I'm an avid reader and reviewer of romance books, especially m-m and erotica. You can find me on http://www.goodreads.com/user/show/4669232-baba-marcus-tyler-tate-dan-ty-hunter
1.5 stars. DNF at 50 % Review posted March 24, 2014
I love lyrical prose (emphasis on lyrical) and not corny purple prose. When I get the impression that an author tries too hard and, in the process comes off as pretentious, my interest fades away fast. As you can gather from my review this was the case with Star-Crossed. The characters and plot but also the storytelling itself came off as indifferent and unappealing. The story was monotonous and fell flat. Everything simply plodded along without much purpose. I know the purpose of the story was that game to seduce the teacher but still. I just didn't feel it and ended up bored.
Star-Crossed is nowhere as good as Leah Raeder's Unteachable because first and foremost it lacked the magic. It didn't shine. If anything, it came off as bland and dull. I remember that I didn't fall for the characters in Unteachable but I irrevocably fell for Leah's splendid writing. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case here. I neither liked the characters nor the writing style.
When I finally DNFd the book I've had my fill of analogies and semi-colons. I think the quotes are more telling than a long-winded review.
It wasn't love. (I hope not, Kaitlyn. After all, you only met him a few minutes ago). I didn't love him. But I felt something - and that was enough to make me breathe in the air around us like it was some sweet nectar that if I didn't savor then, I'd never have the chance. He smelled of warm almond; of coffee and sweat, which might have been mixed with the espresso I'd drank or the caramel still lacing my breath. Cherry sugar still coated my tongue, and I wanted him to taste it.
Shame came flooding like a syringe shot straight into the vein, mixed with an undeniable thrill.
She had about the same subtlety of a cow chewing grass, but oddly enough, there was something sultry about the way her mouth moved.
My father was surrounded by his business partners, all in suits, their faces already flushed from the alcohol that slogged through their veins like motor oil.
The candle flame was still dancing, rising and falling as the white wax dripped down like sweat from joined bodies.
At first, his hands shot up, like a criminal marked with a red hot target; like he was facing certain death by firing squad. They fell slow as quick-sand, eventually finding my hips where they settled with a shaky hesitancy, hovering just above the fabric.
Mr. Tennant kissed my mouth like it was something to worship, something to savor. Delicate and delicious, his breath shallow as a pool of puddle water. And if I were still a child, still stuck in the age of sticky-sweet candy and hop-scotch, I would have jumped and played in that murky depth forever.
When it was just the two of us, door securely latched, my heart started humming; it trashed around like a caged animal. Standing there, no words spoken, we were like two stranded voiceless islands.
I could listen to him talk for hours about anything and everything. Literature, film; his past that was still about as clear as an aged, opaque window.
Mr. Tennant remained standing, and I watched his throat move as if something lived inside there.
It's probably a frog...
Will appeared unconvinced; skimming his hands through hair that only proceeded to fall straight over his forehead; black strands over fair and flawless skin. His natural allure was a tragedy itself.
"Jesus," he exclaimed; soft and feral in the way the words crawled into my ears, sinking like toxic paint into the crevices of my brain.
One by one, I started unbuttoning my shirt; watching as his eyes, like an elevator, slowly drop from my chin to that calico fabric.
There was an undeniable spark in his eyes, flint on stone. The idea seeped into his face as if I were suggesting he dive into the first sheet of freshly-fallen snow.
He listened without protest; his eyes quickly lapping up every movement like the constant shutter-sound of a camera; each millisecond like a frame of film that would forever burn into his mind.
While XXXXXX kiss felt like the impending explosion of a firework, Mr. Tennant's mouth against mine was like oxygen drizzling from a cannula; enabling a deeper breath; giving me the sneaking suspicion that there was a deeper strength concealed somewhere amidst entrails and bone.
I'm very sorry but this book wasn't my cup of tea. At all.
**Review at request of author Luna Lacour**
All quotes are taken from the pre-published copy and may be altered or omitted in the final copy.