The car was some kind of Porsche and the door stood open and beckoning, like a gold embossed invitation to sinIf she could survive a ride with angel-lips in his penis car then surely she’d be immune to him in any situation?

Talk to me when your nuts are so blue they look like something you can hang on a Christmas tree.

His aftershave – eau du sex god - wafted her way.

Probably just as well. Maybe with all that testosterone walking out the door, the insane urge to hump Lincoln Quinn’s leg would walk right out as well. Because that was exactly how she felt every time she looked at him.Like she was in heat.Within minutes, the restaurant had emptied out to only a few non-team wedding guests. Her nemesis was nowhere to be seen, and Em congratulated herself on her self-control as she eased off the bar stool.Embarrassing leg-humping avoided—bravo!

Sex was a happiness transaction. And rugby had given Linc the means to feel very happy, very often.

It was the kind of mouth that should only be found on angels. Chick angels.

Linc had always been a leg man. Thankfully hers made up for her caustic tongue and armour plated panties

This was Linc at his most elemental. This was cave man stuff. Potently male. Potently virile. Hot. As. Fuck.

He hadn’t struck her as particularly religious unless she counted the number of times he’d called out to Jesus when he’d been deep inside her.