by Amy Andrews
Of course he had. She had clearly been some kind of bet or dare or something with his team buddies. At twenty-three, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the butt of some douche’s idea of a good time. I dare you to ask the fat chick out. Snigger, snort, backslap.
Some men were such assholes.
But it had been so good, even momentarily, to put her sanctimonious step-brother in his place.
“Harper? It’s Dex the Stud. Remember me?”
His voice was warm and rich with amusement, and Harper shut her eyes. Remember him? She’d relived him asking her out about a dozen times, no matter how much she’d told herself it had all been some sick joke. It had been the first thing she’d told Em after her friend had stopped crying and asked for something happy to cheer her up.
Then they’d Googled him.
“Harper?”
His voice was sharper this time and Harper pulled herself together, sitting straighter in the chair. “Yes. Of course… Hi.”
“You sound kinda…outta it.”
Harper eyed the empty wine bottle and the full one she’d just cracked open. “Well…I’m kinda drunk, so that’s probably why.”
His low chuckle slid seductive fingers down her neck. “The girlfriend emergency?”
“Yup.”
Em looked over her shoulder. “Who is it?”
“Dex.”
Her eyebrows practically hit her hairline. “The rugby dude?”
“Is that the girlfriend?” Dex asked in her ear.
“Yup,” she said to them both.
“Ask him if he knows how to re-virginise.”
Harper shook her head. “I’m not asking him that.”
“Asking me what?” His voice sounded delicious when it was amused. Thick and gooey, oozing all over her body. Like chocolate topping.
God, she loved chocolate topping.
“You should totally ask me whatever it is.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
“Are you kidding?” Em interrupted. “He’s a professional rugby star. Everyone knows they get laid all the time. What he doesn’t know about a woman’s anatomy probably isn’t worth knowing. He’ll know about re-virginising.”
Harper thought it more likely he’d know about de-virginising.
“Did she just say re-virginising?”
Had Harper been sober, she would have paid more heed to Em’s sage words about the mating habits of professional sportsmen and not the sweet seduction of a chocolate-topping voice. She sighed. “Yup.”
“Why would anyone want to re-virginise? Hell… Can someone re-virginise?”
“I don’t know and yes, apparently, according to the internet. Spiritually and surgically.”
“That sounds…painful.”
Harper laughed. “Yes. For both.”
“And seriously, would you want some strange dude with a scalpel down near your lady parts?”
She shuddered. “I can think of better uses for a dude down near my lady parts.” His bark of laughter was loud in her ear, and she realised what she said. Her face flamed. “Oh God, sorry. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did, Harper Nugent.”
“I take it back.”
“Oh no,” he chuckled some more. “You can’t take that back.”
Harper groaned internally. Jesus. Where was her filter? She glanced at the wine bottle. Somewhere at the bottom of that, no doubt.
“Fine. Ignore it then. It’s the booze. White wine makes me mouthy.”
“I can’t wait to see that.”
His voice had dropped an octave and roughened with the merest hint of a promise. It went straight to those aforementioned lady parts, and Harper actually squirmed in her chair to ease the sudden ache.
“She’s not serious, is she?”
It took her a moment to realise he’d moved on, and she leaped at the opportunity gratefully. “No. She’s pissed. Both at men and in the alcoholic sense.” Em had already been several shots of Schnapps down when Harper arrived. “Re-virginising is just one of many options we’ve already discussed tonight. I think she wants to make a voodoo doll next.”
He laughed again. “I like the sound of her.”
Harper sighed, looking at the gorgeous mop of caramel curls and the alabaster wedge of cheekbone making up Em’s profile. She looked like one of those babies from old-fashioned adverts for Pears soap. Only all grown-up.
“She’s gorgeous. You should ask her out. You’d make beautiful babies.”
There was a long pause. Long enough to make Harper think, somewhere in her alcohol-addled brain, babies were not on Dexter Blake’s agenda.
“Thanks,” he said, voice low and amused. “I think I’ll stick with my original plan, though.”
“Oh?”
“You and me. A date.”
“Oh.” Harper’s stomach tightened. She’d seen the way his teammates had been watching them tonight. The way the younger guy had given the thumbs up. She could have kissed Dex for his timing, but a girl had her pride, right? Plus she never wanted to be one of those people who were gossiped about for punching above her weight.
“Look. I’m very flattered that you want to go out on a date with me, but—”
“You should do it,” Em interrupted.
Harper blinked at her best friend. “What?”
“I told you I liked the sound of her,” Dex said in her ear.
Em shrugged. “It’d be worth it just to piss off Chuckers.” If it was possible, Em disliked Chuck more than Harper did.
Harper considered that angle for moment, her head still spinning a little. It was a powerful argument. Why not? If Dex was using her to win some kind of ridiculous frat boy dare, why shouldn’t she use him, too?
“Okay, fine.” Clearly there was a level of drunk where pride rapidly diminished. “But I’m not sleeping with you. Or letting you anywhere near my lady parts.”
That low chuckle again. It ruffled seductively along flesh and nerve endings, and Harper fought the urge to stretch. And purr.
“You know you said that out loud, too, right?”
The lazy smile in his voice ruffled things even lower. “Yes. I know.”
“I will be on my best behaviour. I promise I won’t even bring condoms.”
Sober Harper nodded, pleased with the concession. Drunk, uninhibited Harper knew full well he could ruin her without the aid of a condom, and she seemed perfectly fine with that, too.
Uninhibited Harper was dangerous. She was going to have to cut that bitch off at the knees.
Chapter Two
The following Wednesday night, Harper sat at a paint-splattered table, tapping her paint-stained fingers.
Dex was ten minutes late.
Or not coming. Which was probably more likely.
Maybe he only had to score a date, not actually go through with it, to win the bet? Maybe he’d had a better offer from one of the many skinny women he’d been photographed with?
Harper’s obsessive Googling had not been good for her ego.
The women seemed to fall into two categories—female footy fans at matches, in their Smoke jerseys and scarves, clinging to his sweaty, postgame arms, or glamorous creatures in evening gowns, his arm around them as they posed for the media on red carpets.
Now she wished she’d stayed well away from the internet, because clearly she wasn’t his type at all. Neither the skinny type, nor the clingy type. As Chuck had been at pains to point out when he’d found out about the date and rang to express his displeasure.
Thankfully it had gone to her voice mail.
Guys like Dexter Blake don’t get involved with big women when they can have supermodels. And then he’d finished it with a plea to think about his career. For God’s sake, don’t eat in front of him or do anything desperate to embarrass me or my standing with the studio.
God, he was such a tosser, and it felt good to be doing something to piss him off. Hell, if it wasn’t for Jace and Tabby, she’d
have nothing at all to do with him or his mother and their toxic worship of the superficial.
Harper glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes. Was it too early to feel stood up? But then her mobile chimed, and a rush of relief flowed through her as she spied the message from Dex.
Ack! Sorry. Traffic awful. Am five away. Please don’t leave. Have been looking forward to this all week.
Harper smiled despite all her reservations. If he was using her, he was being respectful about it. She tapped out her response.
Not leaving. Drinking wine. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
She took another sip of wine, conscious that it was half gone already and she needed to be sober around him in case she blurted out something else about her lady parts. Like how it’d been his face she’d pictured the last four nights when she’d brought her vibrator out to play.
He rushed in five minutes later. “I’m sorry,” he apologised, pulling up the chair opposite. “Training ran late. Griff had a bug up his ass about something. Then the traffic.”
Harper noted the lack of criticism in Dex’s voice regarding his coach. It was more matter-of-fact, like it was a common occurrence and neither here nor there. Griffin King, rugby union’s most successful coach, was known for being a tough taskmaster.
She’d Googled that, too.
“It’s fine.” She smiled at him, her heart tripping at the damp curl of his hair at his collar and the shadow of whiskers on his jaw. She wondered what they’d feel like scraping down her belly, and squeezed her thighs together tightly as muscles deep and low responded to the image. Honestly, it was like a tap had been loosened down there, and with every wicked thought—and they were frequent—things got wetter.
She held up her glass. “I had company.”
He grinned. “Does this mean you’re going to get mouthy?”
His gaze dropped to her lips, and Harper battled the urge to lick them nervously. “I hate to disappoint you, but it takes more than half a glass.”
And telling Dexter Blake she was so horny for him she’d worn out a set of batteries was something she planned on taking to her grave.
“Well then,” he murmured, light green eyes suddenly twinkling with mischief, “let’s get you a top-up.”
Harper smiled as he gestured to the waiter. Her gaze shifted to the way his button-down shirt strained at his shoulders. It drifted lower to the dark hair covering strong forearms.
Strong enough to hold her.
She squeezed her thighs tighter, wishing she hadn’t worn jeans as the middle seam pressed torturously good against aching flesh.
The waiter recognised Dex and asked if he could have a selfie with him. Dex politely declined, joking good-naturedly to give Dex a break because he was trying to impress a girl. The waiter took it well, leaving a drink and tapas menu and promising to be right back, but Harper could tell that the exchange had bothered Dex.
She looked around the three-quarters full art bar, noticing the sidelong glances as people realised they had a star in their midst. “Does that happen often?”
“Often enough.” His tone was clipped.
“You don’t like it?”
“I don’t mind it when I’m at a game or doing something official for rugby.” He shrugged. “It’s part of the territory. But when I’m out as a private citizen?” He shook his head. “Well…let’s just say I tend to avoid it as much as possible.”
Harper frowned. “Avoid being recognised?”
“Avoid going out.”
Except he did go out. She’d seen him on her computer screen looking tall and dark and dashing in his tuxedo, walking the red carpet with glamorous women draped on his arm. Or was that official rugby business, too?
“We don’t have to stay,” she said. “We can go someplace quieter and out of the way, if you like?”
She’d chosen The Art Bar, a trendy new wine and paint bar, because it was casual and relaxed and she knew the owners. She’d come several times with friends. Painting their own masterpieces as they drank booze and nibbled from the tapas menu made for a fun night out, and the activity took the pressure off for conversation, the perfect way to circumvent any awkward silences.
“No, its fine.” He shook his head instantly and smiled, and she felt like he really wanted to be here. “I can’t even draw a stick figure, but I’m game if you are. How does it work?”
Harper explained the rules. She told him there’d be a theme, and an hour to paint, then talked about her friends Brianne and Kevin, who’d started the business six months ago, and what a runaway success it had been. She talked until their first plate of tapas arrived—mouth-watering, piping-hot spring rolls—and two blank one-foot-square canvases, complete with miniature easel and paint-pot stands, had been delivered to all the tables.
“Tonight’s theme is ‘lush,’” Kevin announced. Most of the tables in the restaurant had at least eight people, some even more, and there were good-natured groans from the different groups. But there was much excitement, too, a low buzz circulating quickly as the participants discussed the theme.
“That’s kind of a broad topic,” Dex said.
Harper grinned. “That’s the point. It gives you a lot of scope. You know what you’re going to paint?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth and fanned over her chest. Her modest shirt was buttoned high, revealing no discernible cleavage, but she suddenly felt naked under the intensity of his stare.
Her nipples hardened to two tight points, and she was glad for the looseness of her blouse and grateful they were at a table for two.
“Oh yeah.” He lifted his beer bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. His neck moved convulsively, and Harper was hyperaware of his stubbly throat, of the thud of his pulse in his neck. “You?”
Currently the lush bound of his carotid was looking pretty damn good. “Um yes,” she said faintly, turning her attention to the canvas and dipping her paintbrush in the green pot, quickly outlining a leaf. And then another.
Rainforests were lush, right?
She was relieved when he dabbed a paintbrush into the red pot and started painting on his canvas, his head to one side.
He used long, sweeping strokes as she watched him surreptitiously through her fringe. They were quite hypnotic. And sexy. She’d fantasised about him using long, sweeping strokes on himself, making himself come at her command as the fantasy reached fever pitch and she’d increased the speed on her vibrator.
Muscles behind her belly button contracted, clamping down hard at the thought. Who’d have thought long, slow strokes could be such a freaking turn-on?
“So, Harper Nugent,” he said after a minute or two. “What is it you do for a living?”
Harper startled at the unexpected conversation. He stopped the long strokes as he waited for her to reply, and the tight clench of her body gave way in one reflexive shudder.
She’d had orgasms that hadn’t been as good.
Her breath eased slowly from her body, and she cleared her throat as she shifted against the stool to relieve the hard ache between her legs. “I’m an artist.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What kind of an artist?”
“A painter…a muralist to be precise. For the moment, anyway.”
“Ah.” His gaze flicked to her hands, already stained with paint. “That explains that then.”
Harper’s glance followed his. No doubt he was used to women with much more glamorous hands. Soft skin, elegant fingers, long, glossy, painted nails. Her hands were dry and rough. With hands in paint and solvents all bloody day, Harper’s skin was more crocodile than human. Her cuticles and nail beds were stained with the marks from her latest commission.
“So…” he continued, a low teasing note in his voice, “choosing this place was to get the rugby player out of his comfort zone, huh? I’m over here finger painting and you’re creating something Picasso would be proud of.”
His grin was crooked and charming and Harper couldn’t help but grin in return. “It’s not a compet
ition.”
“Everything’s a competition, Harper.”
He was smiling, but there was a seriousness to his voice. How else would an elite athlete think?
“You can’t win all the time.” Winning at freakish, orgasmic mind control over her body was more than enough for one night, surely? “But for damn sure I’m going to kick your ass tonight.”
He hooted out a surprised laugh. “I knew there was a competitive streak inside you.”
Harper shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, I’d suck at rugby.” Although God knew, she could hack being rucked by Dexter Blake.
He looked her over appreciatively. Like he was thinking the exact same thing. “It’s like anything else. You just need to practise.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Like art?”
He flicked a glance at his canvas and grimaced. “Touché.”
The waiter arrived with the next two tapas plates and the moment was lost. He offered her some divine smelling flash-fried calamari and some Haloumi drenched in lemon juice and garnished with rock salt and a sprig of rocket.
She declined.
“You’ve barely eaten anything,” he protested.
Harper shrugged. “I’m not hungry.” It was a bald-faced lie but bloody Chuck had made her so self-conscious about eating in front of Dex that she couldn’t do it, not even to spite him. She just hoped her growling stomach didn’t get any louder.
“You eat it,” she insisted. “You look like you need constant feeding and watering just to fulfill basic functions.”
He speared a succulent piece of calamari with his fork, his gaze locking with hers. “A person needs more than food and water.”
Her own needs reared to the surface as a smear of oil and some crumbs coated the corner of his mouth. The urge to lick them off drummed in her chest as real as her own heartbeat.
“Yeah, well,” she said, breaking their eye contact to inspect the progress of her painting. Already little forest creatures were taking shape, peeping out from behind the lush green leaves. “Food is all that’s on offer here tonight, buddy.”
And maybe if she told herself that often enough, she’d quash the wicked whispers from uninhibited Harper, who seemed to have escaped the straitjacket she’d been restrained in since their phone call the other night.
