Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (27 page)

He and Ryan cut in on Leah with a minimum of fuss while Heather and Cass waited at the edge of the ballroom. Leah went willingly enough. She only twiddled a finger wave to Mr. Preston.

In the corridor, Heather and Cass fell into step behind them. When Leah stumbled, Ryan and Jon each took an arm.

Jon was pissed. Flat-out pissed at his friend. More than a year of covering for her stripped the last of his civility. “What the hell was that? You’re a
captain
. A goddamn fighter pilot. You ready to flush that down the shitter?”

“I do my job,” she protested weakly.

Ryan’s thundercloud expression said he’d reached his snapping point too. “Doesn’t count for much when you act like a terminal screwup every night. I’m done, Leah.”

“Fine, fine.” She tried to wave a hand, which only added to her unsteadiness.

Jon tightened his grip on her upper arm. “Why the fuck do you pull this crap?”

Her eyes were glassy, but she wasn’t insensible. Not yet. Nearly too quiet to hear, she whispered, “I don’t know.”

They’d finally done it, he and Fang. They’d chewed her out the way she deserved. Not that it stood much chance of doing any good, and Jon felt no better for having unloaded on her. As Ryan’s truck pulled away with all three inside, he shoved his hands in his pockets. That Leah teetered so close to ruin was easy to point out. What to do about it became murkier.

Her call. Her life to ruin.

Jon couldn’t do a damn thing more. That turned his guts to ice.

Heather curled against his side. “You okay?”

He nodded. Filling his hands with the skin bared by her gown helped. More than a little.

For a moment, he’d almost thought she would offer to talk about it. He would’ve taken her up on the offer. Idiot.

Instead she trailed a finger down his lapel. “Do you think going upstairs might make you feel better?”

Chapter Thirty-One

Don’t think. Just feel.

Those four words had been pounding in Heather’s brain since sitting beside Jon for dinner.

Don’t think. Just feel.

That was harder to do, so much harder when he made her feel more than the physical.

They’d been lovers for nearly two months—such a long time to hold back the momentum of her fascination. She’d found no disappointments. None. On her end, she was practically ready to take it to the next level. Fear kept her silent. It wasn’t so much about her reputation anymore and how hard she’d worked to cultivate a squeaky-clean image. No, it was because her recklessness remained. Jon tempted her to it, urged her to indulge. She’d succumbed to that temptation before when she was young and stupid. Twelve years should’ve put enough distance between naïve kid and competent woman.

Yet the longer she stayed with Jon, the more she became convinced some breaking point was coming. Soon. Once again she would wind up feeling like the girl who’d missed prom because of a fast-talking corporal and his motorcycle. Or worse, she’d tell Jon she was falling in love and have that raw emotion shoved back in her face. Laughed at. It had happened before—far more humiliating than what her first love and his buddies had done to her for the rest of the weekend.

She’d trusted the wrong man with her heart. She hadn’t been that trusting since.

She led Jon into the elevator at the Bellagio. Her smile was painful. He leaned against the interior paneling and toyed with their room keycard. What she’d proposed layered between them, building strength. Her anticipation far outweighed her fear. She knew without doubt that he would do as he always had.

Drive her crazy. Make her come. Keep her safe.

The difficulty was that she had never wanted this with anyone else, or could never imagine wanting it with anyone else. Jon was taking up far too many exclusive places. Every time she tried to prove he was just a crazy good time, he did his job—and by that fact proved he was someone special.

“Second thoughts?”

Don’t think. Just feel.

“Not at all,” she said smoothly. “I was thinking that you have a lot of whispered promises to keep.”

“Liar.”

“Hm?”

“That’s not what you were thinking.”

Heather smothered her surprise in a pout. “Trying to change the subject, Captain?”

He shoved off from the elevator wall. Stalked closer. Pushed her back. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“You know what? Forget I said anything.” He tongued his bottom lip, his gaze on hers. “You want to play bad girl with my cock? By all means. Ready, willing and able.”

Occasionally she’d believed him easy to read, when the playboy act stretched too thin. Not right then. He was either being sarcastic, or he was covering something very close to disappointment. Heather was so tangled up and inside out that she had no perspective. All she knew was that he looked breathtaking in his uniform, and that under Jon’s blatant scrutiny, she felt sexy and desired.

Maybe this would be enough.

Maybe then she could stop.

“Glad to hear that.” She stroked Jon’s satin cummerbund. “I’d hate to think I’ve restrained myself with no reward to show for it.”

“Perish the thought.”

The elevator door opened. Jon held her hand, almost as if they were lovers bound by genuine caring, not by a series of escalating provocations. Heather sauntered through the door to their suite, which was only slightly less ostentatious than the one they’d shared at The Palazzo.

Jon unraveled the ties of her gown’s bodice almost as soon as the door clicked shut. A slight sting of disappointment needled her skin. Why should it matter if he didn’t play and toy and take his time? His tenderness was harder to bear than the steady, even pace of his fingers loosening the laces.

Don’t think. Just feel.

So she did. Heather sank into the rush of being undressed. The gown unclasped her rib cage. She took her first deep inhalation of the evening, only to catch a breath of Jon’s cologne. He stood behind her and slid his fingers from her hips, up, until he palmed her breasts.

“Do that again,” he whispered against her nape. “Deep breath.” She complied, arching slightly. The movement pushed her body into his hands. “Again. Breathe, Heather love.”

Air rushed to her brain. A fresh burst of oxygen fueled her anticipation. Her skin prickled as the rest of her dress dropped over her hips.

Jon offered his arm. “Step.”

Knowing how she must appear, she stepped out of the puddle of her gown. All she wore were her earrings, her black high heels, and the nipple ring he flicked with his tongue.

Oh, it was easier now. No worries. This was Jon. She’d trusted her body to him in singular ways. His decadent smile warmed every inch of her skin.

“You are a filthy, beautiful woman.”

She purred against his throat. “I’m going to go wait on that chaise. And I’m going to start touching myself, like I’ve wanted to do all night.”

“We have much in common, Ms. Morris. Because I’ll enjoy watching that.”

“I want you naked too.”

“And here I thought you were a real lady,” he said, unfurling his bow tie.

His words, spoken harshly, tightened her vertebrae, but she shoved away the reflex. Just an act. Just the game. If it wasn’t, why should she care? This was what she wanted from him—a hard, sexy time, well beyond the safe life she’d made.

She repeated that to herself as she found her evening bag and retrieved a bottle of lube. Making him wait for her request had been another game. She’d known all along what she wanted from their evening.

Like throwing down a gauntlet, she placed it in the palm of his hand.

Then she draped across the sleek leather chaise. “At your pleasure, flyboy.”

“If we do this at my pleasure, you won’t enjoy it very much.”

“Don’t make assumptions. You know how satisfying I find it when you lose control.”

Jon stopped in the process of laying his dress jacket over the back of a chair. Cruelly handsome black suspenders hugged his chest. “With regard to this particular intimacy, that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

A flutter of nerves kicked up in her stomach.

Damn, why was she doing this? Why was she pushing him? She’d lost track of so many conflicting motives: hiding from how much she enjoyed his company, loving that she surprising him, wanting to keep his attention.

Forever.

A cold shiver made her rub her upper arms.

“I thought you were going to torment me.” Jon slid down the suspenders, ditched the bow tie and cummerbund, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “
Touchez votre chagatte
,
mon amour
.” He grinned at her slight moan. “I said, touch yourself.”

Heather obeyed. Her body was well ahead of her conflicted mind. Nerves jumped at the first touch of her fingers. Jon’s soft chuckle flamed her skin. He was running this show, and damn if she wasn’t thankful. She’d lost control the moment she stepped out of that dress.

He shed his clothes until they trailed behind him, a dotted line on the carpet. No tidy piles tonight. Lean, ripped muscle flexed with each deliberate step. Her attention caught on the details. The layered scoops of his ribs, the sharp V-line at his hips, the bottle of lube still in his hand. His erection angled toward his navel, long and ready for her. Heather’s cunt tightened, wet and waiting, but that wasn’t his destination. She stroked faster—half pleasure, half restive suspense.

His every motion leashed, Jon knelt on the chaise. He spread her knees and took hold of her high-heeled foot. Her ankle hooked over his shoulder. The lights were still bright. She was utterly exposed, her skin feverish now.

Jon held the outside of her calf. His thumb gently stroked the tense muscle underneath. Dark hair dusted his forearms and the backs of his wrists. He slid her a fierce look. “Hug your breasts. Hold them up for me.”

If she took her hand out from between her legs, she would remove that last barrier. He would have complete access. She licked her lips, once, twice, then cupped her forearms under her breasts. Jon’s irises deepened, nearly black now. He breathed tightly through his nose.

He flipped open the bottle of lube. Drizzled a few drops on his fingers. Smiled.

“So many things I could do to you from here. I could stroke my cock between those lovely tits. Maybe I wouldn’t even last.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’d regret it.”

Heather tweaked her nipples. “You have your orders, Captain.”

Swirling his thumb and fingers together, he spread the lube over his skin. “Indeed I do.”

Jon placed his palm, fingers down, against her pussy. His middle finger curled, nudged, pushed, until that slick tip nestled against her tight opening. Heather tensed, then forced a long exhalation.

He released her ankle so that her legs spread wide, one high heel on either side of the chaise. Dipping at the waist, he feathered kisses from her navel on down. A quiver began at her belly and radiated out in wide circles. She watched, transfixed.

His taut tongue found her clit. All the while his middle finger waited against her anus. The pressure grew more insistent. Jon rasped rough French phrases against her pussy. His breath heated and cooled at the same time. Every vibration rumbled against her thin, sensitive skin.

The tip of his middle finger pushed inside.

Heather gasped, then groaned softly. “So good,” she whispered.

“And we’ve only just started.”

He sucked her clit and caught that tight bundle between gentle teeth. His finger pushed deeper. Slow, slow pulses created a lulling rhythm. Heather pinched her nipples out of frustration as each stroke relaxed her, eased her toward pleasure—the anxiety long gone.

More lube. Another sleek finger.

Jon’s skin shone with a light sheen of sweat. He lifted from between her legs, his expression wrapped in an artificial calm. The muscles of his forearm and biceps bunched as he pulsed. Only after those two fingers worked steadily, in and out, the pace faster, did he stop to grab a condom.

Heather couldn’t hear over the hard pulse in her ears. Desire drummed away her fear. She was eager now, curious, waiting for the next step.

Again he hooked her ankle over his shoulder. The spiked high-heel still clung to her foot. Long, elegant fingers positioned the sheathed head of his cock against her pussy. His hips did the rest. One plunge, two, and they were fucking on that leather chaise.

The buildup had been so steady, slow, hot that Heather nearly let go. Only Jon’s low laughter brought her back to the moment. “Don’t come, Ms. Morris. If you do, your clenching pussy might finish me off.”

Gasping his name, she arched toward the jarring smack of his hips. He bent over her. One hand propped against the chaise’s curved back. The other found her hair, tangled, pulled. Her scalp flushed with sweet pain.

“I said, don’t come,” he whispered against her throat.

Heather groaned, spread wide for him. The position was too much, the pleasure too much. A quick orgasm shuddered over her. Her cunt flooded with hot release.

Jon hissed. Pulled out. His chest heaved and his back teeth clenched tight. “God
damn
, Heather.”

Her mind still hazy with that flash of pleasure, she found him tugging her legs, shifting, flipping her on the chaise. He smeared her arousal between her ass cheeks. A dose of the chillier lube made her shiver.

Floating, relaxing, she let him in.

Slowly at first. The tip of his head pushed past a tight barrier that barely resisted his entry. Heather groaned long and low. His hands shook as he squeezed her hips. Squeezed
hard
. She felt every ounce of his restraint in those tense fingertips.

She took more of him, more still. Such a dangerous indulgence. She drifted to a place where pain and pleasure walked together.

His hips pushed flush with her ass. That was their limit, as deep as he could go. Totally filled. She’d never been so aware of her body’s limits—how far she could widen to accommodate Jon’s iron-hard prick. Every nerve screamed. She wanted him to take it slow. She wanted him to pound her so hard that her mind shut down.

Each successive stroke drew out more sensation. Facedown on the chaise, she scored her nails into the leather, imagining it was Jon’s chest. His strokes were smooth. Slick. He pumped her asshole with the steady throb of his cock. She was so open now. Her body offered no resistance. He may as well have been fucking her drenched pussy. Each deep thrust rocked her, filled her, stretched her. She blinked back tears, just her moans and gasps became an unstoppable outlet for the sweetest, darkest agony.