By Anna Randol
"A infrequent attractiveness, raised within the unique middle of the mysterious East, Mari Sinclair understands it’s time to finish her occupation as a British secret agent while she narrowly avoids a broom with dying. regrettably, there are those that imagine otherwise—and they don't seem to be above utilizing blackmail to maintain Mari within the online game.
Saddled with a good-looking, duty-obsessed ""minder"" to make sure that she completes—and survives—one final challenge, Mari is incensed . . . for her mum or dad, significant Bennett Prestwood, is just *too* devoted, *too* unbending, and *too* disarmingly beautiful. yet within the face of darkish secrets and techniques and lethal treacheries, because the precise peril to Mari is slowly printed, unswerving soldier Bennett realizes that to avoid wasting and win this striking girl, he'll need to do the unthinkable and holiday the rules—rules that zeal and wish have all at once, irrevocably changed.
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Extra info for A Secret in Her Kiss
He wondered. The cheap perfume and baby powder, the trace of K-Y Jelly frosting my bunghole? Guilt led to frustration, frustration mounted to anger, anger spiraled into thoughts of revenge. But against whom? Stashed under the bed, his wife’s body was starting to smell pretty ripe… The first faggot he killed was Billie Goldfarb, a wispy little thing who frequented a club called The Manhole. Charlie took him to a no-tell joint off the highway. They showered together. Charlie let the kid lube his cock with cheap motel soap and suck on it.
They come to rest against the parapet’s crook looking like a pair of powdered figs. Gregor’s testicular stems tremble between his legs like antennae. The man who was once Jeremy Hanson falls to his knees. A last sense-memory—warm flesh on his tongue—zigzags across his mind a split-second before Byron buries the billhook in his neck… Edward Tonnere cowers beneath the seats while the battle rages. He does not hear Jackson Cantrell sneak up beside him, or see the sharpened piston-rod in the preacher’s hand.
You know how it is. ” For Charlie Henried it had started out with some harmless cross-dressing: Lace underwear and costume jewelry, an underwired bustier and six-inch stiletto heels. Innocent experimentation. Until one afternoon his wife found him wearing a plaid schoolgirl uniform with his hair in a sloppy ponytail, jacking off into a pair of her pantyhose. For Charlie—a tobacco-chewing, strip-bar frequenting man’s man—the sight of his wife’s disgusted accusation was too much to bear. He wrapped the come-soaked pantyhose around her neck and applied pressure until her face turned purple and blood squirted from places it had no business squirting from.