Read Me Like a Dirty Book
Sapphic Author/Narrator Romance
by Blair Lennox
Free with Kindle Unlimited
Pairing: FF (Sapphic)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Author/Narrator Pairing, Bisexual Awakening, Snowed-In Forced Proximity, Voice Kink, Workplace Adjacent, Secret Relationship, First Time with a Woman, Professional Boundaries, Publishing Industry
She wrote every desire except her own. Then the narrator read it back to her — and fiction became the most dangerous kind of truth.
Romilly Crane can write any desire except the one she refuses to name. Her newest novel is a sapphic romcom — a strategic brand expansion, she tells everyone. Not a confession. Definitely not autobiography.
When Marlowe House pairs her with acclaimed audiobook narrator Sabine Mercer for a prestige recording at an isolated Catskills lodge, Romilly expects professional notes and careful distance.
Then Sabine reads the first page, and Romilly hears her own hunger performed back to her in a voice that turns fiction into fact.
Their arguments about character motivation become after-hours rehearsals. Rehearsals become demonstrations. And when a blizzard buries the lodge in snow, the author who writes desire for a living discovers she has never once spoken it out loud.
But the real danger isn’t the weather. When their publisher recuts harmless behind-the-scenes footage into a viral campaign implying their chemistry is real, Sabine’s most sacred boundary is shattered — and Romilly’s instinct to manage the fallout quietly costs her the woman who finally taught her the difference between writing “I want” and saying it.
You’ll love this if you want:
✔ An author hearing her own explicit writing performed by the woman she’s falling for
✔ Voice kink so devastating every sex scene uses the microphone differently
✔ A bisexual awakening that’s not a crisis — it’s a recognition
✔ Ten explicit encounters escalating in heat and emotional intensity
✔ Snowed-in forced proximity in an isolated recording lodge
✔ A narrator who sees through the fiction and a writer who learns to stop hiding behind it
✔ The word “Good?” used as both a question and an answer
✔ Emotionally grounded, guaranteed HEA
⚠️ Content Warning: Explicit consensual sexual content between adult women. Workplace-adjacent relationship with independent contracts. Queer identity questioning and public speculation. Unauthorized suggestive marketing using approved footage. No cheating, sexual violence, hidden sexual recording, or outing. Guaranteed HEA.
📖 Read Chapter One Free
A sneak peek at Read Me Like a Dirty Book
Chapter 1
The GPS dies three miles outside Marlowe’s Glen, which feels like a metaphor I’d cut from a manuscript for being too on the nose.
I pull over on a road that’s more suggestion than infrastructure — two tire tracks carved through six inches of fresh powder, hemmed in by birch trees so white they look like bones in the winter light. My rental car idles. The heat vents blow recycled air that smells faintly of someone else’s vanilla perfume. Somewhere ahead of me, allegedly, there’s a converted estate with a professional recording studio where I’m supposed to spend the next two weeks turning my novel into an audiobook.
My novel. The sapphic one.
I tap the GPS screen. It flickers, gives me a spinning wheel, then dies with the quiet finality of a device that has accepted its fate. Fine. Callum Pryce — the producer — sent directions in his confirmation email. I pull them up on my phone: Past the covered bridge, left at the stone wall, through the iron gate. If you reach the frozen lake, you’ve gone too far.
Charming. Very Brontë. Very “last known location of the missing hiker.”
I put the car in drive and creep forward. The birch trees close in overhead, branches lacing together into a canopy that filters the January light into something pale and directionless. The road curves. I pass the covered bridge — beautiful, terrifying, one lane wide, the kind of structure that exists purely to strand you in a horror movie. Then the stone wall, half-buried in snow, stretching along the left side of the road like it’s been waiting for someone to follow it.
The iron gate is open. Beyond it, the road smooths out, the trees pull back, and Blackthorn Audio House appears.
It’s not what I expected. I was picturing something industrial — soundproofed walls, fluorescent lighting, the aesthetic of a podcast studio with a bigger budget. Instead, it’s a country estate. Stone and timber, three stories, wide windows glowing warm in the gray afternoon. A main lodge with a wraparound porch, a separate wing that extends to the east, and beyond that, a smaller cottage half-hidden in the tree line. Smoke rises from two chimneys.
I park next to the only other vehicle, a mud-splattered truck with a Blackthorn Audio House decal on the door. I sit in the car for a moment longer than necessary.
Here’s the thing I haven’t told anyone, including my agent, my editor, and — most critically — myself in any sustained, unflinching way:
I did not write Say It Again as a strategic brand expansion into the sapphic romance market.
That’s the story I’ve been telling. It’s a good story. It has data points. I can cite the growth numbers in FF romance on KU, the gap in the market for high-heat sapphic romcoms with crossover commercial appeal, the publisher’s enthusiasm for “broadening the Romilly Crane catalog.” I pitched it to Marlowe House in a meeting with slides. I used the phrase underserved readership without flinching.
All of which is true, and none of which explains why I wrote the entire first draft in six weeks during a July that I remember mostly as a blur of open windows and an ache behind my sternum that wouldn’t stop.
The sex scenes arrived fully formed. I didn’t outline them. I didn’t choreograph body mechanics or check reference material the way I do for my MF books, where every position is basically a physics problem I solve with a whiteboard and no dignity. The sapphic scenes poured out of me like water finding its level — like they’d been sitting somewhere behind a wall I didn’t know existed, waiting for a crack.
I told my agent it was the easiest book I’d ever written. She said, “The easy ones are the dangerous ones.”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I know what she meant.
Want to keep reading? Grab the full book now.
🔥 Want an EXCLUSIVE Bonus Chapter?
After Hours at Blackthorn — A scene TOO HOT for Amazon. One year later. They return to the lodge. Alone. The studio, the microphone, the control room, and every surface that holds the memory of them becoming them.
More from Blair Lennox
Her Mother’s Type
She took the job to fix her ex's mother's courtyard. She didn't plan on wanting the woman who owned it.
Before Her Daughter’s Wedding
Ten days at her best friend's wedding. One door between their rooms. Twenty-two buttons she sewed knowing she'd be the one to undo them.
The Guest Room Rule
Six weeks in her best friend's mother's guest room. Five rules chalked inside a chair. Every one of them is about to break.
My Ex-Husband’s Sister Wants Me
Port Sorrel After Dark
The divorce ended her marriage. It did nothing about his sister.
The Pastor’s Wife Is Leaving
She spent nine years watching the bar across the street. Now she lives above it.
My Ex’s Mother After Dark
Her daughter broke my heart. Her mother wants to show me what being chosen feels like.