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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 travels to Transylvania, with all its myth and mystery, dark as winter, and by women who know how to get just what they want…
Here is a short sample from the book:
In those few short weeks I learnt how to bend him to my will. A sideways glance under my lashes and his eyes were unable to detach themselves from mine. A pout of my lips and his were mine to possess. One stroke of his manhood and he would become enslaved to me.
That night, none of it worked. István yielded his body to mine, yes, but his spiritual resolve would not surrender.
I called upon every feminine wile at my disposal. As had become our custom, I stole into his chambers once the household was at rest. Armed for battle, I chose my nightgown with care, a frippery from the consignment of lingerie newly ordered from Paris. A negligee of China silk, it was dainty in its needlework, appointed with satin ribbons that I left but carelessly tied. Onto this garment I sprinkled an eau de cologne heady with essences of sweet civet and rose amber. I brushed my long hair several dozen times, having rinsed it with rosemary water for shine, and let it flow loose all about.
I permitted the nightgown to slip down one shoulder as I approached his bed, descending so far that it exposed one ripe breast. The pale skin surrounding the wine-dark of my nipple I ensured was available to his gaze and caress. Though once on the bed, I evaded his fervent reach, moving in such a way that my gown slid in full to my waist. Kneeling in a froth of silk and lace, my breasts rose proud before his regard, I as lissom yet rounded as a nymph in a painting by Monsieur Bouguereau.
István again stretched out an arm to capture me and once more I eluded him, determined to control our carnal union. Made bold by his need for me, I placed myself above him, allowing my breasts to sway free, almost but not quite touching his flesh…