A Peeping Tom

17130754Hot Ticket (Sinners on Tour, #3)†by Olivia Cunning
My Rating: 3/5 Stars

Whenever I read an Olivia Cunning novel, I feel like a Peeping Tom. I see, taste, touch, smell, and hear on a whole nother level. Sensory overload feels like a flippiní understatement. I could speculate on where she comes up with her material, but Iíd be similar to an accountant pulling numbers out of his ass. What I do know is that I often feel as though Iím about to do something illegal, and before the day is out, Iím liable to get caught. So when Iím staring down the barrel of a gun at the two individuals who just walked through my front door, Iíll hope and pray that they are wearing five inch stilettos, corsets, black lace thongs, and that theyíre packing bullwhips on their luscious hips, instead of Tasers. As long as thatís the case, the blue uniforms and dark sunglasses will work out just fine.

Iíll admit I have the second book in my hip pocket, but what intrigued me more was a stripper/dominatrix named Mistress V who wears red leather boots in her pleasure room, and has enough curves to stop a semi at sixty miles an hour on a rain slick highway. I meanÖdamn. No, itís more like double damn. And what had me really cheering from the nosebleeds was her convincing turn on the merry go round and humanizing V to the point that I nearly stood up and cheered, even if I was the only one around.

Yes, you can laugh at me all you want, and I might even deserve it, but all I saw were glorious curves and bending and twisting and bodies intertwiningÖand you can probably fill in a few of the blanks. I could practically feel the sexual excitement through my Kindle. I know it sounds crazy, and possibly even ridiculous, but if erotica has you racing to the bedroom faster than a thoroughbred, youíll want to hop on this horse and ride it all the way to the ground. Guys, you need to grab this for your lady friend. Trust me, youíll thank me later. In fact, youíll be sending me Christmas cards for the next fifty years.

Sure, the dialogue may sometimes resemble partially hydrogenated cheeseballs; the rock stars and female sidebars may take a few of the more blatant stereotypes to heart; the plot might be as predictable as a one-way flight to Houston; and the subplots may not always be fleshed out in the same manner as Mistress V aka Aggie. But this is one train where you can thoroughly enjoy the ride. Just make sure you close the door to your sleep car.

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