by Cara Nelson
“Prostitution, then.”
“Again, by definition, a financial transaction. I have never had to pay for or even coerce sexual favors from anyone.”
“You’re awfully insecure for such an arrogant man. I’d like to add you to my repertoire. May I record you?”
Jasper bristled at the implication and set his jaw. “No,” he barked.
“I’ll give you back the phone in three days—that’s when I’ll get my real phone back—if you’ll let me record you being arrogant and manipulative. I’d like to study your intonation and see if I can imitate it for work purposes. It’s more complex than I first thought,” she offered, dropping her voice so he had to step closer.
“No one is studying my voice. I’m not a test subject. I’m a CEO.”
“Congratulations. You must be very proud,” Hannah said slyly. “You’re not getting the phone tonight, and you’re obviously not going to get laid unless you mobilize another disposable tart. So I’ll buy you a cup of coffee if you’ll keep talking to me.”
“I don’t drink coffee,” he spat reflexively.
He was tempted to go to a diner with her, to keep talking to her, to see if he could win her over and perhaps to convince her to put that luscious mouth on him. She had full lips, bordering on a pout, but a tight, cross expression ruined their sensuality. Jasper thought that, given a chance, he could do away with her look of profound dissatisfaction.
“Okay. I’ll have coffee and you can have water or something healthy like that. Unless you’re afraid of tap water, too.”
“Why would I be afraid of tap water?” he said sourly.
“You acted like I asked you to tip back a mug of battery acid when I mentioned coffee. I assume it’s got additives or carcinogens or some crap like that and you’re afraid to drink it. Live a little.”
“I was trying to, but you took her phone,” he said with a rakish grin. “What kind of coffee do you drink? Isn’t tea better for your vocal chords?”
“Yes, Mom. I like coffee. The kind with lots of caffeine and sugar, and whipped cream if I can get it.” She laughed at him.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, equally irritated and aroused by her. This, he supposed, was banter…that snappy nonsense from black and white films that Clare used to go on about. He recalled her perpetual whining that he was a terrible communicator and never engaged with her. Why had he thought of her now? She had been utterly unlike this street urchin with the sexy voice and the fierce opinions. Banter was easy with Hannah Largent because she got a rise out of him.
“I’ll buy you a cup of coffee, all the whipped cream you want, and you can listen to me speak while I convince you to relinquish the phone to its rightful owner.” Jasper dialed up the charm, knowing full well that his smile was warm and showing just the hint of a dimple in his right cheek. Women loved that dimple.
“Sure. I’ll drink free coffee, but you’re not getting the phone. Let’s say it’s in the name of linguistics research.”
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Excerpt From Fight (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood)
Zoe watched, biting her lip. This was the sort of pugilistic display she had always ridiculed—all that testosterone and all that macho posing. Now it was strangely thrilling, the sweat glistening off taut muscles, the tension and conflict, the broad power of his shoulders and back, the wet look of the blue-green ink of his tattoo. She shrugged out of her jean jacket, feeling suddenly overheated just watching him. She tried to hold the camera steady but all she could think of was climbing between the ropes and running her hands all over his bare chest and arms, licking the sweat from his neck and kissing his mouth. It was primitive and visceral, the sexual tang of battle coursing through her as she watched him fight.
Within seconds, the opponent was back on his feet but breathing hard. Sweat and the rusty tinge of blood were thick in the air. The crowd that had been rowdy had grown more silent, hanging by the tension. Saxon circled Aaron, trying to get close enough for a hit. Aaron toyed with him in another series of long jabs, exhausting his shorter opponent. He swung at Saxon’s side and barely connected, a calculated miss that drew the man in closer. Aaron attacked him savagely, striking his eye and nose in a quick pair of hits, then landing a vicious set of body blows. Saxon fell to the mat, curling in on himself for protection as Aaron continued to pound him. He was dragged off by an official and two bouncers and declared the victor. The audience screamed wildly, and the gamblers collected their winnings on successful bets, buying rounds of drinks for the room.
Aaron wiped his face with a towel and downed a bottle of water, reveling in the adulation of his brother, his boss, the crowd. Baylee and Mia, the ring bunnies, hung on him for a picture and people whipped out their phones to capture his victory. Zoe fought her way through the crowd to his side. Holding up her camera to indicate her need for an interview, she waited, tight-lipped, for his comment. She wanted to hit Baylee and Mia in the face with her own forehead. She didn’t like them touching Aaron, especially not when touching him was all she could think about. Her very fingertips tingled with the longing to trace the lines of his tattoo, the curve and bulge of the muscles on his chest. Chewing her lip, she stood in an agony of silence, recording.
Excerpt From Fight (Bareknuckle Boxing Brotherhood)
Copyright Cara Nelson 2014
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