By A. N. Roquelaure
Before E.L. James' Fifty colours of Grey and Sylvia Day's Bared to You, there has been Anne Rice's provocative tackle the undying fairy story "Sleeping attractiveness. "
In the ultimate quantity of Anne Rice's deliciously tantalizing erotic trilogy, Beauty's adventures at the darkish aspect of sexuality make her the sure captive of an japanese Sultan and a prisoner within the unique confines of the harem. As this voluptuous grownup fairy story strikes towards end, all Beauty's encounters with the myriad adaptations of sexual myth are provided in a sensuous, wealthy prose that intensifies this beautiful rendition of Love's mystery international, and makes the wonder sequence and incomparable examine of erotica. In it, Anne Rice, writing as A.N. Roquelaure, makes the forbidden aspect of ardour a doorway into the hidden areas of the psyche and the center.
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Extra info for Beauty's Release (Sleeping Beauty Trilogy, Book 3)
Still, close enough. “Indeed, I’m tired of being an apprentice,” he muttered. ” So it was that Damian made up his mind: the next morning he would go to this house on Clutterbuck Lane. This Master Thorston was apparently old, sick, and dying. Easy enough to pry the gold-making secret from him. As for this Sybil—she being the only servant, and a maid, he had no doubt he could dominate her. Moreover, Damian vowed that once he had gold coins and knew how to make more, he’d run away from this obnoxious apprenticeship and live the life of a wealthy freeman.
Her head was full of questions: Who was the man? How did he know about Thorston? Why was he interested in that blank be Why should he say he needed her? And—she suddenly recalled—that she needed him? Unwilling to confront such questions, she poked idly at the old mortar in the wall behind her. It crumbled with ease. I am in a hole, she thought. I should dig myself out. With a yawn she went up the steps to the second floor. The candle had gone out, leaving the room in almost complete darkness. Odo remained asleep.
Oddly, all he had cared about was her age. As for his house, it mattered nothing to her that it was filthy and chaotic. Nor did she mind the work, any more than she considered Thorston’s silent, reclusive life. Winter was approaching. She had a roof above. Something to eat. It was enough. As for Odo—at first she had found it odd that he talked. But from the moment she had arrived the bird had belittled her, bossed her about. Though self-effacing to Master, he never said a kind word to her—he was ever snide or cynical.