School psychologists aren’t supposed to write books about sex. Doing so would be considered “unethical” and “a fireable offense.” Lucky for you, ethics was never my strong suit.
After spending years trying to spice up my sex life, I gave up and took to my journal. Perhaps my gorgeous, cold, number crunching husband simply wasn’t capable of the kind of passion I’d come to expect. After all, my ex-boyfriends—a skinhead turned US Marine turned motorcycle club outlaw, a baby-faced punk rocker out on parole, and a heavy-metal bass player—were every bit as tattooed and testosterone-fueled as the leading men in my favorite romance novels. If I couldn’t have that kind of passion again in real life, I could at least write about it. Right? Nobody had to know. It would be my little secret.
Well, guess what? My husband read that shit.
And guess what else? He upped his fucking game.
Drunk with power and under the dubious advisement of my best friend and colleague, I began testing the limits—crafting journal entries specifically designed to manipulate Ken’s behavior. For the most part, he responded beautifully…except when he didn’t.
- Original Title:44 Chapters About 4 Men
- Author:BB Easton
- Rating:8.4 / 10
- Publisher:Published November 17th 2016 by Art by Easton (first published February 2nd 2016)
This motherfucker is killing me.
Fresh out of the shower. He’s so close I can smell the Irish Spring on his skin. His hair’s all damp and sexy, and his beard scruff is at that perfect length—just long enough to be soft to the touch, but not so long that it hides his perfect chiseled features. And the way his undershirt clings to biceps and stretches across the hard planes of his chest…I could stare at him all night. Actually, I have been—through the corner of my eye. But that’s not enough.
I want to touch him.
In the half hour since he plopped down next to me and flipped on the Braves game I’ve thought of at least a thousand and one ways to reach over and caress this man. I could lace my fingers through his, or run my knuckles along his rough, square jaw. Maybe I could be playful and w...