The first novel in the Hollywood Spice series!
Out of the Frying Pan: a spicy romance from Little Kisses Press
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A “Kink Your Kindle” recommended read from the venerable Violet Blue!
“Sophie Mouette… It’s pronounced ‘Mmm…wet!'”
When unemployed chef Chloe Montiero accidentally stumbles onto a red carpet, she ends up blackmailed by wacky starlet Sandrine Moss, who needs a personal chef to cater to her randomly changing dietary requirements.
Plunged down the rabbit hole into the wild world of Hollywood excess, Chloe indulges in a steamy make-out session with Sandrine’s pool boy and sometimes bartender.
Or so she assumed. Nope: Sandrine’s brother, Brand Mossiman…
And so the real insanity begins.
Sophie Mouette deftly blends hot sex with the spirit of classic romantic comedy in Out of the Frying Pan, the first novel in the Hollywood Spice series, with mouthwatering results!
She’d gotten a distant glimpse of his chest by the pool, but not like this. Not with the unexpected intimacy of him undressing making the already great view even hotter. Sure, her brain knew it was a matter of necessity, but her hormones were getting ready to strip off his jeans along with the shirt, and then get to work on anything he might be wearing underneath.
Either he was taking that tank top off a little more slowly than was strictly necessary or she was so turned on she was altering time. She was registering details a little bit at a time as they were revealed, a glorious tease.
Tight abs, not overly defined, but defined enough to show he took good care of himself. Strong-looking but lean, not cut and bulked up like Ray, and she definitely liked lean better. (Ray looked like an attractive alien—humans just weren’t built like that). He had a light dusting of reddish-brown fuzz, enough to look very male without being furry. Just the right degree of tan, too—not the office pallor she was still used to from growing up in the Northeast, but not baked.
In short, Brand had one of the best bodies she’d ever seen not on a movie screen. A body she could imagine wrapping herself around all too vividly. She could taste the salt of his skin, feel his muscles moving under her exploring hands…
And as she stood there trying desperately not to drool onto the scallops, he finished pulling the shirt off, tossed it aside with a flourish, and winked at her.
Be still my beating heart.
“I thought…the apron…” she said weakly.
He grinned and tied on an apron emblazoned with a bunch of grapes. It said “Pinch Me, Squeeze Me, Make Me Wine.”
Over a shirt, it would have looked adorable. Over bare skin, it was devastating. Pure sex.
“Thanks so much, Brand!” she called as he fled towards his post.
She wasn’t sure if she were more sorry or relieved to see him go. On one hand, his cheerful company had probably saved her sanity.
On the other hand, having him around the kitchen dressed (or undressed) like that would rob her of the sanity he’d saved. Tackling him on the floor would be a poor idea.
Which might not have stopped her if she’d actually had time.
The next she saw of him (when she did a pass through a herd of gorgeously dressed guests to see what might need replenishing—she was gratified to see the clam cakes could use a refill) he’d found a bow tie, which looked extraordinarily rakish against bare skin, and he was being flirted with by three women who, if they hadn’t been in Playboy yet, would be soon.
And she couldn’t blame them one bit. If she had time, she’d be body-checking her way to the front of the line.
Unfortunately, (a) she couldn’t compete with the Playboy types, and (b) she had to make more clam cakes.
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