Blog Tour: The Colonel's Daughter by Amy Andrews
The Colonel's Daughter by Amy Andrews Publication Date: August 10, 2015 Genres: Contemporary, Romance
Synopsis: Sign: ScorpioThe sting of this Scorpio is unforgettably hot...
Ivy Danforth is out from under her Colonel father's overprotective control, and she's making it count. Big time. She's taken the summer off to travel through Australia with her bestie and experiencing all that life has to offer—when you’re not under constant military surveillance. She wants to end her summer with some sexy fun, and she has just the hottie in mind.Seth Rodrigo is ex-Special Forces working undercover and keeping an eye on Ivy as a special favor to her father. All he has to do is not give the game away and reveal who he really is. And especially not give into the hunger that's burning through his careful control... Then they're forced into protective custody. Alone. Together. For four days. And this time, the Colonel's daughter isn't taking no for an answer...
About Amy Andrews
EXCERPTS: The Colonel’s Daughter by Amy Andrews
“Why do women wear this stuff?” he asked, moving to her second toe.
Ivy blinked. Cleary the subject of him was closed. “Because it’s cute?”
He gave a dismissive snort as he started her third toe, on a roll now. “You don’t think it’s cute?”
“I don’t really have an opinion.”
“Oh come on,” she cajoled, wiggling her toes at him, trying to lighten the mood. “According to Cosmo, men get off on painted toes.”
“Men don’t read Cosmo.”
“Maybe they should.”
He grabbed her fourth toe in a firm grip and her nipples ruched into tight points. He must have found her high-beam chakra.
“Is that why you paint your toes?” he asked, his head still bowed over her foot. “For men?”
Ivy shook her head. “No. I do that for me.”
“Good,” he said, his gaze capturing hers as he looked up. “Don’t ever do anything for a man you don’t want to do for you.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Are you sure you haven’t read Cosmo?”He laughed and all her damn chakras lit up.
“Last one,” he said, returning his attention to her foot, staring down her little toe before dipping the brush in one more time. In two skillful swipes he’d covered it. “There,” he said, sitting back, inspecting the job.
Even with a bottle of hot pink nail polish in his hands, admiring his handiwork, Dean Bennett was still the most masculine man she’d ever met.
“Not bad,” he declared.
“Not bad at all,” she admitted. “For your first time.”
He flicked her a glance that told her he wasn’t going to rise to the bait. She lifted her foot, offering it to him. “Blow?”
“Nice try,” he said, tossing her the bottle of polish and rising from the couch. “I need a coffee. Want one?”
Strangely, what she craved most of all after their satisfying session over her toes, was a cigarette.
And she didn’t even smoke.
Ivy pulled her T-shirt over her head and wiggled gently out of her pajama shorts, placing them
both on the vanity. She looked at her reflection, something which she’d avoided till this point, and eyed herself critically. Standing there in nothing but her white cotton fig-leaf underwear it was the same as it had always been.
“Never going to be a Flamenco dancer,” she whispered.
Even if she did have the figure for it and knew how to dance the damn thing, the world wasn’t ready for Snow White the Flamenco Dancer with pink hair.
God, her hair. Bed hair times 100. What a freaking mess.
She raised her hand to push it back into some kind of order clipping the glass tumbler on the way up, knocking it off the vanity. She cried out, trying to reach it in time, but it was too late. She sprang back as it smashed on the tiles louder than a sonic boom in the still of the night.
Ivy froze, staring at it dumbfounded, not even the bite of tiny splinters of glass speared into her shins registering as she stared at the mess blankly for long moments, her heart thundering.
Maybe he hadn’t heard it?
“Ivy!” The door knob rattled. “Ivy!”
Or maybe he had.
Ivy scrambled to bring coherency to her thoughts. To open her mouth and say something. Tell him she was okay. That it was just a broken glass. But nothing seemed to come out in those confusing seconds as time slowed right down and she watched in horror as the door came crashing in with a loud bang.
Dean stood there like an avenging angel, his stance wide, knees bent, his fisted hands held up and out from his body, the muscles in his forearms and biceps coiled tight like a ninja primed to spring.
If he was just a bouncer she’d eat her hat.
The pain in Ivy’s hip faded away completely. Their gazes met and held briefly before his dropped
lower, landing squarely on her chest.
Her very naked chest.
He stared at it, the sound of his breathing loud in the silence, his nostrils flaring as a tiny flicker of something lit his eyes. It looked a lot like desire and Ivy’s nipples tingled and ruched shamelessly in blatant response before she remembered she was practically naked in front of him and
her common sense returned with an almighty wallop.
“Dean!” Ivy gasped her cheeks heating as she folded her arms over her chest and turned her back to him. “Get out!”
“I really am okay,” he murmured.
It was more than Ivy could stand. Of course he was okay. She had no doubt Dean would always soldier on, alwayscome out on top.
Dean Bennet was always going to be okay.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t grieve for all that he’d lost. That there wasn’t a wounded kid in there somewhere who needed a hug just as much as she did.
Screw it. He was getting one whether he wanted it or not.
Without asking permission, Ivy walked between his legs, sliding one leg over his thigh until her bent knee was resting on the couch.
He looked alarmed as he sat a little straighter. “Ivy?”
There was a definite note of warning in his voice. She ignored it, repeating the motion with her other leg until she was essentially straddling him. Then she settled herself into his lap, pushed her hair back, slid her hands onto his stiff shoulders, and pulled him forward. His head came
to rest against her chest and neck and Ivy circled her arms around his back, reveling in the width of him.
She rested her cheek against the top of his head, shutting her eyes, pouring all her empathy into the embrace, soothing the emotions that had clogged her throat. She could smell the shampoo in his hair. The steady pound of his heart
echoed her own. There was silence for a beat or two and Ivy basked in it.
His voice was muffled and, if she wasn’t very much mistaken, a little strangled. God alone knew what he was doing with his hands because they certainly weren’t touching her. She could picture him in her mind’s eye sitting stockstill, her clinging to him like…well, ivy, his hands held up and
out, way the hell away from any chance of contact with her.
The thought almost made her smile.
“Ivy.” He braced his shoulders against her arms a little but she held on tight.
“Shh, it’s okay,” she whispered, running her hands up and down the broad expanse of his back like a mother might do to soothe a child. “It’s just a hug. I need it even if you don’t.”
Some of the tension left his shoulders, but his frame remained erect. She sighed after a while when it became apparent that Dean wasn’t going to go all cuddly on her. She removed her arms from around his shoulders and put him out of his misery.
“See?” She smiled, looking down at him as she sat back a little. His hands actually were hovering in the air off to his sides, just above the surface of the couch like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Not too hard, right?”
His eyes widened a little before he cleared his throat and placed his hands on the couch. “Err…no,” he said glancing away.
Great. Now he couldn’t even look at her. Awkward, much? But what had she expected when she’d impulsively climbed into his lap? Was it the hug that had embarrassed him the most or what she’d said? About it being hard?
He shifted uncomfortably beneath her and Ivy’s gaze fell to his lap as she gathered herself to climb off again. It was then she realized what had made him so uncomfortable about her choice of words. A thick, hard bulge pushed the confines of his zipper to its limits.
A rock-hard bulge.
Ivy sucked in a breath as her pulse skipped a beat. He had an erection. For her? Pressing herself against him had made him hard…
Her pulse spiked. It was probably just a normal male physiological reaction to being in this positon with any woman, right?
But what if it wasn’t?
She looked at the tense set to his jaw. “Dean?”
His gaze locked with hers. “Hugging time’s over now, Ivy. Time to get up.”
She was hyperaware of the unfinished business between them. Even more aware that they were completely alone— no cops in the carpark, no busy road or the bustle of hotel life outside their door.
The urge to touch him was almost overwhelming. She wanted to run her hands over him so freaking bad.
One orgasm and she was turning into some kind of sex freak.
How was it possible to want to scratch his eyes out as much as she wanted to scratch that perfect back up while he pounded her into his mattress?
“Can I…help you with something?”
Ivy stepped into his room, her heart skipping madly in her chest. “I came to borrow some underwear.”
“Oh.” His startled gaze flew to the jersey, zeroing in on her crotch area with X-ray-like intensity. Ivy felt that stare right at the point of contact as a wild flutter kicked to life deep and low. It was a revelation to realize he still wanted her, too. She could see it in the smolder of his eyes. In the bob of his throat. In the tension of his neck muscles.
“Sure,” he said, moving awkwardly to a tall chest of dark wooden drawers, opening the top one and pulling out a black pair with a broad green waistband. He walked them over to
her, stopping before he got too near and passed them over. “They’ll probably be a little baggy.”
Ivy took them. She couldn’t give a rat’s ass how baggy they were because, suddenly, she did not want to put them on. She dropped them on the ground and took a step closer to him.
“Ivy?” he said, looking down at the underwear. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t know what she was doing. She just needed tobe closer. To run her hands through his damp hair and over his shoulders and his back. To absorb the heat coming off him and bury her nose in his neck and inhale all his spicy, male goodness. To lick his tattoo and tear his towel away.
She took another step and leaned in, close enough to kiss him if she wanted. And she wanted. She didn’t care how pissed she was at him. Right now she needed to finish what they’d started the other night.
She might as well get something out of this whole debacle. And she’d deal with how fucked up that was later.
She laid her hand over one broad, warm pectoral. He flinched slightly, but Ivy could feel the hard thump of his heart beneath her palm. She loved the way their skin looked together. Golden
bronze and milky white.
The strain in his voice roughened up the silk of his accent and brushed like sandpaper against her skin. He circled his fingers around her wrist and tried to dislodge her. Ivy resisted and he dropped his hand, but they both knew a man who could kick down a door could easily pry her off if he really wanted to.
“I thought you didn’t like me.”
Ivy dragged her gaze from his chest to his face. “I don’t. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Like this. With no clothes on. Have you thought about me like this?
“Ivy.” The strain in his voice was replaced with a very British sounding warning.
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“I see I’m going to have to teach you the virtue of patience,” he said as he moved closer to
the bed, nudging his bent knee onto the mattress beside her foot.
“I’m getting older by the second.”
“You need to relax,” he murmured, his gaze lazily working its way up her thighs. “This is going to take a while. I want to make sure you’re ready.”
Ivy practically melted beneath his very thorough gaze. She’d been ready for freaking months. “If I was any wetter I’d be lying in a puddle.”
His gaze zeroed in on the juncture of her thighs. “I know,” he murmured. “I can see.”
Ivy blushed at how physically aroused she was but he didn’t look like he was complaining as he lowered himself down beside her. And he certainly didn’t feel like it as his erection pushed into her hip so tantalizingly close to her hand that was now trapped between their bodies.
He propped his head on his hand and looked down at her before stroking his index finger down her nose and over her lips and chin to her throat. When it reached the hollow
it continued lower passing through the valley of her breasts, dissected her stomach, and swirled around her belly button.
Ivy’s pulse spiked as it traveled lower and she made a little noise at the back of her throat as it slowed right down, but his gaze held hers captive and she couldn’t look away. She sucked in a breath as his finger furrowed through the hair at the apex of her thighs and came to a stop tantalizingly close to ground zero.
“Has a guy ever made you come?”
Her eyes widened and her vocal chords almost went into paralysis at the frank question. It scandalized and titillated.
So this was how the big boys played.
Her breath scorched her lungs, hot enough to ignite. “No.”
“Do you give yourself orgasms?” he asked, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Sometimes.” Bloody hell. She couldn’t believe she’d just admitted that. But his question emboldened her. “Do you?”
He smiled. “Sometimes.”
She got wetter just thinking about Dean touching himself. Would he think of her, of this, when he did it next?
She hoped so. She knew for damn sure she’d be thinking about it—about him—next time she did.