By Mimi Jean Pamifiloff
Trapped for many years, a strong god seeks freedom . . . and revenge. however the purely factor which may retailer him is the fervour of a woman's contact . . .
Emma Keane is your commonplace urban lady attempting to get a date. There's only one factor conserving her again: the disembodied male voice talking to her via her brain. Sound form of loopy? might be. yet loopy turns downright lethal while the voice persuades her to trip to the wilds of the Mayan jungle. There she's going to loose his body-his awfully sizzling, muscled, bare body.
Humans are so frail, so undisciplined, so at risk of love. And whilst this historic being connects with Emma, the sentiments she sparks force him completely mad. protecting, keep-her-close, never-let-her-go form of mad. which would no longer be one of these undesirable factor simply because from the instant the attractive, passionate Emma unshackles his physique, they're hunted at each flip. Now he'll need to do every little thing in his strength to maintain her secure. yet will it's sufficient?
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Additional info for Accidentally in Love with...A God? (Accidentally Yours Series, Book 1)
Victor didn’t need to answer. There was no well here. “We be dere tomorra and In Guezzam haf everytin’,” Bright said, climbing aboard. I bit my lip. Bright was called Bright for his optimism, no doubt. Perhaps he was right. Nothing to worry about. No, no, no. No. The Cokes will be gone by lunchtime and then I will gradually shrivel up and begin begging pathetically from the other passengers. Stay put. Do the sensible thing. With a string of stricken bellows, some vicious, throat-clearing blasts of black smoke and a savage grinding of gears, the beast of the Saharan sands lumbered forth.
A jeep with a big machine gun mounted in the back shot by an hour after our departure. After that, the convoy ceased to behave like one. Each driver veered off and took his own favourite route. The main highway to Arlit, our highway, was a severely corrugated track marked by tire remains. This rattled the eyeballs, and our chauffeur preferred to swing us around majestic rolling dunes (ah, at last), smooth as a woman’s buttocks, that we were at times punished for touching. There were no metal mats to put under the wheels of this truck, but the konbye effect of twenty shoulders did the trick.
Now draped over his head and neck, T-shirt around nose and mouth. I could only see the chocolate-brown bridge of his nose. I should have dug in my rucksack for something similar. How many times had he done this? The truck lads I’d watched loading now perched on the cab roof on a pile of empty sacks. They were clearly great pals, chattering incessantly, ragging, rapping on the roof to annoy the driver. They had no need of straw hats or towels. Dense mops of coarse grainy hair protected their heads.