"Right now, you're probably asking yourself two things: Who am I? and What the hell are you doing here? Let's start with the most obvious question, shall we? You're here, ladies, because you can't f*ck."
Oh, stop it. Don't cringe. No one under the age of eighty clutches her pearls. You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you're going to hear that word a lot. And you're going to say it a lot. Go ahead, try it out on your tongue. F*ck. F***ck.
Okay, good. Now, where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program, then you are wholly aware that you're a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle. For those of you who have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You've been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee that you will when I'm done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I'm the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake. And I turn housewives into whores. Now . . . who's first?
Author: S.L. Jennings
Other books by this author that we've reviewed: Tryst
Published by Avon Source: Publisher
Published: October 14, 2014
Genres: Erotic Contemporary Romance
See the title at Goodreads
Purchase your copy: Visit the Author's Website
When I read the blurb for this I wasn’t really sure what to think. Did I really want to read a story from the point of view of this narcissistic misogynist? But, the blurb also piqued my interest and left me with questions. “Just how many students were in his class?” and “Did he really f**k them all?” Inquiring minds wanted to know, so I decided to read it. Am I glad I did!
Justice Drake gave a very convincing appearance of being the self-involved narcissistic misogynist that appears in the blurb. I didn’t know whether to like him or not through a good portion of the book. Not much was told about who or what he was. In “class” he was presented as someone who knew it all and he was going to “help” these ladies become sex pots. (By the way, there were 11 “students.”) But in private, he seemed . . . I don’t know. Almost human, maybe? It was just so hard to get a fix on him. But it worked. It kept me reading. I just had to find out what this guy was all about.
To answer the second question I asked, no. He seriously held classes, complete with visiting “instructors” and “demonstrations” to instruct and educate the attendees on how to have a better sex life and entice their wondering husbands back to the marriage bed. Mr. Drake enjoyed shocking these women out of their mom jeans and into sexy lingerie. He seemed to get an almost sick kick out of the mind f**k, although he never actually became intimate with any of them. It was rather mind boggling.
Then Ally happened. A beautiful redhead who was shy and sweet and didn’t seem to have a clue just how gorgeous she was. Justice had no intention of treating her any different than the rest of the class, but she did something no one else had ever done. She befriended him. Talk about a twist. At this point things get really interesting. The sparks are flying, but well, she is married. For someone who presents himself as a sex therapist and has a kind of love/hate self-image of himself, at this point he also showed an interesting sense of honor in not poaching on another man’s territory. Like I said, Justice Drake was a very difficult man to figure out.
I have to say, that blurb piqued the interest, but the story held it. I read this in one sitting. I could not put it down. At first it was all about, really? Is this guy for real? Then it was, no. That isn’t the real him but, who is he? Let me tell you it was rather a shocker when it was revealed.
This actually turned into a wonderful romance to rival any romance. For one, the male point of view isn’t seen as the exclusive voice in a male/female romance very often. Then to have that voice be so very . . . um, male? It was rather a treat. I went into this expecting a walk on the wild side and found myself tripping into a full blown romance, complete with baggage, complications, and conflict. I couldn’t have asked for more.
Any lover of good contemporary romance, with a touch of erotica, will enjoy this book. It is fun and entertaining with a satisfying ending, although there were doubts that would happen. It gets only four stars because there were some editing issues, but since this was an “uncorrected e-proof” I can only hope that they will have been corrected so that it can earn the five star rating it deserves. I found it that good and will add it to my “will read again” list. I hope you find it as good.
paranormal romance, reality TV junkie, obsessive coffee drinker and collector of crazy.
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I go back to enjoying my meal while the rest of the table stares vacantly at the space that once briefly housed Allison’s retreating back. One down, only ten more to go. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last.
“Make her stay,” a meek voice barely whispers. Lorinda. The prim and proper housewife who’s more concerned with being dignified than where her husband puts his dick.
“Why should I?”
“Because she needs you. We all need you.” Several heads nod in agreement around the table. “Maybe her more than anyone else.”
More nods. Even a few cosigning murmurs.
I exhale a resigning breath, knowing exactly what I’m about to do, though it goes against every principle I’ve learned to live by for the past six years.
Never get emotionally vested in a client.
Never pressure or persuade them; it has to be their choice.
And never, ever apologize for my unconventional technique, as cruel or brash as it may seem.
The door to Allison’s suite is slightly ajar, but I knock anyway, letting it creak open to reveal her petite frame. “What do you want?” she snaps, refusing to look up from the suitcase she’s furiously stuffing with clothes.
I step inside, not bothering to wait for an invitation, and close the door. “Going somewhere?”
“Home. This was a mistake.”
“That’s funny. I never pegged you for a quitter.”
“Really?” she asks sardonically, casting an angry glare through thick, wet lashes. “Because you know everything about me, right? You know my entire life story. Height, weight, Social Security number … hell, do you have my gynecologist on speed dial?”
“Don’t be absurd.” I smirk with a wave of my hand. “You know there’s no way in hell I could ever learn a woman’s true weight.”
Allison raises her gaze from her Louis Vuitton luggage and shakes her head, dismissing me and my dry attempt at humor. But before she can turn away, the tiniest hint of a smile reveals itself at the corner of her mouth.
I move closer, close enough to smell the Chanel dabbed behind her ears. “Mrs. Carr, it is my job to make your business my business. In order to best serve my clients, full disclosure is key. There is no room for dirty little secrets here. We’ve all got them, and trust me, yours pale in comparison to most. And believe it or not, no one in that dining room is here to judge your situation. They’re all too worried about their own reasons for being here.
“With that said, I apologize if you felt my brand of honesty was too potent for you. It was callous of me. Still, that’s no reason to throw in the towel. Not when we’ve hardly scratched the surface.”
She barks out a forced laugh and looks away toward the window. A sea of glittering stars dot the blackened sky, lighting a path toward a full moon. The paleness of night floods the room, bathing her fair complexion in the glow of diamonds and sorrow.
“You said I was exclusive,” she says just above a whisper, her voice distant yet melodic enough to echo in my head.
She turns to me, eyes painted in angst. “You said I was exclusive to him in college. Not we. As if I was faithful while he was not.”
She isn’t angry, or surprised, or even embarrassed. She’s stuck somewhere between jaded and indifferent. In perpetual limbo, writhing in the space between being hurt beyond words and too fed up to give a fuck anymore.
She needs to give a fuck. I need her to give a fuck if I’m going to help her save her marriage.
“I’m aware, Mrs. Carr. And so are you.”
Allison smiles the kind of smile that’s meant to be a grimace. The kind contorted by deep-seated hurt and shame. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you? That since I knew what kind of man he was from the start, yet married him anyway, I deserve this?”
“It’s not my job to think that, Mrs. Carr.”
“Right.” She smirks. “Just your job to point out what we’re doing wrong in the bedroom.” I open my mouth to object but she raises a palm to stop me. “I get it, you know. We all signed up for this. We all knew what we were getting into. That doesn’t make it any less humiliating.”
I look at her—really look at her—and my head swirls with inner turmoil. Of course, she’s beautiful—they all are—but Allison is absolutely flawless. She wears very little makeup, and her face is unmarred by the telltale signs of plastic surgery or injections. Tiny, tan freckles dot her slender nose, giving her an almost innocent, youthful appeal. The fact that she hasn’t tried to hide or surgically remove a little piece of herself that society would deem a blemish, intrigues me. Shit, it makes her kind of badass. Such a small act of rebellion, yet such a monumental fuck you to a world that celebrates narcissism and bullshit images.
Allison’s fiery halo of red hair falls to her shoulders in deep waves. It’s full and healthy, but not overly styled with product and extensions. It’s … her. Simple. Classic. Perfection.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.
“You.” The word is out of my mouth before a lie can even begin to stifle the truth. Shit.
“Why?” Less annoyance, more amusement.
“You have freckles.”
She twists her mouth to one side and raises a cynical brow. “That I do. Would you like to count my moles? I may be able to scrounge up some scars for you too.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that. It’s just … you didn’t get laser surgery or bleach them. You don’t even try to hide them.”
“Look, I know that I’m less than perfect, but you don’t have to be an ass—”
Just as she turns away from me, her face flushed with anger, I clutch her elbow. Our heated gazes collide before sliding down to her arm, where my hand is grasping her soft, ivory skin. I pull away before the act is misconstrued as inappropriate as my traitorous thoughts.
“I like it.”
Can’t. Stop. The. Word. Vomit.