Feel the passion, desire, and heart-pounding romance in these exclusive excerpts
Hot romance is the way to go: what’s the point in holding hands if you can put them to good use? And who’d know it better than the wizards of writing who succeed at a seemingly impossible task and create the intense visual impact of a motion picture by using a lot less than a thousand words? Here are some of the steamiest romance novels’ excerpts from modern poet and writer D. Rudoy who doesn’t give up the literary value even in exchange for the best sex.
Dirty Truth
A Wife’s Dirty Secret
“Yes, it’s a double life, but so is that of every woman who pretends to be happy in a broken marriage. The difference is, I’m actually happy.”
I am a married woman with two children, and they are not my husband’s. He has no clue.
Call me a cheat, or a dirty whore, but know this: I don’t care about your judgment. Or anyone’s. I am here to tell a personal story, so either read it, or don’t.
I met my lover at a business summit seven years ago, and there was an instant connection between us. He was very attractive and extremely confident. When he approached me at the dinner, I was mesmerized by his air of certainty, which was very refreshing (most men act self-conscious with me), and when he leaned in to share a joke about our host, I felt his breath brush my ear, and the sharp cedar of his cologne turned my pulse into a jazz rhythm. After the dinner, we stayed at the hotel bar for another drink. I remember laughing about Kant, wondering how many categorical imperatives it would take to dismantle a well-lived lie. He didn’t flinch, and when he invited me to his room it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
I never told him I was married. I already liked him at ‘Hello’, but in that half an hour we spent at the bar he won me over completely. It felt like an instant connection between two soul mates, and nothing else mattered. He turned out to be an incredible lover; but most importantly, he managed to reveal a whole other dimension in me: the one I had always known I had but chose to stifle.
I grew up in a religious family. My mother and her two sisters did all they could to turn me into a devout Catholic; but the more they tried, the more I hated how unwilling they were to think about what they believed in. At six, I got in trouble for asking why Eve’s curiosity damned the world while Abraham’s obedience almost murdered his son. The good news was that, unknowlingly, my mother and aunts taught me the game of pretending, which helped me big time. If my relatives had found out about my adolescent sex dreams, they’d probably call an exorcist or disowned me.
As it turned out, men weren’t too keen to do what I wanted either. I watched a lot of porn as a teenager, so I thought some things just went without saying. My husband was the same: I hoped he’d eventually grow confident enough to try new things, but I was wrong. I think my mistake was in overestimating his tolerance for asymmetry. He also wanted predictability in bed, and I didn’t. No, I really did not.
I would join a club, but my desires didn’t really fall under the traditional umbrella of BDSM and the like. Instead, I wrote super-personal letters to myself at night, capturing secrets I’d never dare to tell even my closest friends and burning them in the morning. This helped me realize that my ideal dynamic was mainly psychological, the physical part being a cherry on top. So, when I saw that me and my lover were on the same page, it felt like tapping into a secret code which only our hearts knew how to decipher.
The summit ended the next day, but our relationship continued. We lived in different cities and, even though he regularly visited mine for work, sometimes months would pass between our rendezvous. But every time an opportunity arose, I made sure to take advantage of it. He always stayed at different hotels, and I’d joke that he did it because he was ashamed of how loud he made me moan. But soon I wasn’t joking anymore: I knew what was going on between us was serious when I realized that I wanted to get pregnant with his child.
I remember when the thought hit me for the first time. On my way home from work, I paused by a little bakery still open late, its window laden with rose-tinted macarons, breathing in the scent of vanilla under the amber glow of street lamps. Then, I looked up at the full Moon in the dark sky and, giving in to a sudden impulse, I imagined what it would be like, to feel a tiny heartbeat nestled inside me. Smiling to myself, I whispered “Come find me” into the night, not knowing where the wind would carry my words, but trusting it would be okay as long as my lover was by my side.
Don’t get me wrong: my husband is everything most women dream about. He is handsome, funny, and nice; he comes from money, went to an Ivy-League school, has a great job, many friends, and so on. However, life had been handed to him on a silver platter (including me, but that’s a different story). My lover, on the other hand, was the epitome of a self-made man, and he achieved success despite serious hardships and adversity. So, when I caught myself fantasizing about my future kids having his inner strength, intelligence, and stunning confidence, I knew I had to make it happen. I had already been married for several years, so it was time anyway.
Next time we met, I told him I was off the pill, and explained why. I considered lying, but I knew I couldn’t not be honest with him. He was taken by surprise, but he agreed. I was afraid he wouldn’t perform as he used to, but he proved all of my worries wrong.
I didn’t realize it would make such a difference, but the notion of offering my fertile womb to this man and feeling him take it with even more vigor than usual was utterly intoxicating. I didn’t get pregnant the first time, but we began seeing each other more often. I had mapped out the optimal days of my cycle to align our meetings with peak fertility windows, and I made sure each of those times was worth two. It took me days to recover after our trysts, and I could barely look at my husband in the meantime, but it was the happiest I had been in my whole life. That is, until I found out I was pregnant, and not with one child, but with twins!
The hardest thing during pregnancy was not seeing him, which he insisted upon saying I had to focus on taking good care of myself and our children. I knew what he meant, and I knew he was right, but I was missing him horribly. My heart seemed to expand to the same size as my belly, and there was so much love inside that sometimes I’d cry for hours in sheer happiness, not noticing the time pass.
When I gave birth, everything I had been harboring inside stormed out on the children, the most beautiful girl and the most handsome boy I could imagine. I never did the test, obviously, but I never needed to: I knew whose they were the very first time I looked at them. Why do they say the best things in life should be hard? I went with what my soul wanted the most, and it was the easiest, and it still is. My husband never questioned his paternity, and every time he admires how amazing these kids are, it’s another reminder that I have made the right choice.
It’s been almost five years, and recently, I went off the pill again. I decided to give my husband a chance to prove himself as a man and have a child of his own, but he hasn’t been too eager to try lately. So, if that means getting pregnant with my lover’s third child, I am fine with that. We still see each other from time to time, but even less frequently than we used to. I know he’s been seeing other women throughout our entire affair, but I don’t feel jealous because every moment we spend together he still makes me feel like I am the only woman in the whole world.
In the past, when I shared my story on online forums, people asked how I coped with this dual life I had to live. So, I want to finish by saying that I never regretted these decisions. My corporate job taught me to weigh the risks before taking action, which I’ve done, knowing the potential rewards were much greater. And time proved me right. The immense satisfaction I got from my affair for years, the liberation I achieved, and my children all speak for themselves. And as for the dual life, I actually like it. Society forces women to wear masks and pretend on someone else’s behalf anyway, so why not do it for your own sake? I know I am much happier than most women, and I’m surely a lot happier than I would have been if I hadn’t done this. So, if a double life is what it takes for a woman to achieve happiness, so be it.
Besides, this dual life helped me find my true self, and I don’t mean it just sexually. Over these years, I realized I was a woman with enough autonomy and self-determination to pursue her desires without guilt or remorse. I genuinely wish my husband were a stronger man. And I wish I could openly talk to him about what I like in bed. But if that’s not an option, I will not let it bring me down. And I am raising my kids the same way, so I’ll always know I gave them everything I could.
Coming Home
Your wife has been used like a whore, and she loved it.
Her panties are plugging her pussy and ass,
Both full of another man’s cum. Will you notice,
My sweetheart, or talk about that football game?
That close, unforgettable four-point encounter,
About that momentous homerun, and the ref?
Oh, honey, I told you before: I don’t care,
And you have no clue, like you’re blind, dumb and deaf.
You fuck up, and big time. You take me for granted.
You fuck me like I am your porcelain doll.
Perhaps I have not been a good wifey to you?
Okay, let me give you a chance, after all.
A millionth chance to rise to the occasion,
To prove you’re a man, not an average fool,
To catch me, a cheating slut high on endorphins,
Completely red-handed. Cum-pussied. Ass-plugged.
I started this mess, and I want to be fair.
So, I’ll stay a slut till it’s time for desert,
And if you grab me before that, you will know it,
Who wouldn’t? And, as you go on through the shock,
I’ll say you’re the best, and I’ll beg for forgiveness,
I’ll tell you that I have been wrong, and forgot…
But if you do not… Baby! if you don’t kiss me,
It means you deserve it, and then some, a lot!
***
The wife’s in the kitchen, she’s taking a selfie
While squatting stripped over a plate of desert.
A long strand of cum’s hanging down from her pussy,
She pushes. It lands on the cake. She’s alert.
The selfie is sent to the cummer, its title’s:
“More cream for my husband”. She turns off the phone,
Adjusts her attire, returns to the living
Room and feeds that cake to her husband alone.
A Happy Marriage, or Winter Salad
It all started like a regular Friday afternoon. Lynn got home early and was making some food, wearing a short black sundress. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, and every time she moved just right, it rose to reveal the absence of underwear. From the desk where I was working, I had a perfect view of her charade. The next time she bent down to retrieve something from the cupboard under the sink, humming to herself and feigning innocence, I slowly approached her. My cock was hard and ready, and in one deliberate stroke, I slid into her from behind.
Judging by how soaked she was, Lynn must have been wondering what took me so long. Now that I was inside her, she took full advantage, pressing her arms and elbows into the countertop and using it as leverage to push back against me with the fervor of a born cockslut—a trait I’d never grown tired of. Her whimpers echoed around the room, occasionally rising into long, desperate moans as she begged me to fuck her harder. I gladly obliged, driving her into the granite countertop with relentless thrusts while her lascivious cries filled the air.
But then, something unexpected happened. Instead of making Lynn cum first, as we typically did, I fell victim to a particularly lewd pose she assumed: her straight leg thrown high onto the countertop, back arching, her pussy stretched open in a brazen, unspoken demand to use her like the filthy whore she loved to be. Sensing my excitement, Lynn executed a stunning move. She dropped her leg, spun us both around, and slammed her ass back into me, smashing her cervix onto my cock as my butt hit the countertop. The shock and pleasure overwhelmed me. Before I realized what was happening, I emptied myself inside her in hot, pulsing bursts, groaning like a wild animal. Lynn gave me no reprieve, her pussy milking every last drop of cum with silken, deliberate spasms that sent aftershocks rippling through my entire body.
Just as there was nothing more to give, a fascinating idea lit my mind. Lynn had come home early because we were expecting her friends—a college gal pal and her fiancé—later that evening. One of the dishes she’d planned was a Winter salad, a complicated blend of smoked meats and pickled vegetables already mixed in a heavy crystal bowl on the kitchen table, waiting for its dressing. And, as my hands slid over her breasts, teasing her hard nipples, a far superior dressing than the usual options occurred to me.
“Why don’t you dress that salad with my cumload, honey?” I whispered into her ear, gently rocking my hips to stir the sticky mess inside her.
“You mean my cumload?” she countered, turning her head to meet my gaze.
“Ours,” I suggested.
“Pass me that fucking bowl already, will you?” Lynn said. Without waiting for my reaction, she clenched around me, sending a ripple of sensation through my cock before stepping forward. The movement forced me out of her with a slick pop, and her hand shot between her legs, two fingers pressing against her entrance to trap my cum inside. Without missing a beat, she grabbed the bowl, placed it on the countertop, and climbed up after it, her legs spreading wide as she settled herself just above it.
“You pumped it so deep, it’ll be hard to get it out,” she murmured, looking down.
“Spread your beautiful pussy, honey. Spread it wide for me,” I ordered, adjusting for the best view.
Lynn obeyed, pulling her slick, glistening folds apart with both hands in a way that stole my breath. Her juices mixed with the remnants of my cum, pooling slightly before disappearing back inside her as she held herself open.
“Do you like seeing me like this?” she asked, a smug smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “Do you like seeing your wife like a dirty slut?”
“I do,” I rasped, gripping my cock, slick and throbbing like a warm rock. “Now, dig your fingers inside and scoop up every last drop of that cum like the dirty fucking whore I love.”
Lynn let out a soft moan and pushed her fingers into her gaping hole to retrieve what I’d left behind. Soon, the first ribbon of thick, viscous cum rolled out, stretching into a line before splashing into the salad. Then another drop followed, and a sudden gush spilled forth, a streak of milky white completing the colorful mix.
“Look me in the eyes as you spread yourself, baby. Yeah, just like that. Goddamn, Lynn,” I muttered in admiration as another drip escaped her. “You’re the filthiest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”
“That’s how I like you, honey,” she said, her eyes flicking between my face and my cock. Slowly, she brought her cum-covered fingers to her mouth, smelled them, and licked the sticky remnants off. “But you’re not done, are you?” she added mockingly. “Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got!”
Before I could reply, she slid down from the counter and dropped to her knees. Never breaking eye contact, she grabbed my rigid cock, twitching but aching with post-release sensitivity, and began sucking it ruthlessly with the hunger of a horny bitch who hadn’t cum. Despite the aggressive overstimulation, I was aroused like crazy, driven by my love and appreciation for her. “You taste so fucking good,” I heard her growl, and that pushed me over the edge. Grabbing the back of her head, I shoved my cock all the way into her throat, hypnotized by the squelching sounds. Her hands gripped my thighs, begging for more, which I gave her, until the sharp chime of the doorbell brought us back to reality.
“Time to greet Mia and Derek,” Lynn gasped, swiping her thumb across her mouth as she stood and adjusted her dress, trying to catch her breath. Her gaze flicked to my cock, wet from her saliva and twitching with the ache of denied release. “Stir that salad a bit, honey, will you,” she added in a perfectly civilized tone. “And hide that beauty for the moment, please. We’ll get back to it later.”
Dinner was a spectacular success. Lynn’s glow was unmistakable, and Mia noticed immediately, teasing her and Derek the whole night, much to his discomfort as he had clearly neglected his fiancée’s needs prior to their arrival—and likely for a while before. The Winter salad was served early on, and Lynn presented it as the highlight of the night, leaning into her role as the perfect hostess more persuasively than the best Hollywood actress could.
“What dressing do you prefer?” she doted over the guests. “We have Blue Cheese, Thousand Isles, olive oil…”
“Why aren’t you having any?” Mia asked me after Lynn served them and helped herself to a small portion, dressing it with a generous amount of sour cream. I explained with a casual shrug that I’d already had plenty while Lynn was cooking and that I wanted them to enjoy it because it had turned out great.
“Not without his help,” Lynn said to Mia in a confidential tone. “Would you like another spoonful, dear? Here’s a perfect one: I can see from how the bits are glued together that it’ll be tastier than the rest…”
Mia praised the salad and demanded the recipe, and Lynn agreed to share it except for “one little secret ingredient” that made it special. Derek was more reserved but chewed steadily. I wasn’t hung up on the fact that they were eating my cum; in fact, I didn’t care for it one bit. My mind was consumed by Lynn—how she owned every moment of that evening like a spy on a mission, how she teased me with her glances when nobody else looked, how she dropped seemingly innocuous phrases filled with double meaning. I had loved her since long before we got married, but that evening, Lynn elevated herself into something else—a true empress draped in confidence, humor, and filth, unafraid to play with fire and trusting me to play along.
Parrying Mia’s teasing remarks with jocular jabs of my own, and trying to engage Derek, who couldn’t catch up to our high-spirited dynamic all night, I remembered something I’d read once—that successful marriages require a commitment to rediscovering each other over and over again. And, watching Lynn dance between utter depravity and aristocratic charm, I realized how incredibly lucky I was to have found someone who epitomized that maxim to the maximum. She was my wife, my muse, my everything; and the only thing I wanted was to make her happy, in whichever form or fantasy she wanted it.
Lynn insisted the guests take the rest of the Winter salad home, packaging it carefully into Tupperware, and made them take the sour cream as well. When they finally left, Lynn slid the lock on the door with relief, spun to face me, and uttered a long, loud giggle.
“Do you think Mia noticed?” she asked in a trembling voice, and for the first time, I realized just how much pressure she had been under while I’d been basking in my adoration and love for her. “I didn’t like her reaction to the ‘little secret ingredient,’” Lynn continued, biting her lip. “I think she may have—”
I didn’t let her finish. In one stride, I crossed the space between us, grabbed her by the waist, and kissed her fiercely as she gasped into my mouth. “You’re incredible,” I muttered, my hands sliding down to her hips. “Absolutely fucking incredible.” She melted into me, her nervous giggles becoming a soft moan as I pushed her back against the wall. “Lynn, you are the most incredible woman I have ever met!”
“I want to feel you again,” I continued, lifting her dress and sliding my fingers between her legs. Her pussy was completely drenched and unbelievably hot to the touch, and she forced it onto my hand with a desperate, grinding motion that made me lose all restraint at once. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
Instead of answering, she pulled me closer and wrapped her legs around my waist as I stuck my cock inside her. I fucked her hard and fast, lost in the beauty of her body and the way she acted, offering herself like a woman who needed to be reminded of exactly how much she belonged to her man, until she came like a freight train.
When it was over, I held her close, her breath warm against my neck. “Mia didn’t notice a thing,” I whispered, brushing her hair back from her face. “And that’s good for her. Because if she had, do you think she’d have anything like this at home?”
Lynn laughed into my shoulder and pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes.
“No,” she whispered. “Of course, she would not.”