Laying the Ghosts of Christmas by Libre Paley

Ebby Scott has decided to make her life more exciting. Starting with sex.
An almost-thirty year old almost-virgin, Ebby has hidden her sensual, adventurous nature far too long. Now she has the chance to pursue a life that hitherto has existed only in her vivid fantasies and in the books she keenly devours. And she has stumbled across the perfect place to help her unleash her erotic appetites.
Across each of three nights, Ebby faces her past decisions, her present choices, and gains a glimpse of her possible future, experiencing a series of sexual adventures that become ever more steamy, satisfying, and liberating.
In the meantime, Ebby’s hopeful and loving suitor Nick waits for her back at home.
By the end of her three-night escapade, will Ebby return to the loving safety of Nick’s arms, or will she prove unwilling to give up her new-found freedom quite yet?
A sensuous and romantic novelette with a hint of mystery ‘Laying the Ghosts of Christmas’ is a fun take on Charles Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ (Scrooge).

SKU: B077CKW6M2 Categories: Contemporary, Erotica, Romance Tags: Adult Romance, Christmas erotic romance, heartwarming and sexy read

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About the author:

Libre Paley lives by windswept moorlands in England, a dark and brooding landscape from which she derives much inspiration. Libre’s aim is to write erotica that is sensual and emotionally intelligent. After years spent working in different countries, Libre often includes references to her travels in her work. These days, if she cannot broaden her experiences through travel, she continues to do so through reading.

What inspired you to write your book?

This book was inspired by the love of Christmas, a time of year that inspires hope of new beginnings and brings excitement.

Here is a short sample from the book:

Then one late autumn day at work, re-shelving books, I found a small card slipped into a Jilly Cooper novel. A business card, plain but classy, stiff cream, embossed. No idea what services it was trying to promote as it revealed nothing apart from a name, ‘Mrs. G. Konya’ and contacts. On the back though, scrawled in biro, was some advice: Indulge your naughtiest fantasies at this place – Highly recommended!
The message wasn’t intended for me of course. One of our yummy-mummy customers probably left it there by mistake, an improvised bookmark. There are a lot of them around our town, groomed, gym-lean in J-Brand skinny jeans, wealthy stay-at-home mums parking up their Range Rovers or Mercedes GLs, taking up two spaces. Sometimes they come into the library, to sign up their kids for reading schemes or to search out racy books. More often they sit in gaggles with fat-free macchiati in artisanal cafés, colonizing several tables, before collecting the kids and driving back to their barns and farmhouses, which are forever in the process of being up-scaled.
Intended for me or not, I blushed when I read the card, as if someone had divined my secret thoughts. I may be unsophisticated but, like I said, I have a rich inner life, and my fantasies are places I visit to seek release.
Given my lack of experience, you may expect the fantasy version of me to need slow seduction, coaxing, romance and soft lighting. Not a bit of it. Maybe it’s thanks to the disempowerment I dealt with in my daily life, but fantasy-Ebby was tough, challenging. Predatory and black-corset clad she prowled, determined to get what she hungered for.
A year or so earlier I had a thing about a guy at the local garage where I took my disintegrating Ford Focus, which was going through a challenging teen-age. Whenever I called in he was at work, muscular arms elbow-deep into the grease and innards of machinery, exploring and fixing with expert fingers. In my daydream we are the only ones around. When he’s repaired my car he looks up and sees me, watching. We lock eyes and I pull him towards me. We each know what the other wants, no messing. Soon he’s holding me down on the hood of the car, ripping away my clothes; I feel the cool metal against my naked skin. And we do it right there and then, in the open; hard, sweaty and direct. Anyone might come in and see us, but I don’t care.
Usually though, I choose a stranger, someone I never have to see again. A suede-jacketed guy with Slavic-blue eyes sitting by me on the train one morning may have been surprised to learn we had sex at least twice. And that he brought me to orgasm several times. In my mind, when our carriage takes a fast bend our legs press together and he leaves his there afterwards. Emboldened, I caress his thigh under the cover of his newspaper. One thing soon leads to another and we are feeling each up in public, the newspaper our flimsy protection against any disapproving frowns from our fellow passengers. Without exchanging a word, complicit, we get off at the next stop and check into a hotel. There I order him to do what I want, make him watch me undress without allowing him to touch. Then I lie down and tell him in rigorous detail how to turn me on, where to stroke, how to make me climax. In pouting disdain I force him to wait his turn as he begs at my feet. When I permit him to enter me, I am hot and ready. The heights we reach are beyond belief. So we do it again. And again.