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by Lexxie Couper

Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance, E-book, Erotic Romance, Romantic Suspense

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“I know I could take you here and now, Rowan,” he murmured, tracing her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb in a slow stroke. “I can feel your need in your body, see it in your face, but I won’t. I’ll wait. Fuck knows how I’ll find the control, but I’ll wait. Until you tell me to take you.”

She gazed up at him, unable to draw breath.

“And when you do—” the desire in his stare turned molten, “—I’ll unleash my control and nothing will stop me. Do you understand?”

She nodded. A single dip of her head.

Aslin smiled. “Good. Now let’s go find your brother.”

He stepped aside, holding out his arm toward the open door.

The pit of Rowan’s belly churned. For a split second, she wanted to say “to hell with my brother”, but the moment the thought formed in her mind—like the softest of whispers—prickling guilt and self-disgust rushed through her. She turned and hurried for the door, practically leaping down the steps to ground.

Only to bump into a woman with dyed-red hair wearing a skin-tight Chris Huntley T-shirt.

Rowan stumbled back, her cheeks flushing with heat as she smiled an apology at the older woman. “I’m sorry. I should look where I’m—”

“How did you get past security?”

Rowan jumped at Aslin’s growl. As did the woman. The blood drained from her makeup-caked face. Her stare snapped up to the Brit where he stood in the trailer’s open doorway. “Damn it,” she muttered, a second before she spun on her heel and bolted.

Rowan blinked. “What the fuck?”

She turned to look at Aslin, just in time to see him launch himself from the top step. He sprinted past her, a chilling expression on his face, his jaw set.

The woman ran fast. Aslin ran faster. If the situation hadn’t been so bizarre, Rowan would have been impressed by his phenomenal speed and grace. He caught up with the fleeing woman in no time at all, snaring her arm with one hand and yanking her to a halt.

“Let go of me you fucking Pom!” the woman screeched, lashing out at Aslin with her free arm.

Rowan blinked again. Pom? That was the second time she’d heard Aslin called a drink. What the hell did it mean?

Don’t you think the more important question is why did she run when she saw him? Or even, who the hell she is?

“Ah, you know I can’t do that, love,” Aslin’s chuckled voice came to Rowan, his humoured tone surprising her. “Now stop being silly before I have to hurt you.”

The woman screeched some more, louder this time, her legs joining in her free arm’s wild attempts to do Aslin damage. It wasn’t working. The Brit was too tall, too large for her to even come close with any of her frenzied blows.

Film crew was coming from everywhere to watch the show. Most gave Rowan curious looks before turning back to Aslin and the incensed, flailing woman. Some, Rowan could hear, started placing bets on how long it would take before Aslin knocked her out.

“Fucking Pom,” she continued to wail, her face twisted into a murderous glare. “Lemme go, you fucking Pom.”

“Insulting my nationality is only going to make it worse, love.” Aslin’s voice turned to a purr. To Rowan’s ears it sounded like his British accent grew thicker. More pronounced.