The Good Girl In My Bed (Dangerous Desire Book 2)

by Lexxie Couper

  Dianne let out a sigh, cast Sami a disappointed look and then turned and tottered across the dirt track leading to the pit exit.

  It took Sami half a second to realize the entire exchange had been witnessed by more than one member of the media.

  Crap.

  Turning to the hovering photographers and journalists, she flashed them a grin. “Who wants to ask me if I think Eli Swanson is afraid to challenge me in a freestyle race?”

  Beside her, Jay let out a snort.

  “So you really do think you could beat him?” a male reporter from the leading Australia sports station asked, microphone pointed at her. “You really think you’re better than the three-time International Motocross Champion?”

  Sami let her grin stretch wider. “I don’t think it, Mike. I know it.”

  “What do you think, Rutledge?” The reporter, Michael Bailey, swung his mic to Jay. “You were Swanson’s mechanic for five years before jumping ship and joining Team Charlton. Do you think she’s got what it takes?”

  Jay slid Sami a sideways inspection. “Fucking oath,” he said, holding her gaze.

  For some reason, and for the first time, it dawned on Sami how incredibly blue his eyes were.

  Blue and direct and burning with—

  “So, Sami, what would you bet to get the chance to prove you’re better than him?” Michael asked, his tone humored.

  Heart thumping faster than it really had any right to, Sami tried to drag her stare from Jay’s. Tried but failed.

  Holy fuck, since when did her mechanic have such sexy eyes?

  Since forever, woman. Admit it. You’ve always thought his eyes were gorgeous. You’ve just never seen him looking at you with such obvious…

  An unexpected throb pulsed into warm life at the junction of her thighs.

  Sami swallowed. Fuck, why the fuck was she suddenly so horny?

  “Ms. Charlton?” the reporter prompted. “What would you bet to—”

  “Anything.” The single word answer fell from her lips in little more than a husky murmur.

  Jay’s jaw bunched. That heat she’d never seen in his eyes before flared again.

  Never seen before? Or never noticed before?

  The guffaws of the surrounding media yanked her out of the disquieting moment.

  Michael Bailey laughed, scribbling something in the notepad in his hand. “Brave woman.”

  The sound of the Bee Gees singing Stayin’ Alive filled the air before Sami could respond.

  Jay’s mobile phone.

  Her mechanic bit back a muttered curse and turned away from Sami and the media, withdrawing his phone from the back pocket of his coveralls as he did so.

  Sami found her gaze roaming over him. God, he had a nice back. And shoulders. And an incredible butt.

  Sami shifted on her feet, gripping her helmet tighter with hands that for some reason wanted to shake. What the hell was going on with her? What was meant to be a relaxed demonstration for her sponsors and the media to celebrate her latest title had somehow become wholly not relaxing. Maybe she needed to fire up her bike, rev it up a bit and cliffhanger and can can a couple of orgasms her way. Climax away the weird, funky tension trying to fuck with—

  “That’s what Biggest Dickus wants me to tell her?”

  Jay’s low voice uttering his nickname for Swanson jerked Sami back to the pit. And her mechanic. If she’d heard him, the gathering media would have as well. Michael Bailey was probably doing an internal dance of joy; he damn near had a cottage industry going reporting on the Swanson/Charlton rivalry.

  She studied Jay’s back, his broad back, with its broad shoulders and narrow hips and tight—

  “Word for word?” he asked into his phone.

  A pause followed. A short one.

  “Okay then,” Jay went on. “But it’s Swanson’s funeral.”

  He disconnected the call, shoved his phone into his pocket and then turned back to Sami, his expression as unreadable as his voice. “Swanson’s agreed to your bet. He wants to discuss with you in his private box what he gets when he beats you.”

  Sami’s tummy clenched.

  Jay’s stare held hers. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “The emphasis,” he said, “is his.”

  Eli didn’t consider himself an arrogant or conceited man. He just knew he was better than anyone else at what he did.

  He wasn’t North American Motocross Champion five times running, nor International Motocross Champion three times running, because he was average. He was far from average.

  Nor had he achieved such success because he played it safe.

  Playing it safe was for the weak, and he wasn’t weak either.

  He’d been weak once. He wouldn’t be so again. Being weak had cost him. A mechanic and a friend.

  “Arrogant” and “conceited” were words used to describe him, however. By the media, his fans and his sponsors. His rivals also called him the same, along with “dangerous”, “insane” and “ruthless”.

  Of all the titles and names bestowed upon him, his favorite—fuck-knuckle—had been granted to him by the woman currently shaking her head at his ex-head mechanic on the television screen before him.

  Watching Sami Charlton argue with Jay Rutledge, he wished the reporter controlling the live feed from Fox Sports would forget professional ethics for one moment and direct the camera’s mic at the pair.

  Not only did he want to hear Sami’s Australian accent, he wanted to hear what she was calling him today. And what his one-time best friend was calling him as well.

  Which one was arguing against his invitation, he wondered.

  Rutledge? He and his ex-mechanic had not parted company on the best of terms, but they’d once shared almost everything.

  At the sight of Jay shaking his head and stabbing his finger to the center of his palm, Eli guessed the mechanic wasn’t singing his praises. He’d seen that very body language before. The day Jay told him he was an “arrogant fuck” who was going to die all alone if he wasn’t careful.

  “Careful” was another thing Eli didn’t do. In any aspect of his life, a fact he’d pointed out to Jay.

  It was only when he’d seen Rutledge on ESPN a week later, standing beside Sami as her new mechanic, that he’d realized the Australian had returned to his homeland and gotten himself an Australian boss.

  One Eli wanted to fuck with every bone, every fiber, every molecule in his body.

  Turning his attention to Sami on the screen, Eli’s cock pulsed.

  He’d kissed her once. After she’d come second to him in a charity ride for childhood leukemia in Tennessee last year.

  Kissed her like he wanted to fuck her—hard and with possessive hunger.

  The media covering the event had captured the kiss and the fiery lust in Sami’s eyes when he’d released her.

  He watched that footage every night. Went to bed with the memory of it in his head and in his body.

  Two weeks later, body pent-up with denied desire and charged energy, he’d been asked by a reporter on CNN if he thought female MX riders were as good as their male counterparts. The reporter had pointed out Sami came close to beating him in the charity ride.

  Eli had said no to the notion.

  He’d wanted an excuse for Sami Charlton to contact him. To confront him. To give him a piece of her feisty, fired-up mind.

  She hadn’t. Instead, she’d called him a fuck-knuckle live on air during an interview.

  Settling back in his seat now, he watched her throw up her hands at Rutledge. Watched her utter words he couldn’t hear with lips he ached to taste again.

  Had Jay tasted them?

  His ex-mechanic had had a thing for her for a long time, ever since she first appeared on the international circuit—a risk-taking rider with a trashy mouth and a hot body.

  Jay didn’t think Eli knew about his desire for the woman, but Eli did.

  On screen, Sami threw her helmet straight at Jay’s chest, spun on her heel and stormed out of the camera’s f
rame, leaving her mechanic with a scowl on his face.

  It would appear Rutledge had lost the argument.

  “Care to comment, Jay?”

  Eli smiled as the reporter—Michael something or other—shoved his mic in Rutledge’s face.

  Rutledge rolled his eyes. “To borrow my boss’s words: my arse, your lips.”

  And with that, he walked out of the shot. But not before Eli saw him yank his cell from his pocket.

  On a small table beside his chair, Eli’s phone rang.

  His heart thumped harder in his throat. His groin throbbed.

  Waving a dismissive hand at Dianne as she reached for the ringing phone, he waited.

  A few moments later, silence filled the room.

  A second after that, the voice mail alert sounded.

  “Why don’t you get yourself a coffee, Dianne,” he said with a smile for his personal assistant.

  “Thank you, Mr. Swanson. Do you want anything?”

  He shook his head, and then waited until she had exited the private box—provided today by one of his minor sponsors—before retrieving his cell and listening to Rutledge’s message.

  “Sam says you’re on.”

  Eli returned his phone to the table.

  He thought of the way she’d responded to his surprise kiss a year ago, of the wild, almost uninhibited way she rode a circuit. Of the insane tricks she pulled when freestyling. Thought of the heated venom she used when talking about him to reporters.

  And then, chest tight, groin tighter, he allowed himself to think of the foolish bet she’d made but a few moments ago.

  Anything. She’s bet anything she could beat him.

  He smiled again, an expression he knew people would label smug. Let’s see how true to her words—and how confident in her skills—she really is.

  Settling back in his chair, he rested his ankle on his knee and took a sip of mineral water from the sweating glass in his hand. Savored the icy-cold liquid as it flowed down his throat. Focused on it.

  Drew a slow breath, held it for a count of five and released it.

  Took another sip of water and studied the cloudless blue sky beyond the tinted window before him.

  The door to the private box crashed open. A gust of hot, petrol-tainted air rushed into the room, followed immediately by the heat of Sami Charlton’s ire.

  “When you win?” she sputtered, repeating the words he’d had Dianne deliver to Rutledge in their earlier telephone conversation.

  He didn’t rise from the chair as she stomped to where he sat.

  Instead, he took another sip of water, ignoring her.

  She stopped directly in front of him, hands balled on her slim hips, legs spread, eyes flashing bloody murder.

  “You said ‘anything’, correct?” he asked, emphasizing his Southern drawl with deliberate intent. She’d once declared his accent “as sexy as all hell” during an interview. Of course, that was before he’d kissed her in Tennessee. Before the infamous are-males-better-than-females question.

  Jaw bunching, Sami grabbed the arms of his chair and moved her face closer to his. So close he could feel her indignant pants on his lips.

  His cock throbbed.

  “Anything,” she snarled.

  “Even this?” he asked, a second before he snared a fistful of the cropped mess of hair at the back of her head and yanked her mouth to his.

  Chapter 2

  “Anything,” Jay muttered, tossing Sami’s helmet to one of his crew. “Friggin’ anything.”

  His crew, the best team of mechanics he’d ever worked with, stood back. He didn’t have a bad temper, but they knew when he needed to storm.

  The garage space at Sydney Stadium—Team Charlton’s permanent base—was big enough to accommodate all of Sami’s bikes and gear, all of his equipment and, it seemed, his current pissed-off state.

  “Anything,” he muttered, picking up a carburetor adjustment screwdriver from a nearby counter, only to glare at it and toss it back down.

  “You okay, boss?”

  Jay raked his hands through his hair—Christ, when had it gotten so shaggy?—and flung a disgruntled glance at the open garage door.

  Anything.

  He knew exactly what Eli would want if she lost the race.

  What the hell had Sam been thinking?

  You know what she’d been thinking. You saw it in her eyes. Every damn emotion and thought she ever has is telegraphed on her face. She was looking at you, and for the first time since you started working for her, you saw in her eyes…

  Jay’s pulse quickened.

  Desire. He’d seen desire.

  Raw and hot and unexpected.

  It had distracted her, as much as it had unarmed him.

  His boss had been looking at him with open sexual interest, had been distracted by it enough to make that ridiculous bet, and then Swanson had called and no matter what Jay said, she’d agreed to go see him to discuss the challenge.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, heading for the door.

  “Boss?”

  “Reg, you get to shut up shop,” he threw over his shoulder, not slowing down. “And if any of you see Sam before you see me again, you are under orders to ocky-strap her to the chair in my office and keep her there.”

  He didn’t wait to see his crew’s reaction. His body, however, made it clear how it felt about tying Sami Charlton to a chair with bungee cords. Or any kind of cord…or rope…

  Jesus.

  Ignoring the purely physical response—difficult as it was; walking with a semi-hard-on was never easy—Jay exited the garage and headed for the corporate box Eli Swanson was ensconced in.

  He had to stop Sami agreeing to the stupid bet.

  Before the Yank bastard got his mitts into her again.

  An image of Swanson and Sami writhing completely naked on a bed filled Jay’s head, and his feet stumbled beneath him midstride.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, trying to clear his head.

  But it didn’t matter how much he scrunched his eyes shut and grimaced around gritted teeth, in his mind, Eli Swanson traced the tip of his tongue the length of Sami’s inner thigh until his face was buried between her spread legs and Sami arched on the mattress, kneading her own breasts as she rolled her head from side to side and begged him to make her—

  Jay burst into a sprint, his cock no longer semi-hard but a rigid shaft. Harder than it had a right being, given the way his mind was torturing him.

  Taking the concrete stairs leading up to Swanson’s private box two at a time, Jay balled his fists to the point of pain. It didn’t help. By the time he arrived at the corporate box’s closed door, the image in his mind had become something more than torturous. Something beyond arousing.

  Something too appealing. Too inviting.

  An image involving not just Eli and Sami, but…

  It’s reminding you how fucking amazing it is to share a woman with Swanson. And how much you want Sami for yourself.

  Stupid fucking mind.

  Heart wild, balls throbbing, he hammered the side of his fist against the closed door.

  In his mind, Swanson lifted his head from between Sami’s thighs…just as Sami reached for Jay’s erect cock and slid her lips over its bulbous crown.

  Eyes closed, Jay mashed his forehead against the door and let out a tormented groan.

  No. No, he didn’t want to go there.

  Bullshit. Has your cock ever been harder?

  He hammered his fist against the solid wood again. “Sam,” he shouted, and even to his own ears, her name sounded more like a wretched plea. “Don’t let the fucking bastard—”

  The door swung open.

  Jay tumbled over the threshold, catching his balance a second before he slammed into a soft, warm body.

  “Jay?” Sami’s voice flayed at his senses as strong fingers wrapped around his biceps.

  In one savage move, he grabbed Sami around the waist, yanked her to his body and crushed her mouth with his.

&nb
sp; She stilled against him for barely a heartbeat, body stiff and rigid, and then tangled her fingers in his hair and met his fierce hunger with equal greed.

  Again, for barely a heartbeat.

  Tearing her lips from his, Sami pressed her palms to his chest and pushed their upper bodies apart. She gaped up at him, confusion warring with another emotion Jay couldn’t identify in her eyes. “What the fuck, Jay?”

  “I think,” Eli’s broad Southern accent filled the strangled silence, “that Rutledge is doing his best to mark his territory.”

  Red rage flooded Jay. Tainted sour by the mocking truth of Eli’s declaration.

  He flung a glare at the American, even as his body thrummed hotter with a primitive need. “Unless you want me to break that pretty-boy jaw of yours, Swanson, I’d suggest you—”

  “Whoa whoa whoa.” Sami squirmed out of Jay’s arms, incredulous shock on her face as she made a T with her hands. “Time out.”

  Eli chuckled, the sound smug.

  Turning away from the bastard, Jay balled his fists at his sides, too close to a violent edge he feared he’d fall over if he weren’t careful.

  “Sam,” he began, reaching for his boss’s hand. “I need…I should have…”

  Sami frowned, retracting her hand before his fingers could find hers. “What’s going on, Jay? You just storm in here and kiss me? Since when do you carry on like some kind of caveman? Wanna drag me out of the room by my hair as well?”

  Chest tight, Jay drew in a slow breath. “Okay, I know that came out of nowhere, but I also know Swanson wants to get in your pants. A lot.”

  Sami cocked an eyebrow. “And if I want him to?” she asked, her tone ambiguous. “What business is that of yours?”

  Jay swallowed. For the first time since knowing her, he couldn’t read what was going on in her head. Not at all.

  Uh-oh.

  Mouth dry, he studied her face. “Do you?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Rutledge.” She planted her palms on his chest and shoved. Hard. “If you’d come barging through the door five seconds earlier, you would have witnessed Swanson doubled-over in pain thanks to my knee firmly slamming into his nuts after he kissed me.”