Muscle for Hire(9)
“Chris,” she tried again.
“I can take care of your sister,” Aslin said.
To Rowan’s horror, her cheeks flooded with heat, but whether it was the far-too sexy sound of his accent or the utterly confident calm of his tone, she didn’t know. Both made her think instantly of being taken by him—his head buried between her thighs, his tongue rasping over her clit as his hands roamed her body…
The throb in her pussy grew thicker, hotter, and she looked at him, noting the ambiguous expression on his face, the quiet strength in his body. She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him—and her brother—to piss off, but he spoke before she could.
“I know exactly what to do with her.” The edges of his lips curled a little, his gaze holding hers. “Exactly.”
Rowan’s mouth went dry. Even as her sex constricted and the crotch of her panties grew damp.
Oh boy. This was not what she expected.
What the fuck did she do now?
Chapter Three
The sweat trickled down Aslin’s temples, but he ignored it. His muscles burned, flooded with energy. He studied Rowan, his heart pounding, his body on fire. Fuck, he’d never felt so charged. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say his veins flowed with concentrated adrenaline. And lust.
Who would have thought it?
He sucked in a swift breath. He’d never been a man for self-delusion. When he recognised in himself a want, desire or opinion, he acknowledged it and, if possible, acted on it. His time as Nick’s bodyguard had taught him about the dangers and vices of self-indulgence, and his years in Her Majesty’s service taught him self-discipline and control.
That he was sexually attracted to Chris Huntley’s sister was a given.
What he was going to do about it wasn’t.
His blood on fire, he studied the American as she rocked back and forth. Her exquisitely fit body was beyond sublime, her long thighs firm and toned. Her hips rolled with confident purpose, the rhythm moving through her close to perfection as she rode the mechanical bull between her legs.
Another cheer reverberated around the Buckshot Saloon, one of Sydney’s most popular American-themed nightclubs, as the mechanical bull lurched to the left with violent speed. The crowd cheered louder as Rowan clung on with all the skill of a professional rodeo rider.
She let out a squeal of laughter, her smile wide and open. When he’d first brought her here—after a good hour’s worth of crawling through Sydney’s peak-hour traffic on his bike, her inner thighs pressed against his hips, the tips of her breasts brushing his back whenever he braked—she’d looked at him like he’d grown an extra head.
“Seriously?” She’d cocked an eyebrow at him, her long blonde hair scraped back in a ponytail his fingers just itched to release. “This is what you think I want right now?”
A thick spasm had claimed Aslin’s cock at her choice of words. He’d known what he wanted right there and then, but despite the desire he’d seen in Rowan’s eyes every time she’d turned her gaze on him back in Chris’s trailer, he didn’t think it was right to suggest it. For one thing, he’d also noticed anger in her eyes. And confusion.
So instead he’d brought her here, to the Buckshot, a place guaranteed to give anyone who enjoyed testing their physical limits a good time. If nothing else, the mechanical bull allowed them both to work off their pent-up tension.
Out in the middle of the riding area, Rowan whiplashed backward, one arm arcing behind her head as the machine between her legs took a savage nosedive. Every man with a pulse watched her, enrapt. Aslin couldn’t miss that. He’d scanned the crowd after his own go on the bull, biting back a growl at what he saw. The second Rowan had taken his place, had swung one long, black-leather-clad leg over the saddle, every male in the club had paused, drinks forgotten in their hands, stares locked on the woman astride the machine.
Every single one of them, Aslin suspected, would have traded places with the bull in a heartbeat.
Sitting at their table on the perimeter of the riding mat, Aslin didn’t doubt many of those men were preparing to make their move when Rowan finished her turn.
The way she rode the mechanical bull, the way her body moved, the way her breasts strained against the snug black T-shirt she wore, the way her laughter escaped her in breathless gasps…hell, even the sexy American accent that filled the club every time she called out, “Yeah! Oh boy, that’s it, that’s it!” was turning the audience of red-blooded males into a frenzied pack with only one thing on its collective mind. Rutting.
Or is that just you?
Aslin drew a slow breath and let his gaze move from the vision of Rowan riding the bull to the crowd watching the show. No. It wasn’t just him. More than one man stared at her, more than one disgruntled girlfriend or wife glared at their partner’s mesmerized face.