Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (4 page)

He veered onto a dark side street and threw the Camaro into park.

Grabbed the back of her head.

Kissed her.

Trish grasped the leather seat to keep her bearings. He was a monster of a man. Overwhelming. His kiss was a hard plunder. That gorgeous mouth worked magic over hers. Softness with steel underneath. She met his tongue. He tasted of cinnamon. Gum, maybe?

Forget the gum. Forget the leather seat. She snagged handfuls of granite muscles—his bunched biceps, the side of his thick neck. Tendons flexed beneath her fingers. His hair was short, almost cropped, both spiky and silky.

“Then let’s fuck right here,” he growled against her mouth.

“What? You’re not serious.”

“Why not? I’m ready. You’re ready. Open those long legs of yours, showgirl.”

Oh shit. She was in trouble.
Heaps
of it. The image he planted in her mind was almost inescapable. Sweaty bodies and steamed windows. One stiletto slung over the bench seat as he bulldozed her against the leather. Both of them clothed except where he shoved her panties aside and undid his fly.

Something brutal and beautiful and raw. It’d been so long.

Then there was the danger of getting caught. Someone could be spying from the darkened window of a nearby house. Or a cop might decide to watch them explode, the Camaro rocking beneath Eric’s fierce thrusts. Only after busting him would the cop wank in his squad car.

She could get off to that idea for years. It fueled her fantasies, knowing men liked how she looked in her bikini. Sometimes she lay awake touching herself, imagining she was hot enough to get them hard. It was crass and it sure as hell wasn’t how she wanted to be treated in real life, but that rarely had anything to do with where a mind wandered during dark hours.

Eric renewed his sensual assault. No, there was nothing sensual to it. His fingers tightened over her breast. He hefted the weight in his palm, kneading. His breath was a heavy rasp. Jesus, his body. To ride him would be like riding a Mack truck.

“No.”

Where had that come from?

She’d
said it. And she meant it. The reasons took longer to catch up with the primal part of her brain that wanted and wanted and wanted. Didn’t matter. If she was going to have a fun time with this guy, she was going to do it on terms that didn’t make her puke in the morning.

At least he stopped. That was good news. Some guys took longer to fend off. She’d been young and stupid and saved from the worst out of pure luck. To be frank, she wasn’t young anymore, but this was definitely a stupid moment. Eric Donaghue could’ve been a painful mistake rather than a potentially embarrassing or foolish one.

He frowned. “No?”

Trish gave his fierce muscles another squeeze and let go. He did the same with her breast, but he held fast to the back of her head. They were so amped up that their breaths met between their wet mouths. The Camaro’s roaring engine rumbled into her slick pussy. She was so damn restless.

“Jack Daniels. Straight up. You promised.”

He swallowed a groan. “I bet you’ve heard the word cocktease.”

“More often than I’ve heard men say my real name. But I didn’t touch your cock.”

“Do it.”

“I said no. Bar, remember?”

“Just a preview.”

Trish closed her eyes on a flash flood of
guh
.

“Look at me,” he murmured. “Now, did you mean it? Are we still talking about a one-night stand?”

Don’t lie. He’ll know a lie. I’ll regret a lie.

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the harm?”

Her brain was like a circuit breaker fried by a lightning strike. “No harm. As long as we stop. One-night stand doesn’t mean quickie.”

His lopsided smile—the lips turning up on the unscarred side of his face—was oddly endearing. Ninety seconds after having been stopped cold, he was
amused
. “You got me there.”

“Okay.”

“No, wait.” He caught her hand, both of them unsteady. She needed that proof he wasn’t completely stoic and unaffected. That would’ve killed her libido and ended their night. “I want to watch you when you touch me. I want to see the satisfaction in your eyes.”

Desire shivered through her body and settled in the pit of her stomach, but it wasn’t just desire. It was…wariness? He was speaking the language of her sexual imagination. Some might call it a fetish.

Voyeur. Exhibitionist. Inexorably linked.

Was that possible, that he might’ve known—or better still, that his needs might dovetail with hers? All the more reason to take the night slow. If it was going to be good because he was hot and they were both ready, it was going to be even better if they shared the same kink.

So she kept her eyes locked to his as she slid her hand between their torsos. Down his ridged abdomen. Past the button of his loose-fitting jeans. To a bulge that was perfectly at home on that big, brawny body. His cock was huge and ironlike. It angled up toward his navel. Thick. Long. Worth more risks than she was prepared to mentally admit. Her body was throwing a tantrum.

She stroked once, twice, and adored the way his eyelids slid toward sleepy, needy passion. But he never looked away. “Yes,” he whispered.

“There.” She pulled back before she gave up on the idea of leading him around by that magnificent tool. She was having too much fun. “Officially a cocktease.”

His blue eyes, so shadowed, consumed her with his gaze.

“You look like a Barbie. A total fuck-doll fantasy.” Stiff tension packed his shoulders as he released her. His knuckles turned white when he gripped the steering wheel. “But I don’t think you are.” Another rapid-fire smile was a treasure to keep.

A treasure?
Seriously, Trish.
She’d nearly let him bang her in his car. The only treasures she wanted from Eric Donaghue were hot-as-hell memories.

His body. All hers for the night.

They reached his bar of choice in five minutes. He came around to open the car door, as if he were one of the slick Southern gentlemen she’d grown up with. He was anything but. Too rough. A city guy and a Northerner to boot. She’d stake the money she’d earned that night.

His hand at her back was innocent as they pushed into the bar. She led the way, soaking up the zinging thrill of turned heads and perked-up interest, as if she’d zapped the male patrons with cattle prods. She took those reactions as a given. On good days she soaked up their interest. On bad days, it was just plain annoying. But Eric’s focused attention and the hunger he’d unlocked made her feel like a superstar. He stood as solid as a bank vault at her back.

Only when he positioned himself at her side did Trish realize the ridiculously obvious. Eric caught a few looks of his own, though most of those stuck on his scars. Widened eyes. Grimaced. Averted glances.

Idiots, all of them. Whatever had happened to him must’ve been intense and painful, but she’d seen him fight, she’d been flattened by his kiss and she’d been surprised by his direct, honest…chivalry? Whatever it was, she wanted more. Past what everyone else seemed to read as his only feature, she found the danger of evasive, troubled eyes.

She shivered as her smile jumped out of her control.
Giddiness.
Not happiness. The two were not the same by any means.

Such a typical dive bar. Ancient televisions tuned to various ESPN stations. Old license plates and framed pictures of famous people who’d stopped by. Even a barkeep drying heavy beer glasses with a white towel. It was something out of a movie set. That fit, considering the superstar arrogance she’d amassed with each of Eric’s rough kisses.

She may have walked in front of him, but Eric led with the mere pressure of his hand at her low back. He guided her to a private booth then swaggered back to the bar. Trish took time to check her appearance in a Cover Girl compact. She saved her money on the everyday stuff. Stage makeup was expensive. After the hot, mauling kiss she’d shared with Eric, she was glad she hadn’t chosen a darker shade of lipstick. A quick dash of powder and a swipe of gloss was all she managed before he returned.

Two tumblers of whiskey, straight up. And a plate of cheese fries.

“Oh, none of those for me, thanks.” It was like reciting a line from a play or musical—words that weren’t her own. They smelled
amazing
.

He slid into the booth opposite. “You need to eat.”

“I did, before the fight.”

“What, lettuce?”

“A protein bar.”

He leaned forward on his elbows. She tried not to look at his scar, but it defined his face. He’d been killer handsome once. Now he was something more, something darker. He was vulnerable. Made of flesh. He was also a fighter, a survivor. A girl could happily curl up against strength like that, maybe stay awhile.

“A one-night stand doesn’t mean a quickie,” he said, teasing with his gaze as he echoed her admonishment. “It doesn’t mean one time either.”

His words were a reminder that there wouldn’t be any “stay awhile”. In the scheme of a life, their night together would be as quick as his grin.

“You go all night, stud?”

“Hell yes.”

“So I’ll need energy, huh?”

“Lots.” He took up the glass. Nodded for her to do the same. “And this is our only drink, right?”

She wasn’t used to men asking her about things like alcohol tolerance. Where was the invitation to excess? Martinis and mai tais appeared out of nowhere when she occasionally sat down at the Luxor’s bar after a show—as if buying her a drink would buy
her
. She’d mentally given in to Eric well before he’d followed through with his promise of a post-fight drink.

“Um, may I ask why?”

“I want consent from you, not Jack Daniels.” He lifted his tumbler. “Guys don’t really do it for me.”

“What should we drink to?” The coy note in her voice sounded
off
, especially after what they’d said and done.

“To a good night.”

They touched glasses, downed the two fingers and grinned simultaneously. Trish nearly laughed. It was that carefree.

“Now eat up,” he said.

“Only if you tell me something about yourself.”

He dove into the huge plate of cheese fries. Calories after a hard fight. He glanced up then licked his fingers. Trish licked her lower lip in a response that was plain reflex. “I like photography. Amateur film,” he said bluntly.

“Wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Why not?”

Because you’re a brute. A scarred, mysterious, military brute of a fighter who likes fast cars and fast fucks.

She couldn’t answer truthfully, but neither could she think of a convincing lie. It was the uncomfortable equivalent of
if you don’t have anything nice to say…

She hid the slipup by nibbling a fry. One became five became ten. Ten became
oh my God
. She hadn’t indulged in something so incredible in longer than she could remember.

The theme of the night.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I don’t seem the type.”

“So, what, nature stuff? Portraits of classic cars.”

“Nude photography.” So calm. So straightforward. Normal as could be.

His tight expression said otherwise.

“Is that so?”

“Take it off the table if you’re not interested,” he said, voice tense. “I won’t bring it up again.”

He’d handed her the truth of what he really wanted. A round of hot-and-heavy was in the cards they’d both revealed. But this man was different. A night with him would be different.

If she let it.

“You don’t have some creepy Tumblr account where you post pictures of chicks you’ve banged.” She wiped her fingers. “Do you?”

He leaned back against the worn plastic booth. The overhead lighting accentuated the line of ruined skin that skimmed into his hairline. His lips parted as he reached an arm across the back. Inviting. Yet almost…vulnerable—as if daring her to make something of his appearance. Maybe this was the moment when other girls backed down, wised up, gathered their wits and better sense. He was waiting for a rejection that she had no intention of delivering.

She wanted to hold his face—the perfect side and the damaged side—and kiss him.

“No,” he said at last. “Just for me.”

“Can I say maybe?”

“Sure.” He pushed the last of the fries toward her. “Now finish up, showgirl. I’ll watch.”

Chapter Four

They stayed in the bar another forty-five minutes. Found things to talk about. Most times, Eric would’ve tried to hustle a woman like Trish out the door and into the nearest hotel room, especially since his accident. His awareness of how he looked laid over his thoughts as surely as the scars lay over his skin. Any minute, she’d decide this wasn’t such a great idea. Hell,
he
might. He had enough on his mind without spending the night wondering—no, outright wishing—that this gorgeous pinup liked what he liked. He’d wind up thinking fabulous sex was a letdown.

Lately, though, that’s what he’d felt after a night with a beautiful woman. The sex was satisfying, but it wasn’t the same as commemorating the experience.