Review: Melissa and The Vicar by S.M. LaViolette

She was glad nobody else could hear the noise she made.
To say he looked like a water god out of mythology was trite, but, oh, it was so very, very true.
He strode from the waves like some male version of The Birth of Venus. Or The Birth of Adonis or Zeus or one of those randy Greeks or Romans who was always getting his kit off at the drop of a hat.
Melissa realized she was sliding off the rock because she’d leaned forward so much and pushed herself back into her crack, briefly disgusted by her own avidity but quickly suppressing it.
He bent at the waist and slicked water from his legs with both hands.
She swallowed.

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