Amy Andrews

“She was about to take a step back when his hand slid onto her leg. Slow and lazy.
“You don’t wear your scrubs home,” he murmured, his fingers idly stroking just behind her knee, the denim of her jeans no barrier to the sensations sweeping up her leg.
Joss willed herself to move but not one damn synapse obeyed. It was as if his fingers had injected them with a paralyzing agent.
“No.” Her voice was hushed yet high. Breathy. “It’s against hospital policy.”
“Pity.” He smiled at her. “You look hot in them.”
If it was possible to orgasm through compliments alone, she’d just moved into the red zone. He was dangerously good for her ego.

He was bleary-eyed, rubbing his right hand over his hair, his biceps and abs shifting nicely. A flush of heat surged from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.
Sweet baby cheeses.
Maybe she was perimenopausal? Thirty-four was young but it wasn’t unheard of…”


Amy Andrews, Troy
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Troy (American Extreme Bull Riders Tour, #5) Troy by Amy Andrews
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