COVER REVEAL Kinky Sexy Dirty by Christine Reiss from Becca the Bibliophile on Vimeo.
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Release Date: March 28th
BLURB
Cocky. Sexy. Charming. Out of my league.That's Dash Wallace. A toe-curling, sheet-ripping mistake waiting to happen.
It would be helpful if he'd stop moving with the grace of a hungry cat. Or staring at me with his thumb stroking the stitches of his World Series ball. We're talking about the game but all I can think about is how much of my body he can cover with those hands. It's keeping me from concentrating on what his lips are saying.
Which is dirty. All dirty. I have to gird my freaking loins against this guy. I'm determined to know his secrets and he seems determined to get into my pants.
Sleeping with him could ruin everything, and let's face it, I don't trust him enough to let him anywhere near me.
Smart. Witty. Direct. Sexy as a fastball low and
inside.
That's Vivian Foster. A real pistol with legs till Tuesday.
I can't get around her. She has a way of asking me one thing
and meaning another, which I'd manage fine if I could get my mind off all the
things I want to do to her. On the desk. In bed. With-a-feather-blindfolded-and-her-hands-tied-to-the-headboard kinds of things.
She doesn't trust me. Just like everyone else, she thinks I gambled against my own team.
She's wrong, and I'm going to prove it.
It would be helpful if he'd stop moving with the grace of a hungry cat. Or staring at me with his thumb stroking the stitches of his World Series ball. We're talking about the game but all I can think about is how much of my body he can cover with those hands. It's keeping me from concentrating on what his lips are saying.
Which is dirty. All dirty. I have to gird my freaking loins against this guy. I'm determined to know his secrets and he seems determined to get into my pants.
Sleeping with him could ruin everything, and let's face it, I don't trust him enough to let him anywhere near me.
Smart. Witty. Direct. Sexy as a fastball low and
inside.
That's Vivian Foster. A real pistol with legs till Tuesday.
I can't get around her. She has a way of asking me one thing
and meaning another, which I'd manage fine if I could get my mind off all the
things I want to do to her. On the desk. In bed. With-a-feather-blindfolded-and-her-hands-tied-to-the-headboard kinds of things.
She doesn't trust me. Just like everyone else, she thinks I gambled against my own team.
She's wrong, and I'm going to prove it.
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