John Burdett was nearly born in New York, but his mother thought better of it and took a boat to Southampton, England, where she gave birth moments after the ship docked. As a consequence he has suffered from wanderlust all this life. He stayed in the U.K. long enough to obtain a legal qualification, whereupon he fled to Hong Kong. After he had made sufficient money there, he saw the opportunity to escape the slavery of work for the duration. He also began to write novels while he lived in Holland, France, Spain, Hong Kong. He now divides his time between Thailand and Southwest France, where he owns a stone cottage on a river. He has published six novels to date, including the Bangkok series Bangkok 8, Bangkok Tattoo, Bangkok Haunts, The Godfather of Kathmandu. The most resent, Vulture Peak, is due to be released in January 2012. Visit his website: www.john-burdett.com
Freedom Angelby John Burdett
On the surface, Hank is a proper English
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A story of erotic temptations and new beginnings by John Burdett, best-selling author of Bangkok 8. After a painful breakup with her fiance, Angel travels on a whim to Thailand. A chance meeting on a plane with a mysterious stranger leads to an erotic journey that awakens her to a life she never imagined possible.
On the surface, Hank is a proper English businessman, a wealthy man who resides in the tropics. But as Angel enters his world, she finds there is more to him than she ever thought she wanted. Does she have the courage and inner strength to live a thoroughly unconventional but fulfilling life, or will she run back to the safety of what she’s always known?
John Burdett has published seven novels including the Bangkok series Bangkok 8, Bangkok Tattoo, Bangkok Haunts, The Godfather of Kathmandu and the soon to be released Vulture Peak.
Publisher's note: This story contains multiple partner sex, including F/F interaction.
Angel had no idea how long she had been staring at the view over the balcony. The marijuana was stronger than anything she'd tried before and she'd lost all sense of time. Even so, she probably would not have climbed the stairs that fateful evening if not for the most astonishing surprise. The party goers had left open the door to the master bedroom, but instead of pornographic groans and sighs, there emitted the unmistakable music of her soul. Vivaldi's Stabat Mater was, in her opinion, the most convincing hymn to woman in all European culture. Whenever she heard it she felt as if some secret being were calling to her. And there it was, compelling, tormenting, convincing in its total dedication to the spiritual—and seductive beyond words in the sweetness of its submission to the goddess. She felt as if she had been summoned.
When she reached the top of the landing, there emerged from the darkened, but not quite dark, room the aroma of sandalwood entwined with the baroque choral counterpoint. She tip-toed toward the partly open door and glimpsed in the half-light the tan naked bodies of the two Thais: perfect in form; breasts and buttocks balanced in voluptuous feminine harmony, the living measure of beauty itself. One of them squatted atop the white man and moved slowly, rhythmically, to the sacred music while the other caressed his body and face. Incense snaked upward from a brass holder in the shape of a Hindu god. There were no moans, no groans, merely the odd soft murmur, the tender word, the grateful single syllable in Thai from the man, the singsong reply from the women.
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