Right Guy, Wrong Word

by Jewel E. Ann

Diversity is beautiful. If everyone had the same taste, life would be boring.”

“Books aren’t life. People use them to escape life, learn things that will help them achieve success, or find new ways to cope with life. Life is what happens outside the bound story. Life isn’t the letters on the page; it’s what inspires those words.”

He hates my favorite book, and I bet he hates kittens and puppies, too—a total monster.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met.” “Shut up,” I murmur just above a whisper, a little breathy as I dip my chin toward my chest.

“Don’t ever surrender.” He hands me a menu. “Promise me you’ll always make me work for it.” It’s hard not to surrender to that smile. “Work for what?” I hide behind the menu before he melts me into a puddle of mush with one look. Fucking mating dance … “You.”

And that look on his face? It says I’m in trouble. Eric Steinmann isn’t anything I’ll be able to quit without therapy.

I have a clit. How can he ignore it? My clit will not be ignored!

I’m not suggesting every man I’ve had sex with has been an expert with the female anatomy, but they’ve attempted (even if it was inaccurate and clumsy) to find that magical little nub.

“Eric … Fucking … Steinmann!” My mouth rips from his, my head lulling to the side while I claw the mattress with one hand and his hair with my other hand. “You’re welcome,” he chuckles, head buried in my neck, his rigid body incrementally relaxing on top of mine. I can’t argue. Nope. Not at all. He earned it. Man … did he ever earn it.

Eric is an ice cream sundae with extra chocolate and a jar of maraschino cherries on the first day of my period and the day I need to fit into a tight bridesmaid’s dress.

“I mean, I don’t know what this is. And I don’t like that you live three doors down from me, and I have to dodge you like this.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Why are you dodging me?” “Ugh!” I run my fingers through my hair. “Because I don’t like the loss of control, and I don’t like the polarity of emotions. One minute I like you; the next, I hate you. Then I’m back to liking you. Then you say something that rubs me wrong, and I’m back hating you. Then you open your door looking like…” I nod to his general sexiness “…this. And what am I supposed to do?”

He drags me into his apartment, shuts the door, and tosses the book on the floor. The audacity!

I officially love everything about Eric Steinmann. He’s flirty and sexy. Smart and passionate. Chivalrous. And he says sweet things like, “You look pretty today,” just seconds before nuzzling his face between my legs.

Life isn’t fiction; I get it, even if sometimes I don’t like it. So I don’t expect this to play all the way out.

She sips her coffee, resting one hand on the island. “You can have mind-blowing sex with a guy and not be book soulmates. Please tell me you get that.” “Of course, I know that.” But I don’t like to think about it.

The problem with stubborn people is that we are too stubborn to change even when we hear a whispered voice of reason.

It’s tough to fall in love with something and feel judged for that love. Books possess power. They are no more ink and paper than humans are flesh and bones. Humans have souls … books have souls. They reach across oceans. Bridge divides. They are so much more than the hands that write them. Books transcend time. Stories don’t die. They are immortal. They are timeless.

I guess I’m a romantic for books. When someone shares my love of a story, it reaches deeper than a kiss, and it’s a bond that can’t be broken.

“What will you do if I kiss you?” He steps closer, putting us toe to toe where I can smell that heady mix of spice and citrus and feel the heat from his bare chest. “I’d kiss you back,” I say just above a whisper. “And I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’m asking you not to kiss me. If I get lost in you, I will lose myself.” “And that’s bad?” He lifts my chin with his finger. “It would be tragic.”

Either books are ruining me for men, or men are ruining me for books. Well, just one man … and one book.

The human brain is terrible. Thoughts are the worst poison. I’m fucking toxic to myself, and I can’t stop it.

“When you love a story, it resonates in some way with your heart or maybe even your soul.”

That’s right … you should hide your face in shame. You crazy book lady.

Egos are the demise of humanity. They’re immune to true emotions and all reason. Egos don’t know how to love. The ego eclipses everything good in life when we let it.

Eric Steinmann continues to bring out the worst in me. Once a drug. Always a drug.

He’s a good man, and that truth messes with my thoughts as common sense and raw emotion clash in a battle of wills.

He grumbles. “You know, after getting out of the shower, she asked me to talk dirty to her—” “Dad, no. Please. I don’t need to—” “I told her to bend over and clean the toilet. I slept on the sofa that night.”

If you focus on the central underlying theme of romances that have happily ever afters, there’s one simple thing the heroine wants—for the hero never to let go. She wants to feel pursued, irreplaceable and understood. She doesn’t want to feel less than anything or anyone. She wants you to walk beside her and have her back. And some days, she might need you to catch her if she starts to fall. And if you can love her flaws, she will make you her world. Spoiler alert: Being her world is better than winning the fucking lottery.