Excerpt for Vows: Asian Adventures Book 3 by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

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Asian Adventures Book 3

By Lisabet Sarai

Copyright 2018 Lisabet Sarai

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, or events is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This book intended for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.



Excerpt: Singapore Fling

About the Author


I saw him first.

Our boat had just rounded the tip of the peninsula that divides the Nam Khan from the Mekong. The driver cut the noisy motor and let us drift with the current through the golden haze of late afternoon. Peace. Birdsong and the mother river lapping against our hull were the only sounds. The highland breeze danced cool and sweet in my nostrils. I took a deep breath and let my tension ripple out and away like the river before us.

Lush jungle vegetation climbed up the right bank, into the hills. The left bank, on the city side—but who would have imagined that we were in a city, the ancient capital of a potent empire?—was less steep but carpeted with the same tangled greenery. All at once the slanting sun struck a gleam of gold ahead. As we drew closer, I saw a temple pier jutting into the water, a gilded pavilion with traditional eaves sweeping toward the ground.

A Buddha image nestled in an alcove near the peak of the roof. The man stood on the platform below, as motionless as a statue himself. Yet there was a kind of movement in his stillness. He was one with the river and the forest, breathing in slow unison with them as he gazed at us.

Orange robes draped his slender body. The honey-colored skin of his naked shoulder glowed in the waning sun. His shaven head highlighted a broad forehead, fine cheekbones, and full lips. He looked young, no more than eighteen. Then our eyes locked and I saw wisdom in his gaze, grace, perhaps humor. But definitely not innocence.

His beauty made me ache. Tears congealed into a knot in my throat. Then Danielle noticed him.

“I’d like to fuck him,” she commented softly. I whipped around, embarrassed and concerned that the driver had heard, but he had his palms together, offering the ritual nop gesture of respect as we passed the pavilion.

“Dani! Really! You’re terrible! I’m sure you know that it’s strictly forbidden for a Buddhist monk to touch a woman.”

“So? Vows were made to be broken. Besides,” she said slyly, sneaking a hand into my lap, “you can’t pretend that you don’t want him as well.”

I hadn’t realized that I was half hard. I had thought that my appreciation of him was purely aesthetic. Under Dani’s skillful fingers, I swelled to a full erection in seconds. Grinning, she grasped the tab of my zipper and started to pull.

“Stop it!” I whispered, appalled, grabbing for her invading hand. “Have a little respect!”

“Oh, but baby, I do respect you,” she cooed. “I just want to make sure that you get what you want. Sometimes you’re too shy to go after it yourself.”

She’ll never let me live it down. The fact that I’m attracted to men as well as women, but even more, the uncomfortable truth that I might never have known if she hadn’t bullied me into my first homosexual encounter. Not that I regret it. I’ll never forget that incandescent night with the audacious young punk she bought for me in Amsterdam.

There have been others since. Only when we’re traveling, though. Travel brings out a strange recklessness in my wife, a hunger for extremes that I don’t see when we’re in New York. At home, Danielle is energetic and competent, affectionate and attentive, seemingly content with our life. It feels as though we are connected, in bed and out of it. When we’re on the road, though—and our mutual love of travel was part of what brought us together—she becomes somehow sharper, prickly and less accessible. She seeks out risks. She sometimes reveals a cat-like streak of cheerful cruelty.

In Vientiane, for instance, she had insisted on tracking down rumors of still-flourishing opium dens somewhere in the city. Reluctantly, I had accompanied her, concerned for her safety. I had romantic images of dim chambers fragrant with incense, brocade-upholstered couches of carved ebony, an ancient crone with bound feet preparing and offering the pipes with a toothless grin. Instead, we found ourselves in a thatched hut on the river bank a few miles west of the city center, in the care of a strapping Lao youth with lurid tattoos on his chest and an AC/DC tee shirt.

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