By Anna Randol
"A infrequent attractiveness, raised within the unique middle of the mysterious East, Mari Sinclair is aware it’s time to finish her occupation as a British undercover agent while she narrowly avoids a broom with dying. regrettably, there are those that imagine otherwise—and they aren't above utilizing blackmail to maintain Mari within the online game.
Saddled with a good-looking, duty-obsessed ""minder"" to make sure that she completes—and survives—one final project, Mari is incensed . . . for her parent, significant Bennett Prestwood, is just *too* devoted, *too* unbending, and *too* disarmingly beautiful. yet within the face of darkish secrets and techniques and lethal treacheries, because the actual peril to Mari is slowly published, dependable soldier Bennett realizes that to avoid wasting and win this notable lady, he'll need to do the unthinkable and holiday the rules—rules that zeal and hope have unexpectedly, irrevocably changed.
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Additional resources for A Secret in Her Kiss
Another shot to the nuts and he staggers away. Albert pulls his head out of the toilet and looses an explosive stream of vomit. Shit is clumped in his hair and streaks his face like war-paint. “You,” Albert gasps. ” “You don’t know what it’s like in here, son. ” Charlie’s weapon is a crude one: A sharpened nail pounded into a wooden doorstop. He keeps it hidden in a back pocket, close at hand. “You’d a done the same, son,” he says. ” Albert grabs at Charlie, fingers digging deep grooves into his shoulders.
He grabs Jackson’s robe and spins him, bending his upper body over the railing. ” Harlan notices something glinting on the floor: Small and cylindrical, glossy with blood. The percussion grenade. He remembers what the master guard said: Nothing that’ll kill a man… unless you jam it up his ass. Harlan looks at the preacher’s sallow buttocks, the grenade, and back. Why the fuck not? ” Jackson hollers as his robe is lifted and a cold tube inserted up his bunghole. ” Harlan pulls the pin. It’s a delayed fuse: Jackson turns as Harlan releases him, fingers clutching at his backside.
By the time he let off, Billie’s tackle was like the Aztecs: Ancient-fucking-history. Billie had gone stiff by then, every muscle rigid, his crotch a confusion of tattered skin-flaps and tiny frayed tubes and jellied flesh and dark-red blood. “Like the guy on TV says,” Charlie said. ” He got a soldering gun good and hot and jammed it down Billie’s urethra. The kid bronco-bucked, his bound wrists snapping like spring saplings. Charlie crammed the gun in until the searing metal disappeared into Billie’s abdomen and left it jutting there.