Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Slow Burn? Instalove? By Ripley Proserpina

Slow burn or insta-love?

Personally, I adore the instalove trope. And I love it no matter how it plays out. 

It could be the main characters meet as children, and know they are meant for each other. Then life happens, something separates them, and they meet years later. Perhaps there are hurt feelings, and a sense of betrayal and then one of them has to redeem themself to the other. To me, though, that moment when they realize, there is their other half— that’s the best, and I’m all in. 

I know people will say, insta-love is insta-lust, and yeah, definitely sometimes it is. But that doesn't negate instalove. 

I started dating in the 2000s and let me tell you, that was an ugly time. Even the hottest guys looked like a dude from Smashmouth—the little beard that looked like it was drawn around someone's face? The chin patches? The frosted tips? Why? This was an era that could make Brad Pitt look like Shaggy. 

When I fell in love, I knew immediately the guy was for me. I’d faked enough spontaneous stomach ailments and dodged enough kisses to know—this was special. And in case you think I was judging based solely on appearance, let me just say, when my husband asked me out, he wore a long black trench coat, a la The Matrix, which I was NOT a fan of (the trench, I mean. I was okay with the movie). So, yeah. Instalove. 

So- in celebration of instalove—I give you a very special, PG-13 excerpt from my soon to be released, reverse harem romance, Finding Truth. 

This was where it started—the romance Matisse’d planned since she’d put the brakes on their physical relationship and he’d decided sex would mean something. 
The hotel may have been booked this afternoon, but what he would do once he got her there had been the work of countless hours. 
Nora was nervous. Her hand, when he took it, was sweaty. Every so often, she would suck in a deep breath, like she was breathing too shallowly and needed to fill her lungs with air. Adjusting the strap for her bag on his shoulder, he squeezed her hand and rolled his luggage behind them. 
“You packed a lot of stuff,” she observed as they strode across the garage. 
“Props,” he answered, winking. The automatic doors to the hotel opened at the same time as she barked a laugh. The shiny marble floors ricocheted the sound, and she cut off quickly, screwing up her face and wincing.
They checked in, accepted their keys, and found the elevator to their room. Matisse shifted his weight from side to side, humming and tracking the numbers as they lit up.
“You okay?” Nora asked, and he cut off, embarrassed. 
The truth was, now that the time was here, he was afraid of fucking up. He was known for it—excelled at saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. “Fine,” he answered shortly. “Fuck!” 
“Matisse.” With one decisive move, Nora slammed the emergency stop button and threw herself at him. The bags tumbled to the ground, and he stumbled backward, hitting the rail with his ass. A sharp pain radiated along his tailbone, but he ignored it, because Nora’s hands were buried in his hair, and her tongue was in his mouth. 
In a flash, she'd wrapped her long legs around his waist, and lifted herself, squeezing his hips then releasing them to drag down his body. Tucking his hands beneath her ass, he encouraged the movement, thrusting against her. Their teeth clacked, and he could barely breathe, but he’d never felt so good. 
Nora tugged his hair to tilt his head back and scraped her teeth along his jaw. Right below his ear, she sucked his skin into her mouth and bit gently with her teeth before releasing him to trail to the other side of his face. 
“Fuck, cher.” 
She didn’t answer except to kiss him harder. The motion of her body rocked her harder along his length. His jeans were probably chafing his dick, but so what? He imagined being buried in her soft, wet heat, and it was a small price to pay for the journey he was taking to get there. The alarm blared, waves of sound that pounded against his eardrums, but he didn’t even notice it until it shut off unexpectedly and the elevator began its upward climb, stopping only when it reached their floor. 

But Nora stayed in his arms, trapping him in a brown-eyed gaze. A throat cleared, and she jumped, releasing him to slide down his body. Her face was blazing, but Matisse smugly met the angry glower of the man waiting for the elevator. Let him glare. Moments before, he’d had the most perfect girl in his arms. “L’amour,” he said as he passed. “What are you going to do?” 

Finding Truth is Book 3 in The Searchers series, and is available at your favorite book retailer August 15th! 

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