Jill Shalvis - Aussie Rules

“Ratchet, please.” She jerked her head toward the toolbox.

Willing to play along, he backed out of the engine and peered into the toolbox. “Not here.”

“Try the parts closet, there’s a box of tools there on the floor.”

He turned toward the closet, opened the door.

“Sorry, there are no blondes in there,” Mel called out.

“What?”

“You don’t remember the second time I ever saw you?” she asked. “Right there in that closet, banging some blonde?”

He looked at the shelves. He didn’t often think about the past. It was filled with memories best forgotten. His mother’s cold voice and colder heart. Eddie’s plane habit, which caused frequent moves from one small airport to another…

Then, Sally, the woman Eddie had lost his head and then his heart to, despite the fact she didn’t possess one.

A heart, that is. Brains, Sally had in spades, and it hadn’t taken her long to sink her hungry claws into the love-struck Eddie, or his bank account.

Buh-bye savings account.

Buh-bye hopes and dreams.

And then, finally, buh-bye Eddie.

Bo’s jaw tightened as he looked inside the closet. Hell, yeah, he remembered being here, missing home, worrying about his dad, burying all that stress into the one thing a male teenager couldn’t stop thinking about.

Sex.

It hadn’t been too difficult, not when American girls had flocked to him, drawn by his accent and, as he’d discovered, his earthy nature and athletic body. Yeah, he’d gotten quite the education here in the States. “I had a good time in this very closet several times, if I remember correctly.”

Mel had pulled her head out of the engine and was watching him with her own memories all over her face. “I only found you in there the once.”

“You stood right there,” he said. “Mouth hanging open, soaking up the sights.”

She bristled. “I couldn’t help but see the sights! You didn’t bother to try to hide a thing!”

Ah, he was getting an interesting vibe here. “Admit it. You wanted the same thing the blonde was getting.”

“Did not,” she said hotly. Too hotly.

“Liar.”

Oh, yeah, there was that steam coming out her ears again. Damn, she was something all riled up, but a part of him wanted to see the other Mel; the soft, sweet Mel she showed everyone else. But never him. “I can’t believe you’re going to be so stubborn about me helping you fix that plane.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Odd how, given everything he’d been through, it was that that hurt him. “It’s a fucking bolt, Mel.”

“Fine.” She tossed down her wrench. “What do you want in return?”

He’d have settled for one of her smiles instead of the frown he seemed to generate at every turn, but that seemed too revealing a request, and besides which, made him feel stupid. “It won’t be painful, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Tell me.”

“A kiss,” he said, and shocked the hell out of the both of them.

She looked at him for a long beat, then went back to studying the engine.

And that got him. Had he ever done anything to her? No. Had he ever, in any way, hurt her? Bothered her? Got in her way? No. He’d been pretty balls-out patient if you asked him. Now he could help her, and she didn’t even want to accept that help.

Or another kiss.

Since he knew damn well she’d nearly gotten off on their last kiss alone, it wasn’t a lack of wanting on her part. Which meant it must be fear. Fear of it going too far, of her letting it. Wanting it.

Which in turn meant she must like him a helluva lot more than she’d let on, because he’d bet she didn’t lose control often.

If ever.

“I can do this myself,” she said stubbornly, and bashed yet a third knuckle against the casing. “Shit.” She sucked on the offended finger, straightened, and bumped her head. “Shit shit!” She had a knuckle in her mouth, her other hand on the top of her head as she backed off the ladder, tripped on a wrench on the floor, and staggered backward.

Before he could nab her, she’d fallen butt first into the large tub behind her filled with cleaning fluid and various parts-industrial-strength cleaner that he knew if he dropped a penny inside, it’d clean it down to shiny copper in two seconds. It would skin her alive. “Jesus, Mel.” He reached for her, knowing she had to strip in a hurry. Yanking her out of the tub, he reached for the zipper of her drenched coveralls, one mission in mind: save her skin.

“Hey.” She slapped his hands away.

“Mel, that stuff is going to eat your flesh-”

“No kidding!” She was hopping up and down as she kicked off her athletic shoes. “Ouch, ouch…” More hopping as she shrugged the coveralls off her shoulders, revealing a white satin bra.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, but the pained sound she made galvanized him. Tugging the coveralls off her hips, revealing white satin panties, which matched her bra.

Don’t look. Don’t look. But her skin was already going pink.

“The hose,” she gasped, pointing to the hose coiled against the wall, used for washing down the concrete floors. He ran while she shoved the coveralls past her knees and kicked them off.

Yanking the hose from its holder, he cranked it on, trying not to notice how the scraps of silk covered her. Or didn’t cover her.

“Hurry!”

Adjusting the spray, he nailed her with the water, telling himself he was a pervert for noticing her underwear.

Mel let out a short gasp at the shock of the icy shower, but not another sound as he ran the water from her shoulders to torso to belly to legs and back up again while she slid her hands over herself, hurrying the process along, skimming her arms over her slightly rounded belly-his favorite spot on a woman-her breasts, making his own breath back up in his throat.

Don’t think about it.

Yeah, right. Her bra and panties were good and sheer now, her nipples pressing hard against the thin material on top, and on the bottom…She was waxed or shaved or something, so the wet satin clung to every fold, every dip, every gorgeous inch, and melted brain cells at an alarming rate.

God. It was like every wet T-shirt contest he’d ever witnessed, only better. More like every hot fantasy he’d ever had. Only better.

Waaaaaay better.

Then she turned, presenting him with her back, her ass, and the hose jerked. So did a singular part of his anatomy. He stood there, running the water over her, watching it race in little rivulets down her body, and he wanted to lap it all up with his tongue. He felt like a voyeur, he felt like a jerk, and he’d never been hotter in his life.

Finally she stepped free of the water, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him as if this was all his fault. Tossing the hose aside, he stepped toward her as he unbuttoned his own shirt.

“What are you doing?” Taking a step back, she came up against the hull of the plane.

He shrugged out of the shirt.

Gaping at him, she unfolded her arms and put her hand in the middle of his chest to hold him back. “You just stay dressed, Bo Black-”

Cutting her off in midsentence, he lifted her arm and shoved it into the arm of his shirt.

“Oh,” she said, and Bo watched humility war with pride as she put her other arm in and hugged the shirt to her. It came to midthigh on her, and she stood there, arms wrapped around herself, staring at his now bare chest. She bit her lower lip, and said nothing.

Was the woman actually tongue-tied? Tongue-tied while looking at his body? Again her gaze flicked over him, lingered.

She was. And he was just male enough to find that incredibly fascinating. “The word is thanks.”

She sighed. “Thanks.”

She said this so begrudgingly, he had to laugh. “Yeah, don’t hurt yourself.” Turning to the plane he grabbed the fallen wrench and worked on the bolt himself. It took him a moment, but he did get it, and dropped the thing into her hand.

She stared down at the rusty bolt. “You win.”

Due to all his blood still pooled behind the buttons on his Levi’s, he was only working on two cylinders and didn’t follow. “Huh?”

“You win.”

“Just to be clear,” he said warily. “I win what?”

He didn’t know what he expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t that she’d stalk toward him, grip his arms, and slam her mouth over his.

Mel’s kiss left Bo staggered by a barrage of sensations. First, her mouth. God, that mouth. It was the mouth of wet dreams across the land. Warm, eager…She tasted like everything missing from his life, things he hadn’t even known existed.

So shocked by that, he let out a dark sound, a bit staggering in its neediness, and braced himself as he hauled her up, kissing her hungrily, frantically, unable to stop himself. Her breasts, covered in that wet sheer bra and by his own shirt, smashed into his bare chest. Her thighs entangled with his. Her heart drummed a staccato beat against him, so fast and heavy it was amazing that people didn’t come running to see what the racket was. Or maybe that was his heart. Hell, he didn’t know, and it didn’t matter. Then she pulled back, leaving him gasping for air, painfully aroused.

Her cinnamon eyes dropped to his mouth before lifting once again to meet his. In them was a confusion, a heat, and a temper he wanted to snarl right back at. Or soothe…

“What the hell was that?” she asked, her voice low and husky. “I mean what the hell?”

“You’re asking me?” Risking life and limb, he fisted one hand at her back, gripping the material of his shirt low on her spine. He sank his other hand into her wet hair, tugging her head back, looking into her eyes…

“All I know,” she said shakily, “is that you need to keep your shirt on always.”

“Why?”

“Like you don’t know how ripped you are.”