The Biker and the Ballerina by Andra Ashe
erotic contemporary romance novella
Dusty, tattoed but oh-so-hot biker Brody wasn’t exactly the Prince Charming rescuer ballerina Cara imagined, but stranded on a deserted road in the blistering heat, she can’t be picky.
Brody doesn’t let women on his bike, let alone into his life, but can’t ignore a damsel in distress and besides, petite Cara isn’t his type – though his body is telling him otherwise.
They both live their lives on the road, in different worlds, but fate and torrential rain conspire to bring them together for one erotic night – but will one be enough?
“Are you ok?”
Someone was shaking her. Cara struggled out of a hot, sweaty sleep.
There was a hand on her knee. A strong, tanned hand. With the claws of some sort of black reptile inked onto each finger, the body snaking its way up the arm. She pulled away, shuffling sideways on her behind to shake of the hand.
Then she saw the boots. Black, scuffed with a metal ring and studded strap around the ankle. Worn, dusty jeans. And beyond him, on the side of the road next to her car a hulking, black and chrome motor bike.
Oh God. The sudden, hard thump of her heart spurred her to action and she stood up, backing away with her eyes on her car and wondering if she could make it there before he caught her.
Sharp pain jabbed the sole of Cara’s foot as she stood on a stone and lost her balance. A tight grip on her arm steadied her against a body that was hard and, despite being dusty and hot, smelled fresh and tantalisingly masculine.
“If you’re going to do a runner, then it’s advisable to put your shoes back on,” a deep but soft voice said somewhere above her ear. He let go of her arm.
So why wasn’t she running, hell for leather, to her car?
Because something in the tone of his voice told her she wasn’t in danger. Cara stepped away so she could get a look at this contradiction of tattoos, leather and a voice as smooth as melted dark chocolate. But all she saw was the top of his head with its thick, dark hair.
He was on his knees?
“Lift up,” he said, tapping her foot. Too stunned to reply, Cara lifted her foot only to lose balance and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. When on stage she could hold a perfect arabesque, but now she couldn’t lift her foot six inches off the ground. Wow, his shoulder was broad and rock solid.
“Steady there.” He circled her ankle with his hand. With the other he slid one shoe on. “Other one.” Cara obliged and she slipped both her shoes back on. “There you go, Cinderella,” and he stood up.
She knew she was short. What ballerina wasn’t? But he was a Titan. His chest, his wide, muscled chest which strained against a tight black t-shirt, was at eye level. And so was the outline of tight nipples. Cara swallowed hard and looked up.
“Brody Hall.” Full, sexy lips smiled a slightly crooked smile. A smile that urged one in response and Cara obliged.
“Cara Daniels,” she said, stepping back to make a space between them, not only so she could see him better but so she could breathe. Since when did tattooed bikers have perfect bone structure and designer stubble that didn’t look passé?
The bike, the boots, and the tat had painted an image in her mind, a clichéd image, but clichéd bikers didn’t smell delicious or smile like a heart-breaker movie star. Or make her want to run her hands under the black t-shirt, over the hard planes of his chest to find those hard nipples.
“How long have you been out here alone?” the concern in his voice sounded genuine.
She looked over to where the sun was now beginning to sink towards the horizon. “A couple of hours I think. Car’s dead.”
“Well I didn’t figure you were just taking a siesta. Are you ok? You’re probably dehydrated. Wait here.” And he was striding back to the bike. Cara stared after him at his long, muscular legs encased in the body-hugging dark denim that moved like a second skin across an arse as tight and toned as any professional dancers.
She smiled. There any resemblance to the men shed had in her life over the past ten years ended. Dark ink shaded both his arms in what looked like a Celtic design, black against tanned skin, which disappeared under the short sleeves of his t-shirt. The cotton fabric stretched tight over tanned biceps and clung damply to broad shoulders and back as he reached into a cooler strapped to the back of his bike and drew out a bottle.
Brody walked back to her, dangling the bottle between his fingers, a prince riding to her rescue. But while ballet princes were clean-cut and generally not that much taller than her, this one was rugged and dusty with height that could have been intimidating, but instead created a strange sense of protection.
“Here.” He handed her the icy bottle. “Get some of that into you and then we should get out of here. Weather’s gonna change soon and you don’t want to get caught out here in a downpour.”