“You have one bathroom for five hundred people and no soap, but you have hand sanitizer on the sink? This place makes no sense. None.”
Throwing open the door—an exaggerated explanation for nudging it back open with her aforementioned shoe—she reached down into her purse, fumbling for her cell phone and ran smack into a chest.
A decidedly muscular, hard-bodied chest.
That was a good twelve inches higher than her own chest, which was momentarily surprising.
Only, the giant, hard-bodied chest was a brick wall of the female variety. Blessedly, wholeheartedly, carnally female.
With a very serious piece of hardware in her belt, and not at all the enticing, strap-on variety.
“What the hell?” Fury flared before common sense prevailed, and she shoved out with her hands.
Looking up, the breath stolen from her lungs, she stared head-on at the tallest, most eerily beautiful woman she had ever before seen in her life. Gargantuan, really, if gargantuan is an adjective applied to women not bound by the covers of paranormal romance novels, with a seductively menacing frame that was well over the six-foot standard (well over the six and a half foot standard), this woman was enormous. Her hair, super short and blonde, was so light it was nearly white, and she had high cheekbones that betrayed a sense of genetic refinement so common in Europeans. Her eyes were the palest green, and there were freckles—only a dusting—over a slightly upturned nose, with skin a lovely shade of medium beige, just bright enough that it was vaguely human and just pale enough to make her a contender for the Cullen clan. Her lips…. Well, her lips were drawn into a sort of tight sneer, dripping with derision that leant itself to the rest of her person; every gangling, corded inch was cloaked in a snug black tee and straight-legged denim trousers that rode low on her narrow hips. The reinforced metal toe of her boot tapped impatiently on the tile floor—holy shit, why is there travertine in the back of a biker bar?—and when she opened her mouth speak, Dana could not help but wonder if her voice would match the rest of her—hard, implacable and more intoxicating than the very finest of wines.
Shit, I really need to get laid. I’m fantasizing about a security guard. Her fantasies were beginning to cloud the rigid faces of reality, namely that there was a large, silver pistol in the waistband of the aforementioned denim trousers and Lady MacGyver was probably hankering to use it.
“You should not be back here,” Sexy King Kong growled, slamming the metal tray she held in her hands down onto a sink in the background. Her voice was five octaves lower than it should have been, and filled with husk and combed intensity.
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Meet the author:
Voss Porter holds a Bachelor’s Degree in International Studies from Francis Marion University and has been writing for pleasure from the age of six. She is a married mother of two human children and four canine progeny, a proud lesbian in an LGBTQ community that is yet undiscovered, and a passionate supporter of area humane initiatives. Her debut novel, The Right Kind of Woman, was published by Dark Hollows Press in December of 2015.
Where to find the author:
Goodreads Link: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/14675573.Voss_Porter
Publisher: Dark Hollows Press
Cover Artist: Eden Connors
Pages or Words: 86,412 words
Categories: Contemporary, Erotica, Lesbian Romance, Romance