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In the Pacific Northwest, where life hurries to keep pace with technology, a re-animated bride named Josie struggles to escape her creator and to find her identity in the half-erased circuitry of her mind and body.
Assassin Bane Connor just wants to get the girl to the Zombie Underground and receive his payoff-a mental reset that will erase his memories as well as his guilt. But an attack by a rival faction derails his rescue, and the wide-eyed female whose circuitry requires a husband tears at his hardened heart and ignites desire like he's never known.
She picked up a bar of soap and her eyes widened. Normally Bane hated how newbies wondered at every damn thing—but this girl didn’t look stupid. She looked kind, excited, happy. The bar slipped out of her hands into the water and Bane watched as she dove head-first to find it. His hand left his dick to grab at the metal. He worried she might not know enough not to breathe under there.
Her head popped up again and she flipped her ebony mane from her face. A grin split her face. Damp curls of hair framed her cheeks, tangled at her shoulders, licked at her collarbone. She giggled and rolled the soap in her hands. Her eyelids fluttered as she smoothed the cream over her arms and up the long column of her neck.
Bane’s fingers traced over his lips as he watched her soap her body. He held his breath, silently urging her hand lower.
She obliged, skimming over the curve of her breasts before sliding her touch down her belly. Her palm dipped below the water and he lost sight of it, but her eyes fell to half-mast and her lips parted. When her arm reached farther, the girl’s eyes pressed tight as her mouth made a shape like an O.
Fuck! His legs swung out from under him and his fingertips barely caught on the thin ledge. Bane hung there for a moment, wondering whether to drop to the ground or pull back up. Despite his better judgment, he wedged his toe into a crack in the concrete wall and angled his body to push his torso higher until he once again peered like a letch through her window.
He shouted, finding her face right up to the glass. Her mahogany stare met his—surprised, curious, but not frightened. One corner of her mouth curled up into a lopsided, cherubic smile. She reached out a hand to the window and traced his face. When her fingertips covered his lips, her other hand reached up, stroking her own mouth.
Bane lost his grip, and with a winding thud, fell flat on his ass.
AUTHOR Bio and Links:
Birkenstock-wearing glamour girl and mother of two by immaculate conception, Daisy Harris still isn't sure if she writes erotica. Her romances start out innocently enough. However, her characters behave like complete sluts. Much to Miss Harris's dismay the sex tends to get completely out of hand.
She writes about fantastical creatures and about young men getting their freak on, and she's never missed an episode of The Walking Dead.
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