USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
Women’s Sexuality, Gothic History & Romantic Suspense
ROBINSCHONE
CRY FOR PASSION
The Men & Women's Club Book 3
A WOMAN'S FIGHT TO BE A WOMAN
I am a woman, but I have a right to be wanted for myself. Because of who I am, and not because I have a womb.
Yes, I want to feel a man’s sex buried inside my sex, thrusting deeper and deeper until he is a part of me, and all that matters to him is the pleasure we share together.
I’m not a whore, and neither you, nor a jury, nor every man in Parliament can make me feel otherwise. I deserve to be loved. And I will not live for one more minute with a man who sees me as nothing more than an incubator for his seed.
“Part of Schone’s “The Men and Women’s Club” series and based on a real court case that changed British law, this boldly erotic romance is meticulously researched and takes a feminist stance on women’s rights that will resonate with women today.” -Library Journal
CRY FOR PASSION EXCERPT ...
“You’re frightened,” Rose Clarring surmised.
Jack was a barrister, but he was also a politician. Men whose lives depended upon popular opinion did not admit to fear. Grief. Guilt.
“And what are you, Mrs. Clarring?” Jack riposted. “Your name will be in the papers tomorrow. You’re a very pretty woman. Perhaps even your likeness will be printed. You will no longer be able to hide your clandestine meetings from your husband. He can put you away, just as my client attempted to put Mrs. Hart away. Only there will be no Whitcox to save you. I would be very afraid, were I you.”
“Would you, Mr. Lodoun?”
“Yes,” he said, fighting the sudden drumming of his heart and the soughing of his lungs.
She searched his gaze, as if she were the barrister and he an adverse witness. “What is more terrifying than living without love?”
Nothing, Jack thought. Nothing was more terrifying.
“You said your husband loves you,” he shot back.
Pale sunlight infused her face. Shadow darkened her eyes.
“The first time I saw my husband,” she unexpectedly confided, “I was watching my two youngest brothers. They were only nine and eleven. I took them to the park. They were quite a handful. When I warned them not to whip their hoop in the street, they laughed. They would have been run over by a cab had it not been for Jonathon.”
The man to whom she had been married for twelve years, one month, three weeks and two days.
“This is not necessary,” Jack brutally interrupted.
“But it is, Mr. Lodoun,” Rose Clarring said, white feathers whipping the air; a guinea-gold curl lashed the slender curve of her neck. “He snatched them up, one under each arm, and whirled them around until their laughter filled the park.”
Unwitting images flitted before Jack’s eyes: Pictures of a woman weighted down with packages instead of two children whipping a hoop; the figure of a forty-four-year-old man instead of the twenty-one-year-old boy Jonathon Clarring had then been.
But Jack, unlike Jonathon Clarring, had not been there to cheat a cab of death.
Forcefully he beat back the images. “The trial is over, Mrs. Clarring: Go home.”
But Rose Clarring did not hear him, caught up in her own past.
“I laughed, too.” The innocent happiness that flooded the cornflower blue eyes stabbed through him. “It was impossible not to be happy when I was with Jonathon.”
But now she proposed to divorce him, a husband she loved.
“I don’t want to hear this,” Jack said harshly, suddenly choking on the scent of coal and manure, and the asphyxiating perfume of springtime roses.
“But I need to tell you,” catapulted through the air. The brief glow of happiness drained from Rose Clarring’s face. Inside her eyes he glimpsed the pain he had evoked in the witness box. “I need you . . . I need someone . . . to understand.”
