anything into this,
girl. He probably just wants to boost his notoriety .
Then reality struck: She wanted
away from this guy because his damned striptease set her body on fire.
She marched toward for first aid,
The Stripper right behind her.
Frustration settled across her
shoulders. It had been way too long since she’d had good sex. Come to think of
it, had she ever experienced good sex? Making love with Cody was like needing a
chocolate fix and swallowing the entire candy bar before you tasted it. He was
always in a hurry, fast and frenzied. She’d never climaxed when they made love,
which she’d attributed to her own failings.
Why on earth was she thinking
about orgasms?
“I’ll be good.”
She stopped and whipped around to
face The Stripper. “What did you say?”
“I’ll be good,” he repeated,
glancing at the floor.
Damn him for humbling himself, or
had he read her mind? “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to calm
you down. I’ll behave, I’ll do whatever you want if you’ll just stop being so damned
pissed off at me.”
“I’m not pissed off at you!”
Johnny poked his head out of the
first aid room. “Everything okay?”
“Fine, damn it,” she snapped.
“Oh, okay.” He shut the door.
She was making an ass out of
herself.
“Well, let’s get this over with,”
she said, marching into first aid. She tossed her pack beside an empty massage
table. “Lie down.”
Johnny eyed The Stripper and they
both shrugged.
“Should I take a shower first?”
The Stripper asked.
“After.” She pulled out eucalyptus
lavender oil and rubbed it between her hands.
“What about—”
“Stop talking and lie there.”
“I’ll be right back,” Johnny said,
helping Daring Durk to the door.
She started on The Stripper,
spreading her hands across his shoulders and down, tracing his chakra points
with her fingertips. Heat raced up her arms. She didn’t want to have her hands
on this guy. He reeked of sex and danger. A tickle of heaviness settled low
between her legs.
This was totally unprofessional!
What was wrong with her? Refocus. Fan out like a butterfly’s wings, press
into the spine. Lower, spread out...
Her hands traced over a rough spot
on his skin, then another. Scars. Round, rugged scars that looked like ...
bullet wounds?
She snapped her hands back. He
turned his head and looked at her, his eyelids heavy.
“What?” he said.
“What the hell happened to you?”
He closed his eyes for a second,
took a deep breath, and in one swift move got off the table.
“Nothing,” he said, heading for
the door.
“I didn’t say you could leave.”
He turned to her, his hair hanging
into his eyes, his hands resting on his hips. But he didn’t make eye contact.
“Get back on the table,” she
ordered.
“Why? So you can beat me up some
more?”
“Wait, what I was doing ... it was
hurting you?”
“Forget it.”
“Jason—”
“Don’t.” He pointed his index finger
at her. “I don’t need a massage, and I surely don’t need you psychoanalyzing me
and digging into my secrets. It’s none of your business.”
“But your body is. Come on, get
back on the table.”
He hesitated, and Sandy held her
breath. This guy wasn’t used to taking orders from a woman. He definitely had
some kind of twisted female issues, one more reason to keep her distance. Sandy
needed normal, solid, and predictable.
With a resigned sigh, he ambled to
the bed and flopped down. She went back to work, trying to distance her mind
from her hands, to click into automatic healer mode. She’d done it plenty of
times when she’d worked on arrogant slugs who didn’t respect her gift.
But this man was different. He was
real and raw. And something in him called out to her.
Oh crap, she thought, pressing the
heel of her right palm into his back. This wasn’t about The Stripper as much as
it was about Sandy needing a man to mend that broken spot inside of her. One
thing for
girl. He probably just wants to boost his notoriety .
Then reality struck: She wanted
away from this guy because his damned striptease set her body on fire.
She marched toward for first aid,
The Stripper right behind her.
Frustration settled across her
shoulders. It had been way too long since she’d had good sex. Come to think of
it, had she ever experienced good sex? Making love with Cody was like needing a
chocolate fix and swallowing the entire candy bar before you tasted it. He was
always in a hurry, fast and frenzied. She’d never climaxed when they made love,
which she’d attributed to her own failings.
Why on earth was she thinking
about orgasms?
“I’ll be good.”
She stopped and whipped around to
face The Stripper. “What did you say?”
“I’ll be good,” he repeated,
glancing at the floor.
Damn him for humbling himself, or
had he read her mind? “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged. “I’m trying to calm
you down. I’ll behave, I’ll do whatever you want if you’ll just stop being so damned
pissed off at me.”
“I’m not pissed off at you!”
Johnny poked his head out of the
first aid room. “Everything okay?”
“Fine, damn it,” she snapped.
“Oh, okay.” He shut the door.
She was making an ass out of
herself.
“Well, let’s get this over with,”
she said, marching into first aid. She tossed her pack beside an empty massage
table. “Lie down.”
Johnny eyed The Stripper and they
both shrugged.
“Should I take a shower first?”
The Stripper asked.
“After.” She pulled out eucalyptus
lavender oil and rubbed it between her hands.
“What about—”
“Stop talking and lie there.”
“I’ll be right back,” Johnny said,
helping Daring Durk to the door.
She started on The Stripper,
spreading her hands across his shoulders and down, tracing his chakra points
with her fingertips. Heat raced up her arms. She didn’t want to have her hands
on this guy. He reeked of sex and danger. A tickle of heaviness settled low
between her legs.
This was totally unprofessional!
What was wrong with her? Refocus. Fan out like a butterfly’s wings, press
into the spine. Lower, spread out...
Her hands traced over a rough spot
on his skin, then another. Scars. Round, rugged scars that looked like ...
bullet wounds?
She snapped her hands back. He
turned his head and looked at her, his eyelids heavy.
“What?” he said.
“What the hell happened to you?”
He closed his eyes for a second,
took a deep breath, and in one swift move got off the table.
“Nothing,” he said, heading for
the door.
“I didn’t say you could leave.”
He turned to her, his hair hanging
into his eyes, his hands resting on his hips. But he didn’t make eye contact.
“Get back on the table,” she
ordered.
“Why? So you can beat me up some
more?”
“Wait, what I was doing ... it was
hurting you?”
“Forget it.”
“Jason—”
“Don’t.” He pointed his index finger
at her. “I don’t need a massage, and I surely don’t need you psychoanalyzing me
and digging into my secrets. It’s none of your business.”
“But your body is. Come on, get
back on the table.”
He hesitated, and Sandy held her
breath. This guy wasn’t used to taking orders from a woman. He definitely had
some kind of twisted female issues, one more reason to keep her distance. Sandy
needed normal, solid, and predictable.
With a resigned sigh, he ambled to
the bed and flopped down. She went back to work, trying to distance her mind
from her hands, to click into automatic healer mode. She’d done it plenty of
times when she’d worked on arrogant slugs who didn’t respect her gift.
But this man was different. He was
real and raw. And something in him called out to her.
Oh crap, she thought, pressing the
heel of her right palm into his back. This wasn’t about The Stripper as much as
it was about Sandy needing a man to mend that broken spot inside of her. One
thing for
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