Wednesday, March 4, 2015

Taint by S.L. Jennings {Blog Tour & Giveaway}

Taint (Sexual Education #1)
by S.L. Jennings

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 80 clutches their 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.

Ok, 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 that 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, 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?

I clear my throat, praying that when I finally grow the balls to open my mouth, actual words and sounds will come out.

“Perhaps the kitchen would be the best place to direct your request, Mrs. Carr.”

Too absorbed with every other (forbidden) part of her, I don’t even notice the spoon and small dish of ice cream in her hands.

“Yeah, but it’s some nonfat, soymilk crap that tastes like baby poop,” she replies, wrinkling that freckled nose.

I allow myself to take a few steps toward her. I’ve earned them. I’ve been a good boy … sorta. “And you know what baby poop tastes like?” I ask, cocking a cynical brow.

“Well, I don’t know, obviously. But based on how it smells, I would say this ice cream is pretty darn close.” She sets the dish down beside her after giving it one last, shaming grimace. “So what are you doing out here? I’d think you’d be exhausted from that very … hands-on lesson today. Very enlightening, Mr. Drake.”

“Well, we try our best, Mrs. Carr,” I respond with a blank face, though my voice is teeming with amusement.

Allison rolls her eyes and shakes her head, her auburn hair brushing her bare shoulders. “I told you—do not call me Mrs. Carr. I have no interest in eating my young or nursing them until they’re old enough to pay taxes.” She brings her feet to the surface of the water and watches as she wiggles her toes. “So … is that how it’s going to be all the time?”

“What do you mean?” I take a few steps closer, a frown pinching my forehead.

“I mean, will you always be so intense with us?” Before I can brace myself, her gaze locks on to mine, piercing straight through my impassive facade. “Will you … touch us like that? Say those things to us?”

“All physical contact is specifically outlined in the contracts, Mrs. Ca—excuse me, Allison. Now, if at any time you feel uncomfortable with the physicality or feel as though I’m being too demonstrative, say the word, and it stops. Understand? Are you saying I make you uncomfortable, Allison?”

I don’t even notice how close we are now, as if the ebb and flow of our chlorinated sea has somehow pushed us together. Only inches of water, breath, and clothing separate us, yet I know any space we share will feel too intimate.

I know what I need to do. It’s what’s right, what’s responsible.

I need to tell her to leave.

I need to send this woman back to her cheating, piece-of-shit husband and let her work out her issues like the rest of America—with therapy, pills, and the occasional bad decision. But most importantly, I need let her do it without my help. Because, right now, all I can think about is helping myself.

“No,” she says suddenly, as if those bright eyes have infiltrated my mind. “You don’t. And, remember, it’s Ally.”

She pulls her feet from the water and stands, collecting her now-melted nonfat-soy-milk-baby-poop ice cream. Before she turns to walk away, she smiles at me, not at all put off by my icy approach as I had hoped she’d be.

Note to self: Be more of an asshole.

And get real ice cream.

S.L. Jennings is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary and paranormal romance, reality TV junkie, obsessive coffee drinker and collector of crazy.

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