Sex in a Coffin

I did not realise things could get this bad... Let's just say, even more weirdly unerotic smut (this might just be me though, reviews online suggest I'm not the only one thinking so, but also not everyone agrees with me - it's a mixed bag is what I'm saying) and Devereux somehow became more stupid and inept than he was in the first book. (Kismet being insufferable and just tiring as a person has been a constant since book 1.)
 
The story is meant to be set between the first and second book of the series, just as a little teaser until the second installment got published about a year later. But it very much feels like Hilburn either forgot who Devereux was and how he sounded, or she decided that additionally to her vampire-fetish, blood kink and assault phantasies, she now also wants nothing more than be sexually intimate with a socially inept nitwit. I miss Alan; sure, he was a himbo too, but at least he had a bit more brains and wasn't just riding the “I'm sexy and I know it” wave of ambiguous ancient european sex-appeal. (There is actually a fair bit of fetishisation of Europeans going on, but that's honestly a common trope for American romance and erotica novels, especially due to the class-phantasies “European culture” offers - this sounds terribly wrong, I'm just trying to find a way to say Americans seem get off on the idea of a European prince coming to elevate them from their boring regular life.) 
 
Also, there was just so much pointless violence and murder in a obviously forced erotic setting (not forced as in coerced, but it felt forced upon me as the reader to acknowlegde that all the blood spilling is meant to be “sexy” ). There is this constant reminder that Kismet fears Devereux and his dangerous and violent nature while at the same time this is what makes him sexy - which would be ok, if she weren't so judgy towards people finding arousal in fear. It's just ... I don't know, it doesn't feel like the author realises what she's writing. Hey, that's another point this series has in common with R. L. James' 50 shades. Creativity truly is dead, huh.