"...Oh, Dare and Joey. They are both wounded characters in their own way and I like how they get to hash out their demons to each other before they find their happy ending because it makes their relationship more convincingly real. Dare is a very nice mix of unrepentant naughtiness and angst while Joey is just as nicely balanced as a sensible person who sometimes isn't as wise as she'd like to be. These two make a great couple - they are sweet together when they are arguing or talking and they are hot when they are bumping uglies."--Mrs. Giggles
"A-!...Dirty Shame rocked. I know the conventions say not to write about
people in famous professions like rock stars, actors, etc, but this story worked for me. Among other gifts, Ms. March has knack for smart banter in dialogue [and] knows how to write the sex scenes, ya’ll. The up-n-down is smokin’ hot and dirty...This is a fine read, and I’ll be buying up Selah March’s backlist because I really dig her writing style and her sense of humor..."--Annie Dean, It's Not Chick Porn
"4 Hearts!...Joey is one of the best characters that I have read about in a while. She is definitely not the Hollywood ingénue type and she definitely has a Brooklyn attitude. Dare needs someone to kick him in the butt...This is a very well done romantic suspense story with hotter than average love scenes and two charismatic main characters who really need each other, and don’t forget the bossy ghost!"--Maura Frankman, The Romance Studio
"...The classic bad boy...[with the]...good girl [who] works on redeeming him in his own eyes and the world’s. Ms. March has written Dirty Shame's romantic storyline very well...an enjoyable read with...moments that will make the reader smile."--Emma, Joyfully Reviewed
“Wow. Limber.”
She laughed. It came out more like a gurgle. “Best damn gymnast Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow ever saw, my friend.” Oh, God, he could see her underwear, couldn’t he? Which ones had she worn? The faded pink with the fraying elastic at the crotch? She took a breath and said, “I think this would make a nice shot from an overhead angle, don’t you?”
He made a noise. She took it for agreement, then stopped thinking entirely when his hand came down warm and firm on her bare thigh. He cleared his throat. “Is this okay?”
She nodded, then realized he couldn’t see her head. “It’s fine.”
His hand moved, stroking up and down. She closed her eyes and let her body respond. The blood pooling in her head made her vision blur, but it was the way his fingers inched a little higher with each pass that made her heart pound. She heard herself make a noise—something between a moan and a sigh. When he echoed it, she reached for him. He caught her fingers in his and pulled her up with enough force to bring their pelvises into solid contact.
He flinched and shifted under her. “Maybe we should quit.”
“Now who’s chicken?”
His eyes narrowed. “Bring it, Fiorello.”
Wow. Got the pronunciation right on the first try. Impressive. She leaned in to kiss him, letting her arms snake around his neck. He matched the embrace, sliding his hands against her back and holding her as if letting go didn’t feature in his plans for the near future.
He brushed his lips over hers, feather light. Then he pressed his tongue inside, delving and licking, and she invited him in like an old friend. His hips started up that slow, primitive roll that ground them together, lighting sparks of pleasure that burst through her, sharp and bright. He set a deliberate pace, like he had a purpose—like she was the one needing remedial help with faking a climax. Not that she’d need to be faking much if he kept up that needy press and slide.
She palmed the blades of his shoulders, raked her nails across his back and felt him groan into her mouth, all thick and sweet, but with a rough bite against the tongue. Like a mouthful of crystallized honey. They could do this forever. Public heavy petting with the danger of discovery always lurking. Giving it that extra edge. Making her want to see how far she could push him—could push herself.
But that wasn’t the point. Wait…what was the point again? Oh yeah.
Her voice sounded breathy when she said, “You ready to give this a shot? Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
He pulled back and looked at her. His lips were glossy, and his pupils were blown wide, the black eating up the green even as she watched. “Huh?”
“You were going to simulate an orgasm for me, remember?”
He blinked. Once. Slow and sort of bewildered. “Right.”
“You ready to try?”
Awareness seeped back into his face. He raised a brow and smiled—both wicked and self-effacing at the same time, and how the fuck did he do that? God, what a gift. Beidermeyer was right. Dare Daniels was going to be a star.
“I don’t think faking it is going to be the problem. Not to be crude, but—”
“I’m from Brooklyn. What’s crude?”
The wicked element in his expression intensified, at odds with the almost tender way he lifted his hand to touch her face. “I’m about two seconds shy of the real thing. Which could be fun, in a messy sort of way.”
A thrill shot through her. Her hands tightened on his shoulders reflexively. She pressed into him, rubbing the crotch of her own more-than-a-little-damp panties against his fabric-covered cock in a slow circle. Stupid and wrong to do this. He was her employer, she needed this job, and she was nuts to be letting things get out of hand—to let herself get so out of hand. But he was beautiful and smart and funny, and the way he responded to her made her so damn hot. Made her feel wanton and fuckable. And if that’s what dry-humping in a chair could do, what might happen if they got naked? Or horizontal? Or—holy mother of God—both at the same time?