Read Online Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel by Lori Wilde - Free Book Online
Authors: Lori Wilde
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easier to give than take. Her lungs barely moved, allowing in only a thin sip of air. It wasn’t enough.
Run.
She couldn’t heed that advice either. Not between her noodle knees and her ice-block feet and her granite resolve to land the job. If she wanted to work for him she had to accept that he was the hottest thing on two legs, and just get over it.
Yeah, but how?
He bewitched her with a smile as smooth and creamy as Lindt’s milk chocolate truffles. His thick brown hair gleamed with virility. Dark eyebrows framed those stunning blue eyes fringed with long, midnight black lashes. She’d been close to him before, but it had been in the softer light of dawn. In the glass gym, sunlight glinting off his body, she could make out every pore, every whisker, line, and angle.
And nothing, absolutely nothing about him was soft.
Involuntarily, she licked her lips.
Closer and closer he strolled, as leisurely as walking a dog, but with more purpose. His stare was so sexual, so primal, that it crashed into her womb as intrusively as a battering ram.
With each step she took, her body grew tighter, and the room grew warmer, and her head grew lighter.
His gaze never relinquished hers.
She clung to it. Cherishing this moment so she could pull out the memory again and again, finger the specialness of it late at night when she was alone in her bed. Nothing existed but him. This moment. Exhilarating. Thrilling . . .
. . . and downright terrifying.
He was close enough to sniff so she did, inhaling and holding a long, deep breath.
He smelled like a predator. She smelled like prey.
“Hi, honey buns,” he said in an overly loud voice. “Did you enjoy your outing?”
Huh? She would have glanced over her shoulder again, on the lookout for Gisele, but his eyes wouldn’t let her go .
He was speaking to her .
But what did he mean?
“I missed you.” His tone was a caress and she was a sucker for it. “I hate it when we’re apart.”
Everything clicked. Now she got it. This had to be a dream. One of her crazy sexual fantasies run amok. Or maybe it was a being-naked-in-public anxiety dream. Or it could be a worse-case-scenario preparatory dream, as her subconscious dialed up a how-bad-could-it-get-begging-for-a-job-you-aren’t-qualified-for bit of role playing for her to work through.
That had to be it.
A dream.
She was sound asleep in her bed. No dipped cone chocolate on her blouse. No devastatingly handsome, bare-chested baseball star striding straight for her. This moment existed only in her imagination.
Relax.
Since this was a dream, she might as well be ballsy and play along. If he needed a fake girlfriend she was game. She would certainly not have the guts to do it in real life, but in a dream? Hell to the yeah.
“Hey there, slugger.” She cooed and fluttered her eyelashes.
One side of his mouth crooked higher, dissolving for the first time into an authentic grin. He was within touching distance, and boy howdy did her fingers itch to do just that.
Go ahead. Why not?
Breeanne gulped, spread her fingers, reached out, and ironed her hand against the sleek ridges of his chest. A complex web of nerve receptors in her palm caught fire, sending tactile messages blazing up to her brain in a crazed Braille of details. Smooth. Warm. Hard. Solid. Flawless perfection.
Holy mother of all nut bunnies!
She dropped her burning hand, unable to bear another exquisite moment. This was the most realistic dream she’d ever had.
A mischievous light flamed in his blue eyes. He dipped his head and pursed his lips and . . .
Stole her personal space. His animal magnetism crowding in on her. She couldn’t understand how he could leave her both shivering and sweaty as if she had a hundred-and-ten-degree fever in an ice storm.
His mouth hovered, tempting and maddeningly just out of reach.
Where was that defibrillator? Slap the paddles on her chest. Charge to three hundred joules. Yell, Clear! And zap away.
He was not
Run.
She couldn’t heed that advice either. Not between her noodle knees and her ice-block feet and her granite resolve to land the job. If she wanted to work for him she had to accept that he was the hottest thing on two legs, and just get over it.
Yeah, but how?
He bewitched her with a smile as smooth and creamy as Lindt’s milk chocolate truffles. His thick brown hair gleamed with virility. Dark eyebrows framed those stunning blue eyes fringed with long, midnight black lashes. She’d been close to him before, but it had been in the softer light of dawn. In the glass gym, sunlight glinting off his body, she could make out every pore, every whisker, line, and angle.
And nothing, absolutely nothing about him was soft.
Involuntarily, she licked her lips.
Closer and closer he strolled, as leisurely as walking a dog, but with more purpose. His stare was so sexual, so primal, that it crashed into her womb as intrusively as a battering ram.
With each step she took, her body grew tighter, and the room grew warmer, and her head grew lighter.
His gaze never relinquished hers.
She clung to it. Cherishing this moment so she could pull out the memory again and again, finger the specialness of it late at night when she was alone in her bed. Nothing existed but him. This moment. Exhilarating. Thrilling . . .
. . . and downright terrifying.
He was close enough to sniff so she did, inhaling and holding a long, deep breath.
He smelled like a predator. She smelled like prey.
“Hi, honey buns,” he said in an overly loud voice. “Did you enjoy your outing?”
Huh? She would have glanced over her shoulder again, on the lookout for Gisele, but his eyes wouldn’t let her go .
He was speaking to her .
But what did he mean?
“I missed you.” His tone was a caress and she was a sucker for it. “I hate it when we’re apart.”
Everything clicked. Now she got it. This had to be a dream. One of her crazy sexual fantasies run amok. Or maybe it was a being-naked-in-public anxiety dream. Or it could be a worse-case-scenario preparatory dream, as her subconscious dialed up a how-bad-could-it-get-begging-for-a-job-you-aren’t-qualified-for bit of role playing for her to work through.
That had to be it.
A dream.
She was sound asleep in her bed. No dipped cone chocolate on her blouse. No devastatingly handsome, bare-chested baseball star striding straight for her. This moment existed only in her imagination.
Relax.
Since this was a dream, she might as well be ballsy and play along. If he needed a fake girlfriend she was game. She would certainly not have the guts to do it in real life, but in a dream? Hell to the yeah.
“Hey there, slugger.” She cooed and fluttered her eyelashes.
One side of his mouth crooked higher, dissolving for the first time into an authentic grin. He was within touching distance, and boy howdy did her fingers itch to do just that.
Go ahead. Why not?
Breeanne gulped, spread her fingers, reached out, and ironed her hand against the sleek ridges of his chest. A complex web of nerve receptors in her palm caught fire, sending tactile messages blazing up to her brain in a crazed Braille of details. Smooth. Warm. Hard. Solid. Flawless perfection.
Holy mother of all nut bunnies!
She dropped her burning hand, unable to bear another exquisite moment. This was the most realistic dream she’d ever had.
A mischievous light flamed in his blue eyes. He dipped his head and pursed his lips and . . .
Stole her personal space. His animal magnetism crowding in on her. She couldn’t understand how he could leave her both shivering and sweaty as if she had a hundred-and-ten-degree fever in an ice storm.
His mouth hovered, tempting and maddeningly just out of reach.
Where was that defibrillator? Slap the paddles on her chest. Charge to three hundred joules. Yell, Clear! And zap away.
He was not
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