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Talk trash about him? She was going to eviscerate him.
‘Well, thank you,’ she said dryly, trying to stem the panic and convey her displeasure. She needed to ease into this. Not get kicked into the deep end. ‘That should take all night, given the amount of dirt I have on you,’ she added, in case Sam hadn’t got the message that she was not pleased with his sudden deviation from their carefully worked out plan.
Brent’s gruff chuckle rolled up her spine like warm chocolate sauce—decadent and scarily delicious. ‘Great, I’m always looking for more dirt on Sam,’ he murmured. ‘One daiquiri coming up.’
As soon as Brent was out of earshot, she grasped Sam’s upper arm. ‘Are you bloody nuts?’ she whispered furiously. ‘He’ll figure out it’s a set-up.’
‘So what?’ Sam’s grin widened. ‘From the way he was checking out your rack, the hunt’s already on.’
‘Yes, but...’ But what? She glanced over her shoulder to watch Brent the Magnificent stroll to the bar. He was precisely what she’d ordered. So why the heck was she panicking?
But then she watched him draw the barman’s attention away from the other patrons waiting to get served with a lift of his index finger. And a tremor went through her sex-starved body. A weird combination of arousal, anticipation and extreme terror.
Brent wasn’t an alpha male, he was an alpha wolf—and for all her big talk last week, she was completely out of practise at handling one of those. Because the last time she’d hooked up with one, he’d ended up ripping her to shreds.
Was there such a thing as a too-hot date?
‘Hey, relax.’ Sam touched her nose, drawing her attention back to him. ‘Flirt with Brent, have some fun. If you don’t want to jump him, give him the brush-off. He’s a big guy. He can take it. He won’t push—trust me, I wouldn’t hook you up with that kind of guy.’
‘Okay...’ she said, quelling the sudden urge to ask exactly how big a guy Brent was. That kind of speculation had gotten her into this fix in the first place. ‘I guess I’m not worried about his control...’ She sighed. ‘I’m more worried about my own. I don’t want any emotional fall-out from this.’ While she’d been ready to get back on the sexy-go-round for a while, she was so not ready for the emotional rollercoaster that had gone with it last time. The fact was that her instant, over the top reaction to Brent was reminiscent of her first response to Henry. But more so. Even Henry hadn’t drained the blood from her brain to her clit in ten seconds flat.
Sam’s eyebrow lifted. ‘Tally, trust me.’ He gave her shoulder a friendly squeeze. ‘That’s not going to happen. Not with Brent. So control’s got nothing to do with it.’ His gaze drifted past her to the bar. ‘You need to get laid. So go for it. And give me all the details tomorrow.’ The wicked twinkle returned with a vengeance. ‘As payback for all my hard work.’
She choked out a laugh—the anticipation and arousal finally edging out the terror. She was being ridiculous. Fine, she was hopelessly rusty when it came to flirting with someone she actually fancied. But surely riding stallions was the same as riding a bike—once you knew how, the skill would come back naturally as soon as you got back in the saddle. And given that she was already clear that if anything happened between her and Brent it would simply be sex, and only sex—what could possibly go wrong?
‘Cheers, Sam.’ She squeezed his fingers, stupidly grateful not only for the pep talk, but for the fact that her new bestie had apparently delivered the perfect guy to blast her libido out of mothballs without causing any collateral damage. ‘I promise to give you a blow-by-blow account tomorrow.’
‘A blow-by-blow, huh?’ Sam laughed, saluting her as he walked backwards. ‘Cool.’
She settled into the booth once Sam was gone, and admired Brent’s ass as he pulled a wallet out of his back pocket. While he was handling the drinks, she let out a careful breath, the swelling in her throat now accompanied by a delicious swelling in her clit. Lifting her iPhone off the table, she snapped a photo of him to keep her fingers busy. Rubbing her thighs together to stop the persistent hum of arousal, she felt the gusset of her thong rub against her engorged clit.
Bugger, maybe commando was the correct knicker etiquette for tonight after all.
* * *
Sam has totally set me up, the son of a bitch.
Brent eyed the girl perched on the edge of the booth as he toted their drinks back towards her. She crossed her long legs at the knee, the sequins on her magnificent rack sparkling in the candlelight, and he felt the inevitable tug of response.
Problem was, he didn’t know whether to go punch his friend’s lights out or give the guy a kiss.
He felt the tension in his shoulders ease as she sent him a sultry smile.
Christ, she was a stunner. But not in an obvious way. If he was being entirely objective, he guessed her mouth was kind of wide, her nose had a cute little wonky thing going on and those eyes were unusual, with their cat-like slant and that deep indigo shade so dark it was almost purple. No, she wasn’t conventionally pretty, but the combination was exotic, arresting. And then there was that tony British accent, kind of smoky and slick all at the same time. And to top it off, that mind-blowing figure, which looked round and soft in all the right places.
Get your mind off her ass, man. She’s not a piece of meat.
He shook his head to break the spell before he ended up with a boner he couldn’t control. And felt the prickle of shame that had followed him round ever since his divorce. It had gotten really bad a couple of months ago. That morning he’d woken up in a boutique hotel in Chelsea, almost exactly three years to the day since his divorce had become final, and discovered a pretty auburn-haired girl cuddled under his arm—whose face and name he couldn’t put together.
Was it Sally? Or Suzy? Or Samantha?
He’d spent five minutes watching her sleep and raking through his memory of the previous night—which hadn’t proven to be particularly memorable. Because all he could recall was how much she’d talked about what a dick her ex-boyfriend was, even while they were making love. Once he’d conceded defeat with the name game, he’d slipped out of the room, feeling like the worse kind of asshole. How could he have banged her and not cared enough about her to remember who the hell she was? Maybe because he was exactly what Del had once a
ccused him of being: a good guy to have in the sack and a shit-heel out of it.
So he’d sworn off casual sex for a couple of months, his confidence shot. Maybe he wasn’t anyone’s idea of a dream date, but he could sure aim for a few rungs above shit-heel territory.
At least that had been the plan, until Sam had set him up with a woman who was hot enough to melt all his working brain cells. Of course, Sam had no idea he’d had a self-imposed dry spell for four months. So maybe Sam hadn’t set him up and Tally really was just a happy accident—who’d come along precisely when he was ready to get back in the game.
