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hot, and sexy sex. Nobody gets hurt - physically or emotionally. 7) My goal is to make you laugh,
swoon, blush and hide in the bathroom to read. My goal is NOT to make you to go through a box of
tissues or throw your Kindle. 8) There will be no amnesia, secret babies, dead parents, break ups
over misunderstandings, book covers with Fabio on them or use of the words throbbing manhood. 9)
Despite all of the above ^^ I will still provide PLENTY of conflict and tension and sizzling chemistry
between my characters.
Allow me to introduce you&
I m lucky enough to be friends with three very intelligent and fabulously witty authors, Daisy
Prescott, Zack Love and Penny Reid. They are all extremely talented individuals who have written
books that I include among my personal favorites. I m very honored to say that they each leant me an
excerpt from their books to share with you. If you like smart, funny, unforgettable stories, I highly
encourage you to keep reading and check them out.
Nadine
Missionary Position
By Daisy Prescott
Synopsis
Sex? Absolutely.
Love? Not my thing.
I didn t do love or butterflies, but I loved him.
I was screwed, and not in a good way.
Selah Elmore is a confident, curvy woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants.
She loves her life being a professor and popular pirate erotica author. However, when she leaves the
Pacific Northwest to spend six months studying sculpture in West Africa, she learns she doesn t know
a thing about love.
Cocky, suit-wearing Gerhard charms her during a stopover in Amsterdam, but dashing,
adventurous Kai sweeps her off her feet in Ghana.
Sparks fly on three continents when perpetually single Selah discovers there s more to love and
life than she ever imagined.
Chapter One
You should meet my brother.
I had been picked up many times in airport bars, but a brother set up was a first. Not that I
expected the woman sitting next to me with her glass of Pinot Grigio to be the type to hit on strange
women, but this was JFK. A crossroads of world travelers meant anything was possible. We d been
sitting silently next to each other at a sushi bar, poking away at our phones when our identical orders
of spicy tuna hand-rolls were placed in front of us. She instigated a conversation and we fell into an
animated discussion about the delicious merits of quality sushi.
Married? Never. Her? Divorced
Kids? No way. Her? A thirteen-year-old daughter.
From? Portland. Her? Chicago. Her accent told me she wasn t born there. I guessed someplace
like Scandinavia where they bred super models.
The typical questions of where we were headed and sharing our woes of travel followed. I liked
her.
Is your brother in Dubai? I asked. Anita had shared her excitement over her upcoming week
there. I admitted it sounded glamorous and far more luxe than my travel plans.
No, Dubai is for business and a little fun. My brother s in Amsterdam, where I m from. You did
say you re going to Amsterdam, didn t you?
Dutch. I was close. Must be all the cheese. Or chocolate.
Oh, right. I ll be there for a week before my work takes me to Ghana.
Are you a missionary? the athletic blonde asked me.
A missionary in Amsterdam? Is anyone that much of a masochist? I m not even a fan of the
missionary position.
She spit out her wine. Wiping her chin with a napkin, she gathered her composure. I thought
perhaps you planned to visit Amsterdam to sin a little before doing the good work in Africa. Isn t that
what most Americans do there? Meddle with the best intentions in the name of a church?
I blinked at my bar mate. Not a fan of religion?
I grew up in The Netherlands. Churches are for tourists in most towns.
I laughed. I think I ll fit right in there. To answer your question, I m a professor. My sabbatical
is taking me to Amsterdam and then on to Accra to study the female form in Ashanti sculptures.
You study naked women?
Not only women. I m an equal opportunity nudist. I mean I study the human form across cultures.
Nothing against the penis, but it s hard to represent one in all it s glory without it seeming silly or
grotesque. I giggled. Anita chuckled, too. I prefer female bodies in art with all the beautiful
variation.
She blatantly swept her gaze over my body, from my messy, dark bob down to my overnight flight
outfit of an open cardigan over exposed, but tasteful, cleavage, down to my yoga pants and
comfortable but not fashionable flats. Maybe she was hitting on me. I straightened the scarf around my
neck.
You really should look up my brother. She tapped her phone, bringing it to life. I ll give you
his information. Text him. He ll be perfect company while you re in Amsterdam. Out of her designer
bag she pulled a business card and an expensive looking pen, which she used to scrawl a name and
number on the back of her card.
Your brother s name is Gerhard? I failed to fully stifle my snort. Get hard. Gerrharrd. Gerhard
would make the perfect name for a scoundrel pirate. I d have to remember the name for my next
pirotica novel.
I know. Isn t it the most uptight name? I wish I could say it doesn t suit him, but he can be a
complete prat sometimes.
The garbled voice of a boarding announcement broke over the speakers. She glanced down at her
watch.
Oh, my flight s boarding. Call Gerhard. I think you d have fun with him.
Didn t you just say he was a prat?
Sometimes, but women seem to love the bad boys, don t they? She gathered her things and left
a sizable tip on the bar. Great to meet you, Selah. Best of luck with your sabbatical.
I smiled at my new super model friend. If her brother shared her genes, maybe I would look him
up when I arrived. Bye, Anita.
Say hi to Gerhard for me. With a sparkling white smile and a wave, she disappeared into the
crowd of travelers.
What an odd, but friendly woman.
I spun her card on the bar. Anita Hendriks, management consultant. She had the same last name;
the brother part could be legit. Gerhard, though. Get harder. I giggled and finished the last of my
saketini. Scrolling through my mental file of lovers, aka The United Nations of Peen, I realized I d
never slept with a Dutchman. Maybe Gerhard could check off an item on my fuck-it-list.
Being a professor might sound glamorous and interesting to some, but for me it meant having to
fly coach on international flights. A window seat earned me a place in a slightly higher level of hell
than a middle seat or the row right next to the bathrooms where the seats didn t recline. Still, it was
hell nonetheless.
The crush of summer tourists filled the flight to capacity. College backpackers, stoners and
shifty-eyed men populated the plane. I doubted they would be seeing any Van Goghs or Rembrandts.
I wanted a cigarette. Damn quitting. Stupid aging and health. I reached into my bag for a piece of
nicotine gum. Over the past three months, I d managed to ween myself off cigarettes, deliciously
comforting, soothing, invigorating, cancer causing cigarettes. After smoking for decades, I missed the
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