Title: Pure Fantasy
Author: M. Eror
Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance
Release Date: March 13, 2016
She has a perfect plan. A new city. A new job. New acquaintances. And most importantly: life without a man!
Will he disrupt her plan?
Buy Links: Free with Kindle Unlimited
Amazon CA: http://goo.gl/AiUAw9
Amazon UK: http://goo.gl/qGw0Ju
Amazon AU: http://goo.gl/nInasN
What Others Are Saying:
...I absolutely fell in love with the characters! - Kat loves books
This romance story is full of hot, steamy romance that makes you red faced and blush like nothing before. The characters are really amazing and wonderful; their love is burn down the house hot. The banter the characters have is amazing, the emotions that they also have is another huge plus, and the amount of details is magnificent. MUST READ!!! - Whispered thoughts book blog
He covers my fingers with his while taking the shoe from my hand. My skin burns. Strange, powerful vibrations shake my entire body. This accidental touch makes my heart beat madly, and my lungs wail for air. I take a deep breath, raise my eyes but remain breathless. He’s looking at me seductively. My reaction to him has not escaped his notice. It makes him so happy. That touch was no accident. The jerk! He did it on purpose!
I want to run away, as soon as possible, so I turn on my heel.
“I want to see the label with the product details.” He says.
I look at him over my shoulder, confused, then move to hand him the box, which he could easily have taken himself. I stand beside him patiently and wait as he reads very carefully.
“Is there a problem?" I ask.
“I’m just checking."
“Whether they were made in China.” He says coldly, and then raises his eyes to mine.
Made in China? What an asshole!
“We sell only Italian stuff." I say sharply.
He smiles, his eyes fixed.
“Oh, look at those claws. I hope you’re well paid." He speaks in a voice which shows clearly that he doesn’t believe what I say. He’s provoking me, goading me with his smile, his look, and with the way he addresses me. I count to ten, then frown, turning the box upside-down to show him the embossed label: Fatte in Italia.
“Made in Italy’s written on the box and inside the shoe as well.” I speak briskly.
He bends his head lightly, furrows his eyebrows and studies the inscription carefully, examining the letters devotedly and seriously. I lose patience because this seems to be going on for an age.
For God’s sake, it’s as if he were decoding hieroglyphics!
He shrugs, looks at me naively, and says more innocently: “I had to check, since I don’t speak Italian.
He doesn’t... he doesn’t speak Italian? What a jerk!
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