This book nicely illustrates the concept of too much of a good thing.
Reading it feels like sinking into a huge couch padded with impossibly thick velvet that just swallows you up. It’s all soft and sensual and immersive.
The story (such as it is) simply oozes along. There’s next to no conflict, just lots and lots and lots of sex.
It starts out great.
The hurt/comfort theme is done in a lovely way that does not infantilize the comfortee. (Which would be okay too, but this feels fully like two adults, and I haven’t seen that in way too long. That’s my own fault, of course, but there you go.) From start to finish it’s handling the aspect of a deceased life partner very well.
And you can’t go wrong with a bunch of cuddly animals.
However, once the sex begins it seems as though it is taking over the entire story. Sex really fills the bulk of those pages and while it is an appealing kind of sex, there’s nothing new in it after the first few times.
Also maybe, just maybe, they talk a bit much during. I don’t really mind but it seems excessive to comment on every tiny little thing.
And, heh. They really keep going and going and going, blowing realism entirely out of the water.
As such, after a while it became frustrating; every scene seemed to be there purely for the sex. Even the ones that conveyed a tiny bit of plot development.
I guess for someone in the mood for a feast of cuddly sex this is ideal.
In my case, I often had to stop reading and do something else for a bit, which is why this took me so long to finish. I’m not really complaining. Just… too much of a good thing to the point of being repetitive.
The ending has just the tiniest hint of bitter-sweet (it actually made me tear up for a moment or two), but not in a bad way. And I suppose it fits the theme of the story, if not exactly the majority of the scenes as such.
Reading this gave me a nostalgic feeling.
The writing style is just like in the first actual m/m book I read. (I mean genre book. Erotica, as most of them are. Back then even more so than these days.) It was more than likely by the same author, too, under one of her myriad pseudonyms that I can’t keep straight.