Title:
The Art of
Sin
Author:
Alexandrea
Weis
Genre:
Erotic
Romance
Release
Date: May
3rd, 2015
Goodreads: http://bit.ly/1ELqMQz
Grady
Paulson spends his nights pleasing a lot of
women.
The bump and grind of being a male stripper is
getting old
for Grady, and when his cross-country tour takes him to New Orleans
everything
changes. He meets Allison Wagner; a smart, successful woman who is
all wrong
for him, but Grady just loves a
challenge.
Sparks fly, and soon Allison has Grady
rethinking
his future. He wants to get out of the stripping game and settle
down, but
Allison is hiding a devastating secret that could threaten his
plans.
Will Grady finally break free from his seedy,
sequined
world or will her troubled past forever seal their
fate?
On Bourbon Street, temptation is the name of
the game for
all those who practice the art of
sin.
Alexandrea
Weis is
an advanced
practice registered nurse who was born and raised in New Orleans.
Having been
brought up in the motion picture industry, she learned to tell
stories from
a different perspective and began writing at the age of eight.
Infusing the
rich tapestry of her hometown into her award-winning novels, she
believes
that creating vivid characters makes a story memorable. A
permitted/certified
wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and
Fisheries,
Weis rescues orphaned and injured wildlife.
She lives
with her husband and pets in New
Orleans.
The
screaming
hit him first. Like the backwash from a jet engine, the screams
vibrated
against his body. The women were packed against the edge of the stage,
and as he
moved out from beneath the white lights, he got a better look at the
pit.
Matt had been right. The faces, the screams, the whistles, all
looked and
sounded the same as every other town he had been in. He had hoped
this time it
would be different. Why had he expected
more?
Beginning his routine, he rolled his hips and occasionally made
eye contact
with a few of the women, searching for his orgasm girl. A small
blonde, not
far from the stage, caught his eye. She instantly reminded him of
Al. She had
the same petite figure and pink lips, but her eyes were not as
sarcastic.
Making a few spins, he checked out the other women, but kept coming
back to the
blonde.
When he pulled his silver-sequined shirt open, the motion made the
pain from
his broken right pinkie shoot up his arm. He kept his stage smile
plastered on
his face, but he could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip.
To stop
thinking about the pain, he shifted his attention back to the small
blonde. He
pictured her being Al, watching him up on
stage.
Grady
could almost
see Al smirking at him from a table next to the stage. This was
good. It was
helping him get through his routine. He focused on the blonde, all
the while
thinking of Al, and soon he forgot about his
discomfort.
Grady began to feel he was dancing only for the petite woman. He
could hear
the other women in the crowd shouting for him to “take it all off,”
but he
ignored them. He struggled getting his shirt off, and he saw the lithe
blonde smile
when she explored his chest with her big
eyes.
Grabbing at his clothing and doing a few of the acrobatic moves he
had in his
dance routine almost made him see stars as the tormenting pain
returned.
With only his pants to go, he went to the edge of the stage, ready to
bring up the
blonde. When he pointed to her, as he seductively swung his hips,
the blush on
her cheeks almost made him laugh out loud. Al would never have
blushed like
that. No, Al would have scowled at
him.
It took two of her friends to coax her to the stage, but when the
little
blonde climbed the side steps, Grady was disappointed. Up close, she was
nothing like
Al. Her features were plain and her mouth was bigger, her lips
thicker, and
her eyes were brown and not like Al’s angry grey orbs. Giving her
some
encouragement to have fun with him, he lifted her hands to his chest and rubbed
his hips
against her.
The blonde squealed, covered her face, and did all the predictable
things he expected
of his orgasm girl. After he had danced around her a few
times,
ripped off his pants—damn near cursing as the pain tore through his
hand—he gave
her a kiss on the cheek and showed her off the
stage.
A few last struts, flashing his silver-sequined G-string, and he
was done.
Snapping up his clothes from the floor with his left hand, he could
feel the
sweat pouring off him. He quickly trotted off the stage and back
behind the
curtains.
Out of the view of the audience, he bent over and very gently held
his sore
pinkie.
“Son of a bitch,” he sighed. How was he going to survive a second
show?
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