Join self-made witch Blair Vavrin as she takes on the challenge of being a rookie CSI agent while struggling to make sense of her growing feelings for gorgeous but enigmatic INTERPOL Detective Paul Theodore.

Which god has the power to cast out thunderbolts? What’s the difference between naiads and dryads, and who should you look for if you’re in search for gold?

In this witchy police procedural, rookie agent Blair Vavrin of the Circe Security Initiative (CSI) gets her first dose of supernatural danger when a storm of stray thunderbolts strikes down the magical town of Silver Mist.
As Mt. Olympus goes into lockdown and both humans and non-humans panic at the looming threat of a Category 4 Hurricane, Blair suddenly finds herself yanked out of Local Misdemeanors and tasked by her Horae boss to team up with mysterious handsome detective Paul Theodore.
Their mission: find an antidote for Zeus’ murderous mood swings.
Their first clue: a sprinkle of gold dust…that leads to one missing siren.
Their probability of success: not terribly good.
With the thunder god’s descent to madness growing deadlier by the minute, can Blair and Paul save the world before Zeus becomes mankind’s worst nightmare?

It was a fine Monday morning when I stepped out of the front door, and I flipped to the next page of A Witch’s Guide to Silver Mist as I made my way to Panda’s Diner. It was the only breakfast place in town, located just several blocks away at the corner of Green Street. With my nose buried between the pages of my guidebook, my body weaved automatically in between students on their way to school and housewives exchanging gossip en route to Demi’s Bakery.
Normal, right?
And I supposed it was, if you discounted the fact that the students were perched casually on broomsticks gliding waist-high in the air. And those housewives? Gossiping about the latest episode of Rich Witches of Salem, which – if what they were saying was true – was completely scripted and not a reality show as its producers kept insisting it to be.
An ordinary day in Silver Mist all in all, and if you’re wondering what other humans would think if they stumbled on this scene, well, that’s what this town’s name was all about.
Coastal towns like ours were always the foggiest in Maine, but Silver Mist was a little bit different. The faint mist that covered our streets all year round was a glamour spell, and it prevented human strangers from seeing what they weren’t supposed to see.
Like Panda’s, for instance.
Humans would only see a dilapidated, burnt-down motel, but in reality it was a sprawling, well-kept diner with the words NON-HUMANS WELCOME flashing in rainbow colors on its LED display.
Panda’s was unsurprisingly full by the time I made it to its doors, with most locals in the habit of coming in early so they could take their time chatting over pancakes and homemade brews before heading out to queue for the 8AM bus.
A quick glance around the panda-wallpapered-diner showed one vacant seat left at the end of the counter, and luckily for me it was also right next to Mr. Handsome.
I shoved my guidebook back into my bag before walking up to the counter, not wanting to appear like some neophyte witch (which I was, unfortunately, but nothing wrong about keeping that to myself, don’t you think?).
“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty.” The diner’s owner greeted me in his usual booming voice, and I made a face as I slid into the high-backed stool and hung my tote bag on one of the hooks under the counter.
“Very funny, Mr. P.” P stood for Pan, as in the famed satyr from the Greek myths. His human form was a large, mustached man with moss-green eyes, dressed perpetually with a chef’s hat and apron over his striped shirt and pants. Nix – one of the diner’s regular waitresses – once told me that both the chef’s hat and apron were spell-protected. The former was to keep his horns away from sight, and no amount of headshaking would ever dislodge the hat off his temple; the latter, on the other hand, was a magical armor, just in case Mr. P had to protect his diners from supernatural trouble.
He was a nice man, really, but he’d be much nicer in my opinion if he would stop reminding me of the first time I had come to his diner. I had just moved in to Silver Mist that day, and I had been so tired arranging furniture that I had found myself falling asleep in one of his booths.
And I might have snored once.
Well, okay, twice, but it wasn’t polite to count.
“So what are you having?” Mr. P’s gaze slanted towards the man seated beside me as he spoke. Want him, for instance, the owner mouthed with a wink that had me choking and hastily shaking my head.
“Just the usual.” Picking the menu on the counter, I casually lifted it to hide my face from Mr. Handsome so I could glower at the satyr without being seen. That was another not-so-nice habit of Mr. P: he had sort of guessed about my embarrassing crush at Mr. Handsome, and he loved to torture me about it every once in a while.
The ancient satyr looked like he was in the mood to prolong my torment with more irreverent winking, but one of the other diners called out to him then, and I breathed a sigh of relief as Mr. P bustled off. I stole a look at the man seated beside me – his concentration remained fixed on the sheaf of papers he held in his hand – and I found myself releasing another inner sigh.
I had taken to calling him Mr. Handsome for good reason, believe me. His looks strongly reminded me of Robert Redford in his younger days (think Barefoot in the Park) with his thick blond hair, chiseled features, and tall, lithe frame that was as elegant as it was powerful. Add to that his unmistakable air of mystery, and can anyone blame me for being just a little obsessed?
You see, everyone in town was either non-human (like Pan) or a human (like me) employed by the former, and majority of the local men of Silver Mist were either small business owners (non-human) or daily commuters with blue-collar jobs (human) at the city.
Most of the time, it was easy to figure out who was which – with the glaring exception of Mr. Handsome, who fit neither bill. He kept mostly to himself unlike the other locals, and I only ever see him talking to Mr. P. There were also other ways he stood out, such as his penchant for beautiful, tailored suits, for instance (Savile Row, not Italian), and the irregular times he would drop by the diner.
Thanks to Mr. P, everyone working at Panda’s Diner also knew about my ridiculous infatuation, and most of the staff had taken to sending me real-time photos of Mr. Handsome whenever he dropped by.
4AM on a Tuesday, 1PM on a Wednesday, and even 11PM on a Sunday, which was unheard of for the respectable, hardworking townsfolk of Silver Mist. What kind of work could one possibly do to have so much flexibility with his schedule?
It was possible, of course, that he was simply a man of leisure, but I didn’t think so. There was the state of his hands, you see. I’m a great believer of a person’s hands saying a lot of things about its owner (it’s probably why CSI had placed me in the Palmistry Training Protocol), and Mr. Handsome’s hands certainly said a lot about him.
Prior to moving to Silver Mist, I used to be one of your run-of-the-mill, overworked, and underpaid workers trapped in a concrete jungle in California. Office guys were a dime in a dozen back in those days, and trust me when I say that none of them had hands like Mr. Handsome’s. Those guys had weak-looking hands and manicured nails, hands that looked like the most physical thing they did was carry a cardboard tray of Starbucks coffee every time they needed to buy their way into their superior’s good graces.
Mr. Handsome’s hands, though…
They were large, rough, and callused, the kind that men who knew what real work meant would have. Was he that type of man? I suppose I could just ask him, but---
“Morning, Blair,” Nix sang out as she emerged from the kitchen. Tall and slender, the younger girl was at that rebellious stage in her life where she equated hair color to an assertion of her individuality. Last week’s color had been ash gray. This week’s was cotton candy pink.
“You look beautiful as always,” Nix gushed as she reached me.
“Nix!” My voice was half-pleading, half-hissing (I’m not sure how I managed it, but I did). I loved that she and Mr. P were trying so hard to get Mr. Handsome to notice me, but at this point he would have to be an idiot not to know what was happening.
Nix’s eyebrows shot up in feigned surprise. “But you do look beautiful. Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been living her for over a month---”
Oh no.
“And you’re still single,” the younger girl finished triumphantly.
Cast it!
Nix’s eyes danced with mischief as she cocked her head towards Mr. Handsome’s direction.
I shook her head. No way was I looking at him after what she said.
She cocked her head towards him again, more insistently this time. LOOK!
Oh, River of Lethe…here goes nothing.
I slowly turned Mr. Handsome’s way.
Magnetic hazel eyes collided with mine, and I quickly snapped my head back. As mortifying as it was to admit, having our gazes meet was already more excitement than I could handle; my breath had locked in my throat as my heart rate picked up speed – for Cronos’ sake, Blair, please act your age!
“Here’s your order, by the way.” Nix placed a steaming hot plate before me. It was Panda’s Breakfast Special: sunny-side-ups, bacon, buttered toast, and a healthy serving of Mr. P’s homemade potato salad. Normally, the sight of it was enough to bring a smile to my face, but right now I had a nasty feeling I might not even manage a single bite.
I could still feel Mr. Handsome’s gaze on me, and I wondered glumly if Nix’s words had him realizing how plain I was. Maybe he even thought I was unattractive? I couldn’t blame him if he did. I knew I wasn’t hideous or anything, but I also knew my features were far from eye-catching.
Wavy dark brown hair I always kept tied up in a bun, the same shade of eyes, skin so fair I could easily get lost in a white background, curves that had never left me since I hit puberty – and, oh, did I mention I was kinda on the short side, too?
Honestly, the only thing I had going for me was my love for clothes. Today’s outfit was a loose floral dress in shades of blue and gray, black tights, and a pair of leather oxfords. If I had to put it in words, I suppose it would be that I had an instinct for knowing what looked good, and it was a talent I found quite handy, considering how little I could afford to spend on my wardrobe.
“Enjoy,” Nix was saying. “And if you want another pair of toast like you usually---”
“Err, no, this is fine,” I cut the younger girl off hastily before she could say more. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of how much I ate (nothing wrong with a healthy appetite, you know?), but I’d also rather not have my love for carbs be one of the first things Mr. Handsome knew about me.
Nix left with a cheerful wave after pouring coffee into my mug, and I did my best to ignore Mr. Handsome’s piercing stare as I took out my textbook. I wasn’t actually in the mood to study, but I needed something to look at while I struggled to regain my composure.
Placing the copiously bookmarked hardback on the counter, I absently started flipping through it while taking a bite of my toast. It had the words Level 1: Spells and Brews emblazoned in pretty big letters on its dust jacket, but I wasn’t worried about anyone catching a glimpse of it. All of my books from CSI were spell-protected, and unless they were on the agency’s to-see list, both supernaturals and immortals would see the same thing humans did: a dusty, obscure economics manual published the first year Adam Smith started talking about modern capitalism.
Thirty minutes later, and I found myself gaping at my empty plate in surprise. I had actually ended up so engrossed with this week’s reading material I had finished my breakfast without even realizing it. I had even forgotten all about Mr. Handsome of all things.
Struck by a sudden urge to have another look at him, I casually reached for my coffee, hoping to peek at him over the rim of my mug---
Thunder like no other suddenly roared outside the diner, and I jerked involuntarily. My hand rattled, and coffee spilled on the opened pages of my textbook.
Brooms and sticks!
As I hurriedly pulled out a couple of tissue sheets from the holder, I missed the way Mr. Handsome frowned when he glanced at my book. By the time I turned around, Mr. Handsome had a charmingly polite smile on his face. “May I help?”
His voice was deep but gentle. It was my first time to hear him speak, and it had me stammering like a ninny. “It’s f-fine. I c-can---” My voice trailed off as Mr. Handsome pried the sheet of tissue from my hands and mopped the stain on my page.
After, he ran his fingers on the wet, dark spot, and when he lifted his fingers the page was completely dry and stain-free.
I blinked. “Umm. Wow.” I was genuinely spellbound. I had seen other witches perform similar tricks, but never with the same ease and speed that Mr. Handsome had displayed.
“It’s a fairly simple spell,” Mr. Handsome murmured. “I could teach it to you if you like.”
Before I could even think of what I wanted to say, he had already reached for my hand, and the impact of his touch was, for lack of a better word, incredible.
A thousand sensations bombarded my body – shock, thrill, excitement, fear, anticipation – I simply felt too, too much, and I kept feeling more as Mr. Handsome slowly guided my hand into repeating the necessary strokes for the spell.
I did my best to memorize them, but it was impossible. Every second of having his fingers hold mine had secret parts of my body trembling in acute awareness; in the end, all I could do was focus on keeping myself from fainting.
“Easy, right?” He let go of my hand, and I didn’t know whether I felt relieved or sad that he was no longer touching me. It still seemed so surreal, and my senses had yet to recover from the fact that Mr. Handsome’s hand had held mine in the first place.
“With enough practice,” he told me, “it should be doable for a Level 1.”
I started to nod and thank him when I realized what he had just said. My gaze flew to his, but he only smiled at my obvious surprise.
“How did you know I’m a Level 1?” I questioned uncertainly.
“Because your book says so?”
My jaw dropped. I had suspected that might be it, but having him confirm my thoughts was still a different thing altogether. If he could get past an agency-executed spell, then did that mean he was also working for the government?
His lips suddenly twitched. “You didn’t think I could read it, did you?”
“I…I…” My shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug. “I have no idea what to think about you.” I hated how boring my answer was, but I was such a bad liar it was useless to even try.
“If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I also think you’re a bit of an enigma yourself.”
I was?
His smile turned faintly apologetic. “I didn’t expect you to be working for CSI. I’d never have imagined you the crime-fighting type.”
“That’s because I’m not,” I answered somewhat guiltily. ‘Crime fighting’ sounded so violent, and I had always been more of a pacifist, the kind that insisted on seeing half-full glasses even if there was only less than an ounce left. “When I got recruited, I only signed up for Local Misdemeanors.”
“Missing cauldrons, vandal spells, things like that?”
I nodded. “I know most people find it boring…”
“But you enjoy it,” he concluded. “Don’t you?”
“I’ve lived 26 years of my life without magic, so everything still feels so new and exciting. I know it’s silly,” I confessed, “but I’m always looking forward to every case assigned to me.”
“No matter how minor?”
“No matter how minor,” I affirmed firmly. “There’s actually a running joke in HQ. They say I’m the only agent who’d cry at being given a day off---” I stopped speaking. Oh, cast it. I just realized I had allowed my mouth to run away from me.
Mr. Handsome, however, didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, and he reclaimed the reins of our conversation with the enviable ease of a practiced charmer. He asked me about my Level 1 lessons and whether I found it easy or difficult. I had the most shameful urge to lie, but in the end, I simply opened my book to a random page and let him see the humiliating truth with his own eyes.
The page I had opened to was heavily underscored with neon highlighters, and the margins on both pages filled with my scribbles. “Be honest, please – does this say passionate about work or desperate to pass Level 1 exams so I won’t be the only neophyte witch in the agency?”
Mr. Handsome grinned. “It’s that bad?”
“Well…considering how my instructor asked me to start saving money so I could afford an expensive offering to Athena, what do you think?”
“Extremely bad,” he answered right away with a grin. I grinned back of course, all the while thinking that I couldn’t remember feeling any happier. Oh, be still, my bewitched heart.
It suddenly occurred to me that we had been talking for some time without having even exchanged names, and I took a deep breath, wondering if I could find the courage to ask for his first. I opened my mouth, but before I could say another word, lightning flashed outside the diner, followed by the power going out. Another second passed, and my phone started playing the theme song of Mission Impossible.
Oh, dear.
This was not good.

Welcome to another day in the life of a not-so-young and oh-so-stressed goddess.

Just when I thought I could go on a honeymoon with the ever gorgeous Lord of the Underworld, I find out I'm being sued by his ex-wife, aka the world's pettiest woman.
Pettiest, you hear?
Not prettiest.
And no, I'm not being petty myself.
Imagine being sued just because someone thinks you're not goddess material.
Petty, right?
But because Persephone has taken her case all the way to the Olympian High Court, I now have only under twenty-four hours to find myself a divine dominion to claim and rule...or risk losing my title as LOTUS.

Honestly, you guys: since when did not being "divine" enough become a crime?

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Welcome to a day in the life of a newly-minted midlife goddess...

Me: Before you introduce me, can I ask you something?
Hadrian: Of course.
Me: If we call our Chief of State POTUS, then can't your subjects call me...are you ready for this?
Hadrian: I can hardly wait.
Me: They can call me...LOTUS!!!
Hadrian: Ah. I see.
Me: Isn't it cute?
Hadrian: It is, but...how exactly did you work that out?
Me: Short for Lady of the Underworld.
Hadrian: So...LOTU.
Me: No. That rhymes a little too closely to 'loathe you', which I'm sure my future haters would love to turn into a hashtag. So my pre-emptive strategy is---
Hadrian: Make sure you don't do something that would have people hate you?
Me: Uh...yeah. I know you're used to having magic in your life, but you gotta learn to be realistic, too. I'm the kind of person people either love or hate, no in between.
Hadrian: I count myself lucky then, having the wisdom and exceptionally good taste to fall in love with you.
Me: God, you're so hot. Do we have time for a quick...oh, no, wait, you almost distracted me there. Back to my nickname. Can we do LOTUS then, like the flower? Please?
Hadrian: I truly wish I could say yes, milady...but that's not how acronyms work. You need to find a way to get the S in there.
Me: But I'm a goddess.
Hadrian: ...
Me: Well?
Hadrian: I'm sorry, love. But I'm not seeing the connection.
Me: Goddesses surely have the power to change the rules of grammar.
Hadrian: Ah. I see.
Me: So...
Hadrian: Where grammar's concerned, even goddesses have to play by the same rules, so I'm afraid the answer is still no.
Me: Oh, fine. How about Lady of the Underworld...States?
Hadrian: The Underworld has no states.
Me: So...is that another no?

**** And now, back to regular programming ****

Hey there. I'm Saoirse, and I used to be a thirty-something ghost who (long story short) turned into a 41-year-old goddess when I started dating the (recently divorced) Lord of the Underworld.
Today was supposed to be my honeymoon - I mean, homecoming...
Until Zeus suddenly lost his marbles...
Hadrian had to put Hell on lockdown...
And a raven-haired beauty (whom I may or may not be jealous of) believes that my blood might help save us from the Olympian god's deadly, missile-like thunderbolts.
So yeah.
Those people who think middle-aged women can only lead ho-hum lives?
Tell them to give me a call, will you? ;)

Note: Books in this series are written as standalones. They're a cross between fast-paced cozy paranormal mysteries and adult romantic comedies.

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Eunomia, the Goddess of Law, was hard at work in the judge's bench when the double doors of the Olympian High Court slowly started to open on its own. Such a thing only happened when an expected visitor was to come, and a frown creased the goddess' forehead. Was it time then?
She pulled a drawer open and rifled through the scrolls until she found what she was looking for.
Let's see now...
Its locking knot unwound with a magical snap of Eunomia's fingers, the scroll of parchment rolled down from her hold, just in time for the goddess to watch letters in red ink appearing one by one - a real-time recording as events unfolded in the world below.
On the first of July, the Aspirant comes into consciousness, her soul returning to its original body.
Eunomia had just finished rolling the scroll back to a close when a gentleman crossed the threshold of her courtroom. His features were austerely handsome, and he wore his power like second skin - invisible but ever-simmering, and so tremendously dangerous people who thought to cross him did so at their own peril.
Eunomia, not the one to disrespect fellow immortals, descended from her seat to meet her visitor halfway.
"Hades."
"Eunomia."
Both spoke briefly but courteously, with neither of them the type to waste time on trivialities.
Eunomia handed him the scroll. "Now that the Aspirant is awake, here are the rules that the Moirai decreed you must be bound to."
The Lord of the Underworld
Is not to use his powers in aid of the Aspirant
Is not to wield his influence over his subjects in aid of the Aspirant
Is not to reveal his prior connection to the Aspirant until the test has been completed
Hades only nodded. "Any other rules?"
"The Moirai has enlisted Zetes, son of the North Wind, to serve as watcher."
"A spy, you mean," Hades said coldly.
"A watcher," Eunomia repeated firmly, "to ensure that no rules are broken. The watcher's testimony will prevent anyone from questioning the Aspirant's completion of the test---"
"The Moirai can send a battalion of watchers for all I care," Hades dismissed. "She will pass this test, and once she does..."
Eunomia inclined her head in acknowledgment. "The Fates always keep their word. If the Aspirant passes her test, she shall be recognized as the new Lady of the Underworld."

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If someone told me I'd have to die just to meet Mr. Right...

I'd rather date Mr. Wrong, you know?
But kidding aside...
It's really after a brain aneurysm has me kicking the bucket at almost forty that I ended up meeting Mr. Hot Immortal Next Door...and helping him hunt down a murderer who's escaped from Hell.
Life - I mean, my afterlife is almost perfect except...
I may be a ghost, but I still have standards, and I really need to know---
Why won't he tell me anything about his day job?!


Note: This TONGUE-IN-CHEEK romantic mystery offers up a STEAMY and FLIRTATIOUS romance amidst MURDERS and HAUNTINGS. If you're looking for a fun and fast-paced paranormal romance over forty or paranormal women's fiction set within the world of Greek mythology, then please do give this a try!

"How do you know so much of these things?" I couldn't help asking.
"It's part of my job."
"Talking to ghosts?"
"Yes."
"Like a psychic?"
I saw him frown as if seriously weighing the relevance of this term to his job, and then after a moment, he said simply, "No."
"Is it why I can touch you and vice versa?"
"Yes."
"Can't you just tell me what your job is?" I asked with a laugh.
"Hm."
I started tugging his sleeve. "Come on, please."
"Why does it matter what job I do?"
"Because I only date guys with actual jobs, and in case you're wondering - no, I don't consider any kind of criminal activity as a career."
"Is that your way of saying you want to go out with me?"
If I had still been in my teens, I wouldn't have even dreamt of answering him with the truth. Would have been too insecure to even consider it. If I had been in my twenties, I'd be weighing my options and gauging his level of interest, just to play it safe. But since I was in my late thirties (and forever would be), I was at that age where I knew and loved myself enough to take even the craziest, occasional risk.
And so...
"Can I ask you a question first?"
The sudden huskiness in my tone had Hadrian's gaze gleaming. "Go on."
"You really didn't lie about not being married?"
"I'm recently divorced, if that means anything."
"It doesn't." I watched the interest in his eyes change into something else as I spoke, and my toes curled. "May I ask one - um, no, may I ask two last questions?"
"Ask."
Just one word, but this time, Hadrian's voice had deepened and turned more velvety.
"Does hooking up constitute a sin?" I might always be game for wild, hot sex, but not if it screwed with my chances for meeting my parents in Heaven - oh no, wait, make that Isle of the Blessed.
"It doesn't."
"Oh, thank God."
His eyes gleamed. "And your second question?"
"Is something very easy," I said with a wink. "All I'd like to know is if you know anyone who'd be interested in, say, hooking up with a redheaded ghost?"
"I think..." Hadrian reached up to trace my lower lip with his thumb, and I almost died at the sheer sensuality of it. "The ghost already knows the answer to that."
"Oh my God, you're hot." The words had him chuckling, and even the mere sound of it was sexy as heck, too. Leaning close, I whispered into his ear, "You were right earlier."
"About what?"
"I want to go out with you."
There was a beat of silence, and I found myself holding my breath even though I wasn't really breathing anymore. Was he going to pull over? Was he going to kiss me? Was he going to---
"Hold that thought."
---do something I didn't see coming? Apparently, yes. And I couldn't help choking out a laugh. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"What if I said no?"
A smirk played over his lips, and I had never seen anything sexier in my life, dead or not dead.
"Do you want me that much?"
"Yes," I said shamelessly.
Hadrian glanced at me. Just one swift glance, lasting no longer than a second, but the smoldering heat in it...mm, well, let's just say it was hotter than Hell, enough to make me clear my throat and start fanning my face. Phew.
"You're looking a little red," Hadrian murmured.
"Am I? It's getting a little hot. Must be your air-conditioning," I quipped.
"Or I'm just too hot."
I couldn't help laughing even though we both knew it was true. "That should've made you sound like a butthole," I said with a sigh, "but it didn't." I tugged his sleeve again, asking hopefully, "Are you really sure you can't spare even just five minutes?"

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Click here to view other books in the Instalove series. You can also click on the Sheikh category on your right to view my other sheikh romances.

Note: Also available in iBooks, Kobo, Nook, and Google Play

“Did Al Afea send you?”
The man slowly sheathed his gun at her words, and she nearly expired in relief. Oh, thank God. She had done the right thing then. Al Afea was another name that Sheikh Rayyan Al-Atassi answered to, and Hyacinth had been hoping that the air of mystery that constantly shrouded the royal sheikh would make her lie more believable.
Forcing herself to meet the man’s gaze, she demanded, “Did you not hear what I said? Because the sheikh will not be pleased at all if he sees his woman---” Her voice died when she saw the man reach for his helmet.
Oh. Shit.
She had watched too many true crime shows not to know how much danger she was in, and Hyacinth slowly took a step back. If he was willing to show her his face, then it only meant one thing. He wasn’t worried she would be able to identify him – because he had no plans of keeping her alive.
The helmet clattered to the ground, and the moment he reached for the edge of his balaclava, Hyacinth spun around to take advantage of his momentary blindness and make a run for it.
But she had barely been able to take several steps when long, hard fingers curled around her wrist and hauled her back.
She screamed. She kicked and thrashed against him. She gave him as good as she got, hell bent on fighting to her dying breath –
“Stop struggling!”
“Stop, dammit!”
“Will you just look at me---”
The man’s words eventually penetrated the haze of terror that had clouded her mind, and even though she dared not stop pummeling his chest and doing all she could to knee him in the groin, she did let her gaze move up to her assailant’s face –
“HOLY FUCK!”
Startled at the expletive, Rayyan unconsciously loosened his grip on her just as Hyacinth made another attempt to free herself. She succeeded this time and backed away as soon as she could. Too soon as it turned out because the next thing she knew, she was falling and falling and falling –
Thud.
Hyacinth couldn’t tell which hurt worse: her ego or her ass. All she knew was how her embarrassment was growing with every second, more so when she saw the sheikh slowly crouch down in front of her.
“Well, anisdi…” Rayyan paused. “This certainly isn’t the kind of reaction I was hoping to get from my woman.”
A strangled sound escaped Hyacinth.
Oh. My. God.
Shit, shit, shit.
She had forgotten about that.
“And for the record---” She saw his gaze dip down. “White underwear isn’t a favorite of mine.”
Too late, she realized she was still sprawled on the ground, her legs wide open, and her abaya falling all the way back to her waist.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

I'm waspish and prudish, a spinster royal tutor who's undesirable in every way. So why does the kingdom's playboy sheikh suddenly want me as a lover?
​I've never had a boyfriend, but that doesn't mean I'm an idiot when it comes to men.
I know trouble when I see it, and Sheikh Tarif Al-Atassi? Smoldering good looks aside, he's trouble with a capital T, and I'm desperate to get rid of him.
Unfortunately, none of my usual tricks are working. Being rude only entertains him, and giving him the cold shoulder only challenges him.
Maybe I should just say yes for one night, and then he'll forget about me?

“Tarif, we have to stop---”
“Not until you come,” the sheikh rasped.
Her eyes flew wide open. “No! There’s no more----” Time. That was what her last word was supposed to be, but it died in her throat as the sheikh started shoving his thick manhood faster into her – so much faster, and oh, harder than ever. He pounded into her nonstop until she spiraled into a screaming, mindless orgasm, and the sheikh had to cover her mouth with his hand to keep her cries from spilling out.
Tarif knew the moment her senses returned, with color brushing her cheeks with a vivid shade of pink while her violet eyes went wide with appalled misery. He grinned, and she whimpered as he lifted his hand off her mouth.
She shook her head, whispering, “I’m so…” Angry? Appalled? Ashamed?
The sheikh raised a brow. “Late?”
Anisah’s gaze flew to the classroom’s wall clock, and she cried out in horror when she saw she only had less than fifteen minutes before her next class started. Oh curse her life, the sheikh was right!
Chuckling at the panic that crossed her lovely face, Tarif said soothingly, “Stop worrying, my sweet. I have guards outside. They won’t let anyone in until we’re ready.”
“But---”
“But nothing. Now be a good girl and stay quiet while I help you."
She didn’t even have time to protest, with the sheikh immediately moving to suit actions to words. He put her clothes to right, tucked loose locks of her hair back into her cap, and he did so with such efficiency that he had even time to arrange the soft layers of her headdress into place with minutes to spare.
The sheikh stepped back with a smug smirk. “Well?”
The words ‘thank you’ were stuck in her throat. She just plain hated it every time he proved his superiority, and so she glared up at him instead, saying ungratefully, “I wouldn’t be in trouble in the first place if it wasn’t for you.”
But the sheikh only chuckled. “As always, my sweet – your sheer graciousness simply takes my breath away.”
The barb successfully reached its mark, and Anisah could feel herself turning red again. “I honestly don’t know what I see in you,” she muttered under her breath. “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you of bewitching me---”
“Maybe I had.” The sheikh sent her a lazy, devastating smile. “After all, did you not say you found me ‘somewhat irresistible’?”