The long anticipated second book in the Masters of Love series is just around the corner, and you can read the first chapter from Professor Feelgood by Leisa Rayven here!
‘Professor Feelgood’ (Masters of Love #2) by Leisa Rayven synopsis:
What’s a girl to do when a man who’s countless shades of wrong feels oh-so-right?
Ambitious book editor Asha Tate is a hopeless romantic. Despite her mediocre track record with men, she believes in swooning, sighing, and the everlasting love of true soul mates. Sure, sex is okay, but she’s not someone who’s ever been driven by her animal urges.
When Asha stumbles upon the scorching hot Instagram feed of someone calling himself Professor Feelgood, she falls in lust for the first time. Not only is she left panting over the professor’s insane body, but his angst-filled poetry about losing his one true love speaks straight to her soul.
Desperately in need of a bestseller for her struggling publishing company, Asha knows the professor’s potential to sell to his millions of loyal followers could be the lifeline her bosses need. However, the ink is barely dry on a book deal before she realizes she’s made a terrible mistake. Sure, the professor is incredibly talented and sexier than any man has a right to be, but the man behind the persona isn’t at all who she pictured. In real life, he’s intense, arrogant and infuriating, and his uncanny ability to rub her the wrong way turns her dream project into a total nightmare.
Knowing that the professor is everything she doesn’t want in a man should help Asha ignore her occasional urges to mount him, but she quickly learns that explosive, unwanted chemistry can make even smart people do stupid things.
Don’t miss this sexy new standalone from the international bestselling author of Bad Romeo and Broken Juliet.
‘Professor Feelgood’ (Masters of Love #2) by Leisa Rayven chapter 1 reveal:
Feelgood in My Pants
Well, this is mortifying.
Here I am at 7.30 on a Monday morning, more turned on than I’ve been in all my twenty-three and three-quarter years. But am I with the man of my dreams? Am I being wined and dined and romanced out of my pants? Am I in an exotic location involving sand, sea, and half-naked waiters serving drinks with tiny paper umbrellas?
I’m sitting at my desk at Whiplash Publishing, surrounded by an empty office and the faint clicking of the water cooler, as I’m bombarded with very bad thoughts about a man I’ve never met.
This is not good.
I hear a banging sound coming from down the hallway. The only other early bird here today is our Scottish finance manager, Fergus, who has an antagonistic relationship with our ancient photocopier and doesn’t care who knows it.
“Youuuuu base creature,” he bellows, his thick brogue rising in volume as I hear more banging. “You foul, fetid fucker.” His words are punctuated by the sound of ripping paper. “Just … fucking … staple it, you fecking cock-swaddling dick-licker!”
There’s a loud beeping sound, followed by Fergus screaming in frustration. I’d offer to help, but I can’t drag myself away from my word-porn high. Also, Fergus is always extra cranky when he’s compiling the end-of-quarter profit/loss projections, so I’d like to stay out of his orbit as much as possible right now.
As the copier abuse continues, I cross my legs under my desk and glance around to make sure I still have the main office area to myself. If anyone saw me right now, would they be able to tell how turned on I am? Would they know that the blood flooding my bright, blushing face fades into comparison with the blood rushing to lower parts of my body?
With a cleansing exhale, I stand and head toward the bathroom. The rest of the crew will be here any second, and I seriously need to get myself under control before that happens.
I push into the ladies’ room and run my hands under cold water before patting myself down. When I look up at my reflection, I shake my head. No amount of water could get rid of my ridiculous bright-pink blush.
“What the hell are you doing, Asha? Seriously. You want to lick a man you don’t even know. Worse, a man whose face you haven’t seen. You’re out of control.”
This isn’t like me.
I’m a romantic. I want flowers and dinner dates, and long slow kisses in the moonlight. I’m not into random hook-ups and indiscriminate sex. I never understood how my big sister could gain so much satisfaction from one-night stands. I’ve tried them. They’re awkward and full of self-consciousness. I prefer to know the men I allow into my body. To me, there’s nothing sexier than a man who wants to be in a relationship.
But I guess that’s the main reason I’ve developed intense horn-dog cravings for a total stranger. My mystery man has lost the love of his life, and he’s unashamedly telling the world about it. When I read his words, I find his passion contagious and, apparently, stupidly arousing.
After taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk. Once there, I grab my mouse with every intention of getting a jump on the giant pile of work on today’s agenda, but instead, I end up taking one final scroll through the Instagram feed of the man who calls himself Professor Feelgood. Goddamn, he got the name right. Although he probably should have added ‘in my pants’ to be accurate. Right above his name on his profile is a picture of Harrison Ford as Han Solo, and below it is his bio, which reads, “A recovering asshole engaging in brutal introspection one day at a time. I’m a collection of bad choices masquerading as a semi-functioning man.” Well, apparently, a whole bunch of people relate to his bad choices, because he has over three million followers.
I stumbled across his feed a couple of weeks ago when someone I follow reposted one of his poems, and ever since, I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole into his world. There are grainy, arty photos of him, all taken at angles that make it impossible to see his face. Some have been taken overseas in front of famous landmarks, while others are so close to his taut, muscular body I feel like I’m caressing him just by gazing at them.
But more than the provocative images, it’s his words that slay me. His sometimes sweet, sometimes sad, always-sexy words about love and loss seem to bypass my brain and speak straight to my soul.
Trembling muscles and cloudy brain as I thrust, and thrust, and thrust.
I want to be inside you, wrapped in your limbs
Hot skin and oh-God-sweet-Jesus moans echoing around us
I want to be inside you, making your body dance, and burn, and fly,
But really, I want to be inside you
because you’ve been inside me from the moment we met
it’s my turn.
I’ve read this one about ten times now, and it’s just the tip of the iceberg as far as his talent goes. The more I read, the more obsessed with him I become.
I scroll up to the beginning of his timeline, trying to figure out exactly why he stimulates me so deeply. Yes, there’s a physical response to his pictures, especially those featuring him half-naked, because seriously, his body is insane. But there’s more to it than that. All of his posts feel like deeply personal confessions. I think part of why he’s so popular is because he’s pulling apart his issues, mistakes, and regrets for the whole world to see, and the bravery and honesty that leaps off the screen feels like injecting liquid passion straight into my heart. It’s playing sweet havoc with my blood pressure.
I jump when an exceptionally loud bang echoes down the hallway. I look up to see Fergus walking out of the photocopy room, a badly cracked document feeder slung casually under one arm.
He walks past me and nods in my direction. “Morning, Asha.” With his accent, it sounds like ‘mooorning.’
“Hey, Fergus. Everything okay?”
“Oh, aye. Just grand. Going for a wee walk.”
I’m pretty sure he’s not talking about taking a bathroom break as he strolls to the other end of the office and pushes through to the stairwell that leads to the roof. I briefly wonder if I should I be concerned that he’s going to launch the document feeder over the side of the building and into the river.
I’m about to follow him to make sure he doesn’t do something foolish when my phone lights up with a picture of my big sister smiling as she flips me the bird.
Such a delicate flower. “Hey, Eden.”
“Hey yourself. You’re at work already? Max was going to cook you breakfast, but you were gone before we got up.”
“That’s not true. Judging from the sounds coming from your room, Max was up at least twenty minutes before I left.”
Eden chuckles, and I smile. Her happiness is well-deserved. She finally left behind her cycle of one-night stands with mediocre guys and found a real man. And now, for the first time in her life, she’s in a real grown-up relationship. I just wish I didn’t have to hear the full-on sexcapades that go along with it.
“I’d apologize for my man not being able to keep quiet,” she says, exuding smugness. “But I enjoy his noises too much.”
“Yeah, I got that from all of your noises. Seriously, I have no doubt that you woke up old Mrs. Eidleman on the fourth floor, and we both know she doesn’t put in her hearing aids until nine.”
Another bout of laughter from Eden. Honestly, as aggravating as it is to hear other people having amazing sex when you aren’t, I’m over the moon that she finally has a serious boyfriend. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I thought she might have to be buried with one arm poking out of the ground, so she could eternally give the middle finger to love and commitment. But falling for Max Riley has changed all that. Now she’s so far gone, I practically see cartoon love hearts floating around her every time he’s near.
“I still can’t believe you landed Mister Romance as a boyfriend,” I say, leaning back in my chair and twirling around to face the office. “And to think, you owe it all to me.”
“Yeah, yeah. Here we go again.”
“Well, can you deny that you wouldn’t have even known Max existed if I hadn’t told you? Not to mention I set you up on your first date. You both owe me, big time. But don’t worry. I won’t hold it over you forever. Just a decade or two.”
She groans. I know she tries to hide how sappy and lovesick she is, but it’s beyond obvious. And honestly, I don’t blame her. Max is pretty special. Until recently, he was the best kept secret of New York’s social elite. He was a professional escort who provided women with something way better than sex: swoony dates that gave healthy boosts to their self-esteem. He may have been able to keep his alter-ego on the down-low for a couple of years, but ever since Eden’s story on him went viral, he’s become a full-on celebrity. I still find it strange that the guy I see on all the talk shows is the same one who unclogged our kitchen sink yesterday.
As I finish that thought, I shift my gaze to stare out the window, and that’s when I see what looks suspiciously like our photocopier’s document feeder plummeting toward the ground.
Oh, Fergus. What did you do?
I make a note on my day planner to call our Xerox repair dude ASAP. A few seconds later, I turn to see Fergus emerge from the stairwell with a huge smile on his face. I guess some days, you take your wins wherever you can get them.
“If you’ve finished your daily ‘told you so’,” Eden says, bringing me back to our conversation, “can we move onto something more important? I feel like we haven’t had a real conversation in days. Are you okay? How are things going with your French boy?”
I let out a happy sigh. “Aw, fantastic, Edie. He’s amazing. I really think he could be the one.”
“Ohhhh,” she groans, as if she’s watching a skateboarder fall off a handrail straight onto his crotch. “That bad, huh?”
I lean back in my chair and cross my legs. “What are you talking about? I just told you we’re great. He’s checked more boxes than any man I’ve ever dated.”
“Uh huh. You realize having a checklist for guys isn’t realistic, right?”
“It’s not a checklist.” I ignore her scoffing laugh. “It’s a list of guidelines. General characteristics that help me refine my search for true love.”
“No, little sister, it’s a list of specific characteristics you use on every guy you date. If they dare deviate from your must-haves, you dump them.”
“Oh, really? Let’s review, shall we?” She clears her throat. “Your dream man must have a college degree, be employed and at least moderately successful, love kids, like Aaron Sorkin dramas––”
“That one’s a soft limit.”
“––be romantic, have great taste, say all the consonants in the words ‘recognize’, ‘entertainment’, and ‘frustrated’––”
“Excuse me for liking diction.”
“He must never use the word ‘drug’ as a verb instead of a noun——”
I throw up my hands. “‘Dragged’ is the past-tense verb! It’s not that hard.”
“And every time you’ve dated a guy long enough for your pretty rose-colored glasses to smudge, you go into a weird period of denial, because you’re too proud to admit that you’re about to torpedo yet another decent guy. You’re at that point with Phillipe now, right?”
I fake-laugh for a few moments before winding down like a tiny female air-raid siren. “Oh, Eden. My poor deluded sister. You couldn’t be more wrong.”
Of course, she’s mostly right. Damn her for knowing me so well.
I met a guy in Paris recently and had the type of whirlwind romance I’d always dreamed about. But even though I adore him and have an incredible time when we’re together, the issue I always have with my boyfriends is rearing its ugly head, and I can’t figure out how to fix it. Mind you, it’ll be a dry day in Atlantis before I admit that to my smartass sister.
“Let talk about something else,” I say, as I head to the break room to brew some fresh coffee. “Anything else.” I hear a noise and realize Eden is making coffee, too. Great minds, and all that.
“But seriously,” she says. “You have to break this cycle, Ash. It’s getting ridiculous. Tell me again why you broke up with the guy before this one? That Gary person.”
“You know why.” I shove a crisp filter into the machine and fill it with coffee.
“You claimed he was too clingy.”
“Exactly,” I say, while pouring in the water. “Never mind that he considered our Jersey/Brooklyn living situation a ‘long distance relationship’, but calling me ten times a day ‘just to hear my voice’? No thank you.”
“Uh huh. And the guy before him … John? He wasn’t clingy enough, right?”
“Yeah. So?” The machine coughs and splutters as the steaming coffee dribbles into the pot.
“And further down your list of rejects there was Pablo – too short; Damien – too tall; Bartholomew – too blond.”
“You know why I can’t do blond guys”
“And then there was poor perfect Peter who you dumped because he manscaped.”
I grab a clean mug from the cupboard and scoop four sugars into it. “Hey, you didn’t have to look at his perfect eyebrows all the time. It was off-putting how arched they were. And he had zero hair below his waist. I mean, come on. I don’t mind guys keeping it tidy down there, but he was totally smooth. I tried to get past it, but it was like dating a Ken doll.”
I can practically hear Eden’s eye-roll. “Have you ever considered that maybe the reason you can’t maintain a long-term relationship is because you don’t really want one?”
I give her an extra-loud eye-roll in return. “Yes, of course, dear sister. That’s definitely my motivation for spending time with all these men. To never have a loving, fulfilling relationship and die alone.” I don’t mention the real reason I dumped all those men. It’s too embarrassing to discuss, even with her.
“But then why do you find weak, lame-ass excuses to break up with every guy you date? Did you ever consider you’re too fussy?”
“I’m not fussy. I just know what I want in a relationship, and I’m not willing to compromise my standards for a guy who isn’t exactly right.”
Eden makes a noise of protest before going suspiciously silent.
“What?” I say, pouring in some creamer and stirring my coffee. “What sarcastic quip are you suppressing right now?”
She clears her throat. “I was going to say that there isn’t a man alive who could live up to all of your impossible standards, but then I realized there is at least one, and I’m dating him.”
I make a triumphant noise. “Exactly. You have your perfect guy, and yet you’re encouraging me to give up on mine? Shame on you, Eden Marigold Tate.”
After throwing my stirrer in the trash, I grab my coffee and head back to my desk.
“Okay, you have a point.” Eden says. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in with you. I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Max recently, and … well, I miss you. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about? No other possible guys on the horizon? No celebrity crushes you want to share?”
As I slide onto my chair, I click my mouse on Professor Feelgood’s feed once more and fan myself with my notepad. “Nope. Nothing and no one. I’m all good. Just … busy.” And about to solve the word’s energy crisis if I can figure out how to fit a thermal generator into my underpants.
Eden pauses. I know she’s not totally buying my casual attitude, but she doesn’t push it, either. Knowing my sister, that won’t last long.
“Okay, then,” she says, “See you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
When I hang up, I let out a deep sigh. I know she’s sensing my growing unease with my boyfriend, but that’s not the only thing on my mind.
Recently, I’ve been feeling … off, and I don’t know why. Is there such a thing as a mid-twenties crisis? I’m turning twenty-four in a few weeks, so that could be part of it, I guess. But I’ve been plagued by a niggling wrongness, as if I’m walking the incorrect path wearing someone else’s shoes. And even though they’re half a size too small, as long as I don’t think too hard, I’m able to ignore the discomfort and carry on.
The Professor’s posts make me want to have a good hard look at the wrongness. He gives me the sudden urge to be brave and find the right path, along with a comfortable pair of shoes.
If only I had the first clue how to do that.
(Editors note: Book synopsis and excerpt provided by author)