I just can't do it...

To continue my efforts to try and read these books a dear person from work loaned me:

...This is direct from The Return of Rafe MacKade, wherein Regan and Rafe have just had sex again. (There was another sex scene. I missed it with all the nebulous "shattering" and the looking at the dust motes and time...what was it? (JustCallMeJo refers to the text...) Time spinning out, stretching and quivering...time did that, yeah.

The worst part of this sex scene was the apparent afterglow. Let's take you direct to the text, where the drama is happening. Okay, so twentysomething bad, bad boy Rafe has just gotten it on, right? It's the next morning, and the little tartlet has gone to work. We turn to Rafe now, to see what's in dirty little Rafe's mind....

Scowling, he grabbed a shovel and began to deal with the snow that piled the walk. The sun was strengthening, and he worked fast, so that even with the bite of the northern wind he sweated satisfactorily under his coat.

She'd probably head straight for the shower, he mused, tossing heavy snow off the path. Wash that pretty doe-colored hair of hers.

He wondered what it looked like wet.

She'd dig some of those neat, classy clothes out of her closet. Nope, he thought, correcting himself. Regan would never dig. She'd select. Quiet colors, simple lines. One of those professional-woman's jackets, with a pin on the lapel.

She'd fix her face, nothing too obvious. Just hints of blush along the cheekbones, a touch of color above those ridiculously long lashes. Then lipstick -- not red, not pink, a kind of rose that accented those full lips and that sassy lttle mole beside them.


....

I didn't think you'd believe me with how bad it is unless I quoted direct from the book.

....

Because when a man leaves my bed, I want him to be thinking about my makeup the next morning.

I just. I can't continue this book. I just can't.