Muscle for Hire(25)

Only to have the suite’s many phones burst into ringing life the second the warm water started streaming over her naked body.

“Damn it.” She killed the water, wrapped the fluffiest towel in the world around her torso and hurried to the closest phone. “Hello?”

“I’m waiting in the lobby.” Aslin’s deep voice caressed her senses through the connection, his British accent making her sex throb again. And her nipples pinch tight.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Her lips parted in a silent gasp. She gripped the hand piece, her knuckles popping.

There was a soft chuckle, most likely at Rowan’s complete failure to respond to Aslin’s statement. “Don’t forget my helmet.”

He disconnected before she could say anything. Which really pissed her off.

Damn him. Who the fuck did he think he was?

The guy who made you whimper and beg to be fucked on the back of a Ducati last night after only knowing you for twelve hours, that’s who.

Still, she wasn’t going to play his game. Damn him.

Returning to the shower, she washed her hair. Twice. And then conditioned it. And then snared Chris’s razor—conveniently perched on the soap rack—and shaved her legs and under her arms. Then she stood under the warm water, palms to the marble wall, head down, eyes closed, lips parted and counted to one hundred. Twice.

You’re playing with fire, woman.

The thought made her heartbeat quicken. Her pussy contracted. She imagined Aslin kicking the door to the suite open, his nostrils flaring, his expression promising pain and pleasure.

She pictured him storming across the lush carpet to the bathroom. Saw him closing the distance between the door and the shower with long, steady strides. Felt his hand circle her wrist as he pulled her from the water and yanked her against his chest. Felt his erection grind against her belly.

Her head swum at the delirious fantasy. Her breath grew shallow. Ragged.

She opened her eyes and raised her head.

Just as the shower cubicle’s steam-fogged glass door opened.

She gasped, staring at the man standing on the other side, her pulse detonating in her throat.

“You do know Sydney is experiencing a drought at the moment?” Aslin’s dark brown eyes revealed nothing. “A thirty-five-minute shower is a might excessive, even if you are trying to avoid me.”

Rowan gazed at him. Her breasts ached. She knew she should smack the shit out of him. She knew she should at least tell him to fuck off. Instead, she stared at him, her nipples way too hard, her pussy prickling with eager want.

“How did you…” She stopped.

The smallest of smiles pulled at one side of Aslin’s mouth. “Nick stayed here whenever he was in Australia. He and his wife spent their wedding night here.”

Rowan drew a deep breath, pushing herself from the wall. The water continued to stream over her body. Down between her swollen breasts, over her belly, between her thighs, over the seam of her sex… “So what? You know the manager?”

Aslin inclined his head. Not once did his stare waver from her face.

“And he just let you come on up?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t that nice of him.”

Another single nod of his head.

She swallowed. Straightened her spine. Tilted her chin. “And now you’re here, what do you plan to do?”

His nostrils flared. His jaw bunched.

Grab my wrist. Grab my wrist and yank me to your body. Kiss me. Fuck me. Please. Please do that. Oh God, please…

“Tell you to bloody well hurry up.” His voice was a rumble, like distant thunder.

She caught her bottom lip with her teeth. And bit back a groan of protest when he turned and walked from the bathroom.

Her heart hammered. Her sex pulsed and throbbed and squeezed a cock that wasn’t there.

She stared hard at the closed bathroom door, willing him to walk through it. Willing him to take away any choice she had.

But he didn’t.

Throat thick, disgust licking through her, she snapped off the water and stepped out of the shower stall.

She dried herself with savage force, the world’s fluffiest towel an instrument of punishment in her hands as she rubbed it against her skin like a frenzied house painter sanding the walls.

When she knew drying herself had dragged into hiding out in the bathroom, she wrapped the towel around her chest, raked her fingers through her damp hair and exited the room.

Aslin stood on the balcony, his back to the suite. His legs were braced apart, his hands planted on the steel railing.

Rowan studied his wide back, her gaze charting a journey over the sculpted strength of his shoulders, his lats, down to the bunched perfection of his gluteus maximus.

Day-um, he had a gorgeous ass.

“You’ve got ten minutes, Rowan.” She flinched at the low statement thrown at her over his right shoulder without looking at her.