Blogs Taking Part in the Release Day Launch
The Chiq Blog
Twin Sisters Rockin' Book Reviews
G & Co. Book Blog
The Sassy Bookista
Unknown Book Reviews
Fangirl Moments and My Two Cents
101 ways to make love to a spoon
Exclusive Excerpt:
Behind the ScenesMake me come for the very first time.
Twenty-five-year-old busty, blond, green-eyed, straitlaced librarian,
looking for a guy to be able to do what no one before him has.
Above you’ll find the joke “Casual Encounters” post my best friend Allie put on Craigslistwithout my knowledge.
On the bright side, she’d referred to me as busty. On the not so bright side, her bawdy prank started a chain of crazier than crazy events that neither of us could have predicted.
Her post was true. I’d never had an orgasm during sex, or anything else I’d done with someone else. Yes, even with tongues, fingers, and things stuck in places my mother and your mother would not want to hear about things being stuck.
My lack of orgasm without my trusty vibrator wasn’t something I bragged about, but I also didn’t think it was that weird.
I mean, Allie told me it was, but it was like rule number one of being friends with her to never believe anything she said. Her self-described sex life rivaled the tips in Cosmo magazine—the good parts that revealed confidences you were pretty sure no human had ever actually experienced, not the embarrassing anonymous stories that made you feel better about your own boring sex life.
Or at least, they’d made me feel better about mine.
I received the first response to Allie’s post while I was at work shelving books in the miniscule poetry section of the Bangor Public Library. I was using my recently awarded Masters of Library Science degree to its fullest for sure.
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I picked it up with one hand and squeezed it between my ear and shoulder, balancing a huge volume by E.E. Cummings in my other hand.
At the time I didn’t notice, but now, yes, I see the irony.
“Hello,” I whispered, glancing around to make sure I was alone among the shelves. We weren’t supposed to take calls in the library, and that day I wished I would have followed the rule I continually got reprimanded for breaking.
“I want to make you come,” a breathy voice oozed from the receiver, “I’m going to suck on your sweet, throbbing clit until…”
“Excuse me!?!” I screamed. Well, as loudly as you can in the middle of a library. My heart was pounding so chaotically the people using the free internet could probably hear it anyway.
“I’ll start by licking you nice and slow, all around your honey pot, till you’re begging for it, desperate for more. Then I’ll—”
I hung up. My throat ached. My face dimpled with sweat.
Honey pot? I was too freaked out to even appreciate the humor in a guy trying to talk dirty while using Winnie the Pooh as his muse.
Yes, freaked out. I was not turned on. I was terrified. I studied the phone number in my recent call list. It was local.
I tried to gather myself, smoothing my tight ponytail as I went back to shelving, but I couldn’t get his voice out of my head. I kept hearing him. The men I went out with never talked to me that way. No one had ever talked to me that way. I certainly didn’t like it, but I also couldn’t deny the adrenaline shooting and pinging through each limb like my body was a pinball machine.
I picked up a slim Anne Sexton paperback—yet another irony in hindsight—and squatted down. His voice still echoed. My thighs burned as I glided my fingers along the back spines on the bottom shelf looking for its space.
My phone vibrated again.
I glanced at the number before I answered, not the breathy-voiced sicko, another local call. I should have just let it go to voicemail. I should have, but I didn’t.
“Hello,” I answered, hesitantly, rubbing one finger along the frame of my glasses—chunky and bright red, a perfect contrast to my olive green eyes and the one style decision that always made people wonder about me.
“Hey baby,” a growl slithered over the line, “I hear you need a real man.”
“Who is this?” I whispered.
“Your daddy.”
I held out the phone and stared at it like it had come to life. I could still hear his voice thrusting through the receiver.
“You want it, don’t you? I’m going to bend you over a table and shove my twelve-inch-cock into your dripping wet pussy again and again, my finger right—”
I clicked end and threw my phone on the ground. My pulse was pounding so feverishly against my neck it was choking me. What the hell was going on?
Also, who in this world had a twelve-inch-cock? How did he walk with that thing unless he used it as a cane?
My phone came to life again, buzzing and lighting up from where it lay on the floor, like a horror movie where you thought the monster was dead, but really he was invincible.
I picked it up with the tips of two fingers and looked at it, yet another local number I didn’t recognize. I clicked for the call to go to voicemail.
It was 11:00 a.m., too early to take lunch, but I didn’t care. My phone vibrated in my hand as yet another call lit up the screen. I forced it to voicemail and texted Allie to drop everything and meet me at The Sundown.
If it was too early to take lunch, it was definitely too early to have a drink, but I needed one. It had to be five o’clock somewhere considering it was sex o’clock on my phone.
The Reality O Synopsis:
Fifteen Contestants, Twelve Episodes & One Very Big O
When my best friend Allie posted about my need for an inaugural O on a prominent dating website it was meant to be a joke.
A joke she was supposed to delete.
But her post started an internet and media frenzy and, when I was offered fifty thousand dollars to star in my own reality competition show, I had no choice but to say yes.
The Orgasm Virgin was supposed to help me meet a carnal companion who could finally bring me to climax.
Unfortunately, the one person I want to win the undying allegiance of my, well, you know, can’t be in the running at all.
Now in an L.A. mansion with fifteen very persuasive contestants vying for my attention and one undeniably sexy Production Assistant secretly getting it all the word ACTION has a whole new meaning…
Candy Sloane is an erotica author and the fictional creation of Lisa Burstein from the New Adult novel Sneaking Candy. The Orgasm Virgin is her debut novel.
Author's Note: This book is about sex. There are men kissing women, women kissing women, and men kissing lady parts. It is not meant for readers under eighteen, or my mother.
Candy Sloane Bio:
Candy Sloane is an erotic romance author and the fictional creation of Lisa Burstein from the New Adult Novel Sneaking Candy. The Reality O is her debut novel.Lisa Burstein is the author of the Young Adult Novels: Pretty Amy and Dear Cassie, and the New Adult Novels & Novellas: Sneaking Candy, The Next Forever, The Possibility of Us, and Again. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her very patient husband, a neurotic dog and two cats.
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