A Real Estate Romance
By Liz Crowe
100% free to subscribers of her monthly newsletter November 17, 2015 PLUS again on Liz’s milestone 29+20 birthday December 17, 2015.
APPRAISED is rated NC17 (NOT XXX) for language and adult situations.
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Sign up! On November 17 AND December 17 you will receive a link to download this book in your preferred format, plus the sequel CONTINGENT in early January.
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Sawyer Callahan is a former cop turned accounting instructor, part time real estate appraiser and handy man, and single dad to a teenaged girl. He keeps his once-chaotic life now firmly under his strict, somewhat OCD control. Until he decides to sell the house that reminds him too much of his late wife.
Miranda Landon is hot-shot real estate agent with a relationship-sized chip on her shoulder that she exorcises, frequently, with the help of as many men as possible.
These two meet, of course. But what happens may surprise you.
APPRAISED is the first in a series of 100% FREE Liz Crowe novels told in a unique back-and-forth point of view style. Real Estate Romance with humor and spice available to subscribers to Liz’s once-a-month newsletter.
Excerpt #1 (rated R for language):
It was a buzz writing up offers and listings practically on the hood of my car. But the fall-throughs from all the fakers and porch pissers were, by statistical necessity, also increasing.
Maddening, I thought as I ran my hands down my torso, studying my almost-forty imperfections with a critical eye. I’d never be skinny. I never had been. I was almost five foot ten flatfooted and had broad shoulders thanks to my years spent in the pool as a kid and teenager. I’d never, ever been anything less than a size eight, which as I’d been told by the helpful and knowledgeable Ashley was “the new ten” or something equally depressing.
At the moment, I bordered on “the new twelve or fourteen” I supposed, being the ten going on twelve I bounced between no matter how little I ate or how many hours I sold my soul to the cycle. Ashley again—she’d insisted that I’d change my entire perspective on the universe if I tortured myself three times a week with her on those stupid stationary bikes. I did like it. It made me forget everything but the extreme urge to jump off the bike, declare everyone in the room full of shit, and stomp out. The three hours a week I spent forcing myself not to do that were hours well spent, if they kept me under the deadly number twelve on the clothes tags, I figured.
“You’re truly statuesque,” Ashley always insisted. “Womanly. In perfect proportion. No wonder all the guys tent their tighty-whities every time you walk into a room.”
I didn’t bother reminding her of the basic simplicity of men. No, I wasn’t hard to look at. My thick auburn hair was exotic. I had huge, expressive green eyes and had lived enough years to know how to use them. I had decent tits, full hips, natch. And did two hundred crunches every fucking night to keep my unruly belly in check. But my basic shape was, in a word, larger than what was considered perfect in this snake-hipped, ironing-board stomach obsessed world. I’d learned to live with it.
No, men sensed something else about me—either an eagerness or desperation for their direct, most personal attention. That was what kept them all salivating in my presence. I put out. And I didn’t want anything more than that. It wasn’t rocket science.
But I wasn’t taken advantage of, oh no. No man left my bed—or empty house, office, or broom closet—without having satisfied me. I came first. And often. That much was understood and I had not met a guy yet who wasn’t willing to fulfill that basic, simple order of operations. I’d spent way too many years thinking I’d had an orgasm at the inept and self-centered hands of my husband. Those days were over.
Thanks to my Las Vegas friend, I mused, letting my mind wander to him—he of the amazing skill set, the beautiful face, the lovely laugh, the generous lips and hands. He was a trained masseur, he’d claimed when we first met. He’d just “relax” me. And we’d see where it took us.I shivered at the memory of that first week I spent with him. He’d taught me about the triggers, the zones, the way I could use my body to please my partner. I think I fell in deep love with the man that week, but I refused it, rejected it. I’d paid him after all. He’d taken my money that first time. The other times—all the deeply erotic experiences we’d shared since—were free of charge, he’d claimed.