The Last True Story pulled me immediately with its awkward, introvert teen angst. Its build-up is a bit on the gentler and more gradual side than most smut, dragging you on with that sort of infinitely-recognizable love from afar. But when it happens, it happens, and you’ll almost have to turn back a page to make sure you didn’t miss something in the jumping off. Way to keep me on my toes, Whitney!
When that first scene is over, there’s a kind pit-in-your-stomach feeling: disastrous and delicious at the same time. That sort of half-drunk affair followed by post-orgasm reality–thoughts of “is this for real?” and “was I just convenient?”–speak deeply to my tastes. If I wasn’t already hooked, Di’s persistent smallness (”they still treat me like a preschooler!” she quips in the opening scene) and her precious trepidation made me demand to know what happened next!
(reviewed the day of purchase)