Excerpt

[Misty]

From Stronger:

The third man is what I call an actual man. And by that, I mean, man. Man times man, plus man, squared and multiplied, into infinity...man. If I wasn't so hung over, and if he wasn't part of this problem that has gotten me out of bed so early, I would stand a little straighter and make a date with him for tonight.
"Hi," the Infinite Man says, stopping in his tracks when he spots me. He lowers the clipboard in his hand, taking in my robed attire. He spots the tattoos, but doesn't linger on them. Interesting. He is refreshingly harder to categorize. "Did we wake you?"
"I don't mind a parade," I say. It's hard to be angry at a man that looks like this, even though my hangover is clutching my brain and squeezing like a blood pressure bulb. He's tall. He's broad. Jet black hair. A body that could stop eight lanes of traffic. Absorbing, dark eyes that deserve to see everything behind the closed door of my bedroom. Lips that belong between my thighs. I sip my coffee.