For fans of 50 Shades of Grey and Desperate Housewives, here comes a fun, flirty bdsm series that delivers sexy, mysterious doms and loads of erotic hijinks.
When Janet Loomis inherits her Aunt Macy’s bookshop, she has no idea what’s really in store for her. A ghostly visit from a giantess turns her plans of converting the place into a tattoo studio upside down, and Janet finds herself scaling a massive beanstalk, getting entwined with two hot giants, and helping stop a war.
I like my men big and brawny. Not all over-bulging muscle and popping veins, but, as my Aunt Macy used to say, “Built like a brick outhouse.” Okay, not the most romantic image, but you get the point.
And in my line of work as a tattooist, I deal with a lot of hot, burly giants, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened after Aunt Macy died and she willed me her little bookstore on Granville Street.
Aunt Macy told me, “Janet, when I kick the can, you can do whatever you want with this place.” She’d repeat this on most of my visits, while we had coffee and brownies like only Aunt Macy’s could make them, sitting between dusty stacks of everything from Moby Dick to Her Scottish Rogue. Aunt Macy loved bodice rippers, and she actually wrote historical romance under a few pen names. Along with the bookstore, it covered the bills and left a little over, but she wasn’t rolling in wads of Jackie Collins’ type cash advances. Still, Aunt Macy had been quite content with her life in her small cozy bookstore, with apartment over top.
Now, as I locked my Jeep and walked to the brick building, with its green and white striped awning, a wave of sadness hit me in the chest. I sighed heavily, blew a strand of platinum blonde hair from my eyes, and hitched my backpack over my tank top clad shoulder.
I caught my reflection in the glass door as I unlocked it. One pigtail was higher than the other and my hazel eyes looked bloodshot and bleary. My face seemed paler than usual. I was tired from the long drive up, and my faded jeans were sticking to me in the late spring humidity.
No sooner did I open the door and step into the shadowy store than someone was behind me, grabbing my shoulders with large, slender hands and whirling me around.
“You must go help them!” a tall, almost Amazonian, woman in a billowy, blue cloak whisper-rasped at me.
“Go help who?” I scrambled back from her, trying to get in the door and shut it before she could pull a knife or something on me.
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