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“It really sucks.” She tips her head back and laughs with delight. I study the sound, draw it inside me. It rings of newfound happiness. It sounds like freedom.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she adds, once she’s calmed down, “Paris is a gorgeous city. And while I don’t miss my ex or my old life at all, experiencing all this beauty alone is depressing. I’ve been here half a dozen times, but I never just got to be here . . . no plan, no schedule. Just me. And I’m just not that interesting, if you couldn’t tell from my rambling.”
“No, I feel the same way. About being lonely in the city, not about you.”
My words give her pause, and I mentally kick myself for going too far. Shit, I’m out of practice. I’m rusty as fuck. But am I really even trying to go there with this chick? I don’t want to feed her any bullshit lines or anything like that. I just like talking to her. It’s been so long since anyone’s actually talked to me with the intention of just interacting. Not trying to gauge my mind-set to ensure I’m not spiraling or using. This stranger is the closest I’ve been to anyone since . . .
“Doesn’t feel so lonely right now.” She smiles at me before shaking her head as if she can’t believe she just said that. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . weird. This is the most fun I’ve had since I got here. Isn’t that ridiculous?”
I shrug. “Well, I guess I’ll be ridiculous too. This is the most fun I’ve had . . . in a long time.”
She gives me another sweet smile and extends her hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you kindred, ridiculous stranger in a bar.”
I take her soft hand in mine and fight the urge to bring it to my lips. “You too. I’m Ransom Reed.”
“Ransom.” She grins like the very sound of the syllables on her tongue pleases her. “I like that. I’m Lorinda. Lorinda Cosgrove. Well, formerly Cosgrove. Old habits die hard, eh?”
“Yeah, some of them,” I reply, flashing her a wink. “Usually the ones that are bad for you.”
“Do you have many bad habits, Mr. Reed?” she flirts back, her smile radiating warmth and solitude. I just want to sit here and bask in the feel of it on my skin.
“I used to,” I answer truthfully, still cradling her hand in my grasp. I gently brush the top of her knuckles with my thumb. “Not anymore.”
Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST, I have to thank my family for allowing me the space and time to create my eighth novel. Writing and publishing is a team effort, and if it weren’t for their patience and motivation, I never would have made it through this. There is nothing I could ever write that could fully express how much I love and appreciate you all.
To my readers—Never could I have imagined that there would be people from different parts of the globe, reading something I created. In these words, although fictional, I have shared a piece of myself with you. Thank you for allowing me to do so. Thank you for your undying support and love. The posts, the comments, the emails . . . you all are incredible.
To my blogger friends—I truly appreciate all the hard work and dedication you put toward your love for books. I know sometimes it is a thankless task, but I am saying to all of you right now, THANK YOU. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Without you, this book community would be nothing. Extra special shout out to Milasy, Lisa, Celesha, Michelle, Kiki, Tiffany, Debbie, Ali, Yaya, Grace, Michelle (ADBL), Je
To my author friends—Your support and encouragement have carried me through this journey, and have motivated me to keep writing, even when I was overcome with doubt. I want to thank Gail McHugh, Claire Contreras, Emmy Montes, Mia Asher, Rebecca Shea, Cori
To Mo, my rock, my ace—I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. You have been an angel to me, and the best book bestie a girl could ask for. Thank you for rocking with me this far!
To the JFJ Girls, who are some of the sweetest, more supportive women I’ve ever known—I’m so amazed everyday that I am lucky enough to have you all in my corner. Shanta, Je
To The BBFTalkers—You girls are balls to the wall amazing! Big, sloppy kisses to you all!
To my amazing editor, Tessa, who manages to be both badass and sweet at the same time, thank you for taking a chance on me. Thank you for believing in my words and in my stories.
Also, huge thanks to Elle, who allowed me to pester her with endless questions and pics of hot guys. Research, right?
Much gratitude for my entire team at HarperCollins, who endured my indecisiveness with cover design, release dates, marketing, etc. It’s been a pleasure to work with you all.
To Rebecca Friedman, my incredible agent—Thank you for recognizing my dreams, and helping me to make them a reality.
To anyone I may have missed—Thank you. Please understand that while you may have slipped my mind, you are surely in my heart.
Xoxo,
S
Teaser
Keep reading for a peek at
the New York Times bestseller,
TAINT,
the first sexual education novel
from S.L. Je
Right now, you’re probably asking yourself two things:
Who am I? And, what the hell are you doing here?
Let’s start with the most obvious question, shall we?
You’re here, ladies, because you can’t f*ck.
Oh, stop it. Don’t cringe. No one under the age of eighty clutches their pearls. You might as well get used to it, because for the next six weeks, you’re going to hear that word a lot. And you’re going to say it a lot. Go ahead, try it out on your tongue. F*ck. F***ck.
Ok, good. Now where were we?
If you enrolled yourself in this program then you are wholly aware that you’re a lousy lay. Good for you. Admitting it is half the battle. For those of you who have been sent here by your husband or significant other, dry your tears and get over it. You’ve been given a gift, ladies. The gift of mind-blowing, wall-climbing, multiple-orgasm-inducing sex. You have the opportunity to f*ck like a porn star. And I guarantee that you will when I’m done with you.
And who am I?
Well, for the next six weeks, I will be your lover, your teacher, your best friend, and your worst enemy. Your every-f*cking-thing. I’m the one who is going to save your relationship and your sex life.
I am Justice Drake.
And I turn housewives into whores.
Now . . . who’s first?
DAY ONE is always fucking exasperating.
The tears. The glassy-eyed looks of confusion as they try to piece together where their vapid relationships went wrong. The stupid, incessant questions about how I could possibly live up to my word and earn every cent of the small fortunes their husbands have paid to send them here.