Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (16 page)

“Would look pretty.”

“Nah. Not even four-alarm fires can compete with the Vegas skyline.”

On a tight grin, he lifted the scotch to his mouth and let the cool liquid coat his lips. But he didn’t drink. The show. The picture. The pretense needed to be enough because sometimes he felt like he was barely holding on. The man he wanted to be seemed a long, long way off.

No more so than when Heather called him on his bullshit.

Maxwell hadn’t said a word to contradict him, and his own mother ignored even the worst of Jon’s sarcasm. Heather never did. If she could look at him on a night like this and see how far he’d sunk, she might have more to offer.

For a moment, he was ballsy. Truly ballsy—not that fake crap he threw around the squad room. “Would you like to come to my place once we leave?”

She flinched. Flat-out flinched. That unconscious, chilly response turned his blood to sludge. He’d asked out of some ridiculous hope that being blunt and perceptive made Heather different. Special. But Miss Dares-a-Lot was still the same locked-down woman who’d walked out of their hotel room.

Her flinch reinforced what he’d already known—stupid impulse aside. They would only go so far. Just sex. No more.

Hadn’t he gotten off the phone with his mother only hours earlier? That should’ve been reminder enough.

Idiot.

Heather took a sip of her martini, this time in what looked like self-defense. Pale eyes flashed up at him, all but begging him to see it her way. “I was thinking we could go to my house. It’s just…neater. Closer, even. Keeps it on the right…level.”

He made a small noise of agreement. “Yeah. Fine.” And he meant it, which came as a welcome relief. He knew the game—had practically invented the rules. Better to save ballsy for air combat maneuvers. “But if we’re agreed on keeping it neat, Heather love, I don’t owe you word one about my mood.”

Chapter Nineteen

Heather kept her expression placid and friendly throughout the hour that followed. She knew how these games were played. Or, at least she’d learned them well enough to fake it.

Jon, however, was a master.

He was in a black, nasty temper that wouldn’t let up, yet his façade never slipped again. He was glib when he wanted to be, smooth when he had to be. Names of children and cousins tripped off his tongue as if he stored a list of rich-folk contacts in his hard drive of a mind. His smile was bulletproof.

Heather alone seemed able to recognize his true mood. She saw deeper. Closer. So did he when he turned those fierce brown eyes on her. Had they been less wary people, they might have that in common. Instead, the tension between them grew.

Maybe all of their dares and unexpected intimacies had lured her into expecting more. She half-hoped he wouldn’t pretend in front of her, but that would mean risking herself in ways that had nothing to do with sex. He’d opened the door. She’d closed it. Moping about it now was worse than useless. It was hypocritical.

“Another martini?” he asked.

“Not until you finish that scotch.”

“I drove.”

“Always your excuse.”

He snickered and leaned his elbows back, turning away from the bar. Even in that crowded ballroom, he owned whatever space he wanted to claim. His innate arrogance was unfathomable. Yet Heather remained suspicious. He was still putting on a show.

“What do you drive, Heather love? Maybe we’ll take yours next time and I can get blitzed.”

“A six-year-old Camry. If I thought you’d actually get drunk, I’d be the designated driver in a heartbeat.”

“Oh?”

She faced the bar. Their shoulders touched. Hers were bare. His were concealed, as always, in one of the most immaculate wool suits known to man. “It’s for show.” She turned to whisper against his tight jaw. “Drink like the rest of them but keep your head on straight. Do you ever lose control?”

Jon conjured one of his patented dirty smiles—first toward the hollow of her cleavage, then back to her face. “We both know the answer to that. But around these snots? Hell, no.”

She pushed closer. As if by reflex, he angled his hand to caress her far shoulder. They were body to body now, facing the opposite direction. Perhaps that would always be a given.

“But…you’re one of them.” She took in the length of his exquisite suit, from the toes of his high-gloss dress shoes to his perfectly centered tie. “Is this self-loathing? Or some sort of high-end white guilt?”

“Watch it, Heather love. You don’t want this aimed at you.”

He was cranky, which made Heather bold. During their few hours together, he’d never behaved this way. Cool and calculated was different than simmering anger. Dark waves pulsed off him. The muscles pressed against hers, and those long, elegant fingers—as stiff as boards. He was revealing more now than he ever had. No matter her hypocrisy, she wanted to know more about the real Jon Carlisle.

That meant pushing.

It was a risk. A
huge
risk. Because now she knew how nasty he could play.

What the hell. Rising to his silent dares was more fun than wasting her time contemplating anything deeper.

“You bought the tickets. I know how much they cost. Why come here and then condescend the whole deal?”

The muscle at his jaw bulged. She kissed it again, this time touching the tip of her tongue against his smooth, hot skin.

“My parents paid for the tickets. I’m the Carlisle family representative.”

Wow. Light bulb.

But to let him know how clearly those few words explained his disgust would shut him down.

“I suppose you support worthier causes than watering grass in Nevada.”

The hand on her shoulder tightened almost painfully. He dragged her closer. She stood flush against him, face-to-face. The darkness in his eyes should’ve sent her packing. But heat and need and some sick curiosity coiled in her belly, then slid lower to heat her sensitive folds.

Surprisingly, he tossed back the last of his scotch in a single gulp. “Make all the guesses you like. Won’t change how we’ve arranged this. No sense messing with a good thing.”

Heather didn’t have that impression at all. If she’d been able to open up, to trust… Even if that were possible, she couldn’t risk it on a guy like Jon. He was too sharp. His words, his eyes, his perceptive mind—they’d slice right into her. How little would remain of her hard-earned control after she let that happen?

Not enough. Which is why it wouldn’t.

“Of course.” Nearly the same height when she wore heels, she nuzzled her upper lip against his lower. “We each have our defenses. Better to keep them that way.”

His grin spread wider. At least she knew this one—not the disdain he held for others, but one of decadent intentions. “Six nights of sex doesn’t mean we’re going steady, Ms. Morris.”

“Six? I only count five.”

“Six. Or else why are we here? I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t so you could remind me of my manners.”

His hands rested lightly at her waist, but he moved them up, up, just slightly. The fabric of her dress followed that seductive lead, as if he might undress her right there at the bar.

“You play at this bad-boy shit.” She was edging toward the limit of his patience. He’d lose his temper soon. She wanted to be on the receiving end of it—something real. “It’s only putting off the inevitable. One day you’ll leave the Air Force, marry some plastic Playboy Bunny, put on thirty pounds and blend right in.”

Her dress hitched up four inches as Jon’s eyes flared hot and angry. “Being a bitch doesn’t suit you. Too sweet around the mouth. Try again.”

“Your parents are a convenient excuse to behave like an asshole.”

“Better. One more time so I won’t regret what I’m going to do to you.”

Heather’s knees threatened to give out. Screw that. She wanted more. But she saw it on his face—the same locked-down ache she’d glimpsed when he described losing his sister. Whatever she said next would change things between them. End it. Or keep…whatever it was. The words were thick on her tongue as she weighed their worth.

Ultimately, she didn’t want to add any more to his pain.

So she cupped his cheeks. His dimples were under there somewhere, as unlikely now as snow on the Strip. Stretching up on her toes, she kissed him. Lightly. Just a touch. He was too rigid to accept anything else, with his mouth set in that derisive smirk.

“You’re better than this,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. Breathed out. Then the barest nod. “You see,
now
I feel properly chastised. Feel better?”

“Oh, no.” She looped her fingers around his belt. Tugged. “Come out and play, flyboy.”

He opened his eyes. They were clearer, friskier, and thankfully free of his chilling disdain. “I think I will. And I’m still going to do what I want to you.” He took her hand. “This way.”

Still dizzy from what felt like a heightened version of their games, Heather’s anticipation gathered in a slow burn. He practically dragged her through the country-club ballroom. His profile was amazing. Aristocratic and bold, yet accentuated by his military buzz cut. The contrast always did hot things to her guts, melting her from the inside out.

“Perfect,” he muttered.

He shoved her in ahead of him and closed the door to an abandoned coat-check room.

“What do you expect to do in here?”

“Jerk off while you stand naked against the wall.”

She could only blink at his blunt statement. “Forget it.”

“I’m serious, Heather love. Naked. Now.”

“Jon—”

His shrug was almost enough to cut off the urge to ask him to back off, but his words killed it dead. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of our dares already.”

“Here?”

“Right here. Strip. If anyone walks in, I want them to get a serious eyeful. Then I’ll tell them to get the fuck out. Someone might get to look, Heather love, but you’re mine tonight.”

His expression was primal. Fierce and intent. He stood there as if they were discussing how annoying tourists could be. So casual, from his shoulders down to where his hands tucked in his trouser pockets. Not even fisted. If she could learn that artificial cool, she’d quit her job and forever earn a living in the casinos.

“And you?” she asked.

“Oh, I’m staying clothed. Just a wank, remember? No need to wrinkle my suit.”

“I don’t believe you. You won’t be able to go through with it.”

Amusement glittered in those rich brown depths. None of their tension dissipated, but their play had returned in full. She soaked it in. A relief. And a huge turn-on.

“I don’t believe you will either, Ms. Morris.”

There it was. God, resisting his dares was like resisting the urge to look over the precipice of a cliff. Or jump off.

She reached behind her back and tugged the long zipper. The dress parted down to the lace at the top of her thong. With a simple shrug, the purple satin fell into a pool at her feet.

“Bra.”

His eyes and nostrils flared as she complied. One minute on, the next it fell to the floor. She shivered. But she would win this. All she needed to do was focus on his reactions. She was too turned on, too curious, to dwell on it now.

“Thong. But keep the high heels.”

Heather lifted her brows. Then she was naked except for a pair of three-inch purple stilettos. She backed against the wall, hands behind her back. The pose deliberately shaped her hip into a slinky curve and thrust her breasts out for his admiration. And oh, did he admire. His lips parted.

Belt open. Fly open. Cock out.

She didn’t believe him. No way. Not in a hundred years would he stand there and come without including her. But then, she hadn’t believed him capable of shutting it down when he’d softly fucked her in the parking garage. When it came to just about anything, the man was as stubborn as he was clever and filthy-minded.

He was stroking now, flogging his long, beautiful prick.

“You won’t.” Her throat was dry as the Nevada sand. “You
won’t
.”

“No telling.” He’d gone breathless. His wrist jerked as he worked up and down that hard length. “Maybe I’ll come so hard I stain that pretty dress of yours.”

“Get off it, Jon. Come here.”

“Nope.” The tendons of his neck pushed against his collar. He looked up at the ceiling briefly, eyes rolling closed in obvious pleasure, before snapping back to her breasts—specifically her nipple ring. “Touch yourself, Heather love. Are you wet watching me?”

Every word was rough, so low and interspersed with his quick inhalations.

Hell, she might as well make herself come if he was intent on seeing this through. So slowly, she slid a hand between her thighs. The moan that surged from her throat was completely involuntary. No ruse for him. No tease. Just the pleasure of finding how keyed up her body was. He was capable of doing that to her with just his words, his stance, his goddamn dares.

“That lovely cock is about to blow. I think you’re running out of time. Because if you come without me, I’m putting my dress back on and our night’s over.” She smiled and slipped two slick fingers into her mouth. “So fuck me or don’t, flyboy.”

One long stride brought him to her. His mouth slammed down over hers, their most brutal kiss yet. He pinned her hands above her head. Tongue deep in her mouth. Hard cock pressed against her naked belly. That he still wore his suit—that imbalance—always did such radical things to her self-control. She behaved as if she really wanted him to dominate her, even as she fought to control him in return. Each time, she craved the victory of yanking control out of his grasp.

He only released her long enough to roll on a condom. Heather sighed in his mouth. Yes. She would get what she wanted.

“You think you have the upper hand, don’t you?” He sucked and bit the tops of her breasts. Eager hands twisted that sensitive flesh. Heather squirmed and fought back, but he shocked her to stillness with one swift plunge. He licked the skin he’d marred. “Damn,” he groaned. “That’s gonna bruise. And we still have to make it out of here. All those eyes on my teeth marks on your tits.”

The pace of his strokes amped until they matched what he’d done to himself. Sharp. Fast. Intent on a quick, hard come. Heather grabbed underneath his arms and curled herself into his lean strength. The gorgeous shock of being filled, then being fucked so well—Christ, she’d never get over it. He was simply that good.