Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (7 page)

Before he crushed her, he pushed off and rolled to the side. The glass slid against his back, further cooling his skin. His knees felt suspiciously loose as he stretched straight. The carpet rubbed his ass.

He spun out a slow smile, as if his chest wasn’t still heaving with one of his best orgasms in years. “What would you estimate that payoff at?”

The curl of her mouth was mostly contented, but he thought he saw a gleaming blade of challenge. Maybe that was only his surprise. Or his determination not to let it happen again.

“Thirty-seven to one,” she said. “Easily.”

He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. He almost expected her to pass, to stand on her own. She seemed determined to come at him from an equal footing.

But surprise was among her most potent weapons. She gracefully slipped slender fingers into his.

After the last hour, he ought to have been spent. The soft slide of her skin proved otherwise. His continued interest was stoked by the Las Vegas lights gleaming off wet streaks crisscrossing her magnificent tits.

She followed his gaze down then laughed huskily. “I suppose I should get cleaned up.”

He nodded, intending to let her walk past him toward the bathroom.

Instead, one sharp tug yanked her close. He was quickly coming to relish their near-perfect match in height. Her hips nudged his groin and her breasts pillowed against his chest. He angled her face.

By all rights, their kiss should have been easy. Relaxed. They’d already taken the edge off.

But it wasn’t.

Teeth clicked together. Lips claimed and took. Her mouth stole every thought out of his head until he devolved into the rough, rude kid he’d never been. Their tongues fought. In the swirling cloud of heat that swept between them, Jon probably gave away too much of his surprise. He was verging on confused.

That would never do.

Heather pulled away first. Silvery-blue eyes studied him. The shield of her lashes kept her thoughts tucked down. She lifted a hand to curl over his jaw. For a second he thought he’d won the round, but then she stepped away with a soft pat to his cheek and another of those fucking secret smiles.

The bathroom door closed with a quiet
snick
.

Jon stood in the middle of the bedroom. He rubbed a hand over his crown. He didn’t find anything close to the tingling effect he’d felt when Heather did the same thing.

Shaking his head, he ducked into the half bath in the other room to clean up. With any other woman, he’d have followed her into that bastion of marble and brass and potential sin.

He needed a moment.

After wiping up and pulling his boxer briefs back on, he grabbed a miniature bottle of scotch from the minibar to pour it into a glass. It was no Glenrothes, but it would do. The sharp burn of the liquor slipped down his throat, chasing away his lingering…confusion, he supposed. Putting a name on something so ephemeral was difficult, but he would.

Somehow he was drawn back to the wide bank of windows. He’d get her propped on that chair the way he envisioned, one way or the other.

A quiet step was almost muffled by the thick carpet. Heather had wrapped her body in one of the plush white robes that came complimentary with the suite. The belt was tied in a firm knot, but her fingertips grazed back and forth over her upper chest, as if she still thought of his release on her skin.

Setting down his drink, Jon met her in the middle of the room and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “Are you hungry? I find I’m starving.” Her wrists were surprisingly slender for the richness of her body. Tender. Damageable. He looped his grip lightly around them.

She pulled back to look him in the eyes. “How easily you shut it all down again.”

“The highs and lows are part of the fun.”

For a moment he thought she’d call him on his bullshit. The decision to let it slide was a visible tug on the corners of her mouth. “I’m starving too. I assume a place this nice has concierge service.”

“Of course.” He crossed to the phone on the desk that served most travelers as a business center. “Anything you want, from French fries to
coq au vin
. You have only to name it.”

She twiddled the robe’s belt through her fingers. Her toes curled into the carpet. “Will you do me one favor?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t make it all sound so…generous. I don’t want to feel like I’m being bought.”

After returning the phone to its cradle, he crossed back to Heather. Her pulse was racing again, but not for any reason he liked. Jon had never needed to buy a woman. The thought that she might feel so shabby was an anathema.

“You may have noticed my tastes, Heather? Believe me when I say that even if you weren’t here, I’d be indulging however I liked.”

Her erotic mouth curled into the lush smile he much preferred. “When you put it that way…I think I’d like a chicken salad.”

“That’s it?”

She leaned forward and nestled against his jaw. A quiet shiver tightened the back of his neck. “What can I say? I save my appetites for other arenas.”

Now that was a rallying cry he could certainly get behind. He ordered her salad, plus the chef’s tasting menu with wine pairings for himself. For both of them, he added oysters.

“No oysters, sir,” the man said.

“How can you have thirteen kinds of bottled water and no oysters?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Fine. The cheese assortment instead.”

As soon as he’d hung up the phone, Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” screamed from his trouser pocket.

Heather lifted her eyebrows in silent question.

He grinned as he dug out his cell. “It’s a long story, and very little of it’s mine to tell.” He stepped nearer to the windows for a modicum of privacy. “Yo, Fang. What’s up?”

Major Ryan “Fang” Haverty’s voice was as sharp and clear as it was during staff meetings. “I just got a call from Leah.”

Jon glanced at his watch. “It’s a weekend and it’s after midnight. Of course you did. Where is she?”

“Some dive bar. The bartender who took her phone for a minute sounded really pissed.”

That was Princess Leah, all right. Fellow pilot Leah “Princess” Girardi should’ve made major a year ago, but she was too reckless. Wild. She still lived like a sorority girl on spring break. None of it impacted her impeccable, graceful flying techniques, but she was a hot mess once she touched the ground.

“If she’s been fighting again, she’s going to get her ass hemmed up by the CO.”

“Where are you?” Ryan asked. “Can you go get her?”

Jon looked back over his shoulder. Heather had taken a half bottle of red wine from the minibar and was industriously working at the cork. The white robe engulfed most of her body, but a sleeve had slipped down to bare her shoulder. Pale skin glowed in the soft light. He rubbed his hand over his bare chest where a lovely tension clawed back to life.

“No,” he answered slowly. “I don’t think I can.”

The quiet hum in the background of the call was Cass, Ryan’s girlfriend. It was still bizarre that Jon’s friend seemed on his way to breaking up their triad. He, Ryan and Leah had been friends from the moment Jon’s boots touched Nellis Air Force Base soil almost two years earlier.

They’d always be friends, but it wasn’t going to be the same. It shouldn’t be, now that Fang had found someone who made him happy.

“You going to tell me what you’re up to?” Ryan asked.

“You going to tell me what Cass is wearing?”

A long silence followed, which was more generous than Jon probably deserved. “No worries,” Ryan said at last. “I’ll go get her. Drag her ass home.”

Jon exhaled a long breath. He’d learned loyalty at a very young age, mostly from watching what not to do. His family had splintered after his older sister had died—right when they should have drawn closer together. He’d lost his parents as clearly as if they’d been victims of the same car accident. They’d made cold and closed off an art form.

He didn’t like abdicating his responsibilities as a friend, but circumstances made it necessary. Heather and their night together was a one-time-only event. Jon didn’t know how to do long term, even if he had any inclination. Best to enjoy moments as they happened. Ryan could handle Leah, with Cass there to welcome him home after he’d done his good deed.

Plus the hard truth remained: at some point they were going to have to let Leah sink or swim.

“Let me know if you need help,” he said.

“Naw, I’ve got it covered.” Cass’s quiet giggle came over the line before it was muffled. Probably by Ryan’s hand. “I just figured it was worth a shot.”

They hung up after quick goodbyes. Jon tossed his phone onto the desk.

Heather wandered nearer. “Problem?”

He shook his head then touched her shoulder. Soft skin was still warm from the cuddling comfort of the robe. “No, shouldn’t be.”

“A friend?” She sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass.

He was glad he’d been able to get a decent room at such short notice. Watching her drink wine from little plastic cups at the tasting had been simply…wrong—like serving twenty-year-old scotch in a Dixie cup.

“Yes. But it’s his turn. He owes me a few.”

“Turn?” Her eyebrows lifted. “To do what?”

“To pick up our other friend, Leah, from whatever trouble she’s up to this time.” His gaze flicked over her face. “You look surprised.”

“Maybe a little. You have to admit it doesn’t jibe with your self-indulgent playboy act.”

Something uncomfortable slid down his spine—a surprising measure of chagrin that he’d been caught out so easily. But then, Heather seemed particularly astute.

He forced an indulgent chuckle. “I’ll have you know that I don’t have to try very hard.”

Graceful hands slid around his hips. Heather traced the line of muscle that arrowed from his waist into the band of his briefs. She looked up at him from under her brows. “I’ll understand if you have to go.”

“Not a chance.”

He took her wine and set it on the desk next to his phone. After weaving his fingers through the dark fall of her hair, he scraped his nails over her scalp. She bent her head back as he traced soft nibbles up the vulnerable skin of her throat. The kiss he drew from her lips was charged. Expectant.

“Because I haven’t found any pandas yet.”

Chapter Nine

Heather studied the arrogant flyboy as she stabbed another strip of grilled chicken. She’d been ready to lounge on the gorgeous sectional couch, eating dinner on her lap just as she did at home. Before she was able to make the suggestion, Jon had laid out their room service on the dining table. He’d placed the silver, napkins and glasses as if reproducing a manual on blueblood etiquette. Was that because of his upbringing, or had the military influenced his need for order?

Etiquette, however, generally required wearing a shirt to the table. Jon was still beautifully naked except for his close-fitting boxers.

So instead of the couch’s luxurious comfort, she sat at the table and watched him. A fair trade, by any standard.

“I’m glad they didn’t have oysters,” she said, breaking the silence. “They’re disgusting.”

“But a purported aphrodisiac.”

She grinned. “Do you really think we need one?”

He eyed her over the rim of his wide wineglass, giving the rich red liquid a swirl. “You know, you don’t look like you’ll be thirty-two in a week.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What, exactly, do you expect a thirty-two-year-old to look like?”

“I’ll get a plate of food in my lap if I say ‘withered crone’, yes?”

“And then a fork to your testicles.”

A chuckling smile renewed his dimples. “Can’t have that. No, you look…fantastic.” As if that compliment were too spontaneous, or maybe too normal, he slanted his gaze toward where her robe gaped slightly across her breasts. “Fantastic everywhere.”

“You can’t help it, can you? The innuendo.”

“Why would I want to?”

Because there’s a time and place for sincerity
, she wanted to say.

Maybe she would’ve exposed herself that way had she been fifteen years younger. Or even five. Heather had no qualms with slinking gracefully into her thirties if it meant having the presence of mind and confidence to keep up with someone like Jon. Demolition men simply didn’t do sincerity.

She’d learned that the hard way.

He used a piece of bread to mop the last of the beef juices off the plate. Definitely not one hundred percent Mr. Manners.

“So how old are you, then, smartass?”

“Twenty-six,” he said.

Though his demeanor was that of Casanova with decades of experience under his belt, his features were obscenely smooth. Perhaps twenty-six was an appropriate compromise.

“Did they let you in the Air Force as a tween?”

“Might as well have,” he said, leaning back. “Let’s just say I have an aptitude for numbers that only registers on the charts of very special assessors. The physics of trajectory and velocity—none of the calculations ever fazed me. I can see them in real time, like a movie reel, even when flying faster than the speed of sound. I studied aeronautics and hopped into the first plane Uncle Sam let me have.”

“Have you been in combat?”

He slid her an unreadable look. “The Aggressor Squadron is a teaching tool. We simulate enemy dogfighting styles to train pilots from around the world. We wouldn’t be much good to them if we hadn’t taken a tour or three.”

A funny lurch thumped beneath her ribs as Heather sipped her wine. She was trying to reconcile the idea of Jon in combat, not liking that picture at all.

So little about him added up. She could imagine him being a genius. That didn’t seem out of keeping with his arrogance or how he walked ahead of life—not running after it as most men did during their twenties. But just because one had a penchant for numbers and studied aeronautics didn’t mean volunteering for the Air Force, let alone going to war.

She wanted to ask why. Instead she took another bite of salad.

“More wine?” he asked, as if he hadn’t just implied having flown combat sorties.

When Heather declined, he set aside the small bottle rather than pour more for himself. She realized he’d switched to water since finishing his food.