Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (28 page)

Jon bent low over her back. Reaching around, he found her clit and matched their rhythm with flicking circles. His tongue licked up her spine, until he laid his cheek in the valley between her shoulder blades. Their hot, sticky bodies arched in tandem.

Heather thrashed her head, but his relentless thrusts didn’t stop, didn’t even slow. His hips smacked her ass. He drove deeper, worked his finger faster. Harder.

Her release, when it came, was unlike any she’d ever experienced. Her world centered where he invaded the slick pucker of her anus. Sensation pounded her from all sides. Feverish. Vital. Filthy.

The dark behind her eyes went bright white. She screamed and kept screaming.

“Ah, Christ,” he gasped. His pelvis jerked. He grunted and blew out a long exhalation that matched her withering moan.

They huddled on the chaise, both panting heavily. Jon slipped free then soothed her with slow caresses along her slick cleft. His breath petted up her spine.

“Just amazing,” she whispered against the leather. “Just…thank you, Jon.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Coldness slinked over her skin, raising goose bumps. In the last few minutes, he could have done anything—
anything
—to hurt her. Instead he’d given her an exquisite initiation, an intimate treasure unlike any in her life.

Only at the last did he do her injury. No matter how much Heather wanted their affair to remain simple, his words left her hurting.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jon loved very little in the world more than flying. Maybe nothing. The desperate grab the earth made to keep him grounded. The thrill of takeoff. The rush of speed. His fellow pilots off his wingtips and the steady hum of the radio worked in concert to take down their assigned target.

The whole enterprise was a mastery of human initiative over a wickedly difficult puzzle. Princess darted ahead of him, her jet skipping gracefully. To his right side was Fang and his dogged determination. Being part of the Red Force meant balance: putting pieces together and taking them apart, all to make other pilots better. Everything they did helped save lives.

Fucking beautiful.

More proof that he’d made the right call in bailing on Heather for their date.

Even as Jon drew off a heat-seeking missile with a flare—that orange pop trailed by white smoke—the more complicated puzzle of Heather kept him preoccupied. Would she realize the basket of chocolate and strawberries he’d sent to her office was his way of disengaging? As much as he relished fucking her, and as much as he still wanted to figure out what made her tick, he was tired of being used as a hot cock. Not when she was so unwilling to let any real part of herself open up.

He never would’ve thought it possible, but the dares had worn thin.

A German Tornado swept up fast from the south, searching low. For the enemy. For him.

Jon pushed Heather out of his mind. His job was to focus.

He skimmed over the top of the rocks and hugged the terrain for cover. His plane, an extension of every calculated choice, responded perfectly through the slope of the canyon. He saw the way it would move even before he shifted the throttle. No mystery in an F-16. Just power and deadly elegance. He visualized the numbers and made it happen, each and every time. Straightforward.

Nothing left to chance.

He hadn’t planned on running into Donaghue again that day. But the single BX on base meant sometimes shit happened.

Jon turned down an aisle with a Gatorade in hand, only to draw up short. He’d spent too long paging through Sara’s books the night before, indulging in maudlin sentiments. Combined with two hard flights, his reserves were shot.

Donaghue stood before a display of cheap electronics. He held two packs of whatever, seemingly debating between the two. Should’ve been easy to avoid notice. Jon turned away.

The Aggressors were a small, elite crew. If Ryan and the rest of the chain of command thought Kisser deserved a spot on the team, it wasn’t Jon’s business to say anything else. Keeping his distance was safest, especially when repeated attempts to make the stubborn bastard see sense had all failed.

But the blunt accent of an inner-city thug called him back. “Good flight today, Tin Tin.”

Jon faced him. “For whom?”

Donaghue grinned. “Me, of course. You went down twice. Lucky Red Force pilots can regenerate or your day would’ve ended real quick.”

Pain spiked behind Jon’s ears as he ground his back teeth. Hard. “I went down the second time because you deviated from your flight path. You almost took out the air command.”

Fluorescent lights flashed over plastic as Donaghue tossed down both pieces of crap. “I didn’t though. Those Germans learned their place. All’s well that ends with winning.”

“Bullshit.” Jon stalked forward. The other pilot was roughly Jon’s height, but he was a solid wall of muscle. Didn’t matter. Jon was so pissed that Kisser retreated a half step.

He kept his voice to a low hiss. This was between him and Donaghue. Alone. “All’s well that ends with your fellow pilots alive and safe. You’d do well to remember that. Those are your buddies. Your friends. I hope you don’t find out what it’s like to get one of them killed because you made another dick-first choice. Or plow your own fucking face into the ground. Guys who fly like you don’t come home.”

His rough features pinched tight. “It’s just training.”

“If you think that, you need to bail. Immediately.”

Tossing the Gatorade onto a random shelf, Jon strode out of the BX before he could do anything stupider. Like slam his fist into that huge cocksucker’s jaw.

His Aston was aimed at Heather’s house before he could actually think about his destination.

Fuck, he had it bad.

Even as he knocked on her front door, he realized he wasn’t going to get what he needed. Catharsis. Someone to talk to about his fellow pilot’s foolish decisions. A tight, hungry fear crawled up his spine and drew his shoulder blades together—one he hadn’t experienced in years.

The fear of rejection.

Heather would want Jon to make her come. Hopefully her dares would be enough. He couldn’t seem to get anything else out of her.

He shouldn’t even
want
anything else. He’d learned the hard way that sometimes a man didn’t get what he needed, that he had to take people as they were. Some people weren’t capable of opening up.

Heather was one of them.

That didn’t stop him from knocking again. The door swung open slowly.

“You look like shit,” he blurted.

She did. Her dark hair was skinned back into a messy ponytail. Faint purple shadows clung under her pale eyes. A cotton camisole and bare feet under flannel pajama bottoms were the last touches.

“Way to make a girl feel good.”

Jon curled his hand around the sun-warmed wood of the doorjamb. “I always tell the truth, remember? What’s wrong?”

She crossed her arms under her breasts in an obvious
don’t touch me
signal. “I didn’t think you were coming over.”

“Change of plans.” He couldn’t explain it himself. No point in poking at something like that.

“Look, I’m not feeling well.” Her mouth pulled down. She rubbed her stomach. “I know you don’t want to stick around for this. So I’ll just call you tomorrow, okay?”

He brushed his knuckles over her cheekbones. At least she wasn’t running a fever. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

“The usual icky—” She broke off. Her eyes flared. She spun and ran off down the short hallway. The bottoms of her feet flashed.

Jon followed, slamming the front door behind him. Heather had already disappeared. He followed to where the bed sheets were a tumbled, snarled mess.

But she’d shut the bathroom door. Even locked it.

“Come on, Heather.” He knocked on the white wood. “Let me in.”

“Don’t be—” Retching noises punctuated her words, along with a cough or two. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jon bowed his head as he took a deep breath. If Heather was sick, he wasn’t going to be put off by some nastiness. The Air Force trusted him to keep his shit together in the face of death and destruction. Vomit was nothing.

“Open up, Heather. Let me help you.”

The silence stretched until it became tangible. His words took on an extra weight as he listened for her reply.

All she said was, “Gimme a second.”

The toilet flushed, followed by running water. She opened the door. Water gleamed on her dark lashes, turning them spiky. Her skin was streaked pink.

Jon couldn’t help but frame her face in his hands, although it went against her silent rules. He kissed her damp forehead. “Let me tuck you in bed.”

She looked up at him. Something intangible washed over her wan features. Then she found a listless smile. “You going to play knight in shining armor?”

He laughed as he led her to bed. “Leah’s given me enough practice.”

Heather snuggled into bed and curled on her side. Her cheek pressed into an overstuffed pillow. He tugged the sheets and her comforter over her shoulders, then went about neatly tucking in the end of the bed.

“Did you just make hospital corners on my bed?”

“What?” He glanced down to what he’d done. The sheets were inspection perfect. A flush crawled up the back of his neck. “If I say yes, are you going to kick them right out again?”

“Maybe.”

He eased nearer and brushed dark, damp hair back from her temples. “What happened?”

“I got sick.”

“Duh.” He tugged on her ponytail—softly though, because she really was a mess. “I mean what’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure. It’s either food poisoning or the flu.”

“Have you had anything to drink?”

She almost turned green. “No way. Nothing’s going in my mouth. Nuh-uh.”

“You have to keep your fluids up.” He stroked her shoulder. “You don’t want to get dehydrated.”

“Thanks, Dr. Carlisle,” she said dryly.

He chuckled. “Stay here.”

“It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

Her kitchen was practically stripped bare. The stainless-steel fridge was a barren wasteland populated by single-serve cups of yogurt, a few boxes of takeout Chinese and Diet Coke. No way was he pouring caffeine down her throat.

He put in a call to his favorite delivery service and placed an order for crackers and liquids with plenty of electrolytes. He accepted the rush delivery fee, paying by credit card. “If I don’t answer, just leave it on the porch,” he told the clerk.

Resolved to waiting, he poured a glass of water from the filter pitcher on the slate counter.

Heather was no longer in the bedroom. The covers had been tossed back and the bathroom door was closed. “Heather love?”

Two minutes passed before she reemerged. “I’m going to have to buy a new toothbrush after this.”

“That’s it,” he gritted. “We’re taking you to a walk-in clinic.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She tried to crawl back into bed, but Jon wrapped his arms around her waist. “Come on. Doctor. Now.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“I didn’t figure you for quite so stubborn.”

“No? Have you not met me?”

“Good point.” Her head tucked neatly under his chin. The strokes he smoothed down her back, over the cotton of her camisole, were long and calm, intended to soothe.

“I make a really shitty patient.”

“I’m beginning to see that. Come on, on your feet.”

He hauled her off the bed and found a pair of slippers tossed at the end of her bed. The way she cuddled against his side was surprisingly gratifying.

So…great. She was willing to let him in under two conditions: when he dangled an orgasm as a reward, or when she was completely worn out.

Ignoring how that grated, Jon snagged her purse from the table by the front door.

She dragged to a stop at the edge of her driveway. “Are you seriously going to put me in your car when I’m liable to puke?”

Even sick as she was, nothing hid the graceful lines of her cheekbones or the complicated thoughts lurking in her pale eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“How much did that thing cost?”

He stifled a sigh. “Enough.”

She nibbled her bottom lip, studying him. Then she stretched up to brush a feather-soft kiss on his chin. All she said was, “Thank you.”

It was more than he’d expected.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Heather contained her inappropriate giggles for most of the ride home from the walk-in clinic. The feat wasn’t too difficult considering the knot of pain in her gut.

But then they arrived at her house. The scene of the crime against her stomach was still laid out on the kitchen counter.

One look at the delivery of chocolate and strawberries was the end of her. She laughed so hard that she needed to sit down. A barstool at her kitchen’s island took her weight.

Jon stood in the doorway, tense arms folded over his chest. His glare was downright impressive for a man with such pretty features. She covered her mouth, but the giggles wouldn’t quiet.

Salmonella, the doctor had said. The sweet red culprits had been easy to identify. Twelve hours at work had made it too crazy to stop for lunch. She hadn’t eaten anything all day—except for Jon’s strawberries.

“It’s not funny,” he said for the tenth time.

“It is. Come on. A little.” She was gasping for breath, still grinning. “Besides, shouldn’t I get final say? I’m the one who’s sick.”

He prowled over to the counter. Chocolate, strawberries and the delivery tray hit the trash with a bold thud. Only then did he permit a chagrined smile. “Next time I’ll send edible underwear.”

“No fun without you here.”

The quip came automatically. He’d been so good to her in the clinic—her advocate when her stomach hurt too much to do paperwork. The four-hour ordeal left her exhausted and certain his stores of patience were quickly depleting. To learn his gift had been the cause of the ordeal should’ve been the last straw.

God, she must look a mess. Any minute now he’d find a reason to scram.

Jon crossed the kitchen. His legs nudged between her knees. He placed a kiss on her crown. “I’m sorry.”