Book Review: Don't Stop

Author: Lauren Biel

Rating: 4/5

If you ever thought romance was dead, let me assure you — it’s bloody, stitched together, and proudly supporting a Frankenpeen. Unhinged as fuck, this horror-erotica fever dream throws you headfirst into the wreckage that is Dalton and Rayna, two lonely broken souls who meet by accident and burn everything around them just to keep warm. And honestly? It’s kind of beautiful. In the worst possible way.

The story kicks off when Dalton, a sensitive man with a cracked moral compass and a heart held together by duct tape and trauma, offers a ride to Rayna, an injured hitchhiker. Innocent enough until you realize these two share a brand of darkness most people would need a licensed therapist (and maybe a priest) to even begin to unpack.

But instead of running screaming in opposite directions like normal humans, Dalton and Rayna dive headfirst into the abyss, holding hands the whole way down. What blooms between them isn’t healthy; hell, it’s not even legal in some states but it’s electric, dangerous, and disturbingly entertaining to watch unfold.

Speaking of disturbing — let's talk scenes.

Dalton cums into a heart shape. Yes, a heart. Now who said romance was dead?

Not long after, the dynamic duo peels the skin off a man so Dalton can wear it and somehow, they make it equally erotic and romantic. Cringe. Somewhere between Frankensteining body parts and sweet-talking each other mid-murder, you kind of stop questioning it.

And then there’s Frankenpeen.

I won't spoil the details, but if you thought you were unshockable, this book would like a word.

This isn’t a story that flirts with the line between horror and erotica — it strips that line naked, hogties it, and throws it in the trunk for a joyride. And yet, somehow, it never feels like gore for gore’s sake. There’s a twisted sincerity underneath all the body fluids and blood splatters.

Writing-wise, it’s tight: enough detail to make your stomach flip, enough momentum to keep you sprinting through the pages even as you gag. Some lines even stopped me cold — way harder hitting than you’d expect for a novella where human flesh is basically arts-and-crafts material.

"He's just held a match to a dormant fuse inside me and I wouldn't mind leaving a little destruction in my wake when I detonate."

"If she told me to kill myself right now, I would do it. I would bleed out for her so she can pose me like one of her grotesque little dolls in her room."

And yet — despite all the blood, semen, and questionable moral choices — I couldn't fully connect with the characters. Dalton and Rayna have chemistry, no doubt about it. But they aren't built for depth. They're chaos incarnate — trauma bonded at 100mph with the brakes cut. No slow-burn tragedy. No haunting glimpses of what they could have been.

Just two human wrecking balls smashing into each other for 130 pages. Which fits, honestly. But part of me wished for just a little more substance under all that madness — a glimpse of who they were before they became these monsters.

Reading this felt like vigilante justice on Halloween night — but way messier, hornier, and bloodier than any comic book hero could stomach. It’s stomach-churning and sweet in the most nauseating way possible. It’s gloriously, unapologetically wrong.

Final Verdict:

If you read the phrase "meat condoms" and thought, huh, interesting, you’re exactly the kind of degenerate this book was written for.

Four severed thumbs and one proudly stitched Frankenpeen way up!