Look, romance novels are so badly written that no one's actually reading them for the dialogue. Romance novels are basically Masturbation-Aid Lite. Nobody masturbates to scenes of sweet, respectful sharing of emotions between equals. And if you do, thank you for reading this, Andrea Dworkin.
For the record, I did this letting-it-fall-open thing with a book of short stories I own, and it fell open to a scene where a young woman, having dressed as a leatherboy, gets fucked up the ass by a gay man in a leather nightclub while giving a blowjob through a glory hole. And there isn't a lot of talking, either, except such tender words as "Are you ready for me, little boy?" and "Holy God, my ass!"