When all hell breaks loose, playing fair isn’t an option… MUZZLING THE BEAST #TinaDonahueBooks #EroticPNR-RomCom
Mix one luscious mortal cop with a yearning voodoo priestess with a penchant for removing memories and what do you get?
Muzzling the Beast – book four Taming the Beast
Magic has never been as sexy or as fun. In New Orleans’ French Quarter From Crud to Stud is the makeover service for supernatural beings who want to tame their beasts so they can date mortal babes. Owned by a half-witch and staffed by a good fairy, a reformed female demon, and a voodoo priestess—among others—the place is always hopping. There’s moonlight therapy for weres, aversion therapy to keep vamps from sinking their fangs in anyone’s neck, and no end of spells, potions, and treatments. These ladies definitely put the boys through their paces. But it’s not all work as they search for their one true love. Their journeys aren’t easy, but they’re definitely magical.
Muzzling the Beast Blurb:
When all hell breaks loose, playing fair isn’t an option.
Taming the Beast, Book 4
Removing memories from mortals who stumble into From Crud to Stud, a makeover service for supernatural beings, is a cinch for Constance, a voodoo priestess. Finding her own Mr. Right is another matter.
However, the latest intruder into the business stops Constance dead in her tracks.
He’s tall, dark,and deliciously hot. He’s also a New Orleans police detective with questions. And answering them will bring down a plague of exposure, purges, and exorcisms.
Gabe Legrand has come to check out reports of strange activities. But the strangest thing is how Constance’s sexy curves and silky skin have him uncharacteristically panting like a rutting beast. Trouble is, every time his questions probe too deep, his memories go poof, sending him back to square one with his luscious guide.
There’s no denying their aching need crackles like an electrical storm. But Constance has a business to protect, which means keeping Gabe at arm’s length – even as all hell breaks loose.
Warning: Epic whoppers (and we’re not just talking about lies), smokin’ hot sex, frequent brain farts, and two star-crossed lovers willing to do it again. And again. And again. Yeah, baby!
Constance edged around the corner, leery and curious as to whoever had scared the bejeezus out of Heather.
The guy faced Constance, but his gaze was on the ceiling. Thankfully, no vamp had morphed into a bat and was buzzing around up there.
Despite the steamy summer night, he wore a blue suit, white shirt and gray tie, the clothes draping him beautifully. Deliciously tall, he had to be six three or better, broad in the shoulders, his hips narrow, his build lean yet muscular.
Warmth filled her when it shouldn’t have. Radagar’s stupid stunt had cured her of men for a long, long time. Then again… She clutched her full-length gown since it wouldn’t be polite to grab this guy. What a hottie. He wore his curly black hair cropped short. His cinnamon-colored skin was a stunning contrast to his light blue eyes, his features masculine and a trifle rough.
Her pulse quickened.
She guessed him to be Creole, early thirties, an executive and probably mortal given Heather’s reaction. Most women would have been drooling by now, not hyperventilating. In another few seconds, she might be out cold and Constance would have to give her CPR. She would have preferred to do that for him.
To break the ice, she inched closer. “Well, hey, there.”
He took her in from stem to stern, his attention snagging on her saffron-colored turban and matching gown then lingering on her mouth and boobs. Like he couldn’t help himself.
She wasn’t about to complain. Call her crazy, but the lovely bulge behind his fly seemed to thicken in interest.
Her pussy creamed in response.
Heather wasn’t as taken. With him turned away from her, she waved her arms in what looked like warning.
Constance couldn’t imagine why. For her to cup his good-looking head and remove his memories of this place would be more play than work.
He met her gaze. “Evening.”
His rumbling baritone registered clear to her tongue and tonsils. She smiled.
Male interest sparkled in his gorgeous eyes. He killed his arousal and got ultra-serious. “I’m Detective Gabe Legrand.”
Constance’s heart stuttered. He couldn’t mean as in a freaking cop but probably did. Her smile went kaput over what had brought him here. Not to mention what would happen if others in his department suspected something weird was going on within these walls. “You’re with the police?”
He lifted a small leather wallet that displayed a silver shield, its crescent engraved with a word, maybe detective. The thing was too far away for her to read. Beneath the crescent was a star with another word and a number.
She wouldn’t have been surprised if it was 007, considering his awesome looks.
He pocketed his badge and advanced with stunning grace, similar to an animal in the wild stalking its prey. God help her, she was still more tempted than alarmed and drifted toward him in what seemed like slow motion. Another step and they’d touch. She didn’t see the harm.
He stopped. “You’re the owner?”
Heather made a pained sound. “Constance is a good person.”
Not that good. His woodsy-musky scent warmed her as the sun never had and made her legs watery.
“Your name is Constance?”
“Guilty as charged.” She hoped a joke would lighten the moment so Heather wouldn’t faint or blurt the truth about this place since good fairies couldn’t lie. “Nice to meet you, Detective. Or can I call you Gabe?” She offered her hand.
His own was so large it swallowed hers, his palm dry and slightly callused, his grip firm but not intimidating.
Heaven in a handshake. She liked a man who took charge, in particular when it came to bedroom play. Not that a roll between the sheets seemed possible, given his slight frown.
“I thought Becca Salt owned this place.” He spoke to Heather. “Didn’t I ask you to call the owner up here?”
Heather gripped her chair so hard her knuckles got even whiter. “Uh-huh.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
She clenched her jaw.
Before she broke her molars, Constance jumped in. “She did. I’m the owner. Constance Salt.”
Gabe regarded with suspicion, though his attention did wander to her mouth, boobs and her hand as she released his. “Then who’s Becca Salt? The name listed on the permits and other papers as the owner.”
“Still me.” Constance leaned toward him as if to share a big, bad secret. “My first name’s Becca, but I hate it, so I go by my middle name with coworkers and friends.” She gave him a sweet smile and gestured to the hall. “Why don’t we go to my office to talk?”