Only You: Erotic Romance for Women

Only You: Erotic Romance for Women

by Rachel Kramer Bussel (Editor)


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The couples in this Cleis Press collection are happy, but looking for something more to add some sizzle to their relationships. They don't want to just go along for the ride, but to take control and see how daring they can be. Whether it's a "Mom's Night Out" in a sexy hotel suite, some "In-Flight Entertainment" or a delicious "Cook's Treat," these lovers know how to do whatever it takes to bring their romance back to a high flame. From makeup sex to a real estate rendezvous, a virgin to a political candidate to coworkers who simply can't keep their hands off each other, Only You showcases 20 stories that are as loving as there are lusty. Curl up and find out how they make love--and make love last.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781573449090
Publisher: Start Publishing, LLC
Publication date: 01/15/2013
Pages: 232
Sales rank: 666,679
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.00(h) x (d)

About the Author

Rachel Kramer Bussel ( is a writer, editor, event organizer and erotica writing instructor. She's edited over 60 anthologies, including The Big Book of Orgasms, Come Again: Sex Toy Erotica, Dirty Dates, On Fire, Spanked, Please, Sir, Please, Ma'am, and is Best Women's Erotica of the Year series editor. Her nonfiction has been published in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Marie Claire, O, The Oprah Magazine,, Salon, Slate,, The Village Voice and numerous other publications. Follow her @raquelita on Twitter and learn more about her writing workshops and consulting at

Read an Excerpt

Only You

Erotic Romance for Couples
By Rachel Kramer Bussel

Cleis Press

Copyright © 2013 Rachel Kramer Bussel
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9781573449090

Autumn Rain
by Michael A. Gonzales

Having just turned eighteen, M. graduated with honors from New York City’s renowned Rice High School in May. A month later, his artist mother informed him of her sudden decision to move from Harlem to Baltimore.
“I don’t understand,” M. whined from across the breakfast table. Behind his uncombed head hung a framed childhood picture of him playing stickball in Mount Morris Park.
“What is there to understand? I got a teaching position at Johns Hopkins and I’m going to take it. Truthfully, I’m tired of Harlem.” Of course, M. should have seen this coming; his mom hadn’t been the same since his business-suited poppa roared away on a mid-life crisis red Harley Davidson the year before.
“What about me?” Though he was a smart kid, M. had not yet enrolled in college and instead worked for minimum wage as a midtown messenger.
“If you want to stay in New York, I won’t stop you. I can’t pay the rent, but you can keep the apartment.” Truth be told, M. was fearful of living in the big bad city by himself.
Standing up in her pink fuzzy slippers and coffee-stained robe, she rubbed his head. “You know, the house I’m getting in Baltimore isn’t far from Calloway State. Maybe you could take classes there.”

Leaving on the noon train the second Wednesday in July (his mother had left a few weeks earlier), M. rode the sleek silver Amtrak alone. Zooming away to that sinister city where a drunken Edgar Allen Poe died in the gutter and hophead Billie Holiday once called home, M. pressed his handsome face against the cool window and stared at the industrial factories lining the landscape.
In M.’s wandering mind, he pictured Baltimore as a bleak wasteland where dusky kids scrubbed rowhouse marble stairs on Saturday mornings, beer-bellied men cracked steamed crabs in the basement, a goofy director discovered a shit-eating transvestite named Divine, and baseball fans bragged about winning the ‘83 World Series as though it were yesterday.
“The fact that this dump is actually nicknamed Charm City is the biggest joke,” M. joked with his mom in their new house. Over a take-out dinner of Lake Trout and French fries, the spicy stench of Old Bay seasoning drifted from the seafood spot a block away, wafting through their open window.
Without a doubt, it took M. a few weeks to get used to that strange metropolis where screeching crows soared across the twilight sky, the ancient architecture conjured cinematic images of film noir backlots, and the downtown streets were like a ghost town after eight pm.
The first week of September, M. registered for classes at Calloway State. Dressed in designer jeans, a stylish shirt and loafers, he sulked into English 101 class during first period. Sloughing in the hard plastic chair, he aimlessly glanced around the room.
Contrasting the “boys only” policy of high school, there were a couple of cuties scattered around the classroom. “Maybe this won’t be so bad after all,” M. reasoned, looking around excitedly.
Turning around in his seat while the teacher handed out the syllabus, M. noticed a pretty, cinnamon-skinned punk rock chick sitting in the back of the class. Wearing a black t-shirt and thick glasses, she was nerdy hot. Unlike the usual Calloway State sorority chicks with weaves and perms cascading down their backs, she wore a short-cropped blonde natural that resembled a nappy halo.
Drawn to the seductive light that she was unaware of illuminating, M. studied her curvy thickness, making note of the fleshy breasts beneath the wrinkled t-shirt and the pleasing plumpness of her ass.
Three weeks later, while reading Neruda’s romantic poetry, the professor assigned the class to write their own verses about love. M. wrote a poem detailing his passion for the bustle of New York City: of drunken painters fighting in Greenwich Village, of free jazz lofts overlooking a sea of Bowery bums and twenty-dollar hookers hovering around the Deuce. Though most of the other students looked bored as illiterates watching a subtitled movie, the punk chick smiled as he read aloud. Her eyes were seductive and M. pretended that he was reciting only for her.
Slipping into the book-lined sanctuary of the school library after class, M. sat at a rickety table reading the latest Down Beat magazine.
Minutes later, feeling a draft, he glanced toward the doorway. With clunky eyeglasses, dark eyeliner smudged over green eyes and black lipstick, she strolled into the room and sat in one of the wooden chairs at the next table.
Though they had never spoken, he knew her name was Lisa Williams. Wearing faded jeans, a black leather jacket, beat-up black Pro-Keds and ratty black sweater, she removed the thick Buddy Holly frames. From a dirty knapsack, she pulled out an oversized drawing pad.
Glancing at her clipped red nails and nicotine stained fingers, M. was distracted by Lisa’s nerdy sex appeal. After re-reading the same page four times, he finally caught Lisa’s eye. Stiffly smiling, he shyly glanced at the shit colored carpet.
“I liked your poem,” she said.
“For real?” Under the table, his right leg shook nervously. “After I read it aloud, I thought it was stupid.”
“Not at all,” Lisa assured him. Her voice was clear and serious. “Out of all of the others, you were the only one who sounded like you had at least read a poem in your lifetime.”
“Yeah? But, I’m really more into photography.”
“One thing about your poem, though. I just don’t understand, if you love New York so much, what are you doing in this ass crack of a city?” Her breath smelt like Juicy Fruit and Marlboros.
“Well, my mom moved here a few months ago, so I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Man, you ain’t got nothing but choices. Why would you choose to live in a city more known for crabs than culture?”
Moving closer, M. noticed Lisa’s art pad covered with multicolored stickers of groups he had never heard of: The Jam, The Buzzcocks, The Damned, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Clash, Elvis Costello and Madness.
Opening the pad, she said, “Take a look at these. I like to draw pictures with my poems.” Drawn in black ink, Lisa’s spooky images were decadent reflections of ordinary lives. A stark mixture of melancholy and bliss, the pad was filled with pictures of shadowy streets and cathedral peaks, shattered sidewalks and haunted rooms, nodding junkies and giant rats.
Alongside each drawing, Lisa scribbled surreal poems that made Rimbaud seem like a sober optimist. Her loopy handwriting was more girly than he had expected. “These are so cool,” M. gushed as the blaring school bell rang, signaling the beginning of the next period.
“I’ve been working with writers, artists and photographers, you know, trying to put together a literary magazine,” she said. Snatching a black pen out of her bag, Lisa scribbled her name and phone number on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the table. ”It’s just a bunch of young punks trying to start a revolution.”
“What’s it called?”
“Benzedrine. It’s the pill William Burroughs and Kerouac took to bring out their genius.” M. nodded, pretending to understand. “We’re having a meeting Saturday. If you wanna come by, I’ll introduce you.”
“I would like that,” M said, suppressing the urge to be all “golly gee whiz,” in fear that Lisa would realize her mistake in trusting a philistine and revoke the invitation.
“You into punk?” Lisa asked, eyeballing him suspiciously. “Other than me and a couple others, there’s not many Blacks on the scene in Baltimore.”
“Isn’t punk dead? I thought groups like Duran Duran and Culture Club killed that noise.”
“God, stop cursing at me,” Lisa laughed. “I do hope that’s not what you’re into, because I can’t really be friends with somebody who thinks that Duran Duran is better than the Sex Pistols.”
“I was just saying,” M. mumbled.
“I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“I’ll be there,” he said and Lisa smiled.

By nightfall on Saturday, a dreary drizzle fell from the ink-stained sky. Above the ancient rooftops, a full moon glowed bright. Splashing through puddles dressed in a light jacket, jeans and his only sneakers, a beat-up pair of Nikes, M. slid on the mushy leaves that swathed the wet sidewalk.
Since the city was in the process of expanding its recently opened subway system, blasting dynamite beneath the streets, it was common to see hefty rats scampering under parked cars or dashing down alleyways littered with broken glass.
M. carried a cheap portfolio case containing his photographs in his right hand and a Canon EOS 650 hung around his neck. “God, you look like a duck,” Lisa laughed, opening the door. “Don’t you believe in umbrellas?”
Arty and attractive as ever, Lisa was dressed in red Doc Martens, a red plaid skirt and a tight t-shirt.
“I like walking in the rain,” M. mumbled, following her into the vestibule. Handing Lisa the portfolio case, he removed his jacket. “There’s something about the fall that inspires me.”
“You’re one of the Autumn People,” she said as they walked through the foyer. “Don’t worry, I’m one, too.”
Lisa’s bedroom was a shrine to everything punk. On the black walls were glossy posters of hard men with various piercings clad in tattered leather jackets. Superimposed over a Brit flag was a picture of Queen Elizabeth’s pinched face, a safety pin stabbed through her thin lip.
“It’s kind of messed-up, but the meeting was cancelled.”
“So, what are we gonna do now?”
“No plans. We can just hang out, maybe go over to the Marble Bar.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pack of Marlboros and lit up.
“The Marble what?”
Lisa blew a puff of smoke over his head. “It’s a punk bar down the block; you’ll love it.”
“So you say,” M. groaned. In the corner of her room, in front of a dusty window, Lisa’s drawing table was covered with blotches of ink and a large sheet of poster paper; the drawing was a work-in-progress band poster. The floor was cluttered with worn album covers, countless homemade mix-tapes, Love & Rockets comic books and a volume of Guy Peellaert paintings. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“What you got?”
“I think my grandfather might have a bottle of Southern Comfort in the kitchen.”
“Where’s your grandfather now?”
The murmur of television voices whispered from across the hall. The sickly blue glow of a black & white set glimmered under the door. “Poppa James rarely leaves his bedroom, except to go to the bathroom or the kitchen. Since my mother died, I’m the only one around to take care of him.”
“Southern Comfort,” M. repeated, studying the rough pencil illustration. “That sounds good…Southern Comfort.”
“Have a seat,” Lisa said, pushing a pile of dirty clothes across the black-sheeted bed.
Returning with two glasses of ice and a full bottle of brown liquor, Lisa caught him looking at her illustration of a giant boombox. “That’s for a new group, calls themselves Stereo Situationists.” Lisa poured the drinks and they jokingly clicked their glasses together. “Honestly, the band sucks, but doing the poster is good practice. Who knows, I could be the next Jamie Reid or somebody.”
“You’re always talking about people I never heard of before.”
“Jamie Reid was the king of punk art,” Lisa huffed, pouring more liquor in her glass, After handing M. the bottle, she pointed to the defaced face of Brit royalty taped to the wall. “Reid worked with The Sex Pistols a lot. That image has been on a bunch of t-shirts and stuff.”
“Oh,” M replied. “I’ve seen it, just didn’t know the name behind it.” Embarrassed, he took a quick gulp of the strong liquor, which tasted like a combination of maple syrup and cough medicine. Immediately a surge of liquid heat swooshed through his body.
Two hours later, the bottle was empty. Tilting the bottle to her full lips, Lisa laughed with the madness of a Goddard girl and drunkenly flung herself into M.’s arms. “I’ve seen you looking at me in class,” she whispered. “You like me?”
“Yeah, I like you,” he stuttered, wishing he could be James Bond cool instead of a geek with a camera dangling around his neck. Lisa allowed a few beats to pass before she finally kissed him passionately.
Awestruck and nervous, M. relished the taste of her tongue as his damn near virginal dick (he’d only had sex twice when he was in high school) began to swell. M.’s senses spun like a merry-go-round as he slowly rubbed his fingertips down her spine. Pulling back, Lisa swooned breathlessly.
“We can’t do this here,” she whispered.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” M. said, suddenly embarrassed.
Lisa smiled. “No, you didn’t do anything, but my grandfather is in the next room.” Glancing out the window, she said, “Grab your jacket, I know where we can go.”

Not used to drinking excessively, M. stumbled from the bedroom. Leaving the empty bottle on the bedroom floor next to his camera and case, he thought they were going to the rooftop. Instead, they walked out the front door and onto the rain slick sidewalk.
“Let me show you my favorite part of the city,” Lisa slurred, holding M.’s arm to keep from slipping on the wet concrete.
Taking careful, intoxicated steps, Lisa and M. walked four blocks. Stopping before they reached the last corner, she covered his eyes. “It’s a few feet away, but I want you to be surprised.”
After a few steps more, Lisa quickly removed her small hands from his eyes. Blinking twice, M. couldn’t believe he was still in the same working-class town. Looking at the wide cobblestoned street, a gothic cathedral on the far corner, a lovely park with a flowing fountain and phallic symbol monument on the next block, he felt as though he was in a mystical place.
“Where are we?”
“Mount Vernon Square,” Lisa said. “Up the block is the Methodist church and that’s the first monument ever built for George Washington.”
“And that?”
“That’s the Peabody Conservatory,” she blurted, pointing to the stately Beaux-Arts building across the street. “It’s supposed to be the best music school in the world.”
From one of the practice rooms, a nocturnal virtuoso improvised a complex piano solo. With style that weaved various genres (splashes of Schubert, bits of Brubeck, pieces of Preston, grains of Glass), rhythmic patterns and melodic structures, the composition was otherworldly and divine.
Crossing the street, the couple drunkenly descended the stone staircase that led into the tree-lined park. Looking around, M. noticed that the decorative streetlamps were dim and passing cars could not see inside the park.
Sitting on a wet bench that was between two dripping trees, M. briefly admired the cathedral steeple silhouetted against the moonlit sky. “That would make a great picture,” he thought as Lisa stood in front of him and unzipped her worn leather jacket.
Putting her red booted right foot on the bench, M. resisted the urge to kiss it. Slowly sliding his hand up to her thigh, M. pulled Lisa’s plaid dress above her crotch. Though it seemed somewhat anti-punk, Lisa wore red silky underwear and the bulge of her large labia brought a grin to M.’s face.
Pulling the panties down, he shoved them into his pocket. Much to his pleasure, her mound was hairy as a cat’s back. Rubbing her thick pussy lips with a steady rhythm, he slowly slid two fingers into her sticky snatch.
“I’d rather be eaten than fingered,” Lisa whispered.
“No problem,” M. said obediently as she wrapped her arms around his neck and affectionately guided his head towards her musky bush. Adoring the sweet aroma, a tingling sensation ran up his arm. As the unseen pianist continued to perform, M. buried his face in Lisa’s lap and relished her salty taste as he tenderly sucked her clit.
Quivering, she almost lost her balance. Biting her own tongue to keep from screaming, Lisa dug her nails into M.’s neck as he blissfully winced. “God, that felt good,” she moaned. Breathing hard, she slid onto the wet bench and quickly unfastened M.’s thick leather belt.
Slowly undoing his zipper, she stuck her right hand into the opening. “No underwear, huh? How naughty.”
Pulling out his cock, Lisa held the shaft with her long fingers and gently licked the head. Leaning back against the bench, M. stared at the cathedral’s arched windows and multi-tiered steeples as Lisa applied her devilish oral skills.
Yet, before M. had a chance to shoot his load, Lisa stood up suddenly. Almost slipping on the wet, colorful leaves around the bench, she straddled him and carefully eased his hardness into her juicy pussy.
Grabbing her big butt as she gyrated on his stiffness, Lisa pulled up her shirt and brushed her breasts against his face. Picking up speed, the music of their lust and the swooshing sound of her wet pussy competed with the unknown piano player across the yard.
“I’m coming,” Lisa yelped, contracting the muscles inside her vagina.
“God, yes,” M. hissed, his hot breath warming her nipples as they climaxed together. Minutes later, still holding one another tightly as the pianist played the last notes of his strange composition and the autumn rain began again, M. somehow knew that he and Lisa would be together forever.


Excerpted from Only You by Rachel Kramer Bussel Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Introduction: Very Happy Endings

Driven - Angela Caperton
House Full of Dreams - Andrea Dale
Overcome - Alyssa Turner
Forgotten Bodies - Giselle Renarde
In The Dog House - Hanna Martine
Autumn Rain - Michael A. Gonzales
The Love We Make - Kristina Wright
In-Flight Entertainment - Catherine Paulssen
Republicans Don’t Like -Kate Dominic
Mom’s Night Out - Lolita Lopez
Slow Fire - Donna George Storey
The Nude, Stripped Naked -Jeremy Edwards
Edge -Skylar Kade
Unfolding - K D Grace
Married -Abigail Grey
Cook’s Treat - Elizabeth Coldwell
Hollywood Romance -Veronica Wilde
Matters of the Heart -Tenille Brown
September Song - Anna Watson
Day Job - Deborah Castellano
Saved - Cassandra Carr
For the Very First Time -Rachel Kramer Bussel

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Only You: Erotic Romance for Women 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 2 reviews.
QuixoticOrchid More than 1 year ago
I'm already a big fan of Rachel Kramer Bussel so when I found this book, I just had to have it. Only You: Erotic Romance for Women has a little bit of everything from sweet and delicate to sweaty sexy, from brand new love to old and battered but still running strong. It's like a Chicken Soup book for the erotic romance world. Makes you want to fall in love all over again. And, because of this book, I can add to my list of personal favorite stories -- Kate Dominic's Republican's Don't Lie. As messed up as the house of Congress is, I can't help but wonder every time I see one of those characters on CNN -- and laugh out loud.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago