“I haven’t felt this good in ages…”
That voice. Those hot, needy words.
Patrick’s kiss grew deeper, hungrier. It invited reckless decisions and wild sex, sweet soreness come morning and—
His phone jingled and buzzed, and Steph shot up as if she’d been zapped by a Taser. She stared around the dim room. How long had they been kissing? Ten minutes? An hour?
Patrick looked equally surprised. He cleared his throat and dug his cell from his hip pocket.
“Hello?… Hey, John… Excellent, hang on. Head to the end of the hall—the door to the gym’s at the bottom of the stairs… Yup, I’ll stay on.”
The strain of arousal lingered in his voice, but he covered the more incriminating evidence handily, strapping on his tool belt around his hips as he left the room.
Steph blew out a long breath. What had she done?
Nothing. You kissed an electrician. At work, granted, and on the night you were supposed to be kissing a doctor.
Bad, bad, bad, she thought, and licked her tender lips, still flushed from Patrick’s demands.
Bad, bad, bad, and way too good…
Driving Her Wild
Meg Maguire
Before becoming a writer, MEG MAGUIRE worked as a record-store snob, a lousy barista, a decent designer and an over-enthusiastic penguin handler. Now she loves writing sexy, character-driven stories about strong-willed men and women who keep each other on their toes… and bring one another to their knees. Meg lives north of Boston with her husband. When she’s not working on her next book, she can be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or jogging around the nearest duck-filled pond. Visit her at www.megmaguire.com.
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My inevitable thanks to Ruthie—
as essential to my writing as a keyboard and coffee. Which I suspect was her evil plan, all along.
For Charlotte—I lay this BDToF at the feet of the master, eager to incite your womanly stirrings.
And my thanks as always to my editor, Brenda, whose headshot hangs dead-center behind the Lucite on the Wilinski’s wall of fame.
Contents
1
STEPH PAUSED AT THE BOTTOM of the steps, gym bag in hand, and gave the space a long study. Wilinski’s Fight Academy.
It wasn’t how she remembered it from her last visit, in November.
It looked like a bomb had exploded.
The cardio equipment and mats and the boxing and octagonal rings were crowded to one side, the other half overtaken by milling contractors and stacks of cinder block.
In the fighters’ corner—the sounds of gloves whacking and men grunting, the bass din of the hip-hop that fueled their drills.
In the workers’ corner—shouted questions and directions, the squeal of a band saw or sander from inside the space that would become a second locker room in a couple weeks’ time. A thick sheet of rubber flaps hung over the would-be door, but dust still escaped.
Sweat and concrete—the scents of laboring men.
Steph had sampled enough of each to last a lifetime. The next time she got close to a guy, she hoped to heck he smelled like a gentleman. Whatever gentlemen smelled like. Cedar, maybe, or citrus or leather, or that stuff from Hermès that she’d bought for her older brother one Christmas. Robbie had taken one sniff and made a face, so she’d snatched it back, promising to get him Bruins tickets instead. Now the bottle lived in her bedside drawer, and occasionally she spritzed it on her pillow and pretended it was evidence of her incredibly urbane boyfriend, out of town in Brussels, attending a convention for surgeons or dignitaries or CIA operatives—any job that came with really sophisticated Christmas parties, so she’d have an excuse to wear heels and curl her hair.
Someday. Somehow.
For now, here she was in a gym, construction dudes on one side, fighters on the other, a big old buffet of the kinds of guys she used to date. Perfectly nice ones, likely. Good, hardworking men like her dad and brothers and her friends and exes from Worcester. But she was in Boston to start a new chapter, one that might feature a boyfriend with soft, strong hands and a college degree and a knowledge of Scotch.
