French Kiss. Lori Wilde
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him. Not even what he looked like. She trailed her gaze down those granite abs. Okay, so she could see he was a hard body. Beyond that, he was a mystery.
What else was there to know? She wouldn’t want him to take the mask off anyway. It was part of the illusion. Part of what was sending all her blood rushing from her head to the tender aching spot between her legs.
The Tom Jones song ended and a lively hip-hop tune began. The Masked Monsieur pulled her off stage. They ducked behind the curtain just as a buff, man dressed in a cowboy costume jiggled onto the stage.
If she were smart, she would leave right now. Forget all about having a stripper for Devon’s bachelorette party. Because Summer realized that if she hired this man and he came to her apartment dressed like this she would sex it up with him the minute the guests departed.
And from the lusty gleam in the Masked Monsieur’s eyes, she could tell the same thought was on his mind.
But this was impossible, outrageous. To be so attracted to a total stranger.
But wasn’t it much better than being attracted to the next-door neighbor she could not have? Nothing wrong with hot anonymous sex. Her nipples hardened at the thought.
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