We’re excited to share the cover and first chapter of Cassia Leo’s upcoming release, Anti-Romance, with you today! Anti-Romance is NOT a romance. This is a hilariously screwed-up stand-alone novel love story. This is a book you’ll definitely want to grab in paperback; the cover will be completely colorable!
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.
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.”
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.
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.