Where there’s a will, there’s wicked fun…
Drowning in bad luck, Cari doesn’t know where to turn when the unexpected happens. A loyal customer at her Key West café has left her an inheritance. She hopes for cash to save her restaurant but receives an old brass bottle that looks like a sex toy…and has Jez inside.
At six-four, he’s built like a gladiator, has looks to die for, and oozes sexuality. He’s also a jinn.
Color her enthralled and excited. Besides being one hot dude, he grants wishes, right?
Not for her. Ironclad tradition demands he serve men, not women. Of course, if she wants to get down and dirty with him, he’ll gladly oblige.
Let the battle of the sexes begin. Before long, their differences fall away as they indulge in every lusty desire, while falling hard and fast. Ah, paradise. Until trouble arrives, threatening to pull them apart forever…
This can’t be happening.
She raised her face.
The smoke broke apart, floated to the ceiling, and disappeared.
Leaving a thirtysomething man standing before her.
He opened his lushly lashed eyes.
Her breath caught. His irises were closer to gold than hazel, his shoulder-length brown hair thick and wavy, stubble outrageously sexy, mouth sensuous, one dark eyebrow arched at her.
He planted his hands on his lean hips.
Holy fuck. A gladiator couldn’t have owned more muscles, though they weren’t overdone like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, but totally male.
Her pussy creamed.
An odd reaction since this couldn’t be real.
When the knob flew off the bottle, it must have ricocheted off the wall and hit her head, causing her to hallucinate this, or rather, him.
Only one way to find out. She grabbed his calf. Its brawn and heat made her ears buzz.
Grinning lewdly, he flexed his muscles and pressed into her touch.
This was no dream. She snatched back her hand. “Who-who-who-who—” She shivered so badly, she couldn’t speak, but had to. “Who are you? What are you?”
His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. He lifted his chin. “You, a mere woman, dare to question or demand anything from me?”
“Huh?” Not liking his sexist attitude, she scrambled to her feet. At five-seven, she couldn’t match his height. By her guestimate, he topped out at six-four and was the most perfect man she’d ever seen, except for his patronizing gaze. Precisely what she didn’t need. “Again, who or what are you? This is my place. My kitchen. Not yours. Answer me.”
“I answer only to my master. Go on.” He gestured her away as Antonini had. “Fetch the man in charge.”
As if. Before she could slug him, he pivoted and regarded her kitchen warily, as a one-percenter would, seeing only how small and simple it was.
She couldn’t have cared less if he found her digs lacking.
He next focused on her buñuelos.
If he gave them a pissy look or said one unkind thing about her cooking, he wasn’t long for this world, even if she didn’t know how to off him.
Bent at the waist, he sniffed the treats and licked his lips.
Holding one buñuelo between his thumb and forefinger, he examined the fried dough carefully, licked the contours, then popped the treat into his mouth. As he chewed, his lids slid down and he moaned the way guys do during orgasms.