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About the author:
Sabrina Lacey lives in Sherman Oaks, California, but she used to live in New York, where “I Love My Breakup” is set. She writes juicy, fun, tantalizing Erotic Romance books to entertain her females readers… in every way.
What inspired you to write your book?
I love Erotica, and I’m a fan of Sex and The City and Bridget Jones’ Diary (the humor and honesty of a real girl’s problems) so I wanted to write an Erotic Romance that was fun, sexy and about women like me.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I never thought I’d be the type of girl to answer a sex ad. They were gross, laughed at, ridiculously disturbing even. But then there were those posts that caused my mind to question the masses, the ones that beckoned me, like: “Use me like I’m him” and “I’m free of judgment – and in New York for only one night.”
Why am I looking? Because I am at the height of my sexual prime and even though my heart hurts from the loser boyfriend that just ended our relationship without my consent, I want it. Sex. I want a man’s body on top of mine. I want the pressure of his chest against me – the weight of him, the smell of him, on top of me. Behind me. Underneath me. Next. To. Me.
I want it. So I answered one.
Will I tell anyone I answered the ad? Hell, no.
While I’m sitting on my couch with my glass of Pinot Grigio, watching an episode of So You Think You Can Dance, I hear it…the unmistakable sound of an email alert on my phone. It could be more spam from my credit cards. It could be a notice that someone liked my post on Facebook (I really need to turn those alerts off), or it could be my ticket out of this boredom and anger. I consider waiting for the commercial break to check it… Yeah, right. I reach for the phone.
The email reads, “I loved what you had to say. You’re really funny. And if those pics you sent are real, I’d love to meet you. Where are you now?”
My heart starts to race. That’s not the credit card company. Thank God I put up real pics, but now that he’s brought it up, did he put up real ones? I never even thought of that. I’m too honest. I really should try to lie more often. But then I’d be more like my ex. And that jerk is such a lying sack of… but who cares? There’s a man waiting for my email and I know how it feels to wait. Boy, do I.
I start to type, but stop to take a sip from my wine. Do I have more wine in the fridge? This is going to take more than one glass. “I’m home. East Village. Where are you?” I hit send and already feel the wetness building. My mind starts to race with the “pleases.” Please be cool. Please be handsome. Please have posted your real picture.
How many women answer these ads, I wonder. Who knows? How many of them had been dating David, my ex? Well, with him, the possibilities are endless. I smile at my ability to laugh at the situation. I can joke still, I tell myself, proudly! Nice. Well done. You’re still in there… I think. Let’s see if everything still works. Email alert! I don’t have to wait long. With the phone still in my hand, wine glass half-drained in my other, the vibration and tone signals a hasty response. He’s excited, too? I giggle like a teenager, alone on my couch, and open the new email.
“I’m in the East Village, too… just below 7th. Lucky me, huh?” He included a happy face. Nice. I like a guy who can use a properly placed emoticon. It’s an art.
I think quickly. I want to make sure to be funny in return. Keep his interest. Spark the fire. Did I just say, “Spark the fire?” Oh my…someone help me. Okay, here goes. I type fast, without censoring myself.
“No… Lucky me.” I hit send and wait.
The next minute goes by with my heart pounding like there’s House music playing in my chest: bam bam bam bam bam bam. Maybe I’ve had enough wine. Nah. I take a sip. This calls for a glass…or five…of courage. If you can’t be honest with yourself, who can you be honest with?
Vibration and tone go off again. I can barely stay seated on the couch because I am FREAKING OUT. I check the email. It’s not from him. It’s one of those stupid alerts from Facebook. Don’t get me wrong – I love Facebook – but hearing from it now is like hearing from my Aunt May. Not sexy. Focus on the kids dancing on the TV, I tell myself. They’re so talented. So gifted. How are they all able to do the splits? Riiiiing tone! Woop! I check the email and this time… it’s him.
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
Holy what? Where? Here?!! He wants to come here?!! I hadn’t thought this through. Do I have him come here? To my home? Am I that crazy? No way. No way! Never gonna happen. I cannot be so stupid as to invite a man I do not know back to my apartment. I don’t even have a dog. I do have neighbors, though. I could tell them to watch out for any weird screaming. NO! I cannot do that. This is crazy. Don’t be ridiculous, Jessica, I tell myself. You’re an intelligent woman who went to college and had a healthy childhood (for the most part) and has good friends and an okay job and WHO KNOWS BETTER.
“On one condition,” I write, and hit send. What the hell am I doing?
I look at the TV and turn it off because now all that dancing is just annoying the f- out of me all of a sudden. I look at my almost empty glass and chug what’s left. Looking around my place I realize how messy it is and consider writing back, with something like: “Never mind. I can’t entertain anyone right now until I’ve had my maid clean up.” Only I don’t have a maid, so that would just be a cop out. Not like he would know, though. He doesn’t know I don’t have a maid. Yeah, maybe I could just cry “maid!” and get out of this. But the tingling in my panties is telling me otherwise.
Email alert! I tuck myself into a ball, open up the email, and read it.
“I will meet any conditions you have for me,” he wrote. I read it again and again, not believing what I’m reading. And then another alert sounds and I look to find he’s already written me, before I’ve had chance to reply. I open it and read: “And I’ve already started walking. Which direction am I heading in? Don’t leave me out here all alone. And, yes, I’m still waiting to hear your condition, which I promise to uphold.”
My heart nearly bursts out of my chest. I jump off the couch and fly to the bathroom where I turn on the sink, start running the water, and search for my toothbrush. I grab for my toothpaste, almost miss and knock it onto the floor before I catch it and squeeze some onto the bristles, reminding myself once again that I need to buy more toothpaste. There’s just a little bit in there, but by great effort on my part, I manage to get enough out to make my mouth appealing, and hopefully hide the sweet wine taste as well. Men prefer red, right? I’m losing my mind.
He’s on his way! I’m not ready. Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap. What am I going to do? Wait, I have to email him back. He doesn’t know where he’s going. What am I doing? I’m totally losing my mind!
I should call a girlfriend and confess to her my insanity in hopes of rescue. I think of Amanda and know that, without a doubt, she would talk me out of this. She would tell me that I am just rebounding from the pain of the breakup from David and that I should invest in a big jug of ice cream…and maybe more wine. And she’d probably ask me to come out and join her and her co-workers who were no doubt listening to that new band “The Coke-Heads” at the ultra-hip bar one stop off the L Train.
I don’t want to call her. Instead I type my response with one hand as I’m straightening my hair with the other, “My condition is this: No speaking. I don’t want to talk.” I look at my words and yelp aloud. Do I dare send this?! It’s exactly what I want. I don’t know this guy. If I’m going to do this, I don’t want to chit-chat because, let’s be honest – any talking could change my mind, easily. Hi I’m Tony, he could say. No! Not Tony. I can’t sleep with a “Tony” without dinner first because what is this, “The Godfather?” Are you a hit man and I’m on the way to a… This is how my mind works. I know this. So I have to prepare, right? Right. Okay.
I hit send and I wait.
My hair looks pretty good. It’s a miracle. I mess with it some more. Now it doesn’t look as good. Damn. I mess with it again. It looks pretty good. Not AS good, but pretty good. Okay. Stop messing with it and put on some lipstick. No, no lipstick. David hated lipstick because it tasted funny. Screw David. He’s not coming over. Mr. In Town For A Night is, and I get to do what I want. I put on my favorite lipstick, and nearly smear it all over my face as another new email alert spazzes me out of my reverie.
“You got it. I won’t say a word,” it says. I nearly scream from excitement. I cannot believe it…but I am typing my address to a stranger who may or may not look like his photo. His beautiful, sandy brown hair, fiery brown eyes, gorgeous ripped chest and a face that looks like he could be Ryan Gosling’s brother, photo. Oh… please look like your photo!! I send him the address and my apartment number. I tell him that the lock is broken on the building so he should just come on up.
I squeak like an excited mouse and run to the bedroom where I grab out of habit a dress that David loved. As soon as I realize this is David’s favorite dress in my hands I throw it like it’s got a cobra coming out of it, and relegate it to a pile of his things that are on the floor, waiting for a trip to Goodwill. I am cleansing the place of him. It has to be done.
Time to go shopping – so there’s an upside to getting your heart broken? This makes me smile and I decide, wait. Why do I want to wear a dress? I think this occasion calls for only bra and panties. Dare I? I dare. Searching through my underwear drawer I find a Brazilian bra and panty combo I bought, but never wore, for David. It’s light pink and super flattering against my skin tone. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and am surprised at how good I look. Take that, David!
I’m a little mid-west looking, even though I live in the city. Red hair (dyed). Nice smile. Brown eyes with long lashes I inherited from my grandma. My hips have some girth in a very feminine, sexy way. I reach down and touch myself, just a little. I can feel that from the excitement, I’m getting really wet.
This was such a good idea, I tell myself.
Screw what Amanda would say.
The knock at the door makes me jump and my heart beats like it’s going to explode. It is pounding so hard in my chest. I tiptoe to the door and unlock it very quietly. I don’t want to open it myself, because I have a better idea. This guy might be a nerd pretending to be a stud, and that’s fine because I am going through with this if it is the last thing I do. But I’m going to do it in a way that excites me.
I walk away from the door to the wall at the opposite end of the room and I lean against it, wearing just my pink bra and panties. I give my hair a little tousle and touch myself between my legs because my pussy is screaming for attention now. I can feel the arousal building a delicious slow burn.
“Come in,” I call, my voice only loud enough for him to hear, and I may have raised the timber to sound extra appealing. I watch the door open and see his arm enter the room, his hand on the knob. His body follows and his head, his face, his sandy brown hair. He looks exactly like his photo, except that in person – when he smiles – my panties want to fall right off.
“Hi,” he says, closing the door.
“Shhhhh,” I tell him, gently pressing a finger to my lips. No talking, remember, my eyes tell him. He locks the door, looks me up and down and I can tell he loves what he sees. My bra and panties are doing the trick. He stands there and just looks at me. I cannot believe his height. He’s gotta be 6’2” or more. Then he walks to me, and I lean my back against the wall, wordlessly waiting for him, my eyelids half-closed, and his gorgeous caramel brown eyes are locked on my mouth as he clears the distance between us.