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Read Online Books/Novels:

24 Inches

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Alexis Angel

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
B073QC2V1S
Book Information:

What’s better than one foot of man meat inside of you?
Well, how about two?

Anders Carter and Logan Kane. We’re two of the baddest cover models in the entire romance market.
Whether it’s my 8 pack abs or his rugged face, no woman is immune from either of us.
But then…she comes into the picture. Lana Hartley.
Now all of a sudden we’re playing her game. Trying to jump through her hoops…competing with each other.
She’s something else entirely. Strong. Sexy. Sassy.

And her big question is…why have one, when you can have two?

Now we’re gonna open up a whole new world for her. Make her see things she never dreamt possible. Change the way she sees the world.
And we’re gonna do it by using our bodies.
We’ll let you guess which parts…

**Come join Alexis Angel in this full-length standalone romance. No cliffys but it’s going to be a scorcher with super duper hot scenes. HEA? You know it, babe.**

Books by Author:

Alexis Angel books

1

Logan

THWACK!

You’ve heard that sound before and you know what it is, darlin’.

You’ve read other shit from Naughty Angel Publishing.

Okay, for the uninitiated, I’ll spell it out.

That’s the sound of the flat of my palm hitting Trisha’s ass. It’s juicy and plump and my cock looks amazing going in and out of her pussy as she’s bent over on all fours.

“Oh baby, that feels so fucking good,” Trisha moans, and I can sense the lust in her eyes. She’s wanted this for a long time. And I’m finally giving it to her better than any man she’s ever been with. She’s not going to be able to fucking walk after I’m done with her. But after I shoot her as high into orbit as I’m going to, she’s not going to want to. Hell, she won’t even remember her fucking name by the time I’m done.

And who the hell am I exactly?

My name is Logan Sanders. And I’m going to rock your fucking world.

That’s right. You heard me. I’m that Logan Sanders. The one who showed up on the last book, Dick Juice, from Naughty Angel Publishing.

That’s right baby. I’m the book boyfriend. I make the model come to life on the cover. That’s my abs you’re licking when you run your tongue against the screen.

That’s my fingers you’re imagining to be caressing you when you’re touching yourself.

That’s my face and my eyes piercing into your soul when they decide to show my face. Seriously, I don’t know why sometimes they cut me off. Not show my face. It’s like, I know my face is fucking gorgeous. You’re looking at several thousand more sales with my face on the cover.

Now, now … don’t shake your head. Don’t roll your eyes. I know this. I have fucking Rainforest.com data to backup my claims.

Yeah, I work for Naughty Angel Publishing. They share their data with me pretty openly. You’ve heard of Naughty Angel Publishing. I know you have. Fuck, you’re reading their book right now. You’ve seen the books on the charts.

I mean, shit, if you read 12 Inches, about Aidan Stone, that’s my fucking boss. Aidan is married to Abby Cleveland, and together they started this operation. I used to know Aidan from our days working at the nightclub, Python. Then when he started this publishing business with Abby he went ahead and brought me on. Started me as an exclusive cover model. And fuck, did my books do well. Really, really, fucking well.

That was about a year ago. Each month its been more covers. And more money. Enough money that I don’t have to worry about work now. Enough that I can afford the nice suits that I sometimes pose in. We’re talking several million dollars in royalties.

Yeah, the covers did that well.

I mean, come on, you read them, right? Of course you did. If you want to cum, you’re reading Naughty Angel Publishing. Books like 12 Inches, DILF, Dirty Daddy, Client 5, Scandalous, Mr. President—books that will make you fucking squirt by the end. Or leave you quivering and fucking horny so that when your significant other walks in the door you’re jumping them like a crazed fucking hyena.

Yeah, I know what’s going on here. Don’t you blush at me or even think of flipping the page and skimming over. I’m serious. Instead, imagine yourself in my giant fucking arms—my muscles rippling as I hold you and pull you close to me.

Imagine putting your head against my cut pecs, drilled with diamond precision. Or running your hands and your tongue down my 8-pack abs. Not even 6-pack. 8. Eight. As in I’m so cut, you can tell the definition of two more ab muscles than other men.

Imagine trailing your fingers down farther. Grasping my 12-inch cock. Squeezing it. It’s so fucking thick—it’s got the girth of a coke can, so you might need two hands. But think about how it grows and thickens and starts to come alive in your hands as you look into my soulful blue eyes. My rugged face and strong jawline. Think about how your heart will fucking race as my cock expands outwards and then points out at you, like a lewd jib on a sailing ship.

That’s right, baby girl, think about how you’d get me on my back and then look at my cock with worry. How the fuck are you gonna put something like that inside of you?

And I’d fucking guide you. Slowly. Inch by inch. Till you’re fucking filled up. Till you know you’ll never be more filled up in your fucking life. And then when I start to fuck you, think about how you’ll fucking forget everything. You’ll lose track of everyone. You’ll forget your fucking name.

All you’ll want is more.

More cock. More Logan. More fucking. Till you collapse from the pleasure, or black the fuck out.


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