HIS MISSION: Lose Beer Belly. Find Perfect Woman. Save World.
The God of Wine has been partying for over ten thousand years, and New Year's Eve, when humans around the world succumb to his naturally occurring spike in powers, is his biggest night. Only this year, a plague is sweeping the immortal community, and he's turning downright evil (dear gods, what language!). All those New Year's bashes will turn into bloodbaths if he doesn't stop the transformation.
Sadly, the only known cure is finding a mate. Not so easy for a rude, beer-bellied mess who's definitely not husband material.
But can a little gym-time and help from the pros at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. turn him into a divine sex-machine the ladies will want? Or will it take something more?
This dirty, dirty book contains a buck-naked god, sloppy drunkenness, the c-word, f-word, p-word, d-word—okay, neverthehell mind! It has a lot of f**king bad words. Okay?—invisible unicorns, outrageously sized penises, cocktail recipes, leather pants, no pants, and one healthy eating tip.
If you do not like dirty, dirty books with buck-naked gods, sloppy drunkenness, the c-word, f-word, p-word, d-word—yes, yes, all the bad words—invisible unicorns, outrageously sized penises, cocktail recipes, leather pants, no pants, and healthy eating tips, then this book might not be for you. (But feel free to gift it to your naughty, slutty friend with the gutter mouth.)
- Original Title:God of Wine (Immortal Matchmakers, Inc. #3)
- Author:Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
- Rating:8.6 / 10
- Publisher:Published December 6th 2016 (first published November 24th 2016)
Acan, God of Wine and Intoxication, entered the upscale fitness club that boasted some of LA’s tightest asses with one thing and one thing only on his mind: Sweet. Fucking. Revenge.
“Fucking human.” His eyes scanned the ocean of disgustingly healthy people, all tanned, glowing, and annoyingly perky for five a.m. I want to end them all. Starting with the woman from last night. Because of her—one lowly human—he had been unable to partake in his usual one hundred tequila shots and fifty beers or “accidentally” burn down the posh Santa Monica hotel with one of his legendary, crowd-pleasing, exploding mojitos. All because of a random woman he’d met in the hotel elevator whilst in transit to last night’s rooftop party. He’d said, “Hiya,” paid her a “compliment” and then invited her to the event. She’d shockingl...