I Love My...Trilogy
Series: I Love My...
Published on June 12, 2014 Genres: Adult, Chick Lit, Contemporary, Erotic Romance, Romance
The I Love My… Trilogy is the box set of the entire “I Love My…” romance series. It’s jam-packed with “I Love My Healed Heart” “I Love My Side of The Story” and “I Love My Fire” ---three whole novels, just shy of 200,000 words! In the intertwining erotic romance stories of three best friends (Fashion Magazine Assistant Editor Jessica Harper, Casting Director Amber Monroe, and Passionate Painter Nicole Henry) we fall in love with their friendships, their quirks, and most of all, their hot as hell men! Jessica’s been cheated on, Amber’s in a stale relationship, Nicole’s been single for three years, and against the electric backdrop of New York City, they battle their way to true love with the help of each other and a loyalty you will love.
"If women acted this way across the globe, men would only be able to cheat with each other because the sisterhood would be so strong." – Amazon Review
Excerpt from book 1: I never thought I’d be the type of girl to answer a sex ad. They were gross, laughed at, ridiculously disturbing even. But then there are those posts tonight that cause my mind to question the masses, the ones that beckon me, like: “Use me like I’m him” and “I’m free of judgment – and in New York for only one night.” The latter one really catches my attention.
Why am I looking? Because I am at the height of my sexual prime and even though my heart hurts from the loser boyfriend that just under two months ago ended our relationship without my consent, I want it. Sex. I want a man’s body on top of mine. I want the pressure of his chest against me – the weight of him, the smell of him, on top of me. Behind me. Underneath me. Next. To. Me.
I want it. So I answered one.
Will I tell anyone I answered the ad? Hell, no.
While I’m sitting on my couch with my glass of Pinot Grigio, watching an episode of So You Think You Can Dance, I hear it…the unmistakable sound of an email alert on my phone. It could be more spam from my credit cards. It could be a notice that someone liked my post on Facebook (I really need to turn those alerts off), or it could be my ticket out of this boredom and anger. I consider waiting for the commercial break to check it… Yeah, right. I reach for the phone.
The email reads, “I loved what you had to say. You’re really funny. And if those pics you sent are real, I’d love to meet you. Where are you now?”
My heart starts to race. That’s not the credit card company. Thank God I put up real pics, but now that he’s brought it up, did he put up real ones? I never even thought of that. I’m too honest. I really should try to lie more often. But then I’d be more like my ex. And that jerk is such a lying sack of… but who cares? There’s a man waiting for my email and I know how it feels to wait. Boy, do I.
I start to type, but stop to take a sip from my wine. Do I have more wine in the fridge? This is going to take more than one glass. “I’m home. East Village. Where are you?” I hit send and already feel the wetness building. My mind starts to race with the “pleases.” Please be cool. Please be handsome. Please have posted your real picture.
How many women answer these ads, I wonder. Who knows? How many of them had been dating David, my ex? Well, with him, the possibilities are endless. I smile at my ability to laugh at the situation. I can joke still, I tell myself. Nice. Well done. You’re still in there… I think. Let’s see if everything still works. With the phone still in my hand, wine glass half-drained in my other, the vibration and tone signals a hasty response. Email alert! He didn’t make me wait long. He’s excited, too? I giggle like a teenager, alone on my couch, and open it.
“I’m in the East Village, too… just below 7th. Lucky me, huh?” He included a happy face. Nice. I like a guy who can use a properly placed emoticon. It’s an art.
I think quickly. I want to make sure to be funny in return. Keep his interest. Spark the fire. Did I just say, “Spark the fire?” Oh my…someone help me. Okay, here goes. I type fast, without censoring myself.
“No… Lucky me.” I hit send and wait.
The next minute goes by with my heart pounding like there’s House music playing in my chest: bam bam bam bam bam bam. Maybe I’ve had enough wine. Nah. I take a gulp. This calls for a glass…or five…of courage. If you can’t be honest with yourself, who can you be honest with?
Vibration and tone go off again. I can barely stay seated on the couch because I am FREAKING OUT. I check the email. It’s not from him. It’s one of those stupid alerts from Facebook. Don’t get me wrong – I love Facebook – but hearing from it now is like hearing from my Aunt May. Not sexy. Focus on the kids dancing on the TV, I tell myself. They’re so talented. So gifted. How are they all able to do the splits? Riiiiing tone! Woop! I check the email and this time… it’s him.
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
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