You can find Simone’s linktree here.

Get ready for the ultimate prize package! Enter now for a chance to win a signed copy of all three thrilling books in the Turbulence trilogy! Dive into an unforgettable journey filled with thrilling heart-pounding erotica, guaranteed to make you think, feel, and blush with each book personally autographed by yours truly just for you.

Don’t miss out on this exclusive opportunity to own the complete set and experience the excitement from start to finish. The contest officially begins today May 1, 2026 and ends on June 30, 2026 so start earning your entries and make the Turbulence trilogy yours!

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· Grand Prize: Signed copies of all three books in the Turbulence Trilogy (Approximate Retail Value: $64.99 USD).

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Good luck, and thank you for being part of the Turbulence Trilogy adventure!

I hope this message finds you well and with a cup of coffee handy—I’ll need your full attention for my latest plea!

After a little blood, a LOT of sweat, and a few tears (not to mention countless late nights fueled by questionable snacks), I’m thrilled to announce that the Turbulence trilogy is finally complete! And can I just say, once again, how over-the-moon happy I am with how the cover turned out? I think it looks magnificent:

Book One (Turbulence: Where Chaos Meets Comfort) and Book Two (Tangled: Where Desire Meets Consequence) are ready for your reading pleasure! And guess what? The grand finale, Together: Where Love Meets Forever, is now available for preorder!

Now, I know what you’re thinking: why should I bother with a preorder? Well, my dear friends, for indie authors like me—and small presses like @grayschenspress—preorders are like fairy dust sprinkled on my dreams.

They give me that extra boost I desperately need! Not only do they impact sales and marketing, but they also help with rankings and reprints. So really, it’s like being my book’s secret superhero!

By placing a preorder, you’re not just buying a book—you’re joining me on this wild adventure and actively shaping my book’s success from day one. Plus, preorders build excitement and buzz, turning my quiet little book launch into a blockbuster event (well, a blockbuster for someone who usually writes in her pajamas)!

So, if you’d like to support not just me, but the entire creative team who believes in this project, head over to preorder my final book. Your support means the world to me and absolutely helps keep the dream alive. You can preorder the book by clicking the following button:

Preorder Here!

Thank you for being part of this crazy journey—I literally couldn’t do it without you!

Happy reading!

— Julie 🩶

P.S. If you decide to preorder Together, send me a screenshot and I’ll send you a copy of Turbulence AND Tangled for FREE. This offer is good until the day the book is released on April 30th.

If you’re interested in purchasing this book, it’s currently on sale for only 99 cents on Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/2006602

If you’re interested in becoming an ARC reader for my other upcoming books this year, please contact me at https://juliewritesbooks.com/contact

In this excerpt, you’ll join Nate and Bronwyn as they savor the end of a four-day weekend—filled with tenderness, desire, and the simple pleasures of waking up together. This passage is meant for adults 18-plus, and is rated MA for strong language and explicit sexual content. Listener discretion is advised

So, I’ve got my fingers crossed that this post only goes out to those of you who have signed up for my Julie Writes, Reviews, and Reads Erotic Books newsletter. If you get this and are NOT subscribed, can you please, please let me know?

Hey there, mates of the tribe! I’ve created a handy dandy checklist that you can download for free to use with (or without) a partner. Please let me know if there’s anything not on the list that you think should be included in future editions and I’ll be sure to update the next release.

I’ve found two already that I can’t believe I didn’t include (pegging and prostate play) but I’m curious to know what you can cum, er… I mean come up with. 😈

You can download them directly by clicking the links below 👇

Kink & Fetish Checklist - Page 1

Kink & Fetish Checklist - Page 2

Kink & Fetish Checklist - Page 3

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This is going to be another narrative that will be wholly unsatisfying, I thought to myself.

Hear me out—typically, at least in my experience, books of this length normally take at least half of the pages to establish the plot, introduce the characters, etc, so that by the time a story starts getting good, it’s pretty much over. I hope the author accepts my sincerest of apologies for misjudging her work, because that wasn’t the case at all 

Instead, Ms. Black managed to draw me in almost immediately, deftly introducing the two main characters and stakes with an economy of words that was both refreshing and impressive. The pacing never felt rushed, and I found myself invested in the unfolding events far sooner than I anticipated.

Despite its brevity, the story delivered a satisfying arc, complete with character development and emotional resonance, leaving me pleasantly surprised and fulfilled (if you catch my drift), by just how much could be accomplished in such a compact format. 

It wasn’t until I clicked the link on the last page that all became clear to me—this story (and it seems all of the author’s other works) was always meant to be a “fast-burn, high-heat escape” intentionally written “for readers who crave intense, satisfying romance they can devour in a single sitting.”

 And let me tell you it delivers on its promise to be exactly that. The prose is delightfully written, deliciously spicy, and will get your motor running within the first few minutes of starting the first chapter.

In the end, Principal’s Office is a showcase in efficient, steamy storytelling. Annie Black proves that a powerful connection and a complete romantic journey aren't dependent on page count, but on skillful writing and well-paced plot development. It completely redefined my expectations for shorter romance formats.

So, if you're looking for a captivating, high-heat story that packs a serious punch and can be enjoyed in one deliciously indulgent sitting, this truly is the perfect escape and I will certainly be devouring more of her work. 😈

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 I loved Every. Single. Word.

 It tells the story of Evelyn and Alexander—a charming and charismatic billionaire who is also Evelyn’s boss. She feels he’s way out of her league, but what she doesn’t realize is that he’s been watching her for quite some time.

 Evelyn is portrayed as a gentle and delicate person, shaped by some tough experiences from her past. Yet, as the story unfolds, she grows, showing meaningful and remarkable personal development. Alexander always appears calm and resilient, but inwardly, he struggles with his own inner conflicts. I can’t share too much more to keep the surprises for new readers.

 The author’s clever choice of using short chapters alternating between Evelyn’s and Alexander’s points of view was spot-on—expertly done and really enhanced the story’s tension. It unequivocally set an exciting tone for this dark, passionate, and exhilarating romance. From the very start, Autumn’s writing style was crisp, beautifully crafted, and incredibly engaging.

 All in all, The Forbidden is as steamy and enticing as a Finnish sauna, with a sizzling heat that travels through every chapter. The chemistry between Evelyn and Alexander sparks from their very first meeting, keeping the tension alive and making it impossible to put down. Autumn clearly has a great sense of timing—knowing when to speed things up and when to slow down the action. While the book is quite spicy, it never crosses into unnecessary or overly salacious territory.

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Jordyn Haart’s Vixen Ignited is an electrifying blend of scorching passion and emotional depth. This isn’t just another steamy romance—it’s a fantastic showcase in writing erotica that is as emotionally intelligent as it is intensely sensual. From the very first chapter, I was completely absorbed by the magnetic dynamic between the characters and the author’s lush, immersive prose. 

Haart’s writing is a character in its own right: vivid, lyrical, and unflinchingly sensual. In one breathtaking scene, the author writes with such poetic precision that the tension is both literary and deeply physical: She drew it out, her fingers circling teasingly at first, denying the full pressure her body craved… Images and imagined commands came quickly. She came explosively… It felt like pure joy. 

The push and pull of power, trust, and vulnerability between the characters is intoxicating. In one of the book’s many electrically charged encounters, the push-pull of control and surrender is masterfully rendered: “No, sweet girl,” he said, his tone warm and teasing. “Let’s not rush. It’s so much better if you wait…” His hand moved lower, sliding over lace, feeling the heat of her through the fabric, a graze so light it made her tremble. 

But what truly sets Vixen Ignited apart is how Haart balances raw, passionate scenes with genuine emotional stakes. The dialogue is sharp and believable, the characters are fleshed out and relatable, and the pacing is flawless. Even in the most intense moments, the connection between the characters remains authentic and deeply felt. 

A handful of minor typos appear in later chapters, but they’re a minor distraction in what is otherwise an exquisitely crafted story. These small oversights don’t detract from the book’s 5-star impact. If you’re looking for a smart, steamy, and emotionally intelligent romance that doesn’t shy away from heat or heart, Vixen Ignited is an absolute must-read. 

Jordyn Haart has written a book that’s not just about physical passion, but about intimacy, trust, and the kind of chemistry that lingers well after you’ve finished reading. 

Star Rating: ★★★★★ 

Spice Level: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ (Open door, high steam, with strong BDSM elements)

 --- I received an advance copy of this book and have voluntarily written this review.

You can follow Jordyn Haart on BookBub.

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Hysteria!

Lady Elizabeth

When I first said the word hysteria aloud, it tasted bitter, like someone else’s medicine. My mother, Lady Eleanor, said it once, the summer my father died: “It’s nerves, child! You’d best be seeing Dr. Holloway. I shall set you and your sister an appointment for the day after ‘morrow.”

When I expressed my hesitance, my sister, Anne, had whispered, “You worry too much. I’ve visited him thrice already,” with a grin that would beat the devil.

Even the men at the market benches said it without meaning to… an offhand shoulder‑shrug in the face of a woman who did not behave as neatly as the town expected. Between all of them the word gathered itself into a diagnosis I could not quite refuse: an umbrella for aches the doctors could not fit into their instruments.

I was living in the little house by the mill then, a place whose windows steamed each morning like the breath of some patient creature. I kept accounts for a dry‑goods shop; small sums and small satisfactions, and the certainty that a ledger would balance if I held my hand steady.

But at night, the certainties frayed. Sleep could not be coaxed. My chest would gather a stifled, wordless pressure until the world felt edged and sharp. There were tremors that started in my belly and ran like a poor transmission up through my limbs; there were afternoons in which laughter felt too loud and other times in which it would not come at all. People called that fragmentation temperament; later, when I visited the doctor, it would be called hysteria.

My first visit to Dr. Holloway was practical enough. My family pushed: a doctor, they said, was a sensible place to set a day for one’s grievances. He practiced at the back of town, in a sober, respectable building whose brass plaque read “Electro‑Therapeutics.” Outside, carts rolled; inside, the waiting room smelled of lemon soap, liniment, and old pages. I sat with hands folded and told myself not to fidget.

My lovely eighteen-year-old sister went in with the doctor first. She was all smiles as she called back over her shoulder, “Would you like to join us? I can show you there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

For a moment, I considered her offer, but instead I just shook my head and continued to sit in the small waiting room. It wasn’t long before I could hear her cry out. She’s probably just trying to scare me, I thought. Soon after, she emerged from his office, her dark hair mussed and her cheeks rosy.

“Your turn,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll take my leave now, Doctor Holloway.”

“Very good, Lady Anne,” he replied. “You did well today. And please tell your mother thank you for referring your lovely sister,” he continued, eyeing me up and down.

After he dismissed her, he took my hand and led me back to his office where he picked me up and sat me on his table.

He was the sort of man whose face had the comfortable angles of a rule and compass. He spoke in lists and in small courtesies, and when he diagnosed hysteria I felt no accusation in his tone… only the professional gravity of someone asked to mend patterns he believed he could understand.

He suggested treatments. He gave me time to consider and then signed a card: twice a week, pelvic massage with an electro‑vibratory apparatus, and observations. “It is an established method,” he said. “You will be seen; you will be kept under watch.”

I consented because consent felt like an agreement with tomorrow. I wanted fewer tremors and more good nights. I wanted to go on being useful and predictable and not to be scolded by trembling hands that would not unlearn their shakes. I wanted an answer, even if the answer required me to lay myself beneath a machine like a patient of the new age.

The first time he brought the device into the treatment room my mind did what minds do: it made a story from the parts. The instrument: an assemblage of brass, carved wood, coil and pulley sat like a small engine. The headpiece gleamed faintly under the gas lamp, its cloth wrapped by his hands with a proximity that was technical and oddly careful.

He explained the procedure in steps; he asked me questions about my comfort and consent at each one. The word consent, once formalized, felt less like something extracted from me and more like the scaffold we had built between us.

He did not touch me the way men in the market touched; no greedy brush, no assumption. His hands were steadier for the work he practiced; they had the mute kindness of a person who had read about nerves and had not yet made a god of them.

The machine began to hum, a noise like a tram coming to life, a small industrial song. The vibrations were not a whispering indecency; they were mechanical, insistent. “Oh doctor,” I cried out, experiencing a deep and intense pleasure that I had never felt before. He looked down at me, his hand holding me to the table.

I writhed beneath him, my hips bucking wildly and when the change in me came it came like a soft, internal loosening, a relief that was neither scandalous nor shallow, but an odd corrective to months of tautness.

Afterward, I left the clinic in a slow stupor, the lamplight catching the rain on the street like a constellation I had helped to name. The tremor was still in me, but its edge had been sanded. I went again the next week, and the next, and twice a week became a calendar I marked almost religiously: Tuesday and Friday, the days reserved for being availed.

There are things one cannot say in polite company. One of them is that the visits granted me something like knowledge of my own nerves. That knowledge is not a victory and it is not an apology. It is a map.

I learned that some of my complaints had been made bearable by the instrument’s low insistence, by the small confessions of my body responding to a touch that did not demand anything of my speech.

I learned that relief makes a kind of habit too: I began to prefer the hour in the clinic the way others prefer church, not because the remedy was perfect, but because it rendered my edges softer, my nights more intact.

The machine’s hum was a secular chant. In the strange, detached pleasure of the treatment, a thought, sharp and clear, cut through the haze: This is a transaction—my body, for a moment’s peace. I was not a ledger to be balanced, but neither was I merely a patient. I was a collaborator in this strange, clinical ritual.

Dr. Holloway’s hands, when they adjusted the machine or checked the electrodes, were precise, but I began to catalogue his reactions in return: the slight catch in his breath when the machine’s rhythm changed, the focused line of his brow.

It was a new kind of ledger, one of power and a strange, clinical intimacy. I was learning to read him as he read my body.

Each session added layers to the interior story: the polite, clinical language Dr. Holloway used; the way he wrapped the linen around the apparatus; his steady, unsensational voice when he asked if I was comfortable.

I caught myself measuring him as he measured me, curious how a man trained in the laboratory of modern medicine might, in private, hold such tender minutes with a hand and a humming machine.

There were times, rare and private, when my gratitude felt like something fragile and electric. I would leave the street feeling chastened and oddly luminous, with an intimacy that belonged wholly to me and the clinic’s dim lamp.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dr. Holloway

I learned early in my practice that certain illnesses are a property of an era just as much as they are of a body. Hysteria: a sweeping word that had weight in my consultations. not merely because of the symptoms women presented, but because the community required an answer.

Medicine is, among other things, the art of making the unmanageable legible. My work in electro‑therapeutics was a consequence of that very impulse: to bring tools and measured technique into the private disarray of the human nervous system.

My hands, as a surgeon, and at that point all physicians are, in some sense, surgeons of the unknown, are trained to move with economy and respect. We are to distinguish between sensation and sign, between a patient’s shame and the physiology beneath it. I tell myself this as a comfort and repeat it as a task.

When Lady Elizabeth first came to my practice; exacting in her questions, an accountant in the careful way she kept her speech low, I treated her as a case and as a person in equal parts. The ledger of her life, the work she did in the small house near the mill, did not, in my mind, absolve me from the responsibility to treat her with exactitude.

The instrument we used is a child of modern industry and, in its own way, a civilizer of tired muscles. It is a machine of brass and leather and clear intention: an electric motor whose early hum is both invisible and immediate.

Standing beside it, I am both prone to the satisfaction of laboratory neatness and aware of the ethical tightrope. The device shortens a laborious manual therapy, pelvic massage given for generations by practiced hands but it also introduces a new intimacy: the vibration is mechanical, yes, but the response is made in flesh.

When Lady Elizabeth first consented, she was measured and composed but wary. I was mindful to explain each step. Medicine without dialogue is tyranny. I prefer to be a craftsman who speaks his craft aloud: “There will be a gentle warmth,” I say. “If the sensation is unbearable, tell me and I will stop.”

Men who came to me earlier in my career sometimes misread the silence of a woman’s face for acquiescence or worse. I learned to ask, to confirm, to receive their voiced permission as the work began. It is not merely propriety. It is the way I have chosen to practice.

The lady returns twice weekly. It is not a ritual I prescribe lightly. Some women find the sessions unnecessary; others find them a reprieve. In the case notes I chart the physiology respectfully: pulse, respiration, the effect the treatment has on tension. In the evenings I write in the ledger with a fountain pen, careful that my script be as legible as the observations themselves.

I made a note in Lady Elizabeth’s file, the nib of my pen scratching a clinical, third-person account of her ‘paroxysms’ and the ‘satisfactory release of nervous tension.’

My own hand, I noted with a faint, internal tremor, was not as steady as I would have liked. I observed the phenomenon dispassionately: an elevated pulse and a specific, localized tension in my own physiology. It was, I told myself, a purely biological response to the physical mechanics of the procedure, a sympathetic resonance of the nervous system.

My patient, Lady Elizabeth Fairchild, was a collection of fascinating symptoms to be soothed, a system to be brought into equilibrium. To attribute any other quality to the observation was a failure of professional objectivity.

I noted her file, ‘Responds well to treatment. Marked reduction in somatic tension.’ I did not write of the strange, unsettling clarity in her eyes when the treatment concluded, a lucidity that seemed to look back at the observer.

I will not romanticize what occurs in the treatment room. The machinery does a thing that my hand once did: it puts a pressure in a place that has been historically deemed the locus of a woman’s complaint.

The term hysterical paroxysm, used in medical texts of my training, is awkward because language bends around sensibility; yet the vaginal spasms, the release, the loosening, they happen in a way the textbooks mark as therapeutic.

There is a disquiet in some corners of the profession about what we are doing. There are ethical and social concerns that sit with me like stones on a shelf. We are in the business of tending suffering, and sometimes that tending looks indistinguishable from administering what culture calls relief.

Lady Elizabeth’s hands are small and sure when she enters. She is wary of being noted as a spectacle; she asks the clinical questions with that accountant’s precision that I admire. The first few sessions I watched for signs: the tightening of her jaw, the way she held her breath before the machine started, because medicine is observation before intervention.

Then, after consent is reasserted and she relaxes into the linen’s warmth, I let the device speak for the practiced pressure my own fingers once provided.

There is an art in timing the motor, in setting the rhythm that brings a body from a taut, anxious silence to an unfastening that looks and feels like pleasure.

I return her to heat and towels with the quiet of one who knows he has been given a trust. It is not flattery I find in her gratitude; it is a small human exchange that does not translate easily into case notes.

I see in her a clarity after each of our sessions, an easing of the lips, a steadier breath that this clinic has been paid to restore. I do not presume to have done anything more than offer a practiced technique and an attentive ear.

There are nights when I sit at my desk and consider the unspoken consequences of what I do. We train our students in manuals, in machines, in the proper voltage curves that will not scorch tissue; but we seldom teach them how to hold the gaze that follows the intimate moment.

Medicine in the modern age asks of us the paradox of steel and mercy. I am a man of lists, but in the quiet after a procedure I often cannot reduce the whole conversation between patient and physician to mere data. It lives in my chest as well, as a ledger of its own.

One reduces the practice to a set of techniques only at the risk of missing the person who receives them. I have, on occasion, offered the device to women who found the idea barbaric; I have also had women come who pleaded for the relief it grants. The ethical texture of my work demands that I listen and that I aim always to leave a person no worse than I found them. If I hold any pride, it is in the modesty of that rule.

The intimacy I’ve cultivated with Lady Elizabeth is not the kind that blushes or festers. It is a clear minded pact, scrupulous as a laboratory protocol. Our sessions, Tuesdays and Fridays, at three o’clock sharp, unfold with the cadence of a sonata: precise, recurring, each movement a variation on the last.

She arrives punctual as a horologist’s clock, gloved hands folded over her reticule, her posture betraying none of the desperation that drives others to my door.

The clinic’s staff knows to leave the mahogany-paneled room vacant for us; even the air seems to still when she enters, as if the gas lamps dim in deference to her resolve.

She is no invalid prostrate on a chaise lounge, sighing over vials of laudanum. Nor is she supplicant. When I gesture to the examination table, its leather cushion grooved by a generation of apprehensive bodies she ascends without assistance, her skirt pooling around her like ink spilled in deliberate circles. We do not speak of symptoms as if they are secrets to be extracted.

I have often wondered if there was something more that she yearned for as I did. I longed to touch her all over with my hands coming to rest between her smooth legs. How I wished I could penetrate her with my tongue and manhood. I would often be forced to avail myself after a session with her because of how she made my cock throb.

I have also thought about what it would be like to feel her cunt wrapped around my shaft. These naughty thoughts were just that… thoughts, never to be acted upon.

Unless… I shudder at the idea that perhaps she might feel the same as I. But how to find out? I could certainly ask her outright, but in a moment of quiet panic, I worry that she might feel obligated to acquiesce to my desires.

Instead, we trade observations like cartographers charting a shared terrain: “The tremors persist, but with less violence after last week’s adjustment,” she might say, or “The compress proved too abrasive; the linen must be dampened, not drenched.” Her voice, always measured, carries the authority of a general reviewing troop positions.

The procedure itself is a liturgy of consent. I describe each instrument before it touches her, the glass applicator’s temperature, the pendulum’s arc, the exact weight of the leaded apron, and she responds no longer with meek acquiescence but considered negotiation.

“Shorter intervals between pulses,” she might decree, or “Omit the galvanic current today; I find it muddles my clarity,” and I comply. This is our covenant: I am no Svengali imposing my will upon her nerves, nor she a passive vessel for my expertise. We are collaborators in the truest sense, dismantling her affliction joint by joint, as if disarming a clockwork bomb.

Afterward, she lingers. Not in the manner of those who crave sympathy or sly tonics, but to dissect the session’s mechanics over tea poured from her own silver flask.

“The contralateral vibration,” she’ll muse, stirring precisely half a spoon of honey into her cup, “seems to attenuate the neuralgia more effectively when preceded by ocular focus. We should test this next time.” Her calm is not sedation but mastery: the quiet of a chess grandmaster mid-gambit.

When she departs, the room retains her imprint: a lingering trace of bergamot, the indentation of her heels in the rug, the taut absence where her scrutiny once hung.

I do not romanticize this dance of ours. It is work, clinical and unglamorous. Yet I cannot deny the peculiar grace of it; how our partnership, devoid of vulnerability’s theatrics, has forged a sanctuary in which her body relearns its sovereignty.

She returns not because she is broken, but because she is methodical. And I, for once in my career, feel less like a healer than a witness to some rarified metamorphosis: a woman rebuilding herself, one calibrated tremor at a time.

Ethics are not static things. They change as machines and culture push at the rim of what we accept. I attempt, as best I can, to be open about the limits of what I offer. I write the notes. I keep to the steps. I ask twice.

When she leaves the practice now, I am often struck more by the small human commerce of the moment, the quiet exchange, the steady look, than by any grand theory of cure.

One evening, with the lamp in the consulting room dim, she stayed to tie her scarf and asked me, in a way that was not wanting drama but wanting truth, “Do you think it helps because of the machine or because you listen?”

I told her, truthfully, that medicine is seldom singular in its mechanism of effect. Machines help. Hands help. The voice helps. Knowing your needs will be met helps. The answer was a list, and she smiled the kind of smile a person makes when a ledger balances after a long stretch of errors.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Lady Elizabeth

There is a curious vocabulary that grows with these visits: words for the relief, phrases for the reservations, small, private metrics of progress. Twice a week became an axis around which I planned other things.

I learned to be present to my own body in a way that is constructive rather than accusatory. I learned that a woman living under the label of hysteria need not accept the shame the word carries; that she may, instead, accept a remedy that gives her nights a measure of quiet.

“Doctor,” I said, my voice a thread of sound in the lamplight. The clinical smell of liniment and starched linen was in my throat. He was wiping his hands on a towel, his back to me, a silhouette against the gas lamp.

He turned, his expression the usual mask of professional courtesy. “Lady Elizabeth? Are you unwell?”

“The treatment,” I began, and my voice was not the steady, measured tone I used in the shop. It was the voice from my nights, the one that knew the ledger was balanced but the soul was not. “It provides a... mechanical release.”

“That is its purpose” he said, but his professional mask was a poor fit now. I could see the pulse at his temple.

I did not touch myself. I let my hand, which had been lying on the starched sheet, palm up, curl slowly inward. A gesture of emptiness. “It is a transaction of nerves and sinew. But the ledger remains... unbalanced.”

He did not move. “The treatment is for your nerves. For the hysteria.”

The word, in that moment, was the most obscene thing in the room. It shattered the clinical pretense.

“Is it?” I asked, and for the first time, I looked at him not as my physician, but as John Holloway. “Or is it a key you’ve given me to a room in my own house I never knew was locked?”

The silence was a living thing. The power in the room, so long held in his calibrated hands, his instruments, his diagnoses, trembled. It was a transfer of a different kind. He was not looking at a patient now. He was looking at a woman who had just quoted the terms of their contract back to him.

He took a step, not towards the door, but towards the table. The air left the room. “Elizabeth,” he said, and the use of my given name was the final, soft click of the lock turning. The diagnosis, the treatment, the ledger of my body—all of it was a prelude to this.

His hand, which had calibrated machines and written prescriptions, hovered, then brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch was not clinical. It was the first line of a new, unauthorized text.

The machine was off, but a different, more fundamental current now hummed between us. The professional script was gone. I watched the struggle on his face—the doctor, the scientist, the man—and saw the exact moment the man won. It was a surrender. He was no longer my healer, but a co-conspirator in the dismantling of a boundary.

And in the space of a held breath, the last pretense of the clinic dissolved.

The air in the room, which had hummed with the machine’s artificial life, now held a different charge. The clinical script they had followed, the liturgy of treatment, was gone. The word “hysteria,” which had been a bridge between us, now lay shattered between them, a useless husk.

My heartbeat was a frantic bird against my ribs, but my voice, when it came, was low, a thread of sound in the lamplight. “This is not in the treatment plan, Doctor.”

He did not move from the edge of the table, a silhouette against the dim glow of the gas lamp. “No,” he finally said, the word a rough, unprofessional sound. “It is not.”

The space between us was no longer the measured, safe distance of physician and patient. It was a space charged, a void demanding to be crossed. I saw the struggle on his face, a war between the scientist who catalogued symptoms and the man who had, for months, charted the intimate cartography of my body’s responses. The doctor was receding, and in his place was John Holloway, a man whose breath was as unsteady as my own.

He did not ask again. The final, fragile barrier of my undergarments was not so much removed as dissolved by his touch, his hands, those instruments of clinical precision, now trembling with a different intent. His gaze, once so methodical, was now a dark, consuming fire.

His mouth, which had spoken only of treatment and tremors, found mine with a hunger that was a question and an answer. It was not the chaste, prescribed pressure of the machine, but a claiming. When he pulled back, his eyes, dark and dilated, searched mine. “Elizabeth,” he breathed against my lips, my name a sacred, broken thing. “This is a transgression from which we cannot return.”

“Then let it be a transgression,” I heard myself say, the ledger-keeper in me making a final, reckless entry. I was not just a patient, nor was I just a collection of symptoms. I was a collaborator in my own undoing.

He lifted me as if I were weightless, my back meeting the cool, polished leather of the examination table. The starched linen, the scent of lemon soap and starch, the faint, metallic tang of the machine—all of it was the same, yet the universe had tilted. His hands, which had calibrated instruments with such care, now mapped my skin with a desperate reverence, charting a new anatomy of desire.

There was no machine-hum now, only the sound of our breathing, the rustle of fabric, the quick intake of breath as the world of diagnoses and symptoms dissolved. He was not my physician in that moment. He was a man, and I was a woman, and the only diagnosis was the frantic, shared rhythm of our hearts.

The moment of agonizing discomfort was a bright line, a demarcation between a before and an after. I cried out, and he stilled, his body a tense arc above me. But there was no turning back from the path we had chosen. His hand, which had so often adjusted the voltage of the machine, now cradled my face, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.

The pain, a sharp and singular point, was not an end, but a threshold. It did not retreat, but it was slowly, inexorably, joined by a different, deeper sensation. The initial, shocking pressure was being replaced, transformed by a gathering warmth, a slow, liquid heat that began to unspool from the very core of me.

The rigid fear in my limbs, the instinct to retreat, began to dissolve into the leather beneath me. A low, involuntary sound escaped my throat, a sound not of pain, but of profound, startled sensation.

He felt the change. A low, guttural sound, part relief and part triumph, rumbled in his chest. “There,” he whispered, his voice thick, his own control fraying. “Let me…”

He did not need to finish. His hand, which had been braced beside my head, slid between us, his touch a focused, deliberate pressure that was neither clinical nor hesitant. It was the final, perfect key in a lock I hadn’t known existed. The sharp, singular point of pain was now a distant echo, drowned out by a rising, concentric heat.

The careful, clinical distance he maintained in his practice was incinerated in that moment. The detached physician was gone, replaced by a man in the grip of a need that mirrored my own. His rhythm, once a measured, therapeutic cadence, became a raw, vital claim of possession.

The world outside the room—the respectable brass plaque, the street, the ledger books, the entire architecture of my former life—dissolved into the scent of his skin, the taste of salt and linen, the primal sound of our breath.

My release, when it came, was not the mechanical, machine-timed convulsion of the treatment. It was a deep, silent quake, a wave that began in the forgotten, newly-discovered center of my being and radiated outwards, a silent cry against his shoulder. It was not a “hysterical paroxysm” to be noted in a ledger. It was a surrender and a conquest, all at once.

He followed me into that abyss, his own control shattering with a final, deep shudder, a groan lost against my neck. For a long moment, the only sound was the frantic drumming of two hearts slowing in the dim, lamplit room.

He did not pull away, but collapsed against me, his breath hot and ragged in my hair. The silence that followed was not the quiet of the clinic, but a thick, living quiet, humming with the echo of what we had done. The ledger was not just unbalanced now; it was a closed book. A new, terrifying, and electric story had begun on a fresh, blank page.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dr. Holloway

Medicine has always been a negotiation between what humans build and what humans feel. I carry the ledger of my days and the quiet hours when patients leave calmer than when they arrived.

Technical skill without human regard is cruelty; human regard without skill is malpractice. I keep both in mind when I set my hand to a machine and when I ask a woman if she will consent.

There are debates, in journals and in the coffee rooms of other men, about what we do and whether the modern tools we employ are progress or merely instruments of cultural control.

I listen, and I write my notes. When Lady Elizabeth leaves the clinic lighter, as she does, I do not pretend to know the last word. I only know that I have a responsibility to keep asking it.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Lady Elizabeth

Do I recommend the clinic? I offer only my story. Dr. Holloway is a man of his time and of some humility. The device is a product of industrious minds and modern electricity; it is a tool that extracts certain tensions in ways that hands grow weary of doing.

In the end, like any remedy, it has its limitations. But it taught me something simple and not insignificant: that the body has its own avenues of speech, and that sometimes a machine and a careful hand can listen in a way the rest of the world does not.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Dr. Holloway

The world moves on. Words change. Machines are repurposed or retired. The history of treatments and diagnoses is knotty and uncomfortable, and in the small rooms where men like myself practiced, patients like Lady Elizabeth found, in the machinery and the measured touch, a kind of reprieve.

That reprieve was not a panacea, nor was it unambiguous triumph; it was human, and therefore imperfect, but for some, like Lady Elizabeth, a real thing worth coming back to twice a week.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Epilogue

The ink in my pen had dried. I stared at the open page of Lady Elizabeth’s file. The previous entry was in my hand, the script a model of clinical detachment. The space below it yawned, a blankness more accusing than any words.

What did one record? “Treatment culminated in a complete transference of the therapeutic dynamic, resulting in a profound, if unorthodox, somatic release. Physician’s objectivity: compromised. Professional boundary: irreparably breached.”

I had crossed a line drawn not just by Hippocrates, but by the very order of society. I was no longer just a man of science observing a fascinating case. I was the experiment that had contaminated its own results.

The ledger of my career, so meticulously kept, now had an entry written in a language of skin and silence, for which there was no medical terminology. The treatment was over. The malady, in all its terrible, human complexity, had just begun.

The End

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I’m pleased to offer the synopsis of my latest collection.

Discover a Collection of Forbidden Desires and Uncharted Passion

Dive into a world where hidden longings are unleashed and the lines between friendship, power, and love are beautifully blurred. This collection of six steamy stories explores the moment a single spark ignites a transformative fire, leading characters to embrace their most authentic selves and rewrite the rules of desire.

1. The Best Friend's Secret

Linden expects a relaxing beach weekend with her lifelong best friend, Whitney. But a shocking confession unravels years of hidden passion, transforming their perfect friendship into a risky, all-consuming affair. They must choose between the safety of the past and a breathtaking future together, discovering that the greatest love was right beside them all along. 

2. The Student's Revenge

A decade after graduation, Emerson is no longer the infatuated student—she's a powerful woman with a single goal: to seduce the teacher she could never forget. Returning for her high school reunion, she turns the tables on Mr. Roberts, proving that some fantasies are worth waiting for, and the reality is far more intoxicating than the dream. 

3. The Roommate Arrangement

Avery’s life with her two best friends and roommates is all easy laughter and casual flirting—until a charged moment reveals a secret desire between them. Suddenly, the dynamic shifts from a comfortable "them" to a forbidden "us." Together, they must navigate jealousy, set boundaries, and build a fragile, passionate throuple hidden from the world.

4. The Doctor's Dilemma

Dr. Annika Warner is a world-renowned sex therapist who orchestrates pleasure for everyone but herself. Brilliant yet disconnected, she embarks on a radical journey with two unorthodox healers who challenge her to surrender control. In their hands, she must confront the walls around her own heart and body to finally experience the profound release she teaches others to find. 

5. The Rival's Proposal

Kendall, a tenacious sports journalist, is determined to succeed in the competitive world of hockey. Caught between the team's intense captain and its charismatic superstar, she finds herself the object of their fierce rivalry. Refusing to be a prize, she makes a bold proposition: why choose? She challenges them both to a game where everyone wins, changing the rules of love and rivalry forever. 

6. The Executive's Power Play

By day, Phoenix is the impeccably professional assistant to a ruthless CEO. By night, she is "Lady Nix," a commanding online dominatrix. When she discovers her powerful boss's secret submissive yearning, she masterfully turns the tables. In a stunning role reversal, they merge their two worlds, forging a new partnership built on ultimate trust, honesty, and her control.

Are you brave enough to explore? Find your next favorite story and lose yourself in tales of passion, power, and unexpected love.

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For hundreds of years, we’ve treated stories about sex like they’re something to be embarrassed about. We push them to the side, call them “guilty pleasures” or “just genre fiction”—as if that makes them less important.

You know what?

We’ll spend ages picking apart the hidden desires of Henry James or D.H. Lawrence, holding them up as serious art. But when a story is actually honest and visceral about sex — one of the most universal human experiences there is—we suddenly get shy. We don't dare take it seriously.

Here’s what I think: erotic fiction, when it’s written with real skill and insight, isn’t some cheap thrill. It’s not “less than.” In fact, it might be one of the most powerful kinds of storytelling there is. It’s where big ideas meet real feeling — where the mind and the body actually come together.

It’s vulnerable. It’s brave. And honestly? It’s about time we stopped being ashamed of it.

It is with that spirit that I offer you this collection. I believe this is my best work yet, and I sincerely hope you enjoy it. I encourage you, dear reader, to sit back, relax, and enjoy these stories at your leisure.

If you like them, (and even if didn’t), please take a minute to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. On your Kindle, it’s super easy to do — simply navigate to the last page and click on the three vertical dots in the top right corner, then select ‘Before you Go’ at the very bottom of the menu. Once you’re there, you can enter a title and the body of your review and then submit it. (Alternatively, you can find this book on the Amazon or Goodreads website to leave a review there).

Every single review that you choose to leave means the world to me (especially the critical ones because they help me improve my writing).

Thank you so much for reading,

Julie Grayson

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