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A “Kink Your Kindle” recommended read from the venerable Violet Blue!
“Sophie Mouette… It’s pronounced ‘Mmm…wet!'”
Take one chef displaced in the wacky world of Hollywood,
Add one hunky pool boy who isn’t who he seems,
Mix with a heavy dash of spicy sex.
Then fold in a self-absorbed starlet who’s on a different diet every night,
Blend with her action-hero boyfriend (secret ingredient: closet cross-dresser).
Finally, garnish with a passel of crazy relatives, one lovestruck Welsh corgi, and two peacocks who just want to be left alone.
Serve with a nice fruity Merlot.
Out of the Frying Pan blends hot sex with the spirit of classic romantic comedy—the result is mouthwatering!
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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