So now I'm growing or something. I'm trying new authors, seeing what's out there. But in actuality all I really accomplished was starting to read a book that I have already read, in addition to deciding that I need to order that author's entire back catalog.
This unfortunate backslide began when I started reading Seduced By The Storm by Sydney Croft. Sydney Croft, I didn't realize, is the pseudonym for two authors writing together, one of whom wrote another book in my TBR pile. Will wonders never cease.
Alas, this was not nearly the experience I wanted it to be. Don't ask me where or when or how, but back in the day I had heard about this book and added it to the "wait until your awesome boyfriend buys you an awesome birthday present" list. I was moderately excited to order it (having long forgotten the reason it was on the list to begin with), trusting my own memory and good judgment to guide my mouse to the "purchase" button.
Here is the problem with Seduced By The Storm: First of all, it is the third book in a series. I suppose I should have known that, given that it's subtitled as "ACRO: Book 3", but I also wouldn't have expected that to matter as much as it did. The info dump in the first 10 pages was enough for me to understand that a) I really needed to have read the preceding two books, and b) the hero is already fully developed through those books. Presumably they were not strictly about him, but enough info was given that I should have known who I was reading about before I even opened the book.
This was annoying. But not nearly as annoying as the number of men's names dropped far too early in the book. We had Wyatt (hero), Max, Sean, Ivor (Igor?), Oz, and several others, mainly members of the ACRO team. I didn't need this in the first 10 pages, when I was having enough trouble remembering the hero's name. In addition to the heroine, Faith, who has mental powers, was born in Devonshire but raised in Yorkshire but adds German inflection in her accent, and that both Faith and Wyatt Have Mysterious Circumstances And Secrets To Keep From Each Other.
Annoying. This plus really confusing information on both of the main characters' powers, meant that I wasn't really following anything except for the hot sex they had back in her hotel room approximately five minutes after meeting. I have no problem with the speed with which they jumped into bed (more later), but I did have a serious issue with the hero's seeming out-of-control slutitude (you had a threesome last night, did you? and you're STILL being a horndog today? Nice.) and his uncontrollable pheromones...? Which to me screams "this dude is not ever going to settle down in a happy monogamous relationship with the heroine, or if he is, it's not going to make any sense."
It seems strange to explain to a romance novelist (or "novelists") that when your characters find The One, there is something different about the experience. The person who hears psychic voices doesn't hear them anymore around The One, the person who never had an orgasm suddenly has one just by putting on her shoes, the mind reading doesn't work (hi, Edward Cullen!), you don't want to jump out of bed the moment the sexorrating is done, etc. For Faith to fall into bed instantly with Wyatt the same way all of the other women do makes her... the same as all the other women. And their great sex doesn't even seem distinguishable (at least by him) from any sex they've had before. So... yeah. Buying the specialness of this encounter I am not.
I'm not even joking, I don't think I got passed page 60, and all of this had happened already.
Which brings me to Flat Out Sexy, the Erin McCarthy book I started re-reading in an attempt to cleanse my palate of the mass confusion that was Seduced By The Storm. This is my second time reading this book, what with the sexy race car drivers, the realistic contemporary relationship, and the hot, hot sex. Five minutes after they meet, but in a much more romantic (seriously) and downright yummy context.
What's my problem? I have no idea. Maybe I'm off paranormals. Maybe this Sydney Croft book is the product of too many cooks in the kitchen. Maybe I need to order Erin McCarthy's entire back catalog... now.
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