Angry Sex is officially my first ever book where the heroine is a mom. I don't know why it's the first, but it is. And I have to admit, I fell in love with this character--the pressures she had for real and the ones she put on herself and her struggle to just let herself be a person instead of a perfect facilitator for others. Luna stole my heart. And Adam...well, Adam, the man who signs up to have said angry sex with Luna...he stole other bits of me. ;)
All that smooshy-gooshy book love being said, here is a snippet and all that jazz. Look for me to do a few guest posts around the blogosphere in the near future. Happy Friday!
Luna Watkins can’t remember feeling so stressed. Her teenage son Nick’s health issues are reemerging and her ex Ben wants to help but is just making ends meet with odd jobs. Her catering business is thriving but too hectic for her to handle, at least that’s what it feels like. Not to mention since she’s been divorced, she hasn’t dated much and has had sex even less. When Nick decides to visit his grandparents for the summer, Luna is devastated. And yet, she sees a chance to work through her anger and her angst. Maybe some time to feed her body, mind and soul knowing he’s well taken care of.
Enter Adam Singleton, her new, last minute server. Handsome, gruff Adam who’s working through his own anger. Flirting turns to sparring. Sparring turns to angry sex—like therapy but naked. As time goes by and Luna and Adam become even more entangled, with their hardships and each other, the question becomes, does angry sex turn to more anger…or peace?
“Feel better?” His face was tight and unreadable. What felt like annoyance, rather than
anger, baked off him in waves.
“No,” she said, shocking them both by crying.
He pushed her back and she stumbled again. This time her ass hit the sofa hard enough
that she pretty much bounced right back up to standing. Luna barely heard Adam say, “Then do
it again” when she blindly swung, this time hitting his shoulder.
Oh fuck. Oh Jesus. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t Fight Club. This wasn’t a
book, or a movie, or even a joke. She was hitting this man who had zero to do with her rage. And
he was letting her.
She sobbed, nodding. “No.”
“You’re nodding but you said no.”
“You’re just so full of it, aren’t you?” He stood there. A handsome, patient monolith who
held all kind of secrets. At least it felt that way.
“Full of what? Shit?” she stammered.
His face broke into a fleeting smile. He chuckled. “No. Full of anger.”
“Oh, that. Yes, that,” she said. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said, and pushed her so her ass hit the sofa again.
Luna screamed. She heard the noise burst out of her like a whistle from a teakettle. He
laughed…at her. And then when he dropped to his knees, bringing them face to face, he said,
“You are so fucking weak.”
And that’s when she slapped him across the face. This blow was not glancing. This blow
was not soft. This blow hit home with a satisfying whack and a wince on his good looking
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. Realizing she meant it. That had done it. Her body felt looser, her
chest lighter, her soul not as dirty. And she could see her palm print coming up on his stubbled
cheek and she felt so very horrified—but even that felt great.
“Good,” he growled and then he yanked her pants down around her hips so hard her
button popped off and rolled to the floor and the zipper growled as it tore and broke.
She lifted her hips, arched her back, let him pull down her ruined pants and her white
panties. He pulled her legs free of all the fabric but handled the panties for a moment. Just white
cotton briefs. Fairly new. No big deal. Not sexy at all, she knew. Nothing to write home about.
Heat and embarrassment stained her cheeks as he stared her down. Then he surprised her by
stuffing them in his pocket and said, “Fodder for later. I love white.”
COMING TO EXCESSICA MARCH 16TH (print to follow)