Read an Excerpt
You’re a fraud, a phony, a fake.
Elena’s hand froze over the mouse of her computer as she read that one line over and over, the words swimming before her eyes.
With trembling fingers, she set her coffee aside, afraid the shaking of her hand would send the scalding hot liquid sloshing over the rim of her mug. She apparently had a stalker, she didn’t need to add third degree burns to her list of woes.
She read the sender’s name in the email line. firstname.lastname@example.org. Every muscle in her body knotted with tension as she read the name again, rolling it around her tongue. Something about it was familiar.
Dragging in a deep breath, she clicked on the subject line, before she could lose her nerve, sending the email popping open across her screen.
She’d hoped this was a hoax, a prank from some dirty old man, but there was nothing about the content of the email that was remotely amusing. She skimmed the pages of the document, her fury growing with each word she read.
The Queen of Sex should be dethroned is how it started before continuing in vivid detail about how she wouldn’t know what a butt plug looked like even if it was staring her in the face.
She frowned. Now that was harsh. She would recognise a butt plug. After all, she was the reigning Queen of Sex, also known as the Sex Doctor or, her personal favourite, Doctor Kink. As the foremost expert in women’s sexuality, she was bigger than Dr. Ruth, with her own radio talk show, a thriving chain of sex toy stores, and dozens of sex help books to her name. Yes, at thirty-seven Elena had made a solid career out of selling nothing but sex. Her business was to sell sex, so she knew what a butt plug was, even if she’d never used one.
According to the article, there were many things she hadn’t used, and just as many things she hadn’t done, even though the entire world thought she was an expert on those matters, considering the daily advice she doled out. But she knew the truth, and the email said it best—she was a fraud, a phony, a fake.
She hadn’t had sex in almost two years, although the world believed otherwise. Many of her fans were convinced she had sex every day, every two minutes, according to some. She wished.
No, she was not quite as prolific as many thought, and apparently her secret was out, at least it was to a Mr...Julien Bond.
She closed one browser page and opened another, her fingers skimming over the keys as she Googled his name. Why did she know that name?
It took her just a second to answer her own question, and she leaned back in her chair, her lips twisting into an angry scowl.
Julien Bond. The same Julien Bond who worked for that trashy, smut magazine, Rake. He was also the reporter who kept haranguing her for an interview, who she’d brushed off more times than she could count. Her business may be sex, but there was a certain clientele she catered to, and horny, young frat boys wasn’t it.
She blew out a long, jagged breath, her hand tunnelling through her hair. His email said to call him. Well, he needn’t have worried about that. Besides her best-friend Cordelia, no one knew she wasn’t the expert she claimed to be, and Cordelia would never tell her secret. So, she was left to question the source of Mr. Julien Bond’s information, because if it ever got out that she was more the queen of masturbation, or worse yet, the queen of the rabbit, rather than queen of sex, then all those adoring fans seeking advice wouldn’t be interested in anything she had to say ever again.
She reached for her phone and dialled his number, her hands shaking at the thought of what he wanted from her, and how the hell he’d found her out.