eBook Details

Rumpled Silk Sheets: Lesbian Fairy Tales

By: Jean Roberta | Other books by Jean Roberta
      EM Lynley | Other books by EM Lynley
      Shanna Germain | Other books by Shanna Germain
      Michael Jones | Other books by Michael Jones
      Kilt Kilpatrick | Other books by Kilt Kilpatrick
      Sunny Moraine | Other books by Sunny Moraine
      G.G. Royale | Other books by G.G. Royale
      Vivica Lace | Other books by Vivica Lace
      Kenzie Mathews | Other books by Kenzie Mathews
Published By: Ravenous Romance
Published: Dec 02, 2010
ISBN # 9781607773726
Word Count: 50,000
Heat Index      
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EligiblePrice: $2.99

Available in: Epub, Adobe Acrobat, Mobipocket (.prc)

Categories: Romance>Anthology/Bundle Romance>GLBT>Lesbian Romance>Erotic Romance

Description
Rumpled Silk Sheets offers everything you expect in a fairy tale and in an erotic romance. These talented authors have taken some familiar tales-and a few not so familiar-in new and incredible directions.

Ride the desert sands with a girl who encounters a sexy incarnation of the Egyptian cat goddess Bastet and a Japanese maid who helps free her mistress from the human body trapping her heavenly spirit. We haven't forgotten the witches and wolves, but you'll also meet a Snow Bear whose gruff exterior hides a secret only a scared girl can unlock. Like a little pain with your pleasure? Then meet a delicate princess who longs for a lost lover's firm touch instead of a traditional marriage that leaves her unmarked and unsatisfied.

Princess of Silk and Pain by Shanna Germain

Handsome and Gretel by Kilt Kilpatrick

The Art of Storm-Riding by Sunny Moraine

Red in the Hood by Vivica Lace

Hannah and the Witch by Michael Jones

Snow by Kenzie Mathews

The White Bride by G.G. Royale

Madame Blanche by Jean Roberta
 
Reader Rating:  starstarstarstarstar (1 Ratings)
Sensuality Rating:   lipliplipliplip
Excerpt:
What do you think of when you hear the words "fairy tales"? If you're anything like me, you're expecting to be thrust into a world that at first may appear like ours, but soon turns out to be anything but. In fact, much of the appeal of fairy tales is the having the most unexpected things happen. We love to be frightened, or surprised, even bewildered, but at the end, most of us want everything put right, so our protagonists get their happily ever after. When we can't always control our own worlds and outcomes, we may find the perfect ending in what we choose to read.

What makes Rumpled Silk Sheets special? While you will find some more traditional Grimm-style tales, get ready for a journey off the beaten path. Ride the desert sands with a girl who encounters a sexy incarnation of the Egyptian cat goddess Bastet and a Japanese maid who helps free her mistress from the human body trapping her heavenly spirit. We haven't forgotten the witches and wolves, but you'll also meet a Snow Bear whose gruff exterior hides a secret only a scared girl can unlock. Like a little pain with your pleasure? Then meet a delicate princess who longs for a lost lover's firm touch instead of a traditional marriage that leaves her unmarked and unsatisfied.

This collection of tales should be everything you expect in a fairy tale, and in an erotic romance and more. Nine talented authors have taken some familiar tales–and a few not so familiar–in new and incredible directions. These heroines refuse to live within the boundaries and constraints their fathers, kings or society have placed on them. As they discover themselves they decide how they want to live, love and be loved.

So join me on the rumpled silk sheets for fantastical journeys you won't soon forget.

EM Lynley
October 2010


The Art of Storm-Riding
by Sunny Moraine

They tell stories of Badra, daughter of the sheikh, rider of the desert night. They tell stories of her in hushed tones, for Badra is wild. Badra is a sandstorm in a flying veil, Badra is a swooping kestrel with cruel claws; and Badra snares the hearts of men for her food, though it is said that Badra will have no man at all. Her father cannot tame her; no one shall tame her. But Badra does not sleep alone.
* * * *
She was still miles from the camp of her family, her bayt, when the storm came. There was no seeking shelter; for there was no shelter to seek. She turned to face the roiling cloud mass, and screamed and laughed like a mad thing as it howled around her. Storms had never frightened her, and she knew that, at first, the others in her bayt had said she was a child with no sense. Later they’d said she was a girl possessed of a mad jinni, and so was mad herself. Last they’d said that she was merely Badra, wild Badra, and what else could be said about it?
She liked when they said that. So she laughed at the storm, reared her horse, and rode through the flying sands. Yes, she might die. What of that? She pulled her veil more tightly around her face.
Let the birds have me when I am done, and I’ll fly with them on the thermals.
She saw a light, suddenly and shockingly clear, and she made for it with crazy, stumbling speed. The horse’s flanks became damp with sweat and gritty with sand. It was the bayt, perhaps, and if so, she would receive only a scolding from her father for having ridden too far and too long during the heavy, sudden storms. That she could bear well enough. She had received many such scoldings—about fighting with her brothers, about taking more than her share of the water, about taking the horses without leave and, lately, about her refusal to assent to any marriage proposed to her. One more scolding couldn’t possibly make any difference.
But it was not the lights of the compound of her bayt that lay ahead.
There were many lights rather than the two or three lanterns she had expected to see, and in the midst of the storm, with the sand stinging her exposed skin and the horse gasping beneath her, she reined to a stop and stared. Her lips moved beneath her veil in a silent oath.
She had been more than once to the city with her bayt to trade. She had looked around in mingled shock and scorn at the people who lived in such static luxury, who made their houses out of brick and stone, and stayed in one place from nightfall to nightfall. The buildings had caught her attention with their solidity, their inflexibility, their height. She had marveled at the sheer idea of dwelling inside such a structure. It had been more than shock or scorn—on some level she had almost not been able to believe all she had seen, not that first time. And now it was the same, for nothing she had ever seen in the city was like this towering wall of white stone before her. It emerged from the darkness and the sand, the parapets topped with fire that flapped like glowing banners in the wind, the high gate stood open like a yawning mouth.
Perhaps it was not even real. There were visions that visited men in the hours before their deaths on the empty sands. There were spirits that rode in the heart of the storms. She spurred the horse forward, her head down and one hand before her eyes, and as she passed through the gate, she was sure she felt the pressure of a gaze upon her.
The gate closed behind her with a sound like a thunderclap, and the wind instantly died away. The area behind the walls was open to the air, but it seemed as though the sandy winds were only a giant veil covering the face of the structure, gentle and hovering.
It was a house; though it was like no house she had ever seen. Even the great covered market in the city, and the mosques with their tall minarets, neither could compare to what she now saw. This dwelling was immense, the same white as the walls, dotted with gilded windows, rich beyond any dreams of wealth, if she had ever dreamed of wealth. And perhaps this was a dream, yes, but there was the horse under her, its flanks heaving as it dragged in its breath, its neck as black and glistening as onyx. And that reality gave the apparition the feel of a true thing. She leaned down, lifted her veil, pressed her lips to the horse's tangled mane, and tasted the strong tang of its sweat. And that seemed true as well.
The door of the house was high, almost as high as the gate, shining gold and carved with shapes that appeared to dance. As she looked at them, they morphed from people, to animals, to gods and demons, to other things for which she had no name. After a moment or two of hesitation, she dismounted, murmured a word to the horse, and touched his neck assuring him she would return.
The stairs rose ahead of her. She thought of climbing a high dune, sand shifting under her feet. The stone beneath her did not shift, and yet she felt that it might.
This was sihr–black magic. So she was not astonished when the huge doors swung open at her touch. It was the way of such things.
Inside she was plunged into darkness.
She fell forward, her palms smacked against the cool stone floor so hard that they stung, and she cried out and scrambled behind her for the door, now closed. She had thoughts of trickery, of traps laid by the evil ones, known as Al-Shayatin. Had not her father warned her that her wildness would lead her into their paths? She laid a hand on the hilt of her jambia, the curved dagger she always carried. She would fight even the jinn if she had to. She would shed blood before she fell.
She lifted her head, and hands without bodies behind them came silently to her out of the darkness—hands holding lanterns, hands reaching for her. And though she thought again to fight, they helped her to her feet, and smoothed the folds of her hijab.
A voice came to her out of the darkness, caressing her ears like a loving hand. It sounded like no voice ever spoken from a human throat, a great silky purr, at once deep and light.
Be easy, ukhti, my sister. No harm will come to you in this place.
The hands still tugged gently at her, and Badra let them lead her. She turned her head through the darkness, her gaze seeking like blind hands feeling their way forward and around. Bodies? Figures? There did not seem to be any. She reached for an arm, for a shoulder, and found nothing. Floating hands—the servants of a great sorcerer? The damned spirits caught up by Al-Shayatin? A dream within a dream?
"My horse," she murmured, and she heard the answer come gently to her out of the shadows as she walked.
It will be attended to.
She could feel rather than see the house spreading out all around her. She felt the softness of a rich carpet under her feet, smelled hints of rich incense, sandalwood and cinnamon. Now and then the light of the lanterns penetrated the cloak of darkness that covered everything, and she saw yet more: the shimmer of gold, the sparkle of jewels, statues, gilded benches, carved tables, fountains run dry. Such wealth, all in darkness; such vastness, thrown into shadow.
"Who are you?"
You will see me in time.
Her hand never left her jambia. Her bayt had not lived and thrived so long by being over-trustful.
Light ahead. As in the storm, it was faint, wavering, dreamlike. It was strange to her that the light that could have burned so brightly through the sand and the wind seemed to be absent here, for this was not that light. No high flames, spreading out through the air like banners. This light was soft, like a tent in the night, light coming through a half-open door, dim with mystery and invitation.
At last Badra was released, and she stepped forward. Her hand fell away from her dagger. She laid her palm against the door, the carved wood, cool and smooth and sensual under her fingers, enticed her to trace its lines. She felt the hands flutter away like a flock of pale birds, and she was alone.
And not alone. From inside the room, from that soft glow: Come closer. Let me see you.
Badra had never been one to obey an order. All her family had said it, and they were all right. But, this once, they were wrong.
What tongue was it that spoke to her now? Of what provenance were the words? It was not the language of her birth, but she understood all the same. The voice moved through her mind like the finest cotton against her bare skin. It had texture, a physical thing that could touch and caress. It was a voice that one wanted to bask in, luxuriate in, like the first cool breath of night.
Badra entered the room without fear but also without the mad laughter of the storm. She was quiet, her hands at her sides, open and easy.
Again, the voice drifted to her, lazy and rich.
You came out of the sands, ukhti. You came to me out of time. This is my storm. Do you know how long I have been waiting inside it?
A shiver that had nothing whatsoever to do with the temperature ran down Badra’s spine. A rider on the storm. In the storm. Waiting . . . for what? For her? Had Badra simply happened upon this place . . . or had she been expected? . . . what part was she to play?
It was impossible to tell the size of the room. Like the halls, it was cloaked in thick shadow, and though a fire blazed in a stone pit in its center, the light did nothing to push back the dark. Again, Badra saw only snatches and pieces of objects, flashes of gold, gems like the distant twinkling of stars, richly-woven cloth. But now she had no eyes at all for these things. Her attention was caught and held and twisted by the figure she saw seated beside the fire, regarding her with cool golden eyes.
A cat. And yet, not a cat. Immense, the size of a full-grown lion, rippling with muscle, yet still slender and graceful, every curve and twist of its great body a rolling wave of sensuality. It was as black as the shadows, perhaps part of the shadow itself, but freed from the darkness, and given form and breath. The cat rose slowly, arching its back in a long stretch, and padded toward her.
The goddess did not send you.
Badra shook her head. What good was there in lying? What would lying do for her? She knew of no goddess. But she had heard stories of the lands to the east, the country of the great pyramids, and a great stone lion with the head of a man, crouched in the desert, facing a sunrise that it would never see. She had heard of a country where gods and goddesses had once been worshipped, until the empire that revered them had crumbled, its idols crumbling with it.
Yes, she had heard of these things.
The cat sighed. It was too much to hope. The goddess Bastet does not forgive easily.
The cat paused only feet away from where Badra stood, its body silhouetted against the fire, and its eyes invisible.
Do you know of Bastet, ukhti? Do you think it strange I wear the shape of those marked by her favor? A joke of hers. She always did like to laugh. But one day, by my own carelessness, I caused the death of one of her animal children, and so she cursed me to be always thus, to ride in my storm, to walk in the darkness with my silent slaves.
The cat stepped closer; its great, cool nose nudged against Badra’s hand. And Badra, without thinking, without fearing that its powerful jaws might close on her wrist and take her hand from her, reached out and gently stroked its head.
At once a purr like thunder filled the room, echoing off unseen walls, rumbling at the base of Badra’s spine. She opened her mouth, and was not entirely amazed to discover that it was the cat’s own language in which she spoke. Sihr. Anything might happen.
"How have I found you if your goddess did not send me?"
I do not know, answered the cat, and it tossed its head, a shudder running through it. Just . . . aye, keep your hand there, ukhti. It has been too long. I feel . . .
The fire flared. It was sudden and blinding, and Badra raised a hand to shield her face, certain that next she would feel the flames as they charred her flesh.
But no heat came. The light died away. Badra dropped her hand, blinking as the violet patches faded from her vision, and there before her, where the cat had been, was a woman. She was as dark as the cat had been, naked, her hair long and black as jet, braided and falling around her bare shoulders like the fringe of a riding blanket.
The woman looked down at herself as if seeing her own body for the first time, hands raised and open, breasts heaving with her breath. She seemed too shocked to feel any shame.
And why should she feel ashamed anyway? thought Badra, with the faintest touch of wryness. Weren’t they both women, after all? Women in body, perhaps. In the depths of sihr, one’s sight could not be trusted.
But it could be enjoyed. The soft curves, undulating and swaying in the shifting light, the gentle swells and valleys, familiar terrain . . . and yet delightfully unfamiliar. Land that invited exploration. Badra inhaled, smelling that same light scent of incense coupled with something muskier and more alive, warmer, and she felt as though that warmth flowed down her and settled between her thighs.
I am . . . murmured the woman. She looked up at Badra, her eyes still that same dark, liquid gold, the gold of flowing honey, shining in the firelight. My body is returned to me. How?
Badra shook her head. "I do not know."
You. It was you. Your touch, ukhti. Your hands. The woman lifted her own hands, beckoning, smiling in a way that would have appeared shy were Badra more easily fooled. Come sit with me by the fire. Let us marvel at this occurrence together.
It came to Badra then that perhaps she should turn and run back into the dark halls and the flocks of floating hands; fumbling toward a door she could not see for a night full of sand and wind. Because here was deep sihr, sihr of great power, and she was being called to its side. And now, faced with this new wonder, it might be impossible to turn back if she should step any closer. Al-Shayatin might be here, their strength swelling as she offered to them her spirit.
But Badra had always laughed at the storm. And now Badra’s gaze fell on the rich, brown curve of the woman’s thigh, the swell of her hip, the way she settled by the fire once more and spread her legs just so. Even damnation from such a source might be sweet. A smile tugged at Badra’s lips, the kind of smile that almost had a taste, sensuous and rich like spiced milk.
Badra went to her, slipping her own veil from her face, shaking her dark hair loose.
At first there was only silence between them, a silence that swelled like the firelight, and filled blank spaces rather than outlined them. Badra was still clothed, cloaked in her hijab, though unveiled, and the woman beside her stretched out on the polished stone of the floor and ran her hands over first her own coffee-colored skin and then the over the soft fabric of Badra’s clothing, looking up with golden eyes, unblinking as a cat’s.
And though they exchanged no words, Badra felt that they were talking after all. She told this strange creature about her father, the sheikh, about the bayt and the endless days of travel, the sand rolling out in front of them as though they made it real by their very footsteps, the heat, the cool of the night and the stars spreading overhead with a brightness and a clarity that could be terrifying in how small it made her feel.
Badra poured out her secrets: her hatred of the life of a woman, the days and hours of women, marriage, children, modesty and demureness, and never to run too fast, never to laugh too loud or ride too long, a cage around her heart that she was forever breaking free from, even as each bar was reset the instant it was broken.
It seemed to Badra that the cat-woman spoke with her hands, listened with her hands, and Badra spoke through her skin, though she heard her own words in her ears. There were gentle touches, the soft warmth of closeness, the whisper of cloth against skin. And when the woman tugged at her hijab with gentle impatience, Badra did not resist.
More, the woman whispered. The darkness still envelops us; we still ride in the heart of the storm . . . Bastet bestows favor through you. Therefore, give me more of yourself.
Badra's robe slipped from her shoulders. She shrugged and hurried it along, sighing when at last it came free and the warm air touched her breasts the same instant the woman did, playing with their weight, kneading them gently in hands soft as silk. Badra arched her back and sighed again. Men had wanted to touch her in this way, she knew. But she had looked ahead to that, to the life of a sheltered bride, a delicate flower, to be touched only at the appointed time and only in the most particular ways, and to take her proper place in a house of women. She had looked ahead to that . . . and what she had seen then had not looked half as real as what lay before her now, all curves and sweetness, arching up to touch her in a whole host of delightful ways.
More, the woman urged again, her skin sliding against Badra’s, shiver meeting shiver. You feel caged, ukhti? Uncage yourself. Fly away, little bird, into my arms.
Badra rolled, shifting her hips, the cloth sliding further down. She arched against the heat and the light, the soft weight of another’s body over her. At last the woman kissed her with light, friendly kisses that fell around her cheeks and mouth like a morning shower and then deepened, roughened—a rough cat-tongue pushing between her lips, past her teeth and tangling with her own, tasting of honey and a faint tang of blood, as though from the lips of one who had recently eaten fresh meat.
And now the heat throbbed in her veins.

Rumpled Silk Sheets: Lesbian Fairy Tales

By: Jean Roberta, EM Lynley, Shanna Germain, Michael Jones, Kilt Kilpatrick, Sunny Moraine, G.G. Royale, Vivica Lace, Kenzie Mathews
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