... when you mix seven dead dancers, a club full of naked women, and a deadly female spy?
One very disturbed undercover cop:
"Damn it, she was worse than a hangover. He could cure that—down a bottle of Gatorade, eat some Saltines, down a second bottle, and he was good to go. He couldn’t, however, banish her out of his head. Or the suspicion that she would taste every bit as sweet as her lilac perfume.
Maybe it was lotion. Yeah. He smiled to himself. Lotion she slathered over those long legs. Massaged around rosy pink nipples while . . . Shit!
He set his coffee mug down with force. He didn’t have time for this, and somehow he had to make his dick understand what the smarter head knew—catching a serial killer who’d murdered Rachel was more important than fucking and orgasms."
-Excerpt taken from STRIPPED, available Jan 3, 2012
~Tori
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