I don’t know what the hell kind of world these people are living in, but how the hell can a man win a woman in a poker game? It would have been conceivable if this book had been set in the 1800s or something ’cause there’s always an asshole in those books putting up his sister to cover his wager, but I thought Silhouette Desire books are supposed to be all about the modern woman getting laid and shit. What is going on here? Did this woman’s asshole boyfriend/brother toss in a night with this woman to cover his bet or something? Hey… you know what kind of woman sleeps with people for money or to cover gambling debts? A WHORE! A DIRTY SKANKY WHORE! But knowing Silhoutte Desire, this woman is probably a virgin who wouldn’t be able to identify the business end of a dildo if it were staring her in the face. And I bet she’s always loved the millionaire playboy who won her. Since he’s a playboy and will just move on to the next sucker after he’s had her, I bet this bimbo sleeps with him only because she wants “one special night” with him before she cloisters herself in a nunnery in France or something.

I need a drink.

Thanks to Amber for this ridiculous cover.

Okay, if I were homegirl, I’d have more important things than a scandal to worry about… like if my boyfriend even liked girls. Just look at his well-sculpted man-titty prominently showcased by his unbuttoned lacy shirt and properly accessorized by… are those puca shells? I think homeboy’s going for the cabana-boy-beloved-by-pirates look. The most telling detail is the expression of disdain on his face as he is holding the girl. It’s like he’s thinking, “Eww… I can’t believe I have to touch this… breeder. She has hetero cooties and I think she wants to have sex with me. Will someone pry this deluded bitch off of my chest? She’s scraping off my body oil!” And what’s with his giant alien hand? It’s crazy stretch-out like he’s Plastic Man or something.

I’m just feeling kind of sad for homegirl because she’s totally into it. Or she’s totally high on Xanax. Hey, whatever gets you through the shoot, man.

Thanks to the ever delightful Amber for the cover.

Grade: B+

For all intents and purposes, I should have hated this book. We’ve got a violent, unstable, slightly unhinged hero who’s a little too alpha for my taste; a heroine who admits to herself that she is “too stupid to live”, a bunch of sequel baits hanging around doing sequel bait shit that usually piss me off, and an ending that was a little too “we’re one big happy family ‘cause love conquers all” for me. I should have hated this book. My walls should have numerous dents from the number of times I should have flung this book at them. But they don’t. And I didn’t hate this book. I didn’t hate it. There are a handful of “forced seduction” scenes in this book that smelled like rape; the sissy, whiny, crybaby heroine was touted as feisty and fierce even though she didn’t deserve it, and the tennis match point-of-view changes between characters drove me nuts, but dear God, I didn’t hate it. I almost… loved it. What is going on here? I wasn’t on crazy pills when I read this book, wasn’t drunk, wasn’t high… I loved it because I couldn’t put it down. I loved it because I got hot over how forceful and dark and crazy the hero was. The sex scenes were crazy hot (even the “forced seduction” ones) and the final confrontation between the heroine and the villain was actually suspenseful. I read this book from beginning to end without once setting it down. Call me crazy, but I think Kresley Cole (totally a fake name) has the start of a potentially awesome series here.
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Grade: F

It took me two weeks to finish reading this book. Two weeks. For me, that’s an eternity because I timed myself once and I can read four hundred pages in two hours. Granted, the book was Narcissus in Chains by Laurell K. Hamilton, but that’s still pretty good, right? My point is, I’m a fast reader and it took me two weeks to finish this book because I would find myself staring at the same page for minutes at a time, reading the same paragraph over and over again, and not recognizing it as the same paragraph because they were all so dry and boring. I’d set it down, force myself to pick it back up a few days later because I have never left a book unread, then toss it over my shoulder after about 10 pages, only to pick it back up again. It was a vicious cycle. None of the stories pulled me in except for Bujold’s short story and only because it was about a giant warrior alien woman falling in love with a wee little human-sized man, but I was only mildly amused at best. Most of the time, I had no idea what was going on because a couple of the stories are a part of a series with an already established canon or mythos, so all the “in jokes” were pretty much lost on me. While reading this book, I felt like the idiot who attended a Halloween party all decked out and shit, but no one else was wearing a costume.
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Grade: C-

I know that I’m constantly busting Sherrilyn Kenyon’s chops about how her books aren’t really about furthering her Dark-Hunter series any more, but more like mail order catalogues for her Dark-Hunters or as an altar of worship for Acheron, the ultimate Mary Sue. Oddly enough, I’ll buy every single one that come out and no matter what I’m reading, I’ll set it down for the latest Kenyon. Why do I do this? I have a feeling that it stems from a deep seated masochism that I have yet to acknowledge… or maybe they’re just that readable. That’s right, I said. I’ve torn apart each and every single one of her Dark-Hunter books and yet if I had to decide between a Kleypas keeper or the latest Kenyon, I’d pick the latter. Yep, I said that, too, and you can take that to the bank, mister. Much like my compulsion to read every single Laurell K. Hamilton book ever published, my masochistic urge to plunk down my hard-earned cash for the latest Kenyon offering with a smile on my face… well, it sickens me. It sickens me, and yet it remains, eating at my sanity and good taste like cancer.
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