by Amy Andrews
In my new book, Ask Me Nicely, an epic battle of wills is set between Sal who wants Doyle for his body and Doyle who wants Sal for more than that. Don’t get me wrong – he’s pretty damn hot for her body too, but he’s determined not to be just another guy in a long string of guys. He wants to date. He wants to get to know the person she hides from everyone else. He wants to know why she’s hurting so much.
He wants the whole enchilada.
And Sal is running from that as fast as she can. You see, she’s used to crooking her finger and having guys drop at her feet. Guys who don’t care why she is the way she is, only that they get to spend naked time with her. And Sal’s fine with that. She wears the pants and runs the show. She says when and where and how and then she says goodbye.
But what’s a girl to do when she loses her mojo and the only person who can restore it is perfectly happy to endure every sexual tease she can throw at him and still not succumb?
She gives in, that’s what she does. Rather ungraciously.
But Doyle refuses to be treated like all the others. He’s not going to come running at her imperious little finger crook no matter how blue his balls are. If she wants him, she’s going to have to do it on his terms and she’s going to have to use her manners and ask him nicely.
Because manners are as important in sex and dating as they are in life. And it’s the only way she’s getting a piece of him.
Sal does not take it well.
ASK ME NICELY
“Fine,” she snapped, not caring any longer about blinking first or saving face. They’d play it his way. They could go on a date and she didn’t have to tell him a damn thing she didn’t want to—it was the payoff she was interested in.
He blinked. “Fine?”
“Fine. Let’s do it your way, then. Let’s go on a bloody date. There. Satisfied?”
He looked at her incredulously, shaking his head. “Ah… you want to try that again? Nicely?”
Sal almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Ask me nicely.”
“You want me to ask you nicely?
“Sure. A guy likes to feel like he’s being romanced.”
Sal glared at him. “A guy ought not push his luck.”
His jaw tightened. “You’ve spent seventy-five percent of our personal interactions either yelling at, frowning at, bitching at, or ignoring me. So yes, damn it, I want to feel romanced.”
Sal took a deep, calming breath. No way would she be doing this for anyone else but Doyle, who’d proven again and again that he was some kind of savant when it came to the sexy business. A savant with magic fingers.
She plastered a smile on her face. “Please, Doyle,” she said, “I’d like to go out on a date with you.”
He smiled then, his gaze raking down her body in a very un-nice way. “I’d be delighted. Tomorrow night at seven suit you?”
Sal nodded. She probably wouldn’t die of sexual frustration between now and then. “Yes, that would be most suitable.”
He grinned at her deliberate poshness, pushing off the sink and brushing past her, heading for the hallway. “Wear something sexy,” he threw over his shoulder.
Sal glared at his back. If she wasn’t so damn horny she’d wear a sack and a chastity belt just to piss him off.