Read Online Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel by Lori Wilde - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lori Wilde
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knees. Sweat bathed his brow. It had nothing to do with the workout he just completed, and everything to do with the soft, pliant mouth that had parted so easily, so innocently for him.
A fresh, sweet mouth filled with wonder and excitement.
He shoved a shaky hand through his hair, his temperature steaming like an overheated engine.
Christ .
She reached up, snatched her glasses from his hand, stuck them on her face, sank delicate hands on her hips, and glared at him.
The look landed in his belly, unspooled, spread fresh heat, switching his body into a five a.m. bakery, all ovens turned on high. The weirdest thoughts poured into his head.
Eureka! I’ve struck gold.
Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.
One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Instant chemistry? Yeah sure, plenty of times, but this was something else, something indefinable, and mysterious. Something freakin’ primal.
He wanted her.
A lot.
In his bed. On the floor. On the weight bench. In the shower. You name it, and he wanted to have sex with her there. His brain had been hijacked, and he was operating on nothing but physical instinct.
But why? That was the mystery of it. Why her of all women? Why now?
Ever since his attack, Rowdy had been unable to work up the slightest interest in the multitudinous beauties determined to occupy his bed. It was a fact he’d started worrying about, fearing that his libido had permanently flown the coop. But now here he was getting hard as diamonds over a scrawny, wide-eyed wallflower.
And not for the first time.
It had to be the scarf. She’d come wearing cheetah, after he’d confessed it was his favorite print, a clear signal that she was ready, willing, and able for a hookup. That had to be why she was here. To explore the mutual attraction that had struck them both on Irene Henderson’s lawn.
He certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea.
Strategically, he tucked a corner of his gym towel into the waistband of his shorts to camouflage his swiftly growing arousal. He gulped and slapped on his best pitcher’s mound blank stare.
Fully committed to his mission of blowing the whistle on Potts, he’d spent the morning interviewing the three male ghostwriters that Jackdaw had sent over. At noon, he had taken a workout break.
When the four gorgeous women had descended on his home gym, all recent grads from a master’s degree in journalism program, saying they’d heard he was looking for a ghostwriter, Rowdy had initially been happy for the eye-candy distraction. But in a matter of minutes, they had him feeling like the only pork chop at a feral pit bull convention.
After a group interview, he’d tried giving the women the old don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you routine, but they hadn’t taken the hint. They’d stayed, talking, staring, flirting. All four of them had that I-wanna-be-Mrs.-Rowdy-Blanton look in their eyes. He’d seen that look, sidestepped it hundreds of times. He willed Warwick to show up to escort them out, but his buddy hadn’t picked up on the mental telepathy.
To keep the beauties at bay, he’d jokingly told them that Nolan Ryan had the last word on whatever ghostwriter he selected. When they asked how he would know if his bloodhound gave his stamp of approval, he’d told them, quite honestly, that if Nolan Ryan liked you, he sat on your feet.
That provided him with a few moments of entertainment as the women tried to coax the bloodhound to sit on their posh shoes. Good old Nolan hadn’t been persuaded.
And then she had walked into the room. Appearing like magic in the doorway just when he needed rescuing, and wearing that come-get-this-big-boy cheetah scarf.
He had not intended on kissing her. It had been the furthest thing from his mind, but with the beauties converging, he got claustrophobic, panicked, and grasped for a way out. He’d kissed her to prove to the beauties that she was his girlfriend so they would
A fresh, sweet mouth filled with wonder and excitement.
He shoved a shaky hand through his hair, his temperature steaming like an overheated engine.
Christ .
She reached up, snatched her glasses from his hand, stuck them on her face, sank delicate hands on her hips, and glared at him.
The look landed in his belly, unspooled, spread fresh heat, switching his body into a five a.m. bakery, all ovens turned on high. The weirdest thoughts poured into his head.
Eureka! I’ve struck gold.
Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you.
One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Instant chemistry? Yeah sure, plenty of times, but this was something else, something indefinable, and mysterious. Something freakin’ primal.
He wanted her.
A lot.
In his bed. On the floor. On the weight bench. In the shower. You name it, and he wanted to have sex with her there. His brain had been hijacked, and he was operating on nothing but physical instinct.
But why? That was the mystery of it. Why her of all women? Why now?
Ever since his attack, Rowdy had been unable to work up the slightest interest in the multitudinous beauties determined to occupy his bed. It was a fact he’d started worrying about, fearing that his libido had permanently flown the coop. But now here he was getting hard as diamonds over a scrawny, wide-eyed wallflower.
And not for the first time.
It had to be the scarf. She’d come wearing cheetah, after he’d confessed it was his favorite print, a clear signal that she was ready, willing, and able for a hookup. That had to be why she was here. To explore the mutual attraction that had struck them both on Irene Henderson’s lawn.
He certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea.
Strategically, he tucked a corner of his gym towel into the waistband of his shorts to camouflage his swiftly growing arousal. He gulped and slapped on his best pitcher’s mound blank stare.
Fully committed to his mission of blowing the whistle on Potts, he’d spent the morning interviewing the three male ghostwriters that Jackdaw had sent over. At noon, he had taken a workout break.
When the four gorgeous women had descended on his home gym, all recent grads from a master’s degree in journalism program, saying they’d heard he was looking for a ghostwriter, Rowdy had initially been happy for the eye-candy distraction. But in a matter of minutes, they had him feeling like the only pork chop at a feral pit bull convention.
After a group interview, he’d tried giving the women the old don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you routine, but they hadn’t taken the hint. They’d stayed, talking, staring, flirting. All four of them had that I-wanna-be-Mrs.-Rowdy-Blanton look in their eyes. He’d seen that look, sidestepped it hundreds of times. He willed Warwick to show up to escort them out, but his buddy hadn’t picked up on the mental telepathy.
To keep the beauties at bay, he’d jokingly told them that Nolan Ryan had the last word on whatever ghostwriter he selected. When they asked how he would know if his bloodhound gave his stamp of approval, he’d told them, quite honestly, that if Nolan Ryan liked you, he sat on your feet.
That provided him with a few moments of entertainment as the women tried to coax the bloodhound to sit on their posh shoes. Good old Nolan hadn’t been persuaded.
And then she had walked into the room. Appearing like magic in the doorway just when he needed rescuing, and wearing that come-get-this-big-boy cheetah scarf.
He had not intended on kissing her. It had been the furthest thing from his mind, but with the beauties converging, he got claustrophobic, panicked, and grasped for a way out. He’d kissed her to prove to the beauties that she was his girlfriend so they would
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