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BONDED by ANN WESLEY HARDIN

Copyright © ANN WESLEY HARDIN, 2008
All Rights Reserved, RED SAGE PUBLISHING, INC.


EXCERPT FROM BONDED

He boldly moved closer, coming round the side of the bed. “You’re a natural brunette.”

She visored her hand and glanced at him sharply. He smiled. White teeth on tan skin. Nice.

“You’re a natural smartass,” she said.

“You have red highlights. Unusual.” The atmosphere in the room crackled and snapped. His grin broadened. Dimples too! A truly hot, natural smartass.

“That’s from nude-sunbathing weekend. Two weeks ago.” And boy had that been a barrel of laughs. She’d had to make a presentation the following Monday for her advertising firm, and hadn’t realized what nylon could do to a sunburnt pussy. Luckily, the ad she’d worked up had been for male fungal relief, so the delicate gyrations of her hips punctuated her campaign and brought the house down.

She’d won the account. As she usually did.

He mulled the nude sunbathing weekend while running a visual up and down her body. “You and your friends do some interesting things.”

She smiled back, and her body began perking under his gaze. “We try.” She ran one herself over his pale blue work shirt, jeans, brown belt. Basic enough. But that’s where his plainness ended. Broad shoulders filled the shirt out nicely, and the belt snaked a lean waist. The jeans encased long, muscular legs, and the growing bulge between them interested her immensely. Should she? Could she? Oh, what the hell. “Actually, I’m glad you lost the scar and eye patch and showed up.”

“Are you?”

The low question vibrated through her pubic bones, reminding her Charlie hadn’t completed his mission. “I would like a replacement hero.”

His eyebrows raised and he put one knee on the mattress beside her head, peering down at her from above and looking incredibly, mouthwateringly dominant. “What’ll it be?”

She swallowed the homina-homina rearing up in her throat. “I’d like Jorge the Masseur.”

He nodded, braiding long, tanned fingers and flexing them. “And will Jorge be providing anything other than a massage?”

“Depends on how expert his hands are,” she said, and noticed hers were shaking. She’d never been one to fold under pressure. But then again, she’d never been under pressure quite like this before.

“Jorge has world-class hands.”

This was getting better and better. Flipping onto her stomach, she peered over her shoulder. Blasé came easier from this position, where eye contact wasn’t required. “Get me a towel, please, Jorge.”

“Poor Jorge. Spoiling his view.”

“Towel.” She snapped her fingers. “And warm lotion.”

“Flavored?”

“No.”

“You’re not as adventurous as you led Jorge to believe.”

She rose up on her elbows and blew the hair off her face. “Jorge, let’s get something straight between you and me, okay?”

He started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Lesson number one. Always do exactly as a customer asks.”

Pulling the shirttails out of his waistband, he stood in front of her nose with a bare chest, a serious six-pack and a huge ridge in his crotch. She licked her lips.

“Service is my motto.”

Her skin tingled. “Lesson two. Refrain from judging the customer.”

“You want Jorge the Masseur, or a lap dog?” He laid a warm palm on her back, skimming it across the surface to her shoulder. Gripping her deltoid, he squeezed. She yelped. Bending, he followed the same path with his tongue, ending at the base of her jaw where he diddled her earlobe as if it was a clit.

“Can I have both? You make them both seem so alluring.” The goose bumps on her arms resembled the Italian Alps from the air. She needed that towel. Stat! Between her legs.

“You just gave me an idea.”

“I like ideas.”

“What if, because you got gypped out of your gothic hero, I play all your fantasy heroes this weekend.”

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