| “Hey, babe, what took you so long?” he asked, his voice rumbling.
He sounded almost disinterested, with a hint of rude on top.
She put her hand out to shake his. “Ashleen Craig. Mac Tudor told me
where to find you.”
His big hand wrapped around hers and without a word, he gently tugged her between
his legs. His thighs trapped her hips, and his arms came about her waist.
“What—?” she asked in alarm as the heat and strength of his
arms enveloped her.
“Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her breath caught in her chest. Even his innocent-sounding question sent ripples
of need into her loins like illicit suggestions.
“Mr. Powell—”
“Honey, you can dispense with the formality. No one cares in here.”
Her palms braced against muscled pectorals as she drew a breath to protest
his oafish behavior. “My name is Ashleen, not honey.”
He leaned in close and whispered in her ear, “Make it look good, Miss
Craig.”
“Are you Bridger Powell or not?” she whispered back into his ear.
“If not, get your fucking hands off me.”
He chuckled, and the sexy sound sent heated, toe-curling desire straight through
her body. Once more, his voice slipped into her ear. “You’ve got the
right man.” His arms tightened. “Don’t look now, but there are
at least a half-dozen very creepy shits eyeballing your ass and waiting to get
a piece of it.” His lips brushed her ear in a tingling caress, his breath
hot. “Play along, and I’ll ease us out of this situation.”
“What are you doing?” She kept her voice as low as possible. “You’re
an employee of the SIA—”
“I’ve got a room for us,” he said a bit louder, as if he
wanted the cretins in the bar to hear him. “You can tell me all about your
troubles there, babe.”
Babe?
Every feministic molecule in her body coiled to strike then retreated again
in amazement. Her body didn’t give a shit. Her flesh responded in a very
base “come-and-fuck-me” way she’d never experienced around a
man before. The guy must have pheromones off the charts.
Speechless, she waited while his hands spread over her back and pressed her
nearer his big, muscled body. Her hands wandered almost instinctively over his
chest again. He inhaled, his nose buried in the curls at her temple.
“Jesus, honey, you smell good.” The husky statement came out on
a groan of enjoyment.
Heat spread through her loins, and to her mortification, moisture pooled and
trickled from her pussy. Oh, my God, my God. Had she lost her mind?
Apparently she had, somewhere over the ocean as she was flying to Puerto Azul,
worried out of her mind for brother.
One of Bridger’s hands cupped the back of her neck, the other slipped
past her lower back and spread over the area separating her butt cheeks. He cupped
her. She started a little at the intimate touch, and she heard snickers from some
of the other men continuing to watch the show.
“Easy,” he said into her ear, pitching his voice so the others
couldn’t hear over the raucous music squawking from a jukebox in the corner.
He drew back enough to pin her with a look so intimate, she could have sworn
he saw into her soul. Then, without so much as a how do you do, his lips came
down on hers. Soul searing and yet laced with amazing tenderness, the kiss silenced
her.
Warm and firm, his mouth caressed with searing passion. Her heart slammed in
her chest as his lips conquered with movements both sensual and stirring. Heat
swamped her lower body as his tongue plunged between her lips and tangled with
hers for one bone-melting moment before retreating. A few seconds might have gone
by before his lips left hers. She gazed at him, dumbfounded and with growing irritation.
Bridger’s expression held one part amusement, one part equal surprise, as
if he hadn’t expected their raging hot connection.
Once again, he whispered in her ear. “Come with me into the hallway where
we can talk in private.”
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