Best Erotic, Hot, Risqué, Spicy & Racy Romance Novels’ Excerpts

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.

 

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.”

 

TITLE: I typed ‘love’ and deleted it

(posted from a new account)

I am a married woman with two children, and they are not my husband’s. He doesn’t know. Right now he is in the next room reading them a bedtime story while I sit at my desk and write this with a muted notification from my lover blinking at the corner of the screen.

Call me a cheat if it makes you feel safe. I’m not here to ask for forgiveness.

I’ll start where it began. I met my lover seven years ago at a business summit. I sat there numb, ringed by men in the same navy jackets. I had been pretending to care all evening, my mind miles away.

Then he walked in.

He wore no name tag and didn’t glance around nervously. He moved without the little self-checks men do. When he stopped at my table, he pulled out the empty chair and asked what crime I had committed to deserve this event.

Most men become self-conscious around me. Their eyes flicker: am I saying the right thing, is she bored, does she think I’m enough. His did not. His gaze moved as if my reaction was already priced in.

When he leaned in to share a joke about our host, his breath grazed my ear. The cedar in his cologne had a dry cruelty to it. My lanyard scratched my neck and the chicken was cold; I kept smiling anyway.

After the dinner, we stayed at the hotel bar for another drink. We made fun of the keynote’s ‘values’ slide deck and the way grown adults clap at lies. He listened without trying to rescue me, or flatter me, or rush the silence away. He remembered throwaway details and brought them back half an hour later without making a show of it.

When he invited me to his room I said yes before my mind began its lecture. I remember thinking that if I said no, my body would shiver with the echo of a pleasure I had refused. So I said yes.
In the elevator, he studied my reflection in the mirrored wall and said, “You don’t seem to do this often.”

“I don’t,” I answered.

“That’s a pity,” he said.

I did not tell him I was married. I liked him at “hello,” but at the bar he did something worse than seduce me. He looked at me like my whole marriage has been fiction. He treated me like a fact. When I hesitated, he waited; when I wanted more, he took it further than I knew how to ask and used me as if I had already proven myself.

Afterwards, he slowly traced a finger along my throat.

“Someone taught you to be very good,” he said. “And you got tired of performing it.”

I could have denied it. Instead, I heard my own voice answer, “Good girls get away with more.”

He smiled without softness. “So stop wasting it on the wrong people.”

The next morning he left before I woke up. There was no note on the nightstand, only a glass with my lipstick mark and a room service receipt with his name at the top. For a few hours I was sure I had imagined the whole thing. Then his first message arrived: one sentence, no greeting, no promise.

«You’re going to be trouble».

I told myself I should delete it; my hand kept checking the phone. I grew up in a religious family. My mother and her two sisters tried to raise me Catholic the way people breed dogs. They repeated the same prayers until the words lost meaning. They cared nothing for understanding; obedience was the point.

At six, I got in trouble for asking why Eve’s curiosity damned the world while Abraham’s obedience almost murdered his son. One of my aunts slapped the question off my face. Later, my favorite grandmother whispered that some questions were “dangerous for a girl’s soul.”

I learned the lesson: truth was optional, masks were mandatory.

By the time I discovered what my body wanted, I already knew how to pretend. If my relatives had seen the things I fantasized about, they would have called an exorcist and argued over whom I had failed more.

Porn taught me a vocabulary. Men kept pretending not to speak it. I tried hints, softened versions, polite suggestions. Blank stares, nervous laughter, quick topic changes, everything. They heard none of them. I learned to stop hinting and start acting satisfied.

My husband was no exception. I hoped he would grow more confident with time, that one night he would stop asking if the light bothered me and simply do as he pleased. He never did. He wanted a presentable doll for his wife. I wanted to be turned inside out.

BDSM clubs and fetish parties never appealed to me. I did not need props. I looked for a pattern hidden inside ordinary life. What I wanted was quieter and crueller: a dynamic buried under everyday smiles, a secret contract written in glances and paused breaths.

So I wrote letters instead. Pages and pages to myself at night, describing scenes I would never confess to anyone. My hand cramped around words like choke, beg, deny, command. In the morning, I burned them in the sink and went to work with perfectly blow-dried hair.

I used to blame the props. That was coping. The problem was simpler: I needed a master more honest than God. A mind willing to own me more honestly than God ever could.

At the summit, with my lover, I felt that secret code click into place. When he told me to sit closer, my body moved before I thought. When he corrected my argument about ethics, I felt an unreasonable sting of arousal. He understood the kind of cruelty that does not need words.

The summit ended on schedule. Our affair wrote its own.

We lived in different cities. He traveled for work, always “on the way somewhere,” and sometimes months went by between our meetings. Whenever he came to my city, his assistant booked a different hotel. I used to joke that he did it so no one would hear how loud he made me moan.

Once, in a hotel room with heavy curtains and a view of a brick wall, my phone lit up on the bedside table, my husband’s name on the screen. I froze. My lover looked at the phone, then at me, and pressed his palm over my mouth before I could speak. He listened to my muted breath, and only when the call ended did he take it away and tell me to call my husband back. I lied smoothly, my voice steady, my body shaking around him.

Another time, months later, he disappeared. No messages, no calls, no explanation. I told myself I was done. I rehearsed speeches about self-respect in the shower. Then, one evening, his name appeared on my phone: Last hotel’s bar, thirty minutes. I closed my laptop, left my half-finished grocery list on the table, and arrived in twenty.

Soon, the idea of having his child crept in. One evening, on my way home from work, I passed a little bakery that stayed open late. The window was stacked with blush-pink macarons, the air thick with vanilla under the amber blur of street lamps.

I looked up at the full moon hanging over the city, and a terrifying thought hit me: what if I gave that man a child. Not my husband, who had been handed life on a silver platter and used it as a mirror. My lover, whose chest bore scars I was not allowed to ask about, whose stories always seemed to begin after something had already been burned down.

I imagined a tiny heartbeat inside me carrying the part of him that never asked permission. My throat burned; the air tasted like betrayal with relief. I whispered “come find me” into the night and knew I wasn’t talking to my husband.

I had been married for several years. It was “time anyway,” as my mother liked to remind me. When I saw my lover next, I told him I had gone off the pill.

For a second, something unreadable crossed his face.

“You’re sure,” he asked, “or you’re bored?”

“Both,” I said.

He laughed softly, a sound with no boyishness in it. “Of course you are.”

My cycle became a hunting calendar. I aligned his trips with my fertile days, arranged meetings under pretexts my husband did not question, and made sure each night counted twice. Those encounters cost me. It took days to recover. My thighs ached, and I could barely look at my husband without wanting to laugh when he told me I was “glowing.”

For two days, courage kept swelling where my thighs touched. When the test finally showed two pink lines, I sat on the bathroom floor and laughed. Then I bought another test. My doctor said twins.
My lover insisted we should stop seeing each other. “You need all your strength for them,” he said.

“If we keep playing, you’ll spend it on me.”

“You’re assuming I haven’t already,” I answered.

I gave birth to the most beautiful girl and the most handsome boy I could imagine. My husband cried in the delivery room. He thanked me for “our miracle.” I kissed his wet cheek and told him he deserved them. I almost believed I was being genuine.

No struggle, no lightning bolt, no voice from heaven. That is the part that keeps me up at night. I expected guilt; none came. I followed the plainest wish I had ever formed, and the world let it pass. My husband never questioned his paternity. Every time he looks at them with pride, I am reminded that I chose correctly.

It has been almost five years. Recently, I went off the pill again.

I told myself I was giving my husband a chance to prove himself as a man and have a child that is biologically his. He has not been particularly eager. Long hours, work stress, “not tonight, I’m tired.” My body listened to his excuses and went quiet.

My lover and I still see each other from time to time, though less than before. I know he sees other women; a man like him is never unoccupied. Sometimes I catch a perfume on his shirt that is not mine. I do not feel jealous. When I am with him, he behaves as if the rest of the world is gone. That is enough, or so I tell myself.

People online love labels. Narcissist. Sociopath. Monster. I used to argue with them. Now I delete those messages like spam. My work trained me to think in risk and reward. I know I made the right decisions. The proof is asleep in the next room

As for the double life, a sustained lie trains the mind better than any prayer. At some point I stopped rehearsing excuses and began acting on what I wanted. I still wish my husband was stronger. I still wish I could tell him plainly what I want and not see him flinching. But if that is beyond him, I will not let him limit the size of my life.

I am raising my children the same way: to know what they want, to name it early, and to choose before someone weaker chooses for them. What I do not know yet is how I will answer when my daughter looks at me with her father’s calculating eyes and asks the one question everyone else left unspoken.

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.”