Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (4 page)

“What do you want?”

“Everything I’m worth,” she said. “So maybe the sun and the moon?”

“I’ll throw the stars in too.”

“You think you’re pretty slick.” No question there. Just bemused humor. “But I’m still waiting on our side bet.”

“How slick
you
are. That’s my reward if I win.”

“What?”

A fine trembling had taken over her limbs. He was perversely proud that she didn’t back down, despite obvious jitters.

“If I win with a black seven, I get to find out how wet your panties are.”

“Here?” Her swallow was an audible click. “How?”

He slid his pinkie under the band of her skirt. Not far enough to brush the top hem of her underwear, but enough to make her think of them. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

Suddenly she laughed. The tension drawing her shoulders tight against his chest dissolved. “You know what? Fine. At 37-to-1 odds, the chances I’ll have to pay out are slim.”

He hid a real smile against her nape. So many to tuck away that evening. “But there’s still a chance.”

“You like chances?”

He darted out his tongue and claimed a taste of her skin. Soft peaches and rich cream. “I live for them.”

The uniformed croupier declared the table closed and propelled the roulette wheel with a flick of her wrist. The white ball bounced twice before settling into a smooth counter-roll against the wheel’s movement.

Heather’s breathing went shallow and fast. He spread his hand over her stomach, the better to feel the fast rise and fall of her diaphragm. She’d breathe like that on her way to orgasm.

Enjoying the lustrous feel of her skin against his lips, Jon didn’t lift his face. He didn’t need to. Her lush body’s sudden jolt told him the exact result.

The ball had landed in the number seven pocket.

“Are you going to pay up, Ms. Morris?”

“I’d never welsh on a bet.”

“Like I said, the method is up to you.” He brushed a lock of dark brown hair away from her ear. Although he didn’t want to give her an out, neither did he want to hear the word
panda
yet. If pushed too far too fast, she would back off entirely. “You can whisper the answer, if you’d rather.”

She turned slowly. The crowds around the table meant they stayed pressed together. No way she could’ve missed the brush of his stiffening prick across her hip. Maybe now she wouldn’t doubt its size.

Pale blue eyes evaluated him, as if he were an impossible equation. Good. He enjoyed being that tough to read.

She patted his shirt along the line of his vest. Lovely hands. Her long fingers were tipped with a fresh French manicure. He imagined how they’d look when clawing linen sheets as he edged her nearer and nearer to coming. How long could he sustain her there without letting her go over?

“Stay right here,” she said, her voice huskier than ever.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to be back?” He didn’t like that question after hearing it said aloud. Too…undisciplined.

“You’ll just have to wait and find out.”

She disappeared into the crowd. Jon watched her as far as he could. She didn’t wiggle as she walked—more like she slinked along. Her hips telegraphed every sensuous intention. Unfortunately, a stream of Japanese tourists following a tour guide’s up-held umbrella closed off his view.

He turned back to the table. While accepting his winnings and handing the croupier a nice tip, he tried to regulate a flush of pure excitement. He had an inkling of what she was up to. If Heather managed, he’d be very proud of her—and more intrigued than ever. She was the kind of woman who tasted risk carefully. The tip of her tongue at first. Not a deep swallow. That made every tiny step all the more valuable.

He gambled too much while she was gone, dropping four hundred dollars on a single spin. Seven again, since it had already brought him such luck. His parents would be appalled if they could see him, so it was a good thing he didn’t answer to them anymore. Grandfather’s trust fund remained excessively handy for pissing them off and for killing time.

When she returned, she slid under his arm as if she weren’t tormenting him with every movement. As if she belonged there. Her fingers ducked into his trouser pocket and out again in a wickedly fast move.

She carefully faced the roulette table as she spoke. “I think you’ll be happy.”

Slipping his hand into his pocket, Jon found lace and silk. If he weren’t careful, he’d come to associate the combo with her. The tiny scrap of panties was unmistakably wet. Not drenched—not yet—but now she was bare under her tailored skirt. Any stray breeze could curl beneath the hem to stroke her skin. He wondered if she waxed or kept a delicate thatch of curls.

“Good girl,” he purred.

That earned another backward glance. Black irises swelled to deep pools. “Time for another bet.”

He pulled her flush to his hips. “What age did you lose your virginity?”

Hot, bright red flushed her high cheekbones. “Fourteen.”

Ignoring a jolt of excitement, he placed a single chip onto the number. “So young. Was it worth it?”

Her laugh this time was awkward. Rough at the edges. “It depends what you mean. Did I get the validation I was looking for? Sure.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He wrapped his arm all the way across her belly so that he clutched her opposite hip. Her curves fit the body he’d forged through years of discipline. “I wanted to know if you came.”

She shuddered then shook her head. “No.”

“That is a damn pity.”

“Can’t expect that much when you’re so young and stupid.”

“Ready for our next wager?”

She let her head bend back to rest on his shoulder. “Lay it on me, flyboy.”

“If I hit, I want to see you make yourself come.”

“An inside bet?”

“Yup.”

“Again, the odds are on my side.”

“And look where that logic got you last time.” He chuckled against her loosely bound hair, catching the light scent of roses. “The house edge is just over five percent. Five point two six, actually. You should know, I lost two rounds while you were gone. Don’t play it based on numbers. Agree because you want me to know exactly what makes you break apart—the way you touch yourself when you’re all alone.”

She slicked her tongue across her lips. “You think I want you to know that?”

“Maybe. Maybe you don’t. But you do want to be wicked.”

Chapter Five

Heather had taken only two lovers in the three years since moving to Las Vegas. In those three years, her contact with erections had been limited to the moments immediately before and during sex. A furtive knowledge.

Jon had been pressing against her for the last twenty minutes. Constant. Insistent. But oddly…polite. They both knew he was aroused, just as they both knew she was. It was a strange comfort to be on the same page.

“Heather.” The low rumble of his voice was no less powerful for having become used to it. She drank in the sound of her name. “The ball’s dropped. Give me your answer.”

“Yes. I’ll do it.”

“Yes is my favorite word.”

She watched the spinning colors and a flash of white as the ball rounded and bounced. How much longer could they play this way? She’d wanted it to last, but that was before her body had gone liquid and hot, keyed up beyond anything she could recall. The future of their evening hung in the balance as the wheel began to slow.

Jon slid his fingers inside her waistband, up to the second knuckles. She softened against his chest. He was slender but very fit, easily accepting her relaxed weight. The tip of his tongue wet her nape.

Heather gripped the edge of the high table, but that wasn’t what her body needed. She reached behind her and laid her palms flat on the backs of his thighs.

“You’re giving the guy across the table quite a show,” he said, his voice rougher now. “Your breasts lifting. Your breathing ragged.”

“He doesn’t know the half of it.”

She squeezed. Jon matched it, tensing his fingers above her hipbones. He thrust ever so gently. Heather bit the inside of her cheek to keep from moaning.

The ball dropped. Number eighteen.

Jon chuckled. “Had you been a good girl and waited till college, we’d have won.”

“I get the feeling you like it better this way.” She punctuated the statement with a subtle wiggle of her ass.

He pressed his forehead against the back of her neck. His breath was faster too. “Do that again.”

Smiling, she did as he instructed, only slower this time, more deliberately. She relished knowing how she affected him.

While the croupier cleaned up the losing bets, Heather turned in Jon’s arms. His pelvis wedged against hers, with his hands slipping down to cup her ass. His eyes were tight, narrowed, very dark. His temple pulsed. She reached up and smoothed her fingers into his short hair.

Turning his head, he found the inside of her wrist with his mouth. He kissed her once. Then he licked.

She whispered, “One more bet.”

He sucked. The sudden shock of sensation almost made her gasp. His gaze never left hers. Only the slight graze of teeth against that sensitive skin made her retreat. It was too much, too public.

She slid her hand down his chest before dipping inside his suit coat. The wool was warm, holding his heat. The pocket bearing the chips from La Rocca’s was easy enough to find.

“Place your bets,” called the croupier.

Calmly, despite her hammering heart, Heather leaned over the table to deposit all of the ten-dollar chips. If she managed to brush her rear against Jon’s hard-on a few times, all the better. He lifted her silk top, just over her tattoo, and petted her there.

“No peeking,” she said, straightening.

He glanced over her shoulder to survey the table. And he
laughed
. Not a chuckle or a snicker, but a full-bodied laugh that caught her by surprise. She loved the rich sound of it. Unchecked. Amusement accentuated his youthful features.

Heather grinned. “What?”

“You’ve covered a lot of possibilities, Ms. Morris.”

She had. On purpose. Ten chips waited for any number of possibilities—odd, even, red, black, zero, double zero. Then she’d chosen inside bets—her current age, and to commemorate that evening, the day, month and year.

“The house may win financially on this spin,” she said, turning back to face him. “But we win. Whatever we want.”

“The possibilities are staggering.”

“They are.”

“Your bet. Your call.”

She loosened his tie. As she worked, she was surprised to see the distinct wine-colored red of a hickey on the inside of her wrist. He must’ve sucked harder than she realized.

The tie slid off with one tug, its silken snap like a whip. She held it between her teeth as she undid the top two buttons of his dress shirt. He watched her with a curious expression, lifting one very animated eyebrow in silent question.

Tie in hand, she said, “That’s better. Not so formal.”

“I like being formal. It holds the barbarians at bay.”

She smirked, her attention drawn to the notch at the base of his throat. “The barbarians would club you with sticks and rocks.”

“The government trusts me with automatic weapons and live ordnance. I can handle myself.”

“I have no doubt. Now, if it pays out only one-to-one, we get a room and head upstairs.”

That quirky eyebrow lifted again. “Oh, really?”

“The catch is that it’s straight missionary position and we don’t spend the night. Just a good time to take the edge off this foreplay.”

“I thought you wanted memorable.” His hands inched higher along her ribs. He could graze the underside of her breasts if he stretched those long fingers.

“You think it won’t be memorable?” Against his cheek she whispered, “My tattoo, my nipple ring, my breasts. All yours.”

He cleared his throat, his Adam’s apple working. “Point taken. But if one of the inside bets win? What then?”

Heather stuffed the tie in his hands, flashing her most audacious smile. “Then you spend the weekend hunting for pandas.”

“They’re rare.”

“You hope.”

“No conditions?”

“Other than condoms and respecting the safe word? None.”

He brushed a kiss across her forehead. “I have a hard time believing you’re that brave.”

“You’ll just have to try me.”

The ball was already spinning. Heather lost the ability to breathe as she turned back to watch it clatter and roll. A fine tremble overtook her shoulders.

“Relax.” His whisper sent a shiver down her throat. “You don’t know what to root for, do you?”

She shook her head.

Rather than tease, Jon merely rubbed her upper arms. The gesture did nothing to banish the anticipation. “
Je le ferai bon pour toi,
” he said. “
Je le promis.
”

Breath catching hard, Heather tightened her thighs against a surprising rush of desire. “Say that again.”

He complied before translating, “I’ll make it good for you, Heather. Promise.”

That answered the question of whether his French came from wine snobbery or a knowledge of the language. She wasn’t going to last an elevator ride with this man, let alone a whole weekend.

Two final rotations of the wheel were enough to end the agony. The ball dropped into the pocket of the number thirty-two.

The word “Damn” slipped out of her mouth.

“You bet on thirty-one, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “My current age.”

“That is a crying shame.”

“But not a complete loss.”

She was surprised by her disappointment. Bad enough that she already planned on sleeping with this sexy, terrifying jet pilot. Really, that should’ve been enough. As the croupier handed over the paltry sums for winning on black and odd, Heather thought the whole thing a near-miss.

A regret waiting to happen.

Jon took her arm but said nothing. They exchanged their chips, then split up. He went to reserve the room while Heather retrieved the dessert from La Rocca: a sumptuous slice of cheesecake drizzled with dark chocolate and topped with fresh whipped cream.

When reunited at the concierge desk, he handed her a glass of champagne. He kept another for himself.