Outmatched

Perfectly adequate? Well, hell. I thought I’d done all right. It had been kind of sappy, sure, but I couldn’t see anyone not believing it.

She cleared her throat and charged on. “The party starts at seven thirty. Boston Harbor. We could meet—”

“I do not meet my women for dates. I pick them up. Always.”

“Morgan,” she said with asperity, “I am not your woman.”

She couldn’t see my grin, but it didn’t stop me. “Tinker Bell, I have a contract that says otherwise. Better get used to it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Sand snakes,” she snarled under her breath.

Whatever that meant.

“Oh, and Tink?”

“What?” Another snarl. Such joy and light from my irate pixie.

“Prepare yourself for some physical contact. Because I touch my woman. Always.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

I paused, my hand hovering near the small of Parker’s back as she halted on the sidewalk outside her apartment. “What am I trying to do?”

I honestly didn’t have a frickin’ clue what she was thinking. Hell, I was trying my best not to look too closely at her. If I did, I might not stop. Parker wasn’t dressed like any of my usual dates. She was wearing a black halter-top dress that started at her collar and skimmed her slim form to a few inches below her knees. It wasn’t tight and revealed nothing but her tanned shoulders and arms. It was incredibly sexy.

Maybe because it didn’t show everything. Only hinted at it. I had to use my imagination. My imagination was vivid.

I itched to undo the clasp at the back of her long, graceful neck and see that top slide down to her waist. She didn’t have large breasts. They were little cupcakes. Goddamn, but I wanted a bite.

I pushed the thought away and peered down at her big brown eyes. She’d put on makeup, some shimmery gold color that made her eyes the color of rich coffee. Her petal-pink lips pursed in annoyance.

“You think I’ll balk at riding this stupid motorcycle and then you can play Mr. Superior about it.”

I glanced at my Harley Fat Boy, and then at her dress. That fancy silk dress hugging her hips and slim legs. Hell. “You might not believe it, sweetheart, but I didn’t actually think.”

Her brow quirked. “Oh, I believe that.”

Funny.

Grunting, I rubbed my jaw—which was now smooth and bare. Yes, I’d shaved for her. I’d put on fresh pressed gray slacks and a cream cashmere top. Both from my circuit days. They were a little loose on me; I’d lost about ten pounds of muscle since I’d stopped training. But I had them on. I’d done it for her. An effort lost to the blunder of picking her up with my Harley.

“I’ll call us an Uber.” I pulled out my phone but her slim hand on my wrist halted me. Why I felt that touch all the way to my balls was a mystery for the ages.

“This wasn’t a trick?” She eyed me like a little human lie detector.

“Fucking hell, Tink. I’m not out to get you here. I’m getting something out of this arrangement too. I just didn’t think. I have a bike. It’s what I ride. But I’ll get us an Uber, all right?”

My verbal spew ended in a ringing silence. The sun was sinking, shrinking golden rays that highlighted the red strands in her hair. She had it pulled back in one of those fancy updos that lay like a coiled snake at the back of her head. Delicate pearl earrings dangled from her small ears. Everything about Parker Brown was delicate and pretty.

An illusion. The woman had an iron core.

“You really shouldn’t cuss so much,” was all she said. “It shows a lack of imagination.”

“Bullshit.”

Her brows kicked up. “It’s not bull … bull-hockey.”

Bull-hockey. Jesus. This woman.

“It is.” I laughed at her scowl. “Cursing is a sign of intelligence and those who do it frequently are both happier and healthier than the poor repressed souls who keep it all in.”

“Oh, bull-pucks.”

“Hockey? Pucks? What’s next? Bulls on skates?”

A flush worked over her cheeks, and she growled.

I laughed again. “Look it up if you don’t believe me.”

“I will.” She stomped over to my bike. “Are we going, or should we stand here talking nonsense all night?”

If I had my choice, we’d talk nonsense.

“You really going to ride on this?” I handed her the spare helmet I’d brought along.

She sniffed, all polite irritation, and put it on. It was adorably huge on her head. “My mode of transportation is a bicycle. I think I can manage.” And then she did something I knew was designed to kill me. She pulled the skirt of her dress high up her thighs, exposing some truly spectacular legs, and straddled the bike.

I stared at those beautiful, smooth legs, imagining my tongue tracing a path up the curve of her thigh, and my dick twitched. I got on my bike before I had a situation going on in my pants that would make driving uncomfortable.