BlowingitOff

Blowing it Off

Lexxie Couper

Stimulated, Book One

A fire has destroyed the studio of glassblower Phoebe
Masters. And she knows what that means—a visit from the arson investigators. The
two men who reduced her heart to cinders. Men she’d hoped never to see again.

One wild weekend with Phoebe overwhelmed Will Bradley and
Damon Hunt. Like wankers, they blew it off, burning any chance for a future
with the talented beauty. The investigation gets them back in her life, but now
they have to prove the three of them were meant to be together. Their strategy?

A body-blazing inferno none of them will ever be able to
extinguish.

Chapter One

Morpeth, Australia

“You know they’re going to call the big guys in for this,
don’t you?”

Sliding her fingers over the smooth, solid length gripped
firmly in her left hand, Phoebe Masters flicked a sideward glance at the tall
streak of stunning blondeness beside her and bit back a sigh. “I don’t want the
big guys.”

The blonde—a.k.a. Sami Charlton, a.k.a. BFE (Best Friend
Extraordinaire), a.k.a. Australia’s most successful female motocross rider—let
out a chuckle. “I don’t think you’ll have a choice, Pheebster. Your studio’s
been gutted. With a fire this bad you know they’re going to call in the
investigation team. If Dad was alive he’d tell you the same thing.”

Phoebe’s stomach lurched and she ground her teeth. Damn it,
when she’d up and moved from Newcastle to the utterly parochial, completely
charming historical village of Morpeth six months ago, she’d planned to never
see the
investigation team
again.

“And I don’t believe for a second that you don’t want to see
them.”

Sami’s calm statement made Phoebe’s pulse pound just a
little harder in her neck. She bit back another sigh. Here she was, standing in
the smoking, charred remains of what was once her studio, the place she spent
every day blowing molten glass into artworks of stunning beauty, with the
acrid, wholly jarring stench of scorched wood and wet timber stinging her
sinuses with every breath. Reminding her with no uncertainty that everything
she held dear and valuable was destroyed—and she was thinking about Damon Hunt
and William Bradley.

“I don’t want to see them,” she grumbled, glaring at the
object she gripped in her hand, the only thing salvageable in the heartbreaking
mess. A long, thick shard of glass that, thanks to the fire, now looked like a
massive, slightly demented glass dildo.

“See who?”

The gruff male voice behind Phoebe made her jump, the glass
length almost slipping from her fingers as she did so. She pulled a face,
wrapping her fingers tighter around the accidental dildo like it was her one
and only life preserver. “No one.”

“The investigation team from Newcastle,” Sami said to the
elderly man now standing on Phoebe’s left. “This has to be arson. There’s no
other explanation for such an accelerated burn of materials designed to withstand
high temperatures, don’t you think?”

The old bloke’s wiry salt-and-pepper eyebrows rose up his
creased forehead and he tugged at his somewhat scruffy firefighter’s uniform
with calloused hands. “And what would you be knowin’ about arson and accelerated
burn, missy?”

Phoebe let out the sigh she’d been holding back for the last
five minutes or so. “Captain Kilgour,” she placed her fingers lightly on the
prickly old firefighter’s arm, “this is my best friend, Sami. Sami’s dad was
the commander of the Newcastle District Fire Investigation Unit.” She turned
and gave Sami a pointed look. “Sami, this is Keith Kilgour, the captain of
Morpeth’s fire brigade.”

Kilgour squinted at Sami. “Was?”

Sami nodded. “Was.”

Phoebe knew her best friend wasn’t going to expand on her
answer. The death of her father in a house fire still hurt Sami deeply.

Kilgour’s eyes narrowed even farther before he returned his
attention to Phoebe. “Well, much as I hate the idea of those upstart buggers
from the city coming here and tellin’ me my business, the young missy is right.
There’s somethin’ about the feel of the place I don’t like.” He sucked in his
checks and smacked his lips. “It tastes wrong.”

Sami nodded. “Too bloody right.”

Phoebe frowned, ignoring the fluttering little knot in her
belly at the “upstart buggers from the city” coming anywhere near her. “So what
you’re telling me,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her breasts, “is I
can’t start cleaning up until the investigation team—”

“William and Damon,” Sami interjected.

Phoebe gave her a scowl. Damn, she was one for providing
details today. “Until the Newcastle team comes up and—”

“Work their magic,” Sami finished for her, a grin playing
with the corners of her lip-glossed mouth.

Phoebe scowled harder. Were it not for Captain Kilgour
standing beside them, Sami would be finding herself the recipient of a bloody
good punch to the arm. Work their magic? Under no circumstances were Will
Bradley and Damon Hunt working any kind of
magic
on her again. Ever.

“That’s right, Ms. Masters,” Captain Kilgour agreed, giving
Phoebe what she suspected was supposed to be a reassuring smile. “The Newcastle
boys will need to take a look at this before you can touch it.”

Phoebe let out a shaky sigh. Damn it.

“I could take a look around, Dad.”

A younger version of Keith Kilgour, dressed in a pristine
firefighter’s uniform that almost—
almost
—hid a paunch and narrow
shoulders, sidled his way over the charred mess, giving Phoebe a wide smile as
he plucked the glass shaft from her hands. Blue eyes tried hard to hold hers,
the effort lost when Captain Kilgour barked out a laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harvey. You barely passed the last
fire science and behavior training course.”

Harvey Kilgour’s fleshy cheeks glowed red and Phoebe
suppressed a need to shuffle her feet. Since moving to Morpeth, she’d more than
once had to decline Harvey’s eager invitations to coffee, lunch, dinner,
breakfast, a trip to the local drive-in. Six months of being “courted” by
Harvey. And that was the word he used whenever he asked her out,
courted
,
as if their relationship was anything more than determined suitor and
non-interested recipient. Several rejections later and he still hadn’t taken
the hint. Still, seeing him get shot down by his father
was
a touch
uncomfortable.

It wasn’t that Harvey was grotesque or repulsive; he wasn’t.
In fact, he seemed quite personable in a slightly desperate, puppy-dog kind of
way. He was polite, charming, had an old-fashioned sense of propriety and an
almost boyish innocence about him. He’d turned up with handpicked flowers a few
times, had offered to fix anything in her home or studio if needed. When she’d
come down with that very nasty dose of the flu, he’d arrived at her door with a
steaming boiler of vegetable soup so bloody delicious, it was all she could do
not to run her fingers around the inside of the pot when it was all gone. Soup
he’d
made
. How could she say no to a guy like that?

How indeed? But she had. Often.

For reasons she couldn’t put her finger on, something in her
belly told her to stay away from Harvey—or at least keep him at arms’ length.
Something that made her feel…unsettled.

What? More unsettled than the way Damon Hunt and William
Bradley make you feel? Is that even possible?

Yeah, but
that
unsettled had nothing to do with an
inexplicable discomfort and
everything
to do with two tall, dark,
sarcastic and alpha-to-the-extreme men awakening sexual longings she couldn’t
deny no matter how hard she tried.

A shiver rippled up her spine and before she could shut it
out, a flash of memory blinded her…

William’s towering form, buck naked and completely aroused,
his dark blond hair a tousled mess, his eyes glinting with hunger as Damon
impaled her on his equally impressive cock. Damon’s full lips traveling over
her throat, his strong hands squeezing her backside, her moans of rapture a
familiar soundtrack to a weekend spent—

“Better go write the report—”

“Can I walk you to the—”

“Time I hit the road—”

Phoebe blinked, the cacophony of voices jerking her from the
wholly unsettling memory. Her heart pounding too hard for her liking, she
looked at Sami, for the moment needing to focus on one thing, one speaker—and
her best friend was the least…vexing. “You’re going?”

Sami pulled a face. “Yeah, I know. I suck. But I have a
photo shoot with
Inside Motor-Sport
magazine this afternoon and a
meeting with my agent in less than three hours.”

Phoebe shot her watch a quick glance. With the way her best
friend rode the classic Ducati she loved like a…well, a
lover
, Sami
would make it back to Sydney with time to spare, as long as she wasn’t arrested
for speeding.

“Okay,” Phoebe grumbled, turning completely to the Amazonian
blonde to give her a hug. “Next time come up for longer than just a night.”

Sami squeezed her back. “Hey, if some prick hadn’t burned
your studio down I’d be mooching off you for brekkie and you’d be wishing I’d
hurry the hell up and go home.”

Phoebe chuckled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Sami flashed the kind of grin that made her the darling of
the motocross world—cheeky, sexy and very, very devilish. “Of course I am. Say
g’day to Damon and Will for me.”

Phoebe’s belly flip-flopped. “Bugger off with you,
Charlton.”

With another squeeze, this one a tad gentler, Sami turned on
her heel and strode from the blackened mess of Phoebe’s studio, hips swaying.
“Better still,” she tossed over her shoulder, swinging her helmet beside her
leg like a schoolgirl swings her school bag, “give them both a kiss.”

“A kiss?” Captain Kilgour’s voice sounded mortified.

Phoebe bit back a sigh and, turning from the sight of her
friend’s departing leather-clad form, gave the firefighter a placating smile.
“She’s kidding.”

Harvey laughed, slapping his dad on the back. “Of course she
is, Dad. Why would Phoebe want to kiss the arson investigators?”

Warmth crept up Phoebe’s neck and over her cheeks and,
unable to stop herself, she pressed her thighs together, the sudden flush of
tension tickling her labia, making her want to groan. Why
would
she want
to kiss the arson investigators? She wouldn’t. Especially when those two men
were Damon Hunt and William Bradley.

Yeah, right.

* * * * *

“Head’s up, Tiny, we’ve got a job.”

William Bradley spun on his desk stool to glare at the tall
man crossing the room toward him. “How many times do I have to tell you not to
call me Tiny?”

Damon laughed, dropping into the low, beat-up couch sitting
in the middle of their cramped office. “Well, seeing as it’s been eight years
now since I first met you, I’m guessin’…” he affected a pensive expression,
crossing his ankles on the cluttered coffee table and lacing his fingers behind
his head, “a lot. Besides, you’re a short-arse. What else am I going to call
you?”

Will shook his head and rolled his eyes, giving his partner
an exasperated look. “I’m two inches shorter than you.”

Damon held out a hand. “There you go. Short-arse.”

“You’re six foot three!”

Damon grinned. “My point exactly.”

Will threw a tennis ball at him. “Yeah, yeah,
Stretch
.
Tell me about the job.”

“You’re going to love this. It’s in Morpeth.”

Every muscle in Will’s body tensed. He drew in a slow
breath, leaning forward on his stool. “Morpeth?”

Damon gave him a single nod, his brown gaze steady.

Will pulled in another breath. Morpeth. The village
pretending to be a town north of Newcastle was populated by entrenched,
born-in-the-blood locals and artisans inspired by the timeless beauty of the
place.
Not
the kind of place an arson investigator usually found
himself. But then, he’d felt an almost palpable urge to jump in his car and
drive north more than once since a particular artisan took up residence.

Damn, his heart shouldn’t be thumping as hard as it was.

He narrowed his eyes, refusing to acknowledge how dry his
mouth had become. “What’s the job?”

If possible, his partner’s eyes grew mischievous
and
intense. “Investigating a suspicious fire that destroyed an art studio.”

Will’s heart thumped harder. “What kind of art studio.”

Damon’s lips curled. “A glassblower’s art studio.”

“I take it by the smile on your face the artist wasn’t in
the studio when it went up?”

Damon shook his head. “Not according to the report from one
Captain Keith Kilgour of the Morpeth Bush Fire Brigade. The owner of the studio
was, to quote Captain Kilgour, ‘extremely agitated and reluctant to notify the
Newcastle Arson Investigation team’, end quote. Reading between the lines, I
suspect Kilgour wonders if the artist is pulling an insurance job.”

The wind left Will’s lungs in a gush. He slumped back on his
stool, dragging his hands through his hair. Fuck. He’d spent the last six
months doing everything to convince himself what he and Damon had shared with a
certain glass artist now living in Morpeth was nothing more than a weekend
fling. He’d tried his hardest but now, here he was—palms sweaty just thinking
about the possibility of seeing her again, of
more
than seeing her, when
he should be thinking of nothing else but a fire scene.

Easier said than done when Phoebe Masters was involved.
Bloody frustrating pain-in-the-arse woman. Knowing her, the moment they walked
into her studio she’d walk out the other door.

But what if she’s happy to see you? It’s been six months
since she left. Six months to forget how monumentally you and Damon fucked-up
the last time all of you were together. What if she’s calmed down? Changed her
mind?

Damon cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re thinking one of two
things, Tiny, and both are going to send you crazy.”

Will’s own eyebrows rose up his forehead, his gut churning.
“What are they exactly, Stretch?”

Damon returned his feet to the floor and leaned forward on
the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “One, the second we cross the
threshold of Phoebe’s studio, she’s going to throw herself at us and beg us to
pick up where we last left off—in bed together, fucking each other senseless.”

It wasn’t just Will’s stomach that reacted to Damon’s first
scenario—his balls and dick tightened, the image his friend painted affecting
him with the subtle blow of a sledgehammer.