Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (23 page)

“Would you two quit it?” Leah popped a hand on her hip. “I call bullshit because I was being my usual kind and generous self, making sure Sunny was okay.”

Liam had helped his wife to her feet. Both were flushed, lips parted, lost in each other. “You’re a helluva sore loser, Princess. Anyone tell you that?”

“Tin Tin does. All the fucking time.”

Trish could only assume she meant another of their colleagues. She was fizzy with her unexpected success, but the prospect of finding her way into this group was daunting. She wanted it. Whether she would ever be offered the chance—by Eric—remained to be seen.

He and Mike had made their way back. Both sported grass stains and wide grins. Eric’s chest looked especially large, so broad, as he breathed heavily. He strode past his squabbling friends and picked Trish up, this time his arms crossed below her ass. She was a foot off the ground.

“Put me down!” Her worries about the future evaporated on a peal of laughter.

“Not until they acknowledge your awesomeness.” He turned his head and grabbed a little higher—right hand on one ass cheek. “Hey, dipshits. Game over. Trish scored.”

“Not until you get her alone,” Leah said with a grin. “Besides,
I’m
queen of this domain. Superior competition must be dealt with accordingly. Think you can handle that, Kisser?”

“Yes, Major.”

The woman offered a mock salute as Mike hooked her around the waist. “Oh, queen of this domain, you did a really shitty job defending. What the hell was that?”

“You are
so
gonna get your ass whupped.”

“Promises, promises.”

Only when Eric slid Trish to the ground, her body sinuously rubbing against his hard torso, did she tear her attention away from the mischievous couples. His dark blue eyes spun them away to private places. She
wanted
privacy. Screw the rest of it. They hadn’t been together since Sunday evening after an epic weekend of diving off buildings and rocketing past old barriers. Charged up and happier than she would’ve imagined, she wanted more. He
was
that spark she’d always craved.

“You have a promise to keep,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. But I have to be at the Luxor by six, then the arena by ten thirty.” She inhaled deeply for courage. “Maybe I could come by afterward?”

“Of course. What promise, though?”

She stood on tiptoes. “Choosing a picture for your wall. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

His gusty exhalation had nothing to do with football or wrestling Mike. All her.

What a rush.

“Nope. Haven’t forgotten.”

“Maybe…changed your mind?”

“No way.”

She kissed the scarred side of his jaw. Again he didn’t stiffen, didn’t pull away—even in front of his friends. That loosened the rest of the tension in her chest. He wasn’t a casual fuck. She knew it. The optimism she’d thought long lost wasn’t so hard to find when he held her.

With the first genuine smile she’d offered him all afternoon, she said, “Then I’ll make with the fond farewells and see you later.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Eric should’ve known that Trish would have an exuberant knock, a long, cheery pattern despite the late hour. He opened the door to find her standing with a large pink tote slung over her shoulder, as well as a backpack and a duffel. She packed so much for long days.

“You keep awful late hours, showgirl.”

She grinned cheekily. “It’s the name of the game. You willing to put up with me?”

“Depends.” He opened the door farther, and she ducked under his arm. “You gonna make it worth my while?”

She strutted. He loved the swing of her ass, the sway that said she was completely confident in her strata of the world. She’d dressed down after the boxing bouts. Less makeup. Jeans like she’d worn to the barbeque, only they weren’t as tight. And she’d donned the long, stick-straight wig. Not all of her defenses were down.

He tried to tell himself that he didn’t mind. Without those walls, he wouldn’t have anything to get under and figure out.

To duck behind.

Like he did behind his own locked-down barricades.

She walked to the other side of the kitchen and glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t I make it worth your while by being here?”

“You have quite the opinion of yourself.”

“You love it.”

He watched her ass as he made his way closer. “Yup.”

She dropped the bags at the end of the couch. “You’re good to me. Good
for
me. If anything, I ought to be low as all get out. I only have five performances left then I get to hope being a ring girl makes the rent. That’ll only hold out till early November.”

Something darkened her eyes, made her turn away.

“You want to talk?”

The laugh she gave as she spun back to him was bright and clear, tinged with showmanship. “You mean that literally, don’t you? I’d talk, you’d listen.”

He slipped one hand around the back of her neck. She seemed happy—less frantic than panic, as if she operated at a higher frequency. He liked it. Liked that hit he got from being near her, like cupping lightning bugs between his hands.

He brushed a kiss over her mouth. “I mean it.”

Her hands scratched through his hair to lace at the back of his neck. Delicate and strong at the same time. “I didn’t come here at two a.m. to chat, sugar. I am a woman on a mission.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“Then pay up.” She swallowed briefly, but he couldn’t tell if it was lust or apprehension. The parting of her slick-painted lips could’ve gone either way. “Pictures.”

He’d set up his laptop, files open, having spent the last three hours going through all 482. That was just from their first night. He hadn’t started to wrap his mind around the previous weekend at the Stratosphere.

They settled on the couch. With shoulders and thighs pressed together, Trish tucked one of her hands under his elbow. He woke the computer.

The blood in his veins burned hot. “Full tour or short version?”

She tongued the inside of her bottom lip. Her eyes flickered with something he wanted to think was heat. “Full tour. All of them.”

Jesus Christ. She shot right through him. Every time. Lust charred his chest, flipping his lungs into overdrive.

He couldn’t narrate. That was absolutely beyond him. He put it on slideshow mode, where the computer scrolled through one at a time.

She was beautiful on-screen, of course—the gentle curve of her hips as she posed on her knees, the shallow divot of her navel. But Eric found himself more fascinated with the Trish right next to him, watching her as she absorbed the flickering images of herself. She hardly paid attention to him. Her eyes had gone wide, her breathing more forceful.

She dug her fingernails into his arm hard enough that he aimed his stare at the laptop. In the picture, she was on her back with her knees splayed. With the sharp delineation of her inner tendons, and the way she had both hands folded over her pussy, the image was as much about her blatant sexuality as it was her initial struggle to accept his demands—his demands to bare more and more of her genuine self.

The glance she slanted out of the corner of her eye was chagrined. “Not that one, okay? I don’t want that one on the wall.”

“I get it, showgirl.”

She swiped the touchpad, made the next picture come up faster. “Now that one… I look good there.”

She’d started to relax by then, with one hand over her face, peeking through her fingers. Laughing a little.

“Better than good.”

The slideshow continued. Eric ratcheted higher with each one. His muscles trembled with the effort of keeping himself in check… Until they were more than halfway through.

His favorite. Easily.

He hit pause. “Here. This one,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded like he’d lapped up glass for breakfast. He coughed, but there was no driving away the heavy sense of anticipation. “This one.”

Then he did something he probably shouldn’t have. He touched the computer screen—did what he’d done every time he looked at the picture. He traced the elegant line of Trish’s legs.

She’d been lying in the tumbled mess of his sheets, shot in profile. Flat on her back, with her arms and breasts and belly one amazing wonderland of curves and valleys and planes. Her legs were straight up in the air, ankles crossed, displaying her lean dancer’s beauty and the strength of her thighs. Her toes pointed to the ceiling.

He shouldn’t be touching a computer image when the woman sat right beside him. She’d have every right to be offended.

She wasn’t, though. Because, damn, maybe she was perfect. Her lips curved into a smirk. He didn’t mind. Let her bring it. Especially when she trailed her fingernails up the inside of his arm. She practically melted into his side.

“You have exemplary taste.” Her voice became a verbal caress. “You like that one, don’t you? More than appreciate. It does things to you.”

“Yes.” He made himself pull his hand back from the screen, resting instead on the inside bend of her knee, through her jeans.

“I’m feeling bold, Eric. You make me feel bold.” She cupped his cock through his shorts. “I’m picturing you having this on your wall, looking at me every day and every night.”

Fuck, it didn’t take much to get hard around Trish. Whereas scrolling through a couple hundred pictures of her tits and ass and wicked smile was driving him fucking nuts.

He paged on. Fast. Because this was rapidly getting out of hand and he was going to lose control. Quick. Damn quick.

He reached his next favorite—on her knees, ass pointed at the lens, hands between her legs, fingers in her pussy. She’d been so damn wet that it shone. Smiling over her shoulder, she’d let him into the moment.

Trish hummed her approval. Her grip on his cock tightened. Pleasure rocked through him. He was more than charged. He needed release. “I like that one too. A little slutty. A little beautiful. You’re an amazing photographer, Eric.”

He choked out something close to a laugh. “You. All you.”

“Men who know how to give such sweet compliments get rewards.” She dipped her hand under his waistband and began firm, assured strokes. He hardly knew where to look, where to watch, what to think. All he knew was that he’d prop his eyelids open with toothpicks if that was what it took to remember every second.

Except when he kissed her—his eyes closed in sensual lassitude, floored by the softness of her lips.

She stood only long enough to strip her clothes and pull a condom out of her giant duffel. He tugged his shorts down then stroked his cock. Not that he needed help staying hard. Between Trish in front of him and the Trish on the screen, he was more likely to lose his mind than his hard-on.

She pointed at him, a cheeky grin on her face. “Shirt off. Lemme have all that lovely hard muscle.”

He whipped the black tank top up over his head. She sank back over his lap. Wet and heat and tightness clenched over his cock as she bore down, enfolding him. Tingles worked up his back, took over his skin.

She didn’t face him as he would’ve expected. She faced the computer.

“You can see too?” she asked. Breathless. Gasping. Her chest hitched on a deep breath that eased into a moan as her hips worked. “My pictures?”

“Fuck yes.” He grabbed her waist. To stake his claim. To fill his hands. To hold.

Her hand layered over his at her waist. He thought she might pull him away, but she clutched his fingers harder against her taut stomach.

With more coordination than Eric could’ve managed, she used the trackpad to flip through to a particularly raunchy shot. Lips and cunt both wet. Her fingers in herself. “This one. This won’t go on your wall. But you’ll look. You’ll keep it. Pull it out and stroke this hot prick.” She shuddered, her thighs lifting and dropping.

He cupped her breasts and pinched her nipples. Tight. Tighter. Until her spine bowed. Her pussy clenched around him. “Yes,” he rasped. “Until I come.”

“Me. You’ll come to my picture. My image in your head.”

Agree. He could only agree. Yes. She had it exactly right. He’d have a hell of a time ever getting rid of her image. Ever. Why would he try? She was a miracle. With him. Fucking him. A lithe, lean bundle of beautiful on his lap and on his screen. So good his brain was gonna crack.

Except he needed to make sure she went first. With two fingers over her clit, he stroked her in fierce circles. She trembled, so he folded his forearm across her low back. He rested his forehead against her neck. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Too much. Keep the rhythm. Give her what she needed.

Her tendons wrenched tight. A shake, then her moan flew free. Her orgasm meant he could look.

The screen.

Her slender back. Her graceful beauty. He let go, let the rolling, jacking waves of pleasure punch out of his lungs. His release was phenomenal, with everything wrapped in hot, white rushes and a long, satisfied shudder.

He pressed kisses along her neck. Eventually they came back to themselves, a little at a time. Shifting. Aligning. Trish eased off his lap, and he ditched the condom. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders until he was back in his own brain.