Please welcome my guest, the talented Lisabet Sarai.
Sex and Money
By Lisabet Sarai
If you scan the blurbs for recent romance best-sellers, you might come away with the notion that billionaires make the best lovers. Even before FSOG, rich guys were popular fantasy fodder, but the number of obscenely wealthy protagonists has climbed exponentially since. My primary romance publisher, Totally Bound, has a whole series of “billionaire” anthologies – Bound to the Billionaire, Promoted by the Billionaire, Sharing the Billionaire, and so on – and they sell very well. Apparently many readers feel that money is sexy.
I guess I can understand this, at some level. Today’s billionaire plays the same role as the fairytale prince of yesteryear. He can fulfill the heroine’s (or second hero’s) every desire – not just physical desires but material ones. Especially given the worldwide economic downturn, I can see how a hero who could solve your financial problems with a snap of his fingers might be very appealing.
At the same time, I’ve never personally cared whether a lover (or a hero) was wealthy. The whole question seems irrelevant to me (perhaps because I’ve always been able to support myself by my own efforts). The trend seems a bit of throwback to an earlier time when women married mostly for financial security. Furthermore, relationships between a rich individual and someone less financially advantaged are not nearly as easy as some romance novels would have you believe. There are likely to be huge gaps in values and expectations that are bound to take their emotional toll.
I grew up in a middle class environment. I’m a third generation bargain-hunter at Filene’s Basement. (If you don’t know what that is, Google it!) I don’t care what brand of watch I wear, as long as it tells the time. I’d consider spending $500 on a pair of shoes just because they had a designer label to be a ludicrous waste of money. On the other hand, my wealthy brother-in-law, although he’s no billionaire, cares deeply about things like this. They’re part of his self-image. I’m not criticizing him, just highlighting the differences in our perceptions of what is important.
My new romance The Gazillionaire and the Virgin turns the whole money-is-sexy trope on its head. Yes, the book does feature a billionaire—the heroine, Rachel Zelinsky, who is a brilliant Silicon Valley entrepreneur. The hero, Theo Moore, is a professor at a prestigious university, but his impoverished childhood has made him naturally thrifty. He finds Rachel’s ostentatious wealth uninteresting, even offensive. In this book, the billionaire’s bucks are an obstacle to the love relationship. Rachel has to convince Theo that she’s not trying to buy his love, or his cooperation with her business schemes.
Like Theo, I don’t find money to be sexy. I realize I’m probably in the minority.
What do you think?
~ ~ ~
Silicon Valley entrepreneur Rachel Zelinsky is not a woman who lets pleasure interfere with business, but when she meets reclusive genius Theo Moore, she can’t resist his geeky appeal. Though Theo’s knowledge about sex derives from extensive research and a stash of kinky porn rather than real-world experience, he is Rachel’s first true Master—and the first man to truly touch her heart.
Want a taste? Of course you want a taste
On the long cab ride from Greenpoint to the upper West Side, we make out in the back seat like teenagers. Theo’s mouth on mine is hungry and demanding. His hands wander in a slow dance over my breasts and along the curve of my hips, as though he’s caressing me for the first time. He clutches me to his chest, pulls me into his lap, grinds his hardness into my bottom. All the while he continues to steal my breath with his fierce kisses.
I’m on fire. I want his touch on my bare skin, his fingers probing my deepest recesses, but when I try to draw his hand up under my top or between my legs, he slaps mine away. Those slaps only kindle a more ferocious need. By the time we’ve made it back to our suite, I’m practically dissolving, so wet I make squelching sounds when I walk.
Taking my hand, he leads me through the sitting area, with its thirtieth story view of glittering Manhattan, to the palatial bedroom.
“Don’t move,” he orders. “I’m going to undress you.”
He circles behind me to unzip my skirt. The garment slips over my hips to the floor. Next he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my tights and rolls the clingy material down to my ankles. I imagine him using the elastic garment to bind me—it would be well-suited to that task—but he seems intent only on rendering me naked.
“Step out of your shoes. That’s right.” He extricates first one foot and then the other from my hosiery, and tosses the tangled garment away. “Arms over your head,” he commands. In a matter of seconds, my sweater has joined my other clothing on the floor.
He pauses for a moment, apparently to admire me in my state of semi-nudity. My swollen nipples distort the lace of my bra. My sodden panties bunch between my legs. Though I know it’s forbidden, I tense my thighs, seeking some friction to relieve the terrible, pulsing ache between them.
“Be still!” I hope he’ll slap my ass as punishment for my infraction, but there’s only his verbal reprimand.
“Can’t you speed up a bit, Theo?” His fingers brush my back as he unfastens the bra hooks. Electric currents zap my sex. I moan. “I’m desperate for you.”
“That’s good. That’s the way I want you.”
This post is part of my Gazillionaire and Virgin blog tour, running from February 1st to 15th. Leave me a comment on this post, including your email address, and I’ll enter you to win a $50 bookstore gift certificate (first prize) or a print copy of the new book (second prize). Visit all the stops for more chances to win. You’ll find the full list here:
Ebook Buy Links (Print coming soon!)