by Amy Andrews
She’d felt it, too.
He could tell by the slight widening of her eyes and the sudden frizz of static in her mop of tight curls.
Bodie narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?” Speculation gleamed in his clear gaze, and Linc got an itch up his spine. “Fancy a little wager?”
Linc was just about to open his mouth to reject any suggestion of betting on him scoring with Harper’s bestie when Ryder, who’d been rocking on his chair, thunked it down on all fours. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, tipped back his hat, and said, “I’m in.”
“Me, too,” Tanner said, sitting up straighter.
Donovan nodded. “And me.”
“What’s the bet?” Dex asked.
“Hold up, guys.” It was good for Linc’s ego that none of them doubted he could do it, but it didn’t feel right to be betting on something like this.
“How soon Linc can convince abstinent-chick to do the wild thing,” Bodie said, ignoring Linc.
“I’ve seen Linc talk a Sunday school teacher into his bed in under two hours,” Ryder said, slapping a crisp green hundred-dollar note on the table. “I say he’ll get the job done the night of the wedding.”
“I give him two months,” Tanner said, his hundred joining the other.
“Two months?” Linc’s discomfort over this whole thing was trumped by his affront. This was a crazy-ass idea, but if he really put his mind to it he sure as shit could convince Cute-and-Curly to give it up for him way sooner than sixty bloody days. “Dude…that is an insult.”
Tanner snorted. “You forget, man, I saw how she blew you off at that charity event.”
“I’m going to split the difference,” Donovan said, fishing around in his wallet, tossing another green note down. “One month.”
“You in, Dex?” Bodie asked as his hundred joined the pile.
“I’m pretty sure Harper would kick my ass for this frat boy crap, so I’m out.” He held up his hand at the barrage of chicken noises. “But I am rooting for you, Linc.” He clapped him on the back. “Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
Linc was pretty sure Cute-and-Curly would kick him in the balls for this “frat boy crap”—and he’d deserve it, too—but that nice pile of hundreds along with Tanner’s two month prediction was stirring his competitive streak.
It was sure as hell tempting.
As tempting as a pair of shapely legs and bouncy butterscotch curls.
His teammates stared at him expectantly. Screw it. He reached into his back pocket and grabbed his wallet. He threw a crisp hundred-dollar note on top of the pile.
“You’re on.”
Chapter Two
Em Newman was just drunk enough to take the edge off her lust. Which was kind of crazy considering she’d only had three glasses of champagne. Of course, after the migraine pills she’d taken a few hours ago, it might as well have been half a bottle of peach schnapps—her breakup booze of choice.
The problem was alcohol usually took the edge off her inhibitions as well. Which was a dangerous position to be in at a wedding where seventy-five percent of the guests were hot, buff rugby players in suits. Even more dangerous given that one of those guys was Lincoln Quinn.
And damned if he didn’t look good enough to eat. Or at least lick a little.
Weddings were pretty much always a guaranteed way to get laid if you were single and up for it. And normally all this testosterone would have had her fallopian tubes in a total tizz. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Or she was trying not to be, anyway.
She was Zen. She was centred. She was woman, goddamn it.
Her body was a freaking temple.
And the Lincoln Quinns of the world were not allowed in. Not anymore. Em had turned over a new leaf. Clinging like a limpet to any guy who’d love her hadn’t worked out so far. They’d only ever been interested in taking what she’d given while she’d been picking out china patterns.
She was worth more than that, damn it.
Her hiatus from men and sex had taught her a lot. About herself and her worth and what she really wanted from life and relationships.
She’d re-virginised, for crying out loud.
Mentally anyway. And physically, too, if those weird pelvic floor exercises she performed whenever she had an impure thought were any indication. A website she frequented swore by them, and she’d kind of thought they were working, but there just wasn’t enough squeeze-and-hold in the world to offset the barrage of impurity the sight of Lincoln Quinn in a tux roused.
She’d seen him in a tux before, of course. The first time she’d met him. But she’d been smarting from her most recent dumping back then.
And sober.
This was four months down the track. Four long, celibate months. Four months since she’d been held by a guy. Since she’d felt a hard male mouth on hers. Felt the heat and bulk and warmth of a man pressing her into a bed.
Since she’d even taken care of business for herself.
Em hadn’t been without a boyfriend for longer than three weeks since she’d been seventeen.
Up until this…hiatus, sex had never really been a physical thing for her. It had just been a way in. A very pleasant way in for sure, but still just a strategy, not the end goal. An entrée to the truly deep emotional connection she’d craved with a man ever since her father had walked out when she was seven.
But now? She was twenty-three years old. And she had needs, damn it.
Yes, these last four months without a man in her life, blurring her focus, had been instructive. She’d realised that sleeping with any old guy who showered her with affection was never going to make up for her father leaving them for his second family.
It had been an epiphany. The revelation she’d needed to have.
Right now, though, with her girly bits bitching at her for some attention, there was more crazy than clarity inside her head.
She threw the last mouthful of her champers down and ate the decorative strawberry that had been artfully applied to the rim of the glass. Time to go home. Before she did something really dumb, like blast Lincoln Quinn with a do-me-now stare.
Between the Moët, the migraine pills, and his tight ass, she was in the midst of a major relapse.
The wedding had been a small affair, just family and a few friends, which, on Dex’s side of the equation, meant the entire Sydney Smoke team. Although the coach was notably absent. The ceremony had been simple and the reception held in a small out-of-the-way city restaurant that had closed its doors to the public to host this very special function.
Harper had looked like a goddess in a simple cream silk slip dress that had clung to all her amazing curves, and Dex had looked dashing in a charcoal Armani suit. The love on their faces had brought a lump to Em’s throat. But they’d left ten minutes ago, and everyone else was also making a move. Most of the team was now in varying stages of leaving, even though it was barely nine o’clock. Something about an early training session in the morning.
Rugby guys. No stamina.
But probably just as well. Maybe with all that testosterone walking out the door, the insane urge to hump Lincoln Quinn’s leg would walk right out as well. Because that was exactly how she felt every time she looked at him.
Like she was in heat.
Within minutes, the restaurant had emptied out to only a few non-team wedding guests. Her nemesis was nowhere to be seen, and Em congratulated herself on her self-control as she eased off the bar stool.
Embarrassing leg-humping avoided—bravo!
Still a little lightheaded, Em collected her clutch and her wrap from her chair and headed for the doors. The cold night air helped clear her head as it enveloped her, but she didn’t bother with the fringed cashmere. The heat being generated from her heightened level of sexual awareness was like a furnace raging through her blood.
The cool kiss of air was bliss on her skin, and Em concentrated on dragging it into her lungs to defuse the hot rush of her breath and hopefully chill the molten
heat bubbling away in her core.
When she got home she was going to dig out her neglected fun box and take the edge off the worst case of horniess she’d ever experienced.
And not even the sure and certain knowledge that it would be Lincoln Quinn’s face she saw as she came was enough to change her mind. As long as she didn’t blur her fantasies with reality, she’d be safe.
The car park was still about half full, but there was no one around as Em delved into her clutch for her mobile to order an Uber.
By the time she’d reached the footpath in front of the restaurant, she’d located her phone and was opening the app. Too busy looking at the screen, she stumbled when her spiky three-inch stiletto got caught on a crack in the pavement, cursing as she wobbled and flailed momentarily to balance herself.
A low-slung car growled to a stop at the curb in front of her as she finally righted herself. She pushed an errant curl out of her eye, squinting to see who it was. It couldn’t be the Uber; she hadn’t ordered it yet.
The door opened and Lincoln Quinn—sans jacket, his black bowtie undone, the tails hanging loose from the open neck of his collar—unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. She blinked in case her overactive hormones had conjured him up.
Nope. It was definitely him.
He wasn’t as tall as Dex or Tanner—maybe only six-foot—or as beefy as Donovan, but he was solid and cut and plenty imposing enough to someone who barely made five-foot-four. The velvety sleekness of his blond buzz-cut accentuated the crazily perfect roundness of his skull and was mirrored in his ruthlessly manicured stubble. The sparseness of his cheekbones was reflected in the hard blades of his jawline.
It was as if he’d been made by some old Italian master hell-bent on creating the quintessential masculine face. Every part of it properly portioned and perfectly symmetrical.
Even his nose seemed to have avoided the hazards of his profession, sitting straight and perfect right in the centre of it all.
But then there was his mouth. And it ruined everything. It was so damn full and girly it should have been illegal on a man. It was the kind of mouth that should only be found on angels. Chick angels.
And for damn sure—after Googling him obsessively—Em knew Lincoln Quinn was no angel.
But he wore that mouth like a boss.
“You need a lift?”
Em prided herself on her smarts. She’d studied maths, physics, and chemistry at university. Her grade point average had been six-point-two, and she’d been head hunted by both industry and academia alike. Teaching, however, had always been her goal, and she’d had her choice of schools after she’d graduated.
But with Lincoln Quinn looking at her across the roof of his ridiculously phallic car, she dropped a hundred IQ points in a flash. All she could say was, “Umm…”
To make matters worse, she swayed as his heady sex appeal wrapped silken fingers around her ovaries and squeezed. Her phone dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and in her confusion and three-inch stilettos, she almost overbalanced and landed on her ass as she tried to pick the damn thing up.
By the time she’d finally righted herself, he was by her side and somehow her hand was fisted in the sleeve of his white shirt. She let go when she realised, but the ground beneath her chose that moment to tilt again and she clutched at him once more to center herself.
“Are you okay?” he asked, bending down to peer under the mop of her curls that had fallen forward over her face.
The muscle of his arm was hard beneath her palm, and the fabric of his shirt was thick and crisp, and he smelled like flowers. Manly ones. With big, flashy stamens and an aroma that reeked of sex and brought all the bees to the yard. It was overwhelmingly masculine. Her pulse quickened and her breath caught in her throat.
Fuck. She wanted to rub herself against him.
“Are you…drunk?”
“No!” Em reared back indignantly, her curls whipping across his face. The world swayed again, and she twisted her fingers into his shirt a little harder. “Well, maybe a little,” she amended. “But that’s only because of the pills.”
A soft chuckle sizzled in the cold air around them. Literally sizzled. Em half expected to see a flare of vapour appear before her eyes. “Booze and pills, huh? I didn’t have you pegged as a party girl.”
“Migraine pills,” she said testily.
Em had managed to convince herself over these past few months that actually being in Lincoln Quinn’s arms wouldn’t be that great. That it’d be awkward. That he wouldn’t live up to the fantasy.
She was wrong.
He radiated warmth and strength and the confidence of a man who knew what the hell he was doing, and she wanted to lean in a little closer. Feel his arms band around her. Press her nose to that patch of stubbly skin just visible through the open top button of his shirt and see if he smelled like flowers there, too.
It took all her strength to pull away from him. “Anyway,” she said, clearing her throat of its huskiness and mentally clearing out the lust clinging like cobwebs to her skin. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m just going to get an Uber.”
“There’s no need,” he said with an easy assurance and an even easier smile. “I can give you a ride home.”
He took two paces to his car and opened the passenger door, sweeping a theatrical hand towards it.
Dear God. The car was some kind of Porsche, and the door stood open and beckoning like a gold-embossed invitation to sin. Her car was a secondhand Hyundai with a dodgy battery. If she got into that thing, she might never want to get out.
If she got into that thing with him, she might never let him out.
She held up her phone in a desperate attempt to stave off temptation. “Really. An Uber’s fine.”
“What kind of guy would I be letting you get in a taxi with a complete stranger?” He smiled at her with perfectly white, even teeth, his voice low and teasing. “You can’t be too careful these days.”
Em snorted as she opened the app and quickly ordered one. She knew who in this whole getting-a-ride-home scenario would be at personal risk, and it wouldn’t be her. Or a taxi driver.
It would be Lincoln.
“I’m sure Harper would expect me to offer her best friend a lift home. And Dex would kick my ass if he knew I just drove off and left you standing all alone on the footpath in the middle of the night.”
“It’s nine thirty.” Em let out a strangled groan as the app told her it would be a twenty minute wait for an Uber and that surge pricing was currently being applied due to high demand, which would cost her eight times the usual fare.
“Come on, Em,” Lincoln wheedled, motioning in the direction of the dark leather interior of his car. “I won’t bite. I promise.”
Em wasn’t sure she could promise the same thing. But the low gun-metal grey car was damn tempting. And he clearly knew it as he smiled at her and slid a warm hand onto her bare arm just above her elbow.
What the hell, assuming that Harper wasn’t going to dump her as a bestie to take up with one of the WAGS, Em was going to be seeing a lot more of the man whether she wanted to or not. She might as well start practising her aloofness.
If she could survive a ride with Angel-Lips in the close confines of his penis car, then surely she’d be immune to him in any situation. Of course, in the future it would help to make sure she didn’t come into contact with him during any period of celibacy. It only enhanced his appeal, and Lincoln Quinn didn’t need any more advantages than genetics and rugby had already given him.
She almost groaned out loud as she slid into the gloriously soft seat. He shut the door after her, and the warmth and leathery smell enveloped her. Dear God, seat warmers. She didn’t realise how cold her butt and thighs were until heat seeped into them.
Within seconds, the driver’s side door had opened and clicked shut again, and he was buckling himself in, bringing flowers and angel-lips into the mix. He asked for her address then keyed it into the sat nav system before turnin
g the engine over. It started with a low purr, which she felt in her abdominal muscles.
He pumped the pedal once and the engine growled. She felt that, too. Only much, much lower.
“So…what’s Em short for?” he asked as he pulled away from the kerb. “Emma? Emily? Emmeline?”
Em shook her head. Harper was the only person other than her parents—and official government departments—who knew her real name. And that was the way it was going to stay. She despised the hopelessly old-fashioned name—a family name—given to her by her parents. They might as well have called her Doris and been done with it. Her two middle names were no better.
The only person who still called her by her full name was her father—when he remembered he had another daughter at all.
One more reason she’d rather forget it.
“Nothing.” She looked out the window, feeling all warm and floaty despite being annoyed at the question. “Just Em.”
“Somehow I don’t quite believe you.”
She rolled her head along the headrest—it was like a freaking cloud—to face him. “I can live with that.”
He grinned, clearly not perturbed by her recalcitrance. Those beautiful lips curved into two plush crescents, and she almost sighed. She bet there wasn’t a woman on earth that wouldn’t tell those lips anything they wanted to know. “I’m just going to keep guessing until I find out—you know that, right?”
Em quirked an eyebrow. “Because you’re annoying like that?”
He chuckled. “I’ve been told I have certain annoying characteristics.”
“Well, thankfully we won’t be seeing that much of each other.”
“We could,” he said, glancing at her before returning his attention to the road. “We could be seeing a whole lot of each other.”
She almost laughed out loud. It had taken him about a minute to cut to the chase. She should have been affronted, but she’d been celibate for too long and Lincoln Quinn was her hormones’ hottie of choice.
Thankfully, they weren’t in charge here. “Nope,” she said. “Not going to happen.”