Page 21 of Not Your Average Vixen
All night? She’d barely registered the guy was there. And what kind of creeper listened in on a woman’s call.
“Get your hands off me,” she ordered, twisting away from the man, but the salsa mouth-breather wasn’t letting up.
“Come on, baby. You know you like the attention,” he crooned, sliding his hand up her leg.
She batted him away, but the comfortable shirt dress she’d chosen to wear on the flight, which was perfect for travel, turned out to be terrible at deterring salsa-infused meatheads. And since it was nearly eighty degrees when she’d left Texas, she didn’t even have on tights or pantyhose, and her bare skin crawled from his touch.
His salsa-sticky assault startled her, knocking her off balance. She reared back, attempting to get out of his grip when her barstool tipped, teetering dangerously on two legs. A rush of adrenaline sent her scrambling to stay upright. But just as she was about to fall flat on her ass, two strong hands caught her from behind. The stool crashed to the ground as her back made contact with a wall of muscle. She stilled, safe in her rescuer’s embrace, and inhaled hints of soap and sandalwood. Strong, warm hands gripped her shoulders, then slid down the length of her arms, leaving a delicious trail of goose bumps in their wake. The frantic fight-or-flight frenzy set off by the salsa creep melted away. She took a breath, then another, matching her breathing with the stranger standing behind her.
She waited for her protector to continue on and leave her to fend for herself, but the man didn’t move a muscle. Instead, his fingertips lingered on her forearms, leaving her breathless. Slowly, she turned to meet the person who’d saved her from crashing to the floor and found…him.
She stared into his eyes. In the bar’s dim light, they sparkled green-gold. Her hotel hottie held her gaze as everything disappeared. The clank and hum of the bar. The jazzy holiday tune playing over the speakers. It all vanished.
What was this? Some after effect of being manhandled, only to find yourself staring into the eyes of the sexiest man alive?
Could she have fallen? Maybe she fell over, hit her head, and this was a dream or a delusion.
She parted her lips to speak, but nothing came out. Her handsome hotel hottie watched her with an intensity that sent a ripple of heat between her thighs. All she could do was breathe and pray she wasn’t concussed and lying on the floor of a hotel bar hallucinating.
“Hey, buddy!” Mr. Smarmy Salsa yapped. “We were having a conversation!”
Her handsome stranger didn’t acknowledge the man. His cat-like gaze stayed locked with hers. “A table has opened up in the restaurant. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me?”
“Dinner,” she repeated, rendered near speechless.
Because, OMG, this was happening!
A wolfish grin pulled at the corners of his mouth as he knelt and retrieved her clutch.
“You don’t want to forget this,” he said, handing her the little purse.
She stared at his hand and couldn’t stop herself from imagining what it would be like if he slipped that hand into her panties.
“Miss?” he said, snapping her back.
“Thank you,” she replied.
Get ahold of yourself, girl!
She glanced at Mr. Smarmy Salsa. Bent over a fresh bowl of chips and another saucer of his signature dish, he’d switched from mauling her to hoovering more of the snack food. Ugh! That poor salsa!
“Are you hungry?” her rescuer pressed, killing all thoughts of the smarmy man.
His voice washed over her—a sensual rumble like the preamble to a dirty bedtime story. And again, she was speechless as she stared up at this Adonis of a man.
Maybe Lori was right. Perhaps, it would do her good to fall into bed with someone for a night of pure animal sex. A tempting opportunity for a reset and an escape all at the same time. And if there was a man who looked like he could deliver on that request, it was the handsome stranger standing in front of her.
He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.
This guy’s sexual magnetism was off the charts, and he looked at her as if he were photographing her with his eyes—like he could see everything.
“You’re blushing,” he remarked with a sexy smirk.
She smoothed her dress. “This isn’t my scene. I don’t usually go to bars and find myself falling off of barstools. Thank you for catching me,” she replied, praying that the words coming out of her mouth made sense. It took everything she had not to disintegrate into a million tiny pieces of swoon.
He smiled, and holy moly, there was that dimple.
“Where do you usually hang out?”
