The Romance Novel Book Club

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2012 Kastil Eavenshade

 
ISBN:
978-1-77130-196-1

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: Marie Medina

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal.
 
No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

I'd like to dedicate this novel to my friend Julie, whom I named the one character after. I started writing this one for fun and it morphed into the love story I never thought it would be when I took the tongue and cheek approach. Julie, I'm glad we're friends and that I made you smile with the little teasing glimpses I gave you on the very rough draft.

THE ROMANCE NOVEL BOOK CLUB

Kastil Eavenshade

Copyright © 2012

Chapter One

Melody licked the dewy drop from the end of his shaft, sending shivers down Armando’s core. She teased and prodded before taking him fully into her moist, hot mouth, driving his senses wild.

“Enough!” he growled as he laid her down on the downy bed.

****

Wait. What? He stopped her? No man in my life had ever stopped me from performing the fine art of fellatio.
Heart’s Desire
was supposed to be a romance novel, not epic fantasy.

I checked the cover again. The author, who apparently wrote enough horizontal bop-capades to earn her a spot on the New York Times Bestseller’s list, sure made her male gigolo sound like the cabana boy of my dreams. Too bad I couldn’t have him leap from the pages.

I popped another truffle in my mouth, suckling on the chocolate about as erotic as Melody working the pole in the novel. I groaned more or less in disgust, thankful the tasty chocolate treat dulled the bitter taste in my mouth.

How hard could it be to write one of these things anyways? I mean, if I took everything I wished happened in the bedroom and wrote it down, throw in a little misguided mistrust and a jilted lover, and bam. I’ve got the poster child for a romance novel.

I tossed the book aside, fully realizing the meaning of ‘fiction’. If all the men acted that way in life, I wouldn’t be digging in the ‘magic’ drawer by my bed every night.

My lips pursed.

Perhaps that’s what I get for not being a virgin or not falling for the fumbling hands of a man. I really wanted to dive into the book and slap the shit out of Melody at that point. The girl needed a wake-up call into reality. It wouldn’t be long before she leaned against his chest and Armando prodded her head with gusto toward his raging crotch rocket.

Every novel I read had the same formula. Some stubborn virgin female fell for the village playboy. Sometimes the local royalty were thrown into the mix too. They made hot monkey love and had a little mistrust due to a misunderstanding because they refused to communicate with anything but the voices inside their heads.

Okay, maybe that last part could be part of my world.

Then it’s off to the Chapel for a proper marriage, and the woman popped out a few kids. Cue the happily ever after epilogue. My fingers curled around another truffle, my tongue darting out to lick the tip in an illicit manner. Fellatio was fun so long as a little quid pro quo on the vag happened.

“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big! It will never fit down there!” I swooned back onto the couch and rolled my eyes. I dropped the truffle into my mouth.

Seriously?

I hadn’t found one man I had ever dated who had a penis I even questioned about fitting in my hooha. It doesn’t mean I think my ‘soft velvety petals’ were as big as the
Grand Canyon
, just romance novels over exaggerated the male anatomy.

My eyes stared at the book lying imperfectly on the coffee table. The picture of Melody half-naked with Armando ravishing her pale skin tickled my nether regions.
Go ahead, Patricia, you know you want to finish reading it
, my mind taunted me. Masturbation material, remember? I sighed and threw my hands up. Leaving the book, I decided to indulge in a shower to test out a new showerhead I bought.

“Oooo … Armando! It’s so big!” I cooed again in a high-pitched voice. I shrugged out of my clothes.

I seriously needed to get laid by something not made of silicone and that didn’t make my water bill sky high.

****

I rubbed the towel over my wet hair and scrubbed the toothbrush across my teeth.

Hygiene
, I thought.

All these stories I had been reading centered back in the Middle Ages and such. How clean were the nether regions back then? I couldn’t imagine an author selling a book that went along the lines of ‘Oh, Melody. You taste like the fish with which I broke my fast.’ Nom nom nom. I had a better chance of ruining another shirt with a Häagen-Dazs stain than to ever see those lines in print. Trust me, I don’t waste good ice cream by wearing it.

Unless my hips counted.

Yeah, sure, call me bitter because I was single going on thirty-five in a few months. The fact was, I’d played the market and I had yet to find one man who fit the description of any romance novel hunk. I wasn’t talking about the twenty-one-something drunken club scene prowling I did either. Go ahead and test the market—the local Laundromat, super market, coffee house, and library (hey, I was desperate).

He simply doesn’t exist.

Reading those self-defeating novels was the brainchild of my best friend since childhood, Julie. Sort of a book club—with two members, both single. One night after a particularly laughable passage, we shared a couple of bottles of Merlot and pinky swore if we didn’t find ‘the one’ by forty, we’d become full-blown lesbians and move to
Boston
to have a civil union. The marriage, we giggled, would be open so we would have variety beyond our collection of naughty toys. Considering Julie and I had been through a lot, it was the least we could do for each other.

Julie and I met in our home town of
Middleofnowhere
,
USA
. If it wasn’t a church, corn field, or some sort of livestock, it didn’t exist in our realm. Julie and I made our own brand of mischief to rival the boys. They, of course, got blamed for it. Who would believe that two innocent little girls in pigtails could sneak into the square in town and hang the mayor’s boxers on the flagpole?

Collectively, we’d done enough wicked things to make Paris Hilton seem like Mother Theresa. We shared everything. I gave my shoulder to Julie when she went through her divorce. She held my hair when I lost my cookies from binge drinking when the latest boyfriend ran scared.

Heart’s Desire
still sat on the coffee table, staring sadly with invisible eyes. I picked it up, thumbing through the pages. One by one, I marked steamy scenes with Post-It notes—my date for tonight if I failed to pick up male company.

We were going out to a local Italian restaurant for dinner. Casa
Favolosa was our favorite eatery for more than just the food.
Julie had her eyes on the bartender, and I fixated on our usual waiter, Matt. The plan would be for me to find out when he got off work and ‘conveniently’ still be picking at my pasta when his shift ended.

I mentioned I’m desperate, right?

I paused with my make-up bag in hand, the hour-long task of dolling myself up looming, and set it down.

Nope.

Not tonight.

If the girls in the romance novels didn’t smear hoochie make-up on to snare in their catches, neither would I. I decided to go on strike, with maybe a hint of laziness thrown in. Besides, I was pretty sure Matt was a boob man so I spread a little scented lotion into my perfect golden globes.

They’re always milky white in the novels, weren’t they? The village maid happened to avoid the sun so much her skin was perfectly flawless. Another passage I’d never seen sprung to my head.

Melody flashed a smile to Armando, her dull incisors like a portrait of yellow clover flowers. Her skin, roughened and dark, like dirt hanging from the carrots she harvested, scratched along his massively huge man boobs.

Eh. Men have boobs too. Adjusting my own, I nodded to my reflection, stating my mantra of ‘Give me sex or pass the vibrator’. I either seduced Matt into having wild non-committal romp with a thirty-something under-sexed female or I dialed the pink phone myself.

Chapter Two

Ah, Matt. I hovered about two inches taller than him without heels. I never wore any when I went to Casa Favolosa. Men and height issues—go figure. He had the dreamiest blue eyes, like the
Caribbean
waves lapping at your soul. I wanted to get lost in them for days. Julie said he liked me since I seemed to get extra breadsticks. I said he brought extra to sneak a peek down my shirt. Needless to say, I invested in a lot of low cut blouses. The love for Italian food came easy enough—just ask my thighs.

Julie sat across from me, her lusty gaze on the bartender. Ted, was it? I couldn’t see through the smoke-filled haze at the bar. Maybe Julie should avoid Ted. With all the smoke he ingested over the years, she’d be pining for his loss when the cancer ate off his testicles or whatever. There I’d be, her lesbian lover comforting her because Matt left me for some eighteen year old with a flexible spine and no gag reflex.

“There, there, Julie.” She pressed Julie against her lush and voluptuous bosom, the smell of her violet perfume heady. “Matt’s left me with no desire to live now that he’s bedded that harlot from the University’s gymnastic team. I’m done with men, I say! Let’s run away and be free!”

Their mouths crushed together, tongues dancing for supremacy as they darted along cherry chapstick lips.

When had a lesbian scene ever happened in any of the traditional romance novels I read? Never, or else we’d be seeing gaggles of men giggling in the office about it. Maybe that’s why they whacked off to porn and we stuck to books. At least we didn’t have to explain those DVDs to our parents when they came to visit. ‘Oh look, Harold! Our daughter loves to read! We’ve succeeded in her education! Go us!’ sounded so much better than ‘Oh my God, Harold! We’ve raised a sexual deviant! She needs therapy!’ I made a mental note to get a lock box to store my small collection of porn. What girl didn’t like a little, or should I say big, Evan Stone? Not like I was ever the poster child for Catholicism anyway.

“MMMmm, what?” I blinked. I realized Matt had asked me something.
Great, he thinks I’m a ditz
.

“Would you like a refill?” His voice had my hormones quivering through my lacy panties.

“Another glass of wine? Sure.” As Matt left, I leaned over to get a good look at his backside. Damn, what a tight ass! My hands tapped on my legs in an imaginary drum session with his taut gluteus maximus.

“I’ll take care of the tab, Julie. Go to the bar before you wet yourself already.”

“You’re one to talk.” Julie grinned and scooted away. I dug a few bills out of my purse. Matt came back with my glass of Red Zinfandel, and I smiled at him. “You must be exhausted, Matt. Why not have a seat?”

“Uh. I better not. The boss is watching.” He thumbed toward the bar, grinning. “Besides, I’m not that tired.”

“Oh.”
I’d love to make you tired.
I sat up straight to show more cleavage. I placed the bill and payment in Matt’s hand and brushed my hand against his. “Keep the change, Matt. I enjoy getting serviced by you.” I almost bit my tongue when that came out, sure my face was flush. Matt stood there like I’d just dry humped his leg. As the context of my words sunk in, I chickened out in going for the jugular. Maybe building my relationships around one-night stands wasn’t the best recourse when I wanted to settle down, or at least attempt to, with a man. Grabbing up my wine, I headed for the bar. Maybe I could blame my complexion on the smoky atmosphere.

“Well, Julie. Maybe we should go to let these fine gentlemen close up for the night.” I drank a bit of the wine to regain my courage, smiling at Matt at the other side of the bar. When he avoided my gaze, I felt the crushing reality of how absolutely foolish I’d been. Maybe next time I’d use make-up or a short mini skirt or just get ‘Please fuck me’ tattooed on my forehead.

“Oh Ted and I are going to this club afterwards.” Julie gave me the ‘go away’ kick. “I’ll see you tomorrow for brunch, right?”

“Uh, right. Brunch.” Code for getting lucky and sleeping in. Lucky girl. I got my keys and headed out to Loserville: population one. I sighed and slid into the driver’s seat of my Bel Air. My dad had given it to me as a graduation present. I never bothered investing in another car. It lasted through four years of college and a road trip across country to celebrate my independence from parental control. I’d also lost my virginity in the backseat to some guy in college. I wouldn’t describe it as pleasant and memorable either, nothing like Melody’s experience in
Heart’s Desire
.

Armando positioned her hips and slowly entered her soft petals.

“I do not want to hurt you, my love. Relax. It will only hurt for a second and then I shall show you pleasure like no man will ever show you.” Armando flexed his hips, driving his engorged shaft into her maidenhead. Melody cried out in pain, and Armando stifled it with a deep kiss as his hips slowly built up a rhythm. Melody’s body melted into his, and soon her body moved with his in ecstasy.

Nope. Nothing like that. We had fumbled around to get our clothes off, me sure this was how I wanted to lose it thanks to my dad preaching constant abstinence.

I swear he could have won an Emmy with that speech.

I’d used my precious ramen money allotment to buy a three pack of condoms. It didn’t take long to bring a very willing participant to my car. I had kissed him breathless and allowed him to fondle me nearly the whole evening. At one point, I swore he would rip one of my nipples off in his pinching frenzy. So he had thrown my pants over the front seat as he stroked his average-sized penis to get it just right. I didn’t worry about foreplay past the fondling back then. Stupid me, so young and naïve.

Was I a whore for not remembering his name? Ugh.

When he did the act, I screamed and not in pleasure. It hurt really, really bad. It felt like someone took my legs and made a wish. Mr. Rico Suave covered my mouth with his hand and withdrew, using a flashlight to shine on our naughty bits.

“Oh. Sorry. Did I get you in the ass or something? Holy Shit! You’re a virgin! Sweet!” He grinned like he was responsible for knocking down the Berlin Wall with his cock. BOOM! I smite thee with my mighty penis, oh nefarious wall of injustice! “Don’t worry, baby. It’s smooth sailing from here on out.”

Maybe it would have been if he hadn’t grunted every time he banged into me. My head kept hitting the door. Apparently my insistent “owww” couldn’t be heard over his “oh baby, yeah baby”. To top the evening off, he tossed his cookies all over me as he came, which I never did, and then passed out on me. I used my lipstick and various other girlie cosmetics to draw obscenities on his body before dragging him to the steps of the Dean’s house.

I didn’t feel violated for what he did with me. I felt cheated.

That was it? Where’s the spark? The magic?

I began to wonder if the real reason my father never wanted me to have sex was because he knew how disappointing it would be for me.

“Listen, daughter. This is what happens the first time you have sex. When tab A goes in slot B, you’ll bleed like a son-of-a-bitch while your crotch erupts in flames. Not the same kind of flame as if they pass on those dreaded STDs your mother’s been showing you pictures of but close enough. Then while you’re lying there wondering what the hell is going on, the man releases his sperm into the tiny receptacle of the condom. Condoms are important, daughter. Otherwise, you’ll have a baby and live on welfare after dropping out of college. Whatever boy you whore yourself out to, instead of waiting for marriage like a good Catholic….” Sigh. “Your mother really wanted a church wedding for you, but no priest will ever want to marry a woman who’s been passed around. Well, the boy will just leave you with your STD and unwanted pregnancy and an experience that, quite frankly, daughter, isn’t that exciting. So remember—‘Chastity Belt, Virginity Helt’.”

I pounded my head against the steering wheel at the memory. Old what’s-his-name was on a growing list of men who never fulfilled one fantasy fuck in romance books like
Heart’s Desire.
Sure I’ve had good partners in bed, but the minute I brought them to meet my parents, they ran like foxes on hunting day and moved to
Antarctica
. Or so their Facebook status proclaimed. Maybe I needed to come up with a story on how my parents were eaten by lions while on a humanitarian mission in
Africa
. Pity sex for the poor traumatized daughter, anyone?

I turned the key in the ignition and heard the devastating click click click.

“Oh no. Please start.” I implored the engine to turn over. The car let out a sound like a cow dying, and a crack of thunder accented my souring mood. Hurray. Time to humiliate myself in front of Matt again. I’d have to find a new Friday night dinner place or order take out after my night of utter embarrassment.