Firestorm (The Sons of Templar MC Book 2)

By: Anne Malcom



“The name’s Ian. I would shake your hand, but I’m figuring you might want to put away the deadly weapon and put on some clothes before we exchange pleasantries.” He nodded to my body, eyes teasing. My panties dampened at the underlying sexual hunger in his gaze. Not appropriate, Amy.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the view,” he continued cheekily.

I felt my face flame. I threw the candlestick back on the side table with a clatter without breaking eye contact with Ian.

“Um, yes, I think that would be wise. I’ll just, ah…” I pointed with my thumb to the direction of my room while sidestepping there, really not wanting to share the fact I was wearing a g-string.

“You do that,” Ian responded, eyes sparkling.

I had made it to the edge of the room with Ian watching me the whole time, even though the polite thing would have been to avert his gaze or excuse himself to the corner. But no, he just kept the edge of his attractive mouth up; his green eyes had both rendered me mute and sparked a flame of desire that made me want to jump him then and there.

I am not a woman who gets rendered mute. Especially with men. I’ve always thought of it as my kind of superpower. I could flirt my ass off and pretty much use my feminine wiles to mold men into my little puppets. I don’t mean to be vain or anything but it’s the truth. Some people are math geniuses or brilliant artists; I’m a man whisperer.

But not with this one. Oh no, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I spent the entirety of my journey to my bedroom slack-jawed and drooling. This guy had a presence, an air about him that screamed male. His hungry male gaze maintained eye contact with me as I edged into the hallway, then rushed into my room.

In the safety of my bedroom I gathered my scrambled thoughts. The first one being that Gwen’s brother was hot. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering Gwen was a total babe and I had seen photos of him. Hotness ran in the family. But photos seemed a poor representation of the real thing.

His dark hair was shaved close to his skull in a military buzz cut, which didn’t make him look like a skinhead or a lice victim. No, it made him look like a bad ass. Think Channing Tatum in G.I Joe times a thousand. He had a square masculine jaw and freaking amazing green eyes like Gwen’s. His face was not classically handsome; it was rugged and masculine as fuck.

His body. I couldn’t get stuck on that thought for too long or I would turn into a drooling mess on the floor. He was built, like built. Broad shoulders and some crazy defined arms, it looked like he bench pressed cars for shits and giggles. His tee unfortunately didn’t give me a view of his abs, but I knew they were there. He’d probably have that amazing ‘v’ that pointed to the most important part on a male. Unfortunately I hadn’t got to check out his no doubt amazing jean-clad ass, but I bet I could eat a steak off it.

My dreamy gaze wandered to the Tiffany clock on my dresser. Shit. This guy had the ability that made me completely forget about the prior engagement I was seriously late for. That was a feat in itself; the horrific night ahead of me was as easy to forget about as genital warts. I turned my thoughts to my closet and directed my body toward it, picking out an outfit on autopilot.

I slipped on a silk Calvin Klein gown, one that I knew looked amazing on me. I may have been trying to position my second encounter with Ian on more even ground; ground which I planned to be standing in designer footwear. Plus, designer armor was essential when going into battle with my mother. A fire-breathing dragon would be ideal, but I worked with what I had.

I hurried to my bathroom and commenced in doing a day to night transition of my makeup and hair. Luckily I was one of those women who could chuck her hair in a messy bun and make it look artfully messed. My talents, although useful in everyday life, did not really make me capable of contributing anything valuable to society. Something my mother loved reminding me of.

After finishing I moved to my full-length mirror for a quick inspection.

My soft grey metallic dress was cut on the bias and hugged my body in all the right places before falling softly to my feet. It had spaghetti straps which snaked down way low on my back. My red hair escaped from the bun artfully, falling in wisps around my face. I regarded my face in the mirror. As a natural redhead I was plagued with freckles. Some days I cursed them, others I liked them. Today I had let them peek out from under my makeup, just a light dusting on my cheeks. With a subtle smoky eye and a light pink gloss on my lips, I deduced I looked good. Good enough to face Ian again, and hopefully regain my ability to turn a phrase.

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