For fans of the romance genre, variety can be hard to come by. Luckily, Cleis Press has committed itself to offering a diverse, exciting and stimulating cornucopia of romantic fiction. From wild west rendezvous  to paranormal encounters to  simple date nights that take on decidedly lusty edges, the stories found within the bountiful Cleis library cover every romantic daydream that could run through a reader’s mind.

As part  of the Cleis Romance Extravaganza, we’re offering one lucky reader the opportunity to win copies of Cowboy Heat, Best Erotica Romance 2014, and Duty and Desire. To enter, RT the phrase below, like Cleis Press on Facebook, follow Cleis Press on Twitter, or sign-up for our newsletter.

To whet your appetite, we would love to share with you some of the sweet, sexy and passionate stories that you’ll find within the pages of all three celebrated collections.

 

A widowed ranch owner finds herself in the passionate embrace of the local marshal in Emma Jay’s “Mrs. Morgan and the Marshal”, which can be found in bestselling author and editor Delilah Devlin’s ode to romantic western fiction, Cowboy Heat:

 

He tugged her into his apartment over the office, closed the door and latched it in a flurry of movements before he turned to her and loosened her bonnet. He pushed it back from her face so it tumbled to the floor, and curved his hand over her cheek.

“It’s been too long,” he said softly, and covered her mouth with his.

She bowed into the heat, into the strength of him. She curled her fingers into his shoulders, those broad shoulders she loved to hold. He hadn’t shaved, and the prickles of his beard scratched her lips. Instead of pulling back, she pressed closer, parting her lips, welcoming his tongue.

She loved the taste of him, coffee and whiskey and male, loved the slide of his tongue along hers, the intimacy of it. He was skilled at kissing, her marshal, his tongue clever in its knowledge of her mouth, knowing if he touched her there her nipples would ache, and her sex—he called it her pussy, but she had trouble even thinking the word—would grow hot and damp. She could stand here and kiss him all day, savoring the roughness of his unshaven flesh against her tender skin.

He reached between them as he kissed her, and unfastened her bodice, starting at the bottom. She held her breath as if that would help him, but that made kissing difficult.

Her husband had never undressed her, had always waited in the bed for her to join him. They’d never kissed outside of bed, had never touched, not even in the most casual of ways. That her marshal seemed to delight in it delighted her. She stepped back just a bit to let him push the stiff fabric of her bodice off her shoulders, then he closed his hands around her corseted waist. He didn’t kiss her again right away, just looked at the way his fingers circled her, almost touching, his hands rough against the silky fabric.

“You don’t need this,” he murmured in that rough drawl of his.

“Proper ladies wear them whether they need them or not.”

His gaze flicked to hers, brown eyes amused. “Is there a proper lady I don’t know about under all those clothes?”

She blushed and took a step backward, but he hauled her against him. She’d tried to resist, she had. But one look from him and she lost all sense of propriety, needing only to be in his arms, held by him.

 

A wife decides to show her husband the wild style of her youth during a date night in Emerald’s “Rules”, from Kristina Wright’s Best Erotic Romance 2014:

 

Pete put his arm around her, and Joyce clacked with him across the shiny floor to the elevators. The sound level in the lobby had gradually risen, though Joyce didn’t doubt at this point that some of the voices they heard were murmuring about them. What a very odd society they lived in. Was it that big of a deal if someone wanted to dress differently from the standard nine-to-five cookie-cutter bullshit in this city? As for the whore perception, who gave a shit if she was taking Pete upstairs to fuck him for money? What business was it of theirs?

Joyce felt a slither of the rebellious anger she’d experienced almost constantly in her teenage years. The familiarity was noticeable even as it was tempered—or perhaps complemented—by the fifteen years of life she’d lived between then and now. She was surprised to realize she hadn’t felt that energy for a long time. It added something—potency? passion?—to her immediate experience as they reached the elevator bank. It was what made her untie her coat and shrug out of it as they stood waiting for one to arrive. Calmly she folded her coat over one arm, unsure if the noise level had just lowered a notch again or if it was only her imagination.

An elevator arrived, and they stepped into it. They were alone.

“Jeez, I forgot the kind of reaction wearing this in public might get.” Joyce did her best to keep her voice light as the doors closed behind them.

Pete chuckled. “It would be nice to think people had better things to do than worry about what other people are wearing,” he agreed, his eyes on the numbers above the door as they beeped with each ascension.

Joyce smiled and moved to hold his hand. He stiffened slightly, and she stopped. “What’s the matter?” For a second she feared the public’s reaction had reached her husband, that he was suddenly looking at her like they had. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” She blurted the words before she could stop herself.

Pete’s chuckle turned to a guffaw. With another glance at the numbers, he turned fully toward her, and Joyce felt the heat emanating from his body as he seemed to move closer without taking a step. Joyce fell back a pace at the influx of intensity.

“No, I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you. I’m a little jumpy because you look so fucking hot that I feel like a teenager about to blow a load in my pants just looking at you, and I want to fuck you up against the wall of this elevator right now. Feeling any part of you touch any part of me isn’t helping the restraint it’s taking not to do that. So what anybody downstairs thought about you or me or the stock market in Asia is just about the farthest thing from my mind right now.”

Joyce’s jaw dropped. She had never heard Pete talk quite that way before—nor had she heard the tone of voice with which he had said it. The energy she’d felt in the lobby came flooding back—a mix of arousal, self-possession, power and freedom. It was a way she was unused to feeling in the last decade, and for a second she was almost light-headed.

 

With her husband on leave, a wife fantasizes about their reunion in Michelle Augell-Page’s “Home”, found in Kristina Wright’s military romance collection Duty and Desire: 

 

The way he will, I think, opening my robe, when he comes home… in his crisp dress blues with the shiny buttons, matched by the shining sloe black of his shoes. I love how he looks in full uniform, so strong and masculine, heroic. His body is toned and fit, and the uniform accentuates his broad shoulders and long legs. Every step he takes is purposeful, self-assured, confident. His smile could light a room.

I imagine him home. I kneel before him, struck by his stature, and slowly undress him. First his shoes, then his socks. I would wash his feet with my tears and dry them with my hair. I want to kiss his ankles, his toes, the arch and ball of each foot; I want to kiss the places he touches the ground.

Working my way upward, I unfasten his belt, pull it through the loop and offer it to him. He smiles and gently swats my ass with the leather strap. We laugh and I remove his pants, then his jacket, shirt and tie. I look into his eyes, no longer laughing, as he loops the belt around my waist, pulling me toward him so he can kiss me. His tongue dances across my lips, in my mouth, and I feel the hardness of his erection pressing hot against my body.

He drops the belt and touches my breasts with his strong, capable hands. My nipples harden, begging to be kissed, pinched, sucked. I want him so much. He wants to take his time. He’s teasing me, running his fingers lightly over my skin. I giggle and laugh, I’m so ticklish I jump. He touches me harder and a moan escapes from somewhere inside me. I am light-headed, filled with want.

“I want you to please me,” he says.

It is a command. He knows I love it when he takes control. The familiar response reaches my lips as a flush of heat rushes across my body.

“Yes, sir.”

 

Good luck!

 

 

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