The Wingman (Alpha Men 1)

“And how did you get into the bodyguarding business?” She propped her elbows on the table and rested her chin in the palms of her hands, wriggling a little in her chair to get comfier.

“I went to an industry party. Lots of rich and famous around, and I spotted one of my buddies.” He grinned. “Army this time. He was shadowing this old lady. At first I thought he’d got himself a sugar mama, but there was something in his stance that made me pause. There’s a thing we do—soldiers, that is—when we first walk into a room. We assess. We look for potential threats, exits, barricades, anything that can help us if the shit hits the fan. It’s instinctive. But Sam was doing more than that; he looked like he was on active duty. He never once relaxed. He noticed me immediately, of course, acknowledged me with a nod, and then went back to hulking over his little, old—obviously stinking rich—lady.”

“Sam Brand, right? Your business partner?” Daisy breathed. He gave her a speculative look.

“You know a lot about me.” Daisy fought back her blush as she considered her response to that observation. She stuck with mostly the truth.

“Just what I’ve read in the tabloids. Besides, it’s Sam Brand.” She put enough awe into her voice to divert him from the truth, and he glared at her.

“I’m starting to think you’re just using me to get to my friends.”

“Well, can you blame me? Have you looked at them lately?”

“They’re just guys. Besides . . . Sam’s gay.”

“Really?” Surprise made her almost shout the word, and Mason sighed before moving his shoulders uncomfortably.

“No. Not really,” he admitted with a wry grin. “He’s as straight as an arrow. But you’d hate him. He’s a prick with women.”

“It’s not like I’m ever going to meet him. So I’m allowed to fantasize.”

“Here we go with the fantasies again. What’s he doing? Standing around, flexing his muscles?”

Affronted, Daisy said the first thing that popped into her head. “Nope, he’s doing that slow strip tease we talked about last night . . .”

“Unoriginal.” Mason scoffed. “The bastard’s stealing my sexy moves.”

“And,” Daisy inserted loudly, while holding up a finger to shut him up, “I’m mirroring his every move! His top comes off . . . my top comes off. His pants for my skirt. His socks, my bra!”

Mason knew she was being the Daisy equivalent of risqué, and he found her sweet for trying, but he was more than happy to seize control of the conversation again.

“Yeah? A pink bra? Lacy?” She knew exactly what he was referring to, he could see it in the embarrassed wash of color high on her cheekbones as well as the increased pace of her breathing.

“No. Not like that at all. Pink is much too girlish and innocent for the occasion. This one is black, with red lace, made not for support but for seduction.”

And just like that, little Daisy McGregor felled him. The thought of her full breasts straining against the confines of a sexy, barely there bra was ridiculously hot. He could picture the soft, pretty mounds overflowing at the top, eager to be released, quivering and ready to spill into some lucky bastard’s willing hands. Pink tips distended and begging to be tasted.

Kissed. Licked. Suckled.

Mason was hard in seconds, and his own breath came in jagged pants as he fought to bring himself back under control.

“Matching panties, of course. With little red bows at the sides.” He bit back a groan at her words. The woman was killing him. She was utterly destroying him, while casually swinging her feet back and forth like a schoolgirl and taking appreciative sips from her warm drink. The higher-than-usual pitch of her voice and her slight breathlessness were the only indications that she wasn’t comfortable with this role of femme fatale and that the whole conversation was well outside of her comfort zone.

Despite that—or maybe because of it—her words were a huge turn-on. Largely innocuous though they were. It was Mason’s own imagination, filling in the blanks, that was doing the real damage here. If she knew the thoughts racing through his mind right now, she’d bolt. So he did his level best to even out his breath and slouch even further down in his chair in an effort to conceal yet another hard-on.

It was becoming an embarrassing habit by now.

“Well, hell, we’re going to have to start calling you Dirty Doctor Daisy from now on.” He grinned lazily. “Your fantasies are showing some improvement. Definitely heading into PG-13 territory.”

To his own ears, his voice sounded strained, but she huffed and tossed a napkin at him, clearly not finding anything amiss. He deftly caught the napkin and leaned forward to pinch her cheek, like some creepy affectionate uncle. He had to keep her oblivious to his inconvenient attraction to her. If she knew about it, and he acted on it, she would wind up getting hurt. Sex for her would be an emotional act; for Mason it was a basic animal need. He would break her heart, and Mason didn’t think he’d be able to handle the massive amount of guilt that would go hand in hand with breaking her heart.