing whisper, “Who shall lead my people to war?”
Almost instantly a face appeared on the surface of the pool, though Ginger was aware she was the only one who could see it. A pair of piercing green eyes caught hers and she gasped, for she was certain that he could see her as clearly as she saw him. Nothing like this had ever happened before. “I see visions, I don’t make contact.”
“That’s not my fault, is it?” his rough, deep voice answered. “Who are you? Where are you?” he demanded.
His gaze ate her alive but all she could do was continue to stare. She wanted to fall into the vision, into him, wanted him to fall into her. She wanted him the way a woman wanted a man and her body burned with a sudden need. She wanted his hands on her, all over her, though she knew they would be calloused from years of sword work. She wanted his mouth hard on hers. She wanted his cock thrusting between her thighs. She wanted possession – and to take.
He was as handsome as any year king should be, but for a small scar on one cheek. He couldn’t be the man the lord wanted, then, for a year king must be perfect.
A crowd of men suddenly appeared behind the stranger’s wide shoulders. They were a rough and dangerous-looking lot, with travel-stained clothes and heavy packs.
“Mercenaries,” she said. He was their leader, the alpha among a pack of hungry wolves.
“Wolves mate for life,” he said, then shook his head hard. His words made no more sense to him than they did to her.
“What do you see?” Ched’s anxious voice came to her.
The question drew her away from the vision, but it was a sense of urgency that drew her to her feet. “He’s here,” she said. “Now. At the gate.”
“What did you say, sir?”
Bern felt the weight of Sergeant Kaye’s hand on his shoulder as the world came back into focus. “I hate it when that happens,” he muttered. He frowned, and the sergeant stepped back. “Was I just talking to somebody, Kaye?”
“You spoke,” Kaye answered. He glanced at the rest of the team, who were spread out across the road. “But you weren’t talking to any of us.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Bern’s rating on the psychic scale was a lowly little three, enough to get him transferred into the TTP’s security force but not high enough to really interfere with his leading a normal, sane life. Except sometimes he heard voices, or had a flash of intuition. He’d learned to listen to the voices and trust his gut feelings. He’d just had one of those flashes though he couldn’t remember the details – but it was an area lower down his gut that was demanding he pay attention.
“Something’s up,” he said. And in more ways than one.
He studied the lie of the land while he got the erection under control. It was spring, very close to the major seasonal fertility festival and the road they were on led to one of the holy sites scattered all over the southern part of the island. This particular temple to the local mother goddess was located on private property, and the pilgrims were camping out in cow pastures on either side of the road. The manor at the top of the hill had been built by a wealthy Roman colonist, but the local chieftain had taken over after the Romans abandoned all their foreign outposts a generation ago. Bern didn’t care about the festival, but it was a good cover for checking out the place.
His holo map pinpointed this as one of the nexus locations and, despite growing doubts that any of them were going provide enough energy to work, it was his duty to check it out. Finding the right door back to the future was only the second half of his assignment. The first part was search and rescue for the science team that had disappeared six months before his unit got the order to look for them. In his opinion it had been stupid to send the eggheads back in time without a whole team of sensible people to keep them out of trouble. The whole thing had been fucked from the get-go. This was the farthest back anyone had tried to travel, and to a time period very little was known about. It was no wonder everything had gone wrong – twice.
He gestured towards the crudely built wooden palisade surrounding the estate buildings. “Let’s go see if we can get a look at what’s inside.”
Ginger was used to the world around her going fuzzy and faded, but she realized a moment before she fainted that this time it was because she’d been holding her breath for far too long while standing behind the men waiting at the gate. When the gate opened, she simply blacked out, just as the man from her vision walked in. Their gazes met for a moment, and then everything went dark.
It was ridiculous, and she was so embarrassed that she scrunched her eyes tightly closed when she woke up, not wanting the person holding her to know that she’d come round. Those strong arms were his, weren’t they? Her head rested against a broad, hard chest, and warmth and male scent engulfed her. Awareness of him sent a wave of warmth through her, pooling deep in her belly. Her nipples stiffened, scraping against the cloth of her dress, and her breasts grew heavy.
“Oh, my,” she whispered. Without any volition, her hand came up to stroke his strong, stubbly jaw.
She could hear his heart rate pick up when she spoke, and the deep sound of his laugh rumbled through his chest. For a moment the arms around her tightened, pressing her body harder against him.
Bern liked the weight of the woman in his arms; the touch of the bare skin of her arms and the feel of the rest of her beneath her dress made him ache, made him remember how long it had been since he’d had a woman. It also made him thankful that women didn’t wear underwear in the Dark Ages. And this woman was a perfect fit against him. He liked the softness of her curly red hair tickling his neck and cheek. He wanted to bury his face in her thick hair, then follow the line of her throat all the way down to snuggle between the soft mounds of her breasts. He wanted—
Bern gave his head a stern shake. As stimulating as holding her was he didn’t know why he’d rushed into the courtyard and automatically scooped her up off the ground when she fell. They weren’t in the age of chivalry yet, and calling attention to himself and his men was stupid. Keeping a low profile was a matter of policy and survival among TTP teams. He had no idea who this woman was or what she meant to all the men staring at him. Though she did look familiar.
When she woke and spoke, he couldn’t help but laugh; it was a triumphant sound, knowing that she was as aware of him as he was of her.
Then Bern realized that the words he’d heard hadn’t been filtered through his translator implant: she’d spoken in English instead of the local lilting Celtic dialect. Now he knew who she was!
Her name was Virginia White, and though he’d never met her in the flesh he’d studied her holo image along with those of all the others on the missing team. Since he already held her, he was tempted to call for his men to cover his withdrawal and run back out the gate in order to ensure her safety now that he’d found her.
Since that wasn’t the smart way to play it, he put her down, letting her body slide slowly down his until her feet touched the ground. She was tall and willowy, her height another clue that she wasn’t from this time.
“You—” he began. But a hand landed on his shoulder and Bern whirled around, hand on sword. “What?” he demanded of the potbellied greybeard before him. The stranger wore a threadbare silk tunic. As silk was a luxury rare in these parts since the Roman withdrawal, Bern guessed this was the local chieftain. “My lord,” he added, with a polite nod.
The chieftain’s frown turned into an effusive smile. “You’re quick, I see. Good. Good.” He glanced towards the hand Bern still rested on the pommel of his sword. “Welcome to Ched,” he went on. “Come to worship at the well, have you? Come for the festival?”
Bern nodded. He was aware that Virginia White had moved back into the shadow of an arched doorway. He wanted nothing more than to follow her, but he had to stay in character and deal with the master of the estate first.
Bern brought out a small leather pouch, heavy with gold and handed it over. “Please accept this small gift, in honour of the goddess and your hospitality.”
The chieftain beamed, and glanced at Bern’s people – an obvious unit of soldiers that waited by the gate, alert for Bern’s orders. “Those are fine-looking lads you lead.”
“We come in peace for the festival,” Bern hastened to reassure the chieftain. He saw the speculative look in Ched’s eyes and smiled. “But afterwards, our swords are for hire if you are interested.”
He hoped that made him sound like a friendly and useful fellow to the chieftain, just in case his unit needed an excuse to stay on after the festival if he couldn’t find out what Virginia White was up to before then.
Lord Ched’s grin widened. He put his arm around Bern. “Join me for some wine. What’s your name, lad?” he asked as he led Bern into the main hall.
Ginger considered going back to her duties at the spring, but curiosity got the better of her. That, and an irresistible craving not to let the man who named himself Bern out of her sight, made her follow the men into the hall. For some reason being close to Bern made her feel as if she were not alone any more, and she needed the nearness after all these months. She knew very well that any attraction to this man was foolish, and not even because intimacy with an indigenous resident was against Project rules. If Lord Ched had his way this dangerous stranger would soon be sharing the bed of his daughter Morga. Jealousy ripped through Ginger at the thought of Morga eagerly spreading her legs for Bern’s cock, but she knew it would be for the best politically. They needed a warrior hero and Bern looked to have all the qualifications for the job.
And, Lordy, she liked how he looked, all tall, dark and handsome, with broad shoulders and big hands and the brightest, most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. There was an aura of steely danger around him that should have scared her to death, but sent fireworks shooting through her instead. He wore a knee-length tunic that left his legs bare, bits of leather body armour and a light woollen cape. Her fingers itched to pull off all those layers and thoroughly explore what she found underneath.
Ched sent for Morga, then settled down to explain his plan to Bern over cups of strong wine. Business was usually conducted once the menfolk were well on the way to being drunk.
Ginger stayed in the background to listen and watch, taking a seat among a group of women working on spinning and embroidery. The men were barely into their second libation to the goddess and not yet into proper drinking when Morga came flouncing in. At least she’s dressed, Ginger thought, for the priestess of the Mother frequently went around bare-breasted, and sometimes completely nude. Morga was beautiful, knew it and had no qualms about showing it, even if she wasn’t lying on her back on the holy altar.
I live like a nun, Ginger thought, and she gets to whoop it up anywhere, any time.
Until a few minutes ago this hadn’t bothered Ginger a bit, except for the missing sex part. Now she very nearly snarled as Morga caught sight of Bern and made a beeline to sit beside him.
“Daughter,” Lord Ched announced once the girl was snuggled up against Bern’s side, “meet your new husband.”
Morga bounded to her feet. So did Bern.
“What?” Morga screamed.
“What?” Bern echoed.
His voice was quite calm, but anger crackled off him. For some reason this dichotomy sent hot shivers through Ginger. And several of the older women gave each other knowing looks as well.
Morga gave Bern another once-over, and her lips curled in disdain. “I don’t mind a bit of flirting, but I like the husband I’ve got,” she told her father.
Lord Ched banged a fist on the table. “You’ll take the man I choose.”
“The goddess chose for me already.”
“Your year king has already reigned too long. When this warrior challenges, the younger man will lose. Be prepared for it – be prepared to do your duty by your father, your goddess and your people.” He gestured towards Bern. “Now, be a proper priestess and take this fine bear of a man off to the bath.”
“You sound like a Roman,” the girl complained. “But this land is Celt again. And I’ll do no such thing as bathe a stranger.” She looked around haughtily, and pointed to Ginger. “There’s a priestess who obeys you. Let her service this great bear of yours.”
And, with that pronouncement, she flounced back out again – leaving everyone staring at Ginger.
Bern’s initial impulse was to protest all this nonsense about marriage, and bathing with buxom young women, but he let it go when the girl suggested Virginia White as her replacement. It would be a good way to get White alone.
“Good idea!” he exclaimed, and stepped forwards to drag the missing TTP team member out of the crowd, his hand tight around her slender wrist. She looked at him with eyes wide with fright, and he had to fight off laughter as he caught an impression of her thinking about having a barbarian in her bathtub. He also noticed that she wasn’t completely opposed to the idea as warmth spread between them from where they touched.
Hmmm … maybe they could turn this ridiculous situation into a bit of mutual fun. He was sure he’d communicated his moment of thoughtless lust from the contact of skin against skin because he noticed how her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her dress.
“What are you waiting for, priestess?” the chieftain demanded. “Show the man the hospitality he deserves!”
“Come along,” Bern said, and dragged White along with him out of the hall.
Once out in the courtyard she got her voice back. “You’re in for a treat, warrior, for the Roman hypocaust is still working and the pool is deep, and hot. The baths draw as many visitors as the sacred spring, increasing the lord’s prestige and—”
“I’m not interested in a hot bath.”
She sniffed and wrinkled her pretty nose. “You should be.”
He laughed. “I guess I am a bit ripe from a few days on the road. My tunic could probably use burning, besides.”
“Where I come from that would be breaking a law against polluting the air.”
For a moment he’d let attraction get in the way of professionalism. This reminder that she was no local priestess brought Bern back to his duty. “Lead on to this bathhouse,” he growled.
Even with business uppermost in his mind, he couldn’t help but appreciate the fine, pert shape of her ass, or the feminine sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him. He feared his body was going to overwhelm his brain at any moment.
Ginger was aware of the rough soldier’s gaze. His intense energy devoured her and left her smouldering. She’d never been so instantly and dangerously attracted to a man before. All the recommendations about indigenous relations were overruled by the demands of her body. She didn’t think she’d be able to keep her hands off this guy. In fact, to keep up her cover as a priestess she didn’t have any choice but to scrape his naked body down with scented oil and rinse him off, now did she?
She grinned with anticipation as they entered the bath. But her grin was wiped away and replaced with a surge of fear an instant after they stepped into the room.
He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. At the same time he growled, “Out!” to the pair of waiting bath attendants. She heard the slap of their bare feet on the mosaic as they hurried out.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded the moment they were alone.
“Only what my lord order—” Then she realized. “You’re speaking English!”
On a burst of sheer relief she grabbed him and kissed him. It took only an instant for relief to flash into pure lust.
What was a man to do when a woman flung herself against him and soft lips pressed against his own? Bern didn’t care what anyone else might do when her hips ground enticingly against his. His cock took over the thinking for him and he grabbed her ass and pulled her closer. Her mouth was delicious, and his tongue delved possessively into the sweet warmth. Her breasts pushed against his chest and he brought a hand up to cup the soft roundness and stroked a thumb across the hard nipple he could feel beneath her dress. He’d never wanted anyone so much or so quickly. He picked her up and tossed her into the water, then took only a moment to unfasten his sword belt and toss off his leather armour before jumping in after her.
Though she was fully clothed the wet dress clung to her body and outlined her breasts and hips in a way Bern found utterly sexy. She shook her head, flinging water out of her thick red curls.
“People generally get undressed before bathing,” she said.
“And before sex, too.”
She laughed, and reached below the water to grab on to her soaked skirt. “Wet wool,” she muttered. “Now I smell like a sheep.” She gave him a leering once-over. “Does that make you a ram?”
She was holding the dress up around her thighs; he caught a glimpse of pale skin through the steaming water. “Don’t stop now,” he urged her. He wanted her naked.
She inched up the skirt some more and he caught a glimpse of springy, carrot-red curls at the juncture of milky pale thighs.
“Oh Lord,” he groaned as his cock stiffened further. He splashed through the waist-deep pool and grabbed her around the waist. “Don’t tease me, woman.”
She threw back her head and laughed, and he took the opportunity to kiss the base of her throat then run his tongue across the tops of her breasts.
“Help me,” she said. “This thing weighs a ton.”
It took him a moment to realize that she was talking about her wet dress, but once he caught on he grabbed a double handful of soaking wool and yanked, while she pulled and squirmed, and soon he had her as naked as he wanted her. The water gave her skin a translucent shine.
“You look like milk in moonlight,” he said. Then he remembered her name. White. “You look like your name, Dr Virginia White.”
“Ginger,” she answered instantly. “No one calls me Virgin – of course around here no one calls me Ginger, either.”
He ran his hands up and down her flanks, pausing to cup the weight of her breasts before continuing to stroke her waist and hips and the outside of her thighs. “What do they call you if not Virgin?”
She drew back, lifting her head haughtily, or as haughtily
In days of old, exemplified by the Golden Age of Mills & Boon and Harlequin, one of the great charms of romance stories was the sheer giddiness of the love stories they incorporated and the purity with which that love between male and female characters expressed itself. Few readers wanted to know more about what happened when the bedroom door closed and the happy ending reached its glorious conclusion. Things were better left to the imagination. Why spoil with unnecessary realism what was essentially a dream?
In recent years, as permissiveness has pervaded the society we live in, many fans now demand more grittiness in the stories they prefer to read. After all, we’ve long known about the birds and the bees, they feel, so why not find out more about the mysteries of love, once the mental epiphany has been reached and the time has rightly come for the heat and wonders of the flesh to manifest themselves in all their natural beauty? Which does not mean that there is anything wrong with the old style of romance where so much is left to the imagination; it is still here and available to all.
But for the readers in search of more modern material, with fewer euphemisms and added realism, the romance field has undergone a transformative tsunami. First of all, the bawdy world of the so-called bodice-rippers came into its own with shocking effect, both in a historical and contemporary context, soon followed within popular romance sub-genres by the fleshly romps of Native American romances with their ripple-chested Indian braves so often conquering the hearts and bodies of our heroines. And on and on. In the last decade, with the advent of supernatural and urban romances, realism has been at even more of a premium. After all, when vampires or werewolves bite, is it not a metaphor for sexual activity to say the least, and how could writers leave one crucial element in the equation out whilst delving on the other?
Fantasy? Wish fulfilment? Daydream? It’s not for me to judge, but the fact that a frank and open manifestation of sexuality is now an essential component of romance writing is, I feel, a reason to rejoice, as it makes the literary genre we all cherish so much more relevant, and not as easy to be dismissed any longer as mere minor and derivative entertainment divorced from everyday reality.
Yes, many of the stories I’ve assembled here from the crème de la crème of modern romance authors, who were given a free hand to come up with fiercely hot stories involving human beings of flesh and blood and feelings, are explicit in their dealings with sexuality. But they have all come up trumps with torrid tales that will entrance, fascinate and beguile you, the reader.
Ladies, this is the premier division, no less, of new romance writing at work and play. So switch that fan on and start turning the pages. It’s going to be hot, hot, hot!
Sonia Florens
Susan Sizemore
Ginger was certain that there must have been a time when she found public fornication shocking. Now, crossing the courtyard between the baths and the sanctuary of the sacred spring, she barely glanced at the naked couple coupling on the altar at the centre. What the pair was doing was a sacred rite meant to please the gods. She did take a moment to glance their way and smile appreciatively, for the lad had a truly fine ass, the way his broad back narrowed down to his waist was truly a work of art. But the lust being shared out in the open did nothing to arouse her at the moment. Her attention was more on the upcoming meeting than on the pleasures of the flesh. Especially when those pleasures weren’t hers to share.
It was spring, festival time, and people were crowding in from all over the countryside of southern Britain. It was a joyful time for most people, but for those with knowledge of the darkness moving towards them it was also worrying.
As priestess of the spring, Ginger was deeply concerned that the Lord of Ched had called for his senior people to gather in the precinct where she presided. She already knew that the next few days were going to be very hard on her, and she was certain that her talent as a seeress was going to be called upon on this day when she was supposed to be resting up for the festival.
Lord Ched was there when she arrived. He was a big man going to fat, his grizzled hair cut short in the Roman manner. Despite being near fifty he was still handsome. It was obvious where his daughter Morga got her beauty. Morga was chosen of the Mother and she and the year king should have been here instead of outside worshipping on the altar. Ginger wondered at the exclusion, but it wasn’t a warning from her extrasensory perception that twisted her belly with apprehension. She hadn’t always been the priestess of the well. The machinations of power and politics were as much a part of her original world as science and psychic research. Travelling back in time hadn’t made life any simpler. Of course, back home she’d been more of an observer than a player. She was also well aware of the irony that the disaster of a time transfer gone wrong had turned her from the observer she was supposed to be into a person of importance in this time and place.
Not much importance, thank goodness. She wasn’t trying to change history – even if she wasn’t sure what the history was supposed to be. She was trying to survive in a dangerous, alien world where at least her psychic gift gave her a small edge. Well, a job to be more precise. She very rarely saw anything about her own future, but the seeress gig put a roof over her head, two meals a day and the protection of the most powerful person in the region. But all that could change soon if the invaders moved inland from their raids on the coast.
It seemed a certainty, really. Except that her recent visions had shown her fire and death, but no clear images of who the victors would be.
The steward of the manor followed Ginger into the sanctuary. After him came the harried-looking commander of the guard. The bishop visiting from Wales came inside as well. It was not a large space, though the entrance was wide and open to the courtyard. The four of them gathered around the tiled basin into which the waters of the sacred spring trickled from the back of the sanctuary. Ginger made up a quick prayer to the goddess of the water and to the new God of the cross and when she was done with the blessing they got down to business.
The guardsman did not wait for his lord to speak. “Can we make this quick? With the crowds coming in—”
“We need a new war leader,” Lord Ched said, cutting him off. He looked around the gathering, expression hard, daring them to argue. “Right now. This very day would be good. Do you want the job?” he demanded of the guardsman.
A scar ran over the empty socket of the guard’s left eye. He glanced towards the courtyard with his one good eye. They all followed his gaze. The couple was still busy on the altar. Morga’s thighs were wrapped tightly around the year king’s slender waist and the beautiful young man was pistoning away with hard, swift strokes. He was covered with a glowing sheen of sweat, his muscles bulging.
Damn, but that boy had stamina!
“He’s perfect,” the guard said. “How could I take his place?”
“He’s not perfect,” Lord Ched said. “He’s an idiot, a fool and a braggart. He pleases my daughter and her belly’s already swelling with a second brat, but he’s useless for anything but fucking.”
“In normal times that would be enough,” the steward spoke up. He rubbed his jaw, the tough stubble on his cheeks made scratching sounds. “I suppose we could go back to the old ways and sacrifice him come the Planting Ceremony instead of just letting the lads wrestle for rights to Morga this year. The gods might like that. The crowd certainly would.”
“Morga would not,” Ginger said.
“Nor would I,” added the bishop.
They were both ignored.
“Even if we return to the old ways,” the lord said. “We need someone to replace the year king first. Someone who can fight. Someone who can lead. I’m too old. Morga’s son is still with the wet nurse. Tradition dictates that the year king lead us into battle. A battle is coming, and that boy out there isn’t up to the job.”
All Ginger wanted was a little peace and quiet while trying to find a way home, but the invaders marching up from the coast weren’t likely to leave anyone in peace. Or even alive if the rumours of complete slaughter proved to be true. The whole point of returning to the Dark Ages was to find out what happened, but, on the other hand, she was stuck in the Dark Ages where she didn’t know what happened.
At least on a grand, historical scale. She was a board-certified psychic. But her gift only went so far, in certain directions, and after that she was as on her own as anyone else.
She found herself staring at the couple again. They were moaning and thrashing and happily rutting, unaware that the sacred pool was deciding their fate. She didn’t like the year king or bitchy, vain Morga for that matter, but she was struck with a sudden burst of compassion for them.
Her thoughts were interrupted quickly enough by Lord Ched. “What shall we do, priestess? Look into the water and tell us what the gods say.”
As she had suspected would happen all along, their fate was in her hands. Oh, she always tried to tell the truth of what she saw in water, but divination was one thing and politics was another. Right now it looked like she was going to have to find the right balance of both.
Ginger sighed, but didn’t argue about her duty. She owed the lord of the manor her life as well as understanding his concerns. His world was threatening to fall apart; the people he was sworn to protect were in danger. She gestured for the men to stand back and knelt by the pool. They moved with great alacrity, obviously delighted the decision was in her hands and not theirs. If things turned out wrong later they could always claim that the priestess read the signs incorrectly.
Ginger brushed away any bitterness, in fact she put the men out of her mind altogether with easy practice. She looked into the crystal-clear water, her awareness going far deeper than the eight-inch depth of the pool. As always, she was amazed at how quickly her perceptions attuned to the energies present at this energy nexus.
From a long way away she heard herself ask, “Question?”
From even farther away the lord’s voice came to her in an echoing whisper, “Who shall lead my people to war?”
Almost instantly a face appeared on the surface of the pool, though Ginger was aware she was the only one who could see it. A pair of piercing green eyes caught hers and she gasped, for she was certain that he could see her as clearly as she saw him. Nothing like this had ever happened before. “I see visions, I don’t make contact.”
“That’s not my fault, is it?” his rough, deep voice answered. “Who are you? Where are you?” he demanded.
His gaze ate her alive but all she could do was continue to stare. She wanted to fall into the vision, into him, wanted him to fall into her. She wanted him the way a woman wanted a man and her body burned with a sudden need. She wanted his hands on her, all over her, though she knew they would be calloused from years of sword work. She wanted his mouth hard on hers. She wanted his cock thrusting between her thighs. She wanted possession – and to take.
He was as handsome as any year king should be, but for a small scar on one cheek. He couldn’t be the man the lord wanted, then, for a year king must be perfect.
A crowd of men suddenly appeared behind the stranger’s wide shoulders. They were a rough and dangerous-looking lot, with travel-stained clothes and heavy packs.
“Mercenaries,” she said. He was their leader, the alpha among a pack of hungry wolves.
“Wolves mate for life,” he said, then shook his head hard. His words made no more sense to him than they did to her.
“What do you see?” Ched’s anxious voice came to her.
The question drew her away from the vision, but it was a sense of urgency that drew her to her feet. “He’s here,” she said. “Now. At the gate.”
“What did you say, sir?”
Bern felt the weight of Sergeant Kaye’s hand on his shoulder as the world came back into focus. “I hate it when that happens,” he muttered. He frowned, and the sergeant stepped back. “Was I just talking to somebody, Kaye?”
“You spoke,” Kaye answered. He glanced at the rest of the team, who were spread out across the road. “But you weren’t talking to any of us.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Bern’s rating on the psychic scale was a lowly little three, enough to get him transferred into the TTP’s security force but not high enough to really interfere with his leading a normal, sane life. Except sometimes he heard voices, or had a flash of intuition. He’d learned to listen to the voices and trust his gut feelings. He’d just had one of those flashes though he couldn’t remember the details – but it was an area lower down his gut that was demanding he pay attention.
“Something’s up,” he said. And in more ways than one.
He studied the lie of the land while he got the erection under control. It was spring, very close to the major seasonal fertility festival and the road they were on led to one of the holy sites scattered all over the southern part of the island. This particular temple to the local mother goddess was located on private property, and the pilgrims were camping out in cow pastures on either side of the road. The manor at the top of the hill had been built by a wealthy Roman colonist, but the local chieftain had taken over after the Romans abandoned all their foreign outposts a generation ago. Bern didn’t care about the festival, but it was a good cover for checking out the place.
His holo map pinpointed this as one of the nexus locations and, despite growing doubts that any of them were going provide enough energy to work, it was his duty to check it out. Finding the right door back to the future was only the second half of his assignment. The first part was search and rescue for the science team that had disappeared six months before his unit got the order to look for them. In his opinion it had been stupid to send the eggheads back in time without a whole team of sensible people to keep them out of trouble. The whole thing had been fucked from the get-go. This was the farthest back anyone had tried to travel, and to a time period very little was known about. It was no wonder everything had gone wrong – twice.
He gestured towards the crudely built wooden palisade surrounding the estate buildings. “Let’s go see if we can get a look at what’s inside.”
Ginger was used to the world around her going fuzzy and faded, but she realized a moment before she fainted that this time it was because she’d been holding her breath for far too long while standing behind the men waiting at the gate. When the gate opened, she simply blacked out, just as the man from her vision walked in. Their gazes met for a moment, and then everything went dark.
It was ridiculous, and she was so embarrassed that she scrunched her eyes tightly closed when she woke up, not wanting the person holding her to know that she’d come round. Those strong arms were his, weren’t they? Her head rested against a broad, hard chest, and warmth and male scent engulfed her. Awareness of him sent a wave of warmth through her, pooling deep in her belly. Her nipples stiffened, scraping against the cloth of her dress, and her breasts grew heavy.
“Oh, my,” she whispered. Without any volition, her hand came up to stroke his strong, stubbly jaw.
She could hear his heart rate pick up when she spoke, and the deep sound of his laugh rumbled through his chest. For a moment the arms around her tightened, pressing her body harder against him.
Bern liked the weight of the woman in his arms; the touch of the bare skin of her arms and the feel of the rest of her beneath her dress made him ache, made him remember how long it had been since he’d had a woman. It also made him thankful that women didn’t wear underwear in the Dark Ages. And this woman was a perfect fit against him. He liked the softness of her curly red hair tickling his neck and cheek. He wanted to bury his face in her thick hair, then follow the line of her throat all the way down to snuggle between the soft mounds of her breasts. He wanted—
Bern gave his head a stern shake. As stimulating as holding her was he didn’t know why he’d rushed into the courtyard and automatically scooped her up off the ground when she fell. They weren’t in the age of chivalry yet, and calling attention to himself and his men was stupid. Keeping a low profile was a matter of policy and survival among TTP teams. He had no idea who this woman was or what she meant to all the men staring at him. Though she did look familiar.
When she woke and spoke, he couldn’t help but laugh; it was a triumphant sound, knowing that she was as aware of him as he was of her.
Then Bern realized that the words he’d heard hadn’t been filtered through his translator implant: she’d spoken in English instead of the local lilting Celtic dialect. Now he knew who she was!
Her name was Virginia White, and though he’d never met her in the flesh he’d studied her holo image along with those of all the others on the missing team. Since he already held her, he was tempted to call for his men to cover his withdrawal and run back out the gate in order to ensure her safety now that he’d found her.
Since that wasn’t the smart way to play it, he put her down, letting her body slide slowly down his until her feet touched the ground. She was tall and willowy, her height another clue that she wasn’t from this time.
“You—” he began. But a hand landed on his shoulder and Bern whirled around, hand on sword. “What?” he demanded of the potbellied greybeard before him. The stranger wore a threadbare silk tunic. As silk was a luxury rare in these parts since the Roman withdrawal, Bern guessed this was the local chieftain. “My lord,” he added, with a polite nod.
The chieftain’s frown turned into an effusive smile. “You’re quick, I see. Good. Good.” He glanced towards the hand Bern still rested on the pommel of his sword. “Welcome to Ched,” he went on. “Come to worship at the well, have you? Come for the festival?”
Bern nodded. He was aware that Virginia White had moved back into the shadow of an arched doorway. He wanted nothing more than to follow her, but he had to stay in character and deal with the master of the estate first.
Bern brought out a small leather pouch, heavy with gold and handed it over. “Please accept this small gift, in honour of the goddess and your hospitality.”
The chieftain beamed, and glanced at Bern’s people – an obvious unit of soldiers that waited by the gate, alert for Bern’s orders. “Those are fine-looking lads you lead.”
“We come in peace for the festival,” Bern hastened to reassure the chieftain. He saw the speculative look in Ched’s eyes and smiled. “But afterwards, our swords are for hire if you are interested.”
He hoped that made him sound like a friendly and useful fellow to the chieftain, just in case his unit needed an excuse to stay on after the festival if he couldn’t find out what Virginia White was up to before then.
Lord Ched’s grin widened. He put his arm around Bern. “Join me for some wine. What’s your name, lad?” he asked as he led Bern into the main hall.
Ginger considered going back to her duties at the spring, but curiosity got the better of her. That, and an irresistible craving not to let the man who named himself Bern out of her sight, made her follow the men into the hall. For some reason being close to Bern made her feel as if she were not alone any more, and she needed the nearness after all these months. She knew very well that any attraction to this man was foolish, and not even because intimacy with an indigenous resident was against Project rules. If Lord Ched had his way this dangerous stranger would soon be sharing the bed of his daughter Morga. Jealousy ripped through Ginger at the thought of Morga eagerly spreading her legs for Bern’s cock, but she knew it would be for the best politically. They needed a warrior hero and Bern looked to have all the qualifications for the job.
And, Lordy, she liked how he looked, all tall, dark and handsome, with broad shoulders and big hands and the brightest, most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen. There was an aura of steely danger around him that should have scared her to death, but sent fireworks shooting through her instead. He wore a knee-length tunic that left his legs bare, bits of leather body armour and a light woollen cape. Her fingers itched to pull off all those layers and thoroughly explore what she found underneath.
Ched sent for Morga, then settled down to explain his plan to Bern over cups of strong wine. Business was usually conducted once the menfolk were well on the way to being drunk.
Ginger stayed in the background to listen and watch, taking a seat among a group of women working on spinning and embroidery. The men were barely into their second libation to the goddess and not yet into proper drinking when Morga came flouncing in. At least she’s dressed, Ginger thought, for the priestess of the Mother frequently went around bare-breasted, and sometimes completely nude. Morga was beautiful, knew it and had no qualms about showing it, even if she wasn’t lying on her back on the holy altar.
I live like a nun, Ginger thought, and she gets to whoop it up anywhere, any time.
Until a few minutes ago this hadn’t bothered Ginger a bit, except for the missing sex part. Now she very nearly snarled as Morga caught sight of Bern and made a beeline to sit beside him.
“Daughter,” Lord Ched announced once the girl was snuggled up against Bern’s side, “meet your new husband.”
Morga bounded to her feet. So did Bern.
“What?” Morga screamed.
“What?” Bern echoed.
His voice was quite calm, but anger crackled off him. For some reason this dichotomy sent hot shivers through Ginger. And several of the older women gave each other knowing looks as well.
Morga gave Bern another once-over, and her lips curled in disdain. “I don’t mind a bit of flirting, but I like the husband I’ve got,” she told her father.
Lord Ched banged a fist on the table. “You’ll take the man I choose.”
“The goddess chose for me already.”
“Your year king has already reigned too long. When this warrior challenges, the younger man will lose. Be prepared for it – be prepared to do your duty by your father, your goddess and your people.” He gestured towards Bern. “Now, be a proper priestess and take this fine bear of a man off to the bath.”
“You sound like a Roman,” the girl complained. “But this land is Celt again. And I’ll do no such thing as bathe a stranger.” She looked around haughtily, and pointed to Ginger. “There’s a priestess who obeys you. Let her service this great bear of yours.”
And, with that pronouncement, she flounced back out again – leaving everyone staring at Ginger.
Bern’s initial impulse was to protest all this nonsense about marriage, and bathing with buxom young women, but he let it go when the girl suggested Virginia White as her replacement. It would be a good way to get White alone.
“Good idea!” he exclaimed, and stepped forwards to drag the missing TTP team member out of the crowd, his hand tight around her slender wrist. She looked at him with eyes wide with fright, and he had to fight off laughter as he caught an impression of her thinking about having a barbarian in her bathtub. He also noticed that she wasn’t completely opposed to the idea as warmth spread between them from where they touched.
Hmmm … maybe they could turn this ridiculous situation into a bit of mutual fun. He was sure he’d communicated his moment of thoughtless lust from the contact of skin against skin because he noticed how her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her dress.
“What are you waiting for, priestess?” the chieftain demanded. “Show the man the hospitality he deserves!”
“Come along,” Bern said, and dragged White along with him out of the hall.
Once out in the courtyard she got her voice back. “You’re in for a treat, warrior, for the Roman hypocaust is still working and the pool is deep, and hot. The baths draw as many visitors as the sacred spring, increasing the lord’s prestige and—”
“I’m not interested in a hot bath.”
She sniffed and wrinkled her pretty nose. “You should be.”
He laughed. “I guess I am a bit ripe from a few days on the road. My tunic could probably use burning, besides.”
“Where I come from that would be breaking a law against polluting the air.”
For a moment he’d let attraction get in the way of professionalism. This reminder that she was no local priestess brought Bern back to his duty. “Lead on to this bathhouse,” he growled.
Even with business uppermost in his mind, he couldn’t help but appreciate the fine, pert shape of her ass, or the feminine sway of her hips as she walked ahead of him. He feared his body was going to overwhelm his brain at any moment.
Ginger was aware of the rough soldier’s gaze. His intense energy devoured her and left her smouldering. She’d never been so instantly and dangerously attracted to a man before. All the recommendations about indigenous relations were overruled by the demands of her body. She didn’t think she’d be able to keep her hands off this guy. In fact, to keep up her cover as a priestess she didn’t have any choice but to scrape his naked body down with scented oil and rinse him off, now did she?
She grinned with anticipation as they entered the bath. But her grin was wiped away and replaced with a surge of fear an instant after they stepped into the room.
He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. At the same time he growled, “Out!” to the pair of waiting bath attendants. She heard the slap of their bare feet on the mosaic as they hurried out.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded the moment they were alone.
“Only what my lord order—” Then she realized. “You’re speaking English!”
On a burst of sheer relief she grabbed him and kissed him. It took only an instant for relief to flash into pure lust.
What was a man to do when a woman flung herself against him and soft lips pressed against his own? Bern didn’t care what anyone else might do when her hips ground enticingly against his. His cock took over the thinking for him and he grabbed her ass and pulled her closer. Her mouth was delicious, and his tongue delved possessively into the sweet warmth. Her breasts pushed against his chest and he brought a hand up to cup the soft roundness and stroked a thumb across the hard nipple he could feel beneath her dress. He’d never wanted anyone so much or so quickly. He picked her up and tossed her into the water, then took only a moment to unfasten his sword belt and toss off his leather armour before jumping in after her.
Though she was fully clothed the wet dress clung to her body and outlined her breasts and hips in a way Bern found utterly sexy. She shook her head, flinging water out of her thick red curls.
“People generally get undressed before bathing,” she said.
“And before sex, too.”
She laughed, and reached below the water to grab on to her soaked skirt. “Wet wool,” she muttered. “Now I smell like a sheep.” She gave him a leering once-over. “Does that make you a ram?”
She was holding the dress up around her thighs; he caught a glimpse of pale skin through the steaming water. “Don’t stop now,” he urged her. He wanted her naked.
She inched up the skirt some more and he caught a glimpse of springy, carrot-red curls at the juncture of milky pale thighs.
“Oh Lord,” he groaned as his cock stiffened further. He splashed through the waist-deep pool and grabbed her around the waist. “Don’t tease me, woman.”
She threw back her head and laughed, and he took the opportunity to kiss the base of her throat then run his tongue across the tops of her breasts.
“Help me,” she said. “This thing weighs a ton.”
It took him a moment to realize that she was talking about her wet dress, but once he caught on he grabbed a double handful of soaking wool and yanked, while she pulled and squirmed, and soon he had her as naked as he wanted her. The water gave her skin a translucent shine.
“You look like milk in moonlight,” he said. Then he remembered her name. White. “You look like your name, Dr Virginia White.”
“Ginger,” she answered instantly. “No one calls me Virgin – of course around here no one calls me Ginger, either.”
He ran his hands up and down her flanks, pausing to cup the weight of her breasts before continuing to stroke her waist and hips and the outside of her thighs. “What do they call you if not Virgin?”
She drew back, lifting her head haughtily, or as haughtily
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The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance
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