Sonia Florens - The Mammoth Book of Hot Romance

The Mammoth Book of
Hot
R OMANCE

SONIA FLORENS

Contents

Introduction

Theres romance, and then theres romance. Let me rephrase that: theres 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 eng 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, weve 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? Its 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 Ive assembled here from the crme de la crme 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. Its going to be hot, hot, hot!

Sonia Florens

(Like a) Virgin of the Spring

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 werent 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 wasnt a warning from her extrasensory perception that twisted her belly with apprehension. She hadnt 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 hadnt made life any simpler. Of course, back home shed 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 wasnt trying to change history even if she wasnt 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 guards 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. Morgas thighs were wrapped tightly around the year kings 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!

Hes perfect, the guard said. How could I take his place?

Hes not perfect, Lord Ched said. Hes an idiot, a fool and a braggart. He pleases my daughter and her bellys already swelling with a second brat, but hes 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.