By Lisabet Sarai
Romantic Erotica Boxed Set – Five Flames
753 pages, 220K words
ASIN: B0HBNC7M63
Amazon exclusive, free on KU
Release date: August 10, 2026
Hashtags/Keywords
steampunk, Thailand, Rajasthan, Victorian, lesbian, exhibitionism, voyeurism, role-playing, bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, multi-partner, kidnapping
Blurb
Three women. Three worlds. Three erotic journeys where each salacious adventure reveals new dimensions of desire.
Incognito: By day, Miranda Cahill works diligently on her doctoral thesis. At night, she has sex with strangers—until one man strips away her mask.
Rajasthani Moon: Voluptuous spy Cecily Harrowsmith has never failed to complete an assignment. Now, imprisoned by the perverse brothers who control rebellious Rajasthan, she risks betrayal by both her body and her heart.
Raw Silk: In the exotic City of Angels, software engineer Kate O’Neill becomes intimately involved with two very different men—a handsome and debauched member of the Thai aristocracy, and the charismatic, dominant proprietor of a sex bar.
This boxed set collects three of Lisabet Sarai’s boldest and most arousing romance novels in a single, outrageous package.
Raw. Sensual. Explicit.
Brazen.
Buy Links
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0HBNC7M63
Amazon CA: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0HBNC7M63
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0HBNC7M63
Add on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/255943751-brazen
Add on Bookbub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/brazen-by-lisabet-sarai
Three Excerpts (PG)
Incognito
A knock on her office door brought Miranda back to the here and now. She had been lost, uncharacteristically, in the manuscript, a classic piece from the collection of the British Museum. There were no annotations, no commentary, on the photocopied pages. Her laptop, neglected, had turned itself off to save power. She sighed and shook her head as if to clear away the lascivious images.
“Come in,” she called, wondering who it could be. She often worked on Saturdays, precisely because the department was deserted and she could read and write undisturbed.
The grizzled head of Harold Scofield poked through the door. “Hello, Miranda. I am sorry to intrude, but I have someone to whom I would like to introduce you.” Miranda smiled to herself; her genial thesis advisor always sounded like a grammar textbook. The gray-bearded figure in suspenders bustled in, followed by an attractive young man in dark-framed eyeglasses.
“Miranda, I would like to present Mark Anderson, our new lecturer. Mark will be handling the Dickens course for the summer session.”
“Mark, this is Miranda Cahill, my most promising graduate student.” Miranda blushed, and Dr. Scofield’s eyes twinkled. “Miranda has chosen a rather controversial topic for her thesis, a new interpretation of the corpus of Victorian erotica.”
The newcomer’s polite smile expanded to a grin. “Really. That’s fascinating. Sounds far more—stimulating—than my dissertation on the metaphorical significance of orphans in Dickens and his contemporaries.”
Miranda’s blush deepened as she noted the double entendre. She met his teasing gaze, almost defiantly. “Yes, it is an intriguing topic, and I believe one of considerable literary and social significance, as well.” He had thick, dark hair, slightly tousled. His eyes behind the glasses were velvety brown with glints of gold. In his face, she saw intelligence, energy, and humor.
“Miranda has championed an unusual theory, that the explosion of sexually-oriented writing during the latter half of the nineteenth century was a reflection of actual practices, rather than a reaction against repressive public morals.” Her advisor appeared to be enjoying the role of agent provocateur. “She believes that the detailed accounts of sexual adventure and aberration published during the era chronicled real experiences, not merely fantasies.”
“Hmm.” Their bespectacled companion looked both amused and interested. “What evidence do you have to support this proposition?”
“Well, to begin with,” said Miranda, automatically adopting an academic tone, “a significant fraction of these writings are first person accounts. And a surprising number are related from a woman’s perspective. If this were primarily a literature of fantasy and titillation, I would expect a male point-of-view to dominate, as it does in modern pornography.” Miranda was encouraged to see that her audience listened attentively and gave due consideration to her points.
“Secondly, these tales are full of real-world details and commentary that would be superfluous and even distracting in fictional erotica. The protagonists discuss social issues such as poverty, child abuse, oppression of the lower classes, things that can only detract from a work intended as escapist fantasy. Even a hack pornographer knows better than to mention the unpleasant or the mundane, illegitimate pregnancies, unpaid bills, rising damp. Yet references to such items are common in the corpus.
“Finally, I find in many of these writings a thoughtfulness that conflicts with the conventions of the pornographic genre. The narrators are engaged in a wide variety of sexual activities, which are described in vivid and provocative detail. At the same time, in many cases, they reflect on their own desires and behaviors, sometimes justifying themselves in the face of the official morality, sometimes castigating themselves for weakness and sinfulness. Either way, there is a psychological depth that would be redundant in fictional erotica.”
Rajasthani Moon
It would have been much faster to fly.
Alas, Cecily Harrowsmith—special agent for Her Majesty the Queen, expert in the martial arts of three continents, past mistress of princes, potentates and the occasional prime minister—was afraid of flying. She despised herself for this weakness, but not enough to board one of the Empire’s sleek, viridium-powered airships, strap herself into her seat and hope for the best.
Hence the current tedious journey. Cecily peered out of the window of her carriage at the endless expanse of russet-coloured desert stretching in all directions. The mere sight of all that sand was enough to make her throat burn. She sipped her tepid tea, wondering for the twentieth time why she’d accepted this bloody assignment.
For England, of course, and the good of the Empire. Her Majesty could scarcely afford to have her vassal states simply refuse to pay their taxes. When the Rajah of Jaipur had expelled Her Majesty’s tax collectors and declared his kingdom independent, the Queen had imposed a viridium embargo. No society these days could function without the energy-rich mineral. At least this was the theory. Yet the Rajah and his half-brother had held out for the past three years, despite being completely cut off from the Empire’s supply lines.
Cecily’s job was to discover how the isolated principality had managed to survive. She’d also been instructed to convince the errant rulers to return to the bosom of the Empire, if at all possible. If persuasion failed, she was authorised to use force. However, she doubted this would be necessary. Persuasion was after all her forte.
Once more she extracted the portraits of the twin rulers of Rajasthan from her portmanteau to study their countenances. Both had skin the colour of nicely browned toast. Amir, the official Rajah, was clean-shaven, with deep-set eyes, a prominent nose and lips as full as a girl’s. He wore his hair in European style but the rainbow-hued turban perched on his head as well as the loops piercing his well-shaped ears were more than enough to dispel any notion that he’d been anglicised. Pratan looked far less civilised, with tangled black locks reaching to his shoulders and a drooping moustache that gave him a permanent sneer. He shared his brother’s regal nose but his features were more angular, less finished-looking than his aristocratic sibling’s. Both men were strikingly handsome, each in his own way. The paintings provided little information about their figures, but, given the stark, unforgiving nature of their country, Cecily thought it unlikely that they’d be stout. With luck, their bodies would have the same masculine appeal as their faces.
With a sigh, she tucked the images away and settled back against the cushions. Cecily was a woman of action. The two-day journey from Bombay had sorely tried her patience. Miserable roads—cart tracks, really—had limited the speed of her private motorised carriage. She could have travelled many times faster on Britain’s macadam highways.
Nevertheless, she’d been glad to escape the superficial, conservative society of London—the falseness and the gossip, back-stabbing and double-dealing. Not to mention the dank weather and the horribly uncomfortable clothing. She knew that a tightly-laced corset accentuated her ample curves, but she far preferred native dress, especially in this kind of heat. She shook out the voluminous skirt of her chaniya choli, admiring the little mirrors sewn into the blue and orange print. The Rajasthani women wore nothing underneath and she followed suit. It was far more practical when one had to answer the call of nature out here in the middle of nowhere.
The quilted fabric brushed against her unprotected pubis, engendering a pleasant tickling sensation. Now there was an idea for passing the time… When she glanced outside again, she noted that the sun was lower. The land had become rougher and greener as they approached the foothills of the Aravalli range. Jaipur was located on the other side of the mountains.
She tapped one of the buttons on the polished wood control panel to her right in order to signal the driver. “How much longer before we arrive?” she asked in fluent Hindi.
“At least three hours, ma’am,” came the disembodied voice. “Not until after dark, I should think.”
After dark. That wasn’t good at all. Bandits tended to flourish in this sort of wild landscape. “Well, do your best to get us there as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Three hours. She checked the dagger strapped to her upper arm, well-hidden under her sleeve. When she made a fist, the knife shot into her hand, ready for use. Her Majesty’s engineers truly had no equal. There was a miniature pistol tucked into her waist as well, a marvel of workmanship no less deadly for its tiny size. These weapons would have to do. If brigands struck, she’d have no time to access the cache of armaments hidden under the clothing in her trunk.
Raw Silk
It was already past seven o’clock in the evening when she arrived back at her house in Bangkok. Ae had left for the day. Kate found a note, in the maid’s childish block-printed English.
Mr. Marshall call 3 o’clock. Please call him 02 243 0657
She felt a rush of pleasure. Gregory had never telephoned her before. Still, she was annoyed to note that her heart was pounding and her mouth dry with nervousness as she dialed the number and listened to the repeated rings.
She was almost ready to hang up when he answered. “Hello. Marshall here.”
“Gregory, it’s me. Kate.”
“Kate!” She heard warmth in his voice, and relief. “Where have you been? I was concerned about you.”
“I had to get away, away by myself to think. The time at the hotel was so—intense. And confusing. I needed to sort things out.”
“I understand.” The voice on the other end of the line was uncharacteristically gentle. “I pushed you hard the other night. Maybe too hard. It seems to come so naturally with you that I forget your inexperience.”
“No,” she answered, almost whispering. “It wasn’t too hard. I see a little more clearly now, how it is between you and me. I see myself more clearly.”
“Ah, Kate! You have so much to learn! If you still want this, of course.”
“I do want it. I want you.” She found herself blushing at her forwardness.
“And I want you, Kate, in ways you probably cannot begin to imagine.”
About Lisabet
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more.
Lisabet lives in Southeast Asia with her husband of over forty years and several rescue cats, where she pursues an occupation completely unrelated to her literary endeavors.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter. AND now BlueSky! Join her VIP email list here: https://btn.ymlp.com/xgjjhmhugmgh
Social Media Links
Website: https://www.lisabetsarai.com
Blog: https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/83387.Lisabet_Sarai
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lisabetsarai
Smashwords Author Page: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LSarai
Twitter/X: https://www.twitter.com/lisabetsarai (@lisabetsarai)