About Anti-Romance:
Laney Hill is screwed. On the bed. On the treadmill. On the hood of a BMW. And on her boss’s desk. Then she’s screwed again when she steps into the free clinic and finds out she has gonorrhea. That dirty prick gave her gonorrhea! She’s totally going to break up with him...until he breaks up with her...because he’s married!
A night out drinking with friends leads to a fateful--yet awkwardly-sloppy--kiss between her and her best friend George Bratton.
George has been single and pining for his ex-girlfriend ever since their breakup two years ago. When his ex invites him to her destination wedding in London, self-destructive George and gonorrhea survivor Laney make a deal to go as each other’s dates. It will make great material for Laney’s “Anti-Romance” blog and maybe it will help George finally get over his ex. Nothing could possibly go wrong, right?
This is a stand-alone novel.
Add it on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/28260248-anti-romance
ANTI-ROMANCE
CHAPTER 1 – EXCERPT
Copyright © 2016 by Cassia Leo.
The tip of his erection was pressed firmly against my opening, a rock hard promise of the pleasure to come. This was the way he loved to tease me, right after making me come with his masterful tongue. He knew I needed him inside me. Needed to feel his girth stretching me. Needed to feel the closeness of his sweat-dampened skin pressed against mine.
But he wasn’t going to give in so easily.
First he would draw out the anticipation, until
I was begging for him to fuck me. He would kiss and caress my body until I was
forced to beg for it, until I reached the point of no return, where even the
slightest touch would set off a chain reaction inside my body; a domino effect
of nerve endings firing through every inch of my body, cascading uncontrollably
toward my center, concluding in a mind-numbing, thigh-quaking, chest-rattling
climax. Then, and only then, did he plunge into me with the force of an armada
crashing upon the shores, ready to plunder the land for all its riches. I, the
willingly-pillaged maiden, could only cry out in unbridled ecstasy as he took
everything I had. Every moan. Every scream. Every drop of passion coursing
through me.
When he finished inside me, his dying erection
still twitching in its final death throes, he draped his body over mine as I
lay back across the hood of his BMW. Mouth slightly hung open, his breathing
heavy on my damp skin as his lips pressed against my neck. Each breath he
exhaled sent a gentle shiver coursing through me; goosebumps sprouted over my
skin as he lightly stroked my outer thigh with the backs of his fingers.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmured in my
ear.
Though Rick had said these words a thousand
times since we began dating two months ago, I still reminded myself not to
believe them. I wasn’t gorgeous—not by his standards or anyone else’s. Maybe I
could be described as “cute…if she lost a few pounds, got lip injections, and
used a curling iron on those limp locks every once in a while.” No one—other
than Rick—had ever called me, Laney Hill, gorgeous.
But what I lacked in the looks department, I
more than made up for with a firm grip and a “fiery spirit,” as my
former women’s studies professor used to call it; or, as my best friend liked
to call it these days, my “unbridled cynicism.”
My best friend, George Bratton, was a serial
monogamist and—God help him—a hopeless romantic. His shortest romantic
relationship lasted more than a year. My longest relationship lasted ten
months, and that ended a few years ago when I decided to change careers. Since
then, I’d plowed through more men than Al Capone’s Tommy gun.
Of course, most of my romantic misadventures had
been undertaken in the name of research for my blog, lovingly named Anti-Romance: The
seedy parlor where romance goes to get a happy-ending before it dies. At least,
this is what I had convinced myself of. I only entered dead-end relationships
for my job. It certainly wasn’t because I was screwed up in any way. Nope. Not
me. I was just an artist willing to live my art. I entertained the world—well,
my 257,000 subscribers—with my cocked-up love life. I was the canvas and my
choice of medium was unavailable men.
“I guess I’ll talk to you tomorrow after the
rally?” I asked the question in a breathy murmur, trying to make my minuscule
request sound even less demanding.
He blew out a deep breath as he stood
straighter. “I can’t. I’ll be flying to D.C. to play preschool teacher to some
women’s rights groups. I have to coordinate the announcement of their
endorsements on social media. I’ll call you to set something up when I get
back.”
I forced a smile as his green eyes locked on
mine. “Of course. If you need any help,” I replied, tracing the tip of my
tongue along his sharp jawline, savoring the salt of his efforts, “I’m great at
kissing up to disillusioned constituents.”
He chuckled heartily as he pulled away and
reached for his waistline to button his slacks. “As much as I appreciate the
offer, I think the candidate would rather I tackle this alone.”
The candidate.
Three months into our smoldering farce of a
courtship and Rick still felt the need to call Senator John Grossman—the
Republican presidential candidate he worked for—“the candidate.” As if I were
too stupid to know he was referring to Senator Grossman.
I may not have graduated from Harvard, but I was
not stupid.
In fact, I graduated in the top two percent of
my class with a degree in psychology and a minor in women’s studies. Our
country, on the other hand, was circling the Idiocracy drain. As
evidenced by the untethered enthusiasm for reality TV—and, in my case, reality
blogs—it was only a matter of time before we Americans would go sliding down a
sludge-filled drainpipe and end up sloshing around the intellectual sewer
system. The way I saw it, if our ship was going down, I wanted to go down in a
yacht, not a life raft.
I adjusted the crotch of my panties, all the
while ignoring the burning itch that always followed rough sex with Rick.
Though, it did seem to be getting worse lately. Must be a slight feminine
“imbalance.” Nothing a little over-the-counter ointment wouldn’t fix.
I smoothed down the skirt of my dress as Rick
pulled up the zipper on his trousers. He wore that sly grin that communicated
one of the following: a) He could go for another round, or b) He was quite
pleased that he had conquered me in yet another public forum. The first time we
had sex in public was on my third day working undercover in Grossman’s Austin
headquarters.
I thought seducing a Republican would make a
great story for my blog followers. Rick thought having sex on his desk would be
a great stress reliever. I knew we would make a great team.
Actually, Rick was the first guy I’d considered
letting in on my secret. Since I started my Anti-Romance blog four years
ago, I’d told zero men that our relationship would be used for entertainment.
Online, I went by the pseudonym Amber F. Thus far, none of my male companions
had linked me to Amber. But Rick and I had been working together and fucking
each other for almost three months. Somehow, this felt different.
And, technically, I hadn’t written about Rick on
the blog yet. I usually journaled about my relationships in a private app on my
computer until we broke up. Then I’d go back and embellish my journal entries
wherever necessary and upload each entry to the blog. My followers didn’t know
if my dating life was happening in real time or past tense. Part of me did this
because I was fastidious about never publishing a first draft, even if it was a
first draft of a real life event. Another part of me hoped that when I found
the right guy, my followers would never know anything about him, because our
relationship would never end so I’d never have the opportunity to blog about
it.
Stranger things had happened.
The look in Rick’s green eyes was breaking me
down brick by brick. I felt myself blushing from the top of my head to my
nether regions. I had to tell him about the blog.
He
reached up and cupped my face, his thumb gently stroking my cheek. “I can’t
wait until the primaries are over and I can take you away with me for a few
days.” He brushed his lips over mine and the pulsing ache between my legs
returned, which only accentuated the burning itch. “Where do you want me to
fuck you next? Under a waterfall in Hawaii? In front of the Eiffel Tower in
Paris?”
“Benghazi!” I blurted out and his face hardened
as he pulled away. I delivered a playful shove to his solid chest. “I’m kidding.
Paris sounds magnifique.”
The sound of a car door opening startled us
both. I whipped my head around to find my young and surly-in-a-hot-way neighbor
stepping out of his pickup truck, which was parked right next to Rick’s BMW.
He was sitting in his truck
this whole time?
My face flushed with heat as my neighbor
attempted to keep his head down while passing us, but he couldn’t hide his
smirk. Oh. My. God. The poor guy was trapped in his car this whole time
because he was too afraid to disturb our
public fuck-session.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured as he passed.
His head twitched in my direction, but he didn’t
dare make eye contact. “No worries, ma’am,” he muttered as he continued toward
our apartment complex.
It was about 60 degrees in January, but I could
swear it was summer in Austin as a searing warmth crept up my cheeks.
About Cassia:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Cassia Leo loves her coffee, chocolate, and margaritas with salt. When she’s not writing, she spends way too much time watching old reruns of Friends and Sex and the City. When she’s not watching reruns, she’s usually walking in the rain or reading. Come chat with her on
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/authorcassialeo
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/AuthorCassiaLeo
You can also follow her blog at http://cassialeo.com.
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