Available for pre-order February 8 - click here
Ready to read March 10
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
Magic is Becca Salt’s business, but it ain’t happening in her bedroom. The half-witch proprietress of From Crud to Stud performs miracle makeovers for paranormal creatures. Once she’s done with them, they’re out the door hunting for hot babes, not hanging around for a too-curvy, plain Jane like her.
Her newest client is hot, hung, mouthwatering perfection. What could she possibly improve upon?
Eric Diletto. Descendant of Cupid, bred for courtship, courtesy, and all that other gentlemanly junk. What has it gotten him? Dumped time and again for bad boys. He needs Becca’s help for an entirely different reason—regression therapy to release his inner beast. Grrrr.
Two potions later, they’re crawling all over each other. Becca aches for a man who loves her as she is, not because he’s under the influence. But Eric isn’t as impaired as she thinks. And he intends to take Becca here, there, and everywhere—anything to convince her his desire isn’t just the potions talking.
A witchdoctor’s nightmare. Contains potions with weird side effects, a sorceress with limited magical skills and a yearning heart, plus a minor god who wants to get down and dirty. Bad, bad boy!
“Don’t do that,” a woman warned. Her gravelly voice sounded as if she’d been gargling with Drāno.
A hiss from Hell answered her, followed by more pounding that shook the photos hanging in here. All depicting the French Quarter with weird symbols gracing the edges. Greek? Martian? Who knew?
Despite the redhead’s allure, it was definitely time to get out of this looney bin.
Eric shoved his feet into his loafers and pulled on his shirt, not bothering to button the damn thing. With his boxers dangling from his front pocket, he moved cautiously to the door and put his ear against it.
Muted howls, shrieks and groans greeted him.
Would he have to fight his way out? He knew some martial arts but wasn’t a whiz at it like Neo who’d spun like a human tornado in The Matrix. Hell, he wasn’t even a beast, which was why he’d come here in the first place.
Still cursing himself, he edged the door open and peeked around it. The redhead was gone.
Her fragrance lingered. Something deep, seductive, witchy—for lack of a better word—which brought to mind sultry nights, the rustling of black silk, the delight of female musk.
He swallowed, then wrinkled his nose at another smell. The odor burnt matches make.
Slipping into the hall, he closed the door carefully so it wouldn’t make any noise. Not that anyone would notice given the commotion going on in the other rooms. Bangs, snaps, growls and hisses coupled with female voices begging or cooing. Some of those women sounded older than Death. Others spoke lightly, musically.
None of the normal voices was as nice as the redhead’s throaty purr. Her effect on Eric’s cock lingered. The damn thing was on the prowl, getting too thick, trying to crawl out of his snug boxers and go straight to…where? Her?
Ignoring his idiotic desire, Eric strode down the hall and stopped short of the front door, his blood turning to ice.
The young woman who stood between him and freedom looked to be about fourteen and dressed in a schoolgirl’s uniform. Plaid skirt, white blouse, saddle shoes. She crossed her arms over her flat chest and shook her head at him.
A powerful blast of sulfur hit Eric. He made a face at the unpleasant stench.
She scrunched her nose, either smelling what he had or mocking him. The ring in her nostril glinted.
He forced a smile and risked another step toward her. “Excuse me. You’re in my way.”
“You think?” She glowered. “You’re not leaving.”
Eric debated whether he could take her. She was a little thing, but the smoke rising from the ends of her hair and shoulders could be a problem. She might mutate into something worse than whatever kept hitting the walls in this place. Even the pictures up here bounced slightly.
He tried to reason. “I have another appointment. I’m expected.”
His lie didn’t faze her in the least.
“Seriously,” he insisted, squaring his shoulders, trying to look even bigger than he was and far crazier than her. “If I don’t show up—”
“You can leave. We have no intention of keeping you here.”
He turned at that husky, sexier-than-sin promise.
The redhead leaned against the wall, her attention darting from his boxers—haphazardly crammed into his pocket—to what she could see of his naked chest. There, she lingered, running her maroon-polished nail over her belly button.
Eric’s face went slack. He imagined licking that sweet depression, touching the silver butterfly dangling from it, then moving lower. To the pleasure beneath her harem pants.
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