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Release Date: March 29th
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.
About the Author
CD Reiss is a USA Today and Amazon bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t pick up, she’s at the well, hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere, but it did embed TV story structure in her head well enough for her to take a big risk on a TV series structured erotic series called Songs of Submission. It’s about a kinky billionaire hung up on his ex-wife, an ingenue singer with a wisecracking mouth; art, music and sin in the city of Los Angeles.
Critics have dubbed the books “poetic,” “literary,” and “hauntingly atmospheric,” which is flattering enough for her to put it in a bio, but embarrassing enough for her not to tell her husband, or he might think she’s some sort of braggart who’s too good to give the toilets a once-over every couple of weeks or chop a cord of wood.
If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.
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