The Greek curse for “fuck” flies off my tongue, as it has since my teenage years when my Greek mother warned me and Effie against using English profanity in public. The women might, but there’s a good chance my ability to reproduce will die today. “Women will love that bulge,” the wardrobe crew assured me with a pat on the shoulder. They’re ice cold despite the balmy weather and the fact that I’m wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt the color of puke and a pair of too-tight board shorts that hug my crotch the same incessant way my grandmother anxiously squeezes her stress-relief balls. The kind that sinks into your bones and accelerates your heart rate and turns your hands into a clammy mess. So, yeah, I’m talking about the white-picket-fence, make-love-even-when-you-haven’t-showered happily-ever-after. That someone else turned out to be her I-wear-pocket-protectors-like-a-douchebag boss, the bastard. I crave what my parents have shared for thirty-something years what my younger sister Effie has with her wife what I almost had six years ago before my ex-fiancée dumped me at the altar with a half-hiccupped, “I’m in love with someone else.” Maria lives in New Orleans with her better half, where she can generally be found hiking with her two dogs, Zeus and Athena, kayaking in Louisiana’s inter-coastal waterways, or curled up on the couch with a good book.Call me a pussy, a romantic, a believer in the unicorn of all emotions-true love-but I want the real deal. What do the two eras have in common, you ask? Not much, except for disease, scandalous activities and crime–Maria’s favorite topics. When she’s not writing about strong men and the sassy women who sweep them off their feet, Maria is a historian who specializes in medieval England and 19th century New Orleans.

Maria Luis is the author of sexy contemporary romances, though she may or may not have a few historical romances hiding in the cobwebs of her computer. Beg me to touch you, beg me to give you more, and if you’re real good, maybe I’ll do it all over again before you have to beg for that too.”īut Savannah Rose? She’s no one’s sweetheart but mine. Savannah Rose may claim I’m nothing more than a friend, but that slight hitch in her breath whenever I get too close says that America’s sweetheart is nothing but a liar.Īll it takes is one scorching kiss, and I vow in her ear: “You’re going to beg, Savannah. If I were a gentleman, I’d offer my congratulations and go my own way. Until I discover that her family is opening a new restaurant next to my tattoo parlor.

And me? I’m the so-called “inked god” she dumped on TV.

Love me tomorrow by maria luis pdf