Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (22 page)

“Eighty-five…nope. Shit. I’m out.”

Heather leaned back in her seat on a laugh. “Eighty-five reasons why I’m way cooler than Jon Carlisle.”

“Oh, come on.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “If I want trash talking, I have Leah for that.”

“How is she, by the way?”

A shrug did nothing to ease the tension that shaped his posture. “Same as always,” he said. “A Tasmanian devil by night. A squared-away captain by day.”

She’d enjoyed the teasing so much that she regretted having asked. But the things Leah had revealed about Jon were unforgettable. He was so much more than he seemed. No, that didn’t sound right. He was
less
than he seemed. Dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looked his age. Young. Relaxed. Less intimidating. Less like a well-groomed cat on the prowl. Less in control of the world and his place in it.

This version of Jon was a little closer to real, and a hell of a lot scarier. But Heather was getting tired. The walls were hard to prop up, especially when he seemed intent on breaking them down. She’d only wanted to assert her authority, to see if he would jump when she called.

Control. She wanted some semblance of control in this increasingly hypnotic affair.

Her ultimatum had actually worked against her. She knew his suits and his suave bearing. She had no idea how to handle him being ordinary. His version of ordinary was
magical
. Same sharp jaw, sarcastic mouth and dark, dark eyes. The glare from the light above their table added silver tips to the ends of his buzzed hair. Shoulders and arms, all shown to perfection by that simple T-shirt.

And the flight jacket. Holy Christ, she hadn’t been prepared for that at all. Aside from the war stories Leah and Dash had told at the club, she had proceeded with Jon’s military service as mere background knowledge. He was so different from the servicemen she’d known growing up—her dad’s men, or the guys she’d eventually made her hobby. No way was her pretty flyboy of that same ilk, ready to fight and die for his country.

But he was.

Stories about Jon had chipped through that artificial barrier. Seeing him in his flight jacket when he’d walked into the diner—that had crumbled them altogether. She glanced at where he’d hung it across the back of the booth. The man in the three-piece suit was the slick nighttime version of this genuine fighter pilot.

“You’re a good friend to her,” Heather said quietly. “She’s lucky to have you.”

“Tiring.” He muttered that single word on an exhalation. Then he seemed to check himself. A shadow of his usual insouciance covered his features before he just sighed again. “Hell, it’s not worth the effort to say otherwise. You saw how she was. Ryan and I have been trading off for going on a year. She keeps getting worse.”

Heather swallowed. She couldn’t stop herself from digging deeper, revealing more. What the hell had he done to her? It was more than the flight jacket. Keeping everything elegant and proscribed had been safer. She felt as if her ribs were being pried apart. Maybe because she so desperately wanted to breathe.

Her voice shook when she said, “I knew a girl like that in high school.”

“Oh?” Tilting his head to the side, Jon took her hands. Their fingers twined in the middle of the white tabletop. “What happened to her?”

“Got scared straight.”

“Must’ve been difficult.”

“She…struggled.”

“Did she make it through?”

Her nod felt like balancing the weight of the world on her neck. “Took years, but yes.”

Deep brown eyes, so perceptive, looked right into her. Right down into the dark. “You’ll have to tell me more about her sometime. She sounds like a strong chick.”

God, he was even sexier when he meant it. No games and no dares.

“Order up,” called the man in the apron. “Number eighty-nine.”

“Eighty-nine frogs used to spice up the hamburger,” she said with a forced smile.

But Jon’s grin was sudden and genuine. Damn, those dimples were insane. “Nah, you don’t want that. Believe me.” He tapped a finger against her order ticket. “Get ’er done, eighty-nine.”

“That
so
doesn’t sound right coming from you, Richie Rich.”

“Doesn’t change the fact you’ve cursed yourself with a fresh, juicy frog burger.” He made a shooing motion, until the cook called his number too. “Well, shit. Here we go.”

They returned to the booth with red baskets in hand. Heather had ordered a shake, but it was still too cold to drink. She tried anyway, slipping Jon a coy look as she hollowed her cheeks.

He stopped mid-motion. A fry drooped from his fingertips. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

After popping back from the straw, she nodded at his fry. “I’d have to suck that hard to get your limp prick up.”

Expression still fixed, entirely deadpan, he tilted it up to a more eager angle. “All yours, Ms. Morris.”

She grabbed his wrist and brought the fry to her lips. One quick lick with the tip of her tongue. Then she bit it in half. “Mmm…nice and salty.”

Jon’s deadpan slipped. He laughed, ducking, shaking his head a little. Heather wanted to curl her hand around the back of his neck and stroke, pet, hear him purr under the attention.

“How’s your frog burger?”

“Shouldn’t you be asking me that in French?”

“Oh, so witty tonight.” But he hadn’t stopped smiling.

“What do you think,” she said, glancing toward a woman at the takeaway counter. “Aspiring, current or former call girl?”

Still as cool as if he’d been wearing a three-piece suit, he eased against the booth and managed to look without looking. She’d witnessed that same skill practiced at the country club. Here, the need for such subterfuge was absolutely nil, but all the more enjoyable because of it. Compared to his behavior at the charity event, Jon was stripped down to bare bones.

Oh, but she did enjoy that idea. And not just emotionally. She’d never entertained the idea that filled her brain. Jon. Open. Vulnerable. Hers to command.

Now it would just be a matter of seducing him around to it.

“Current,” he said at last. “She looks tired. And she’s only getting a half portion of fries. Watching her weight. But her shoes are new.”

“Damn, you’re good.”

“Gotta have a hobby, right?”

She picked off a sesame seed, tried to keep eye contact but couldn’t. “Makes me wonder how quickly you sized me up at the wine tasting.”

“You really want to know?”

“Do I?”

His grin had taken on a sly edge. “I think so. Even if only to satisfy your curiosity now that you’ve asked.”

“Go for it.”

“Beautiful. Great rack, of course.”

“Of course.” She went back to nursing her shake to keep him slightly off kilter.

“But to be honest, I wondered if you’d live up to the hype. Seemed…tame. Predictable.”

“A forlorn woman alone at the table.”

“Conservative in her blazer.”

“And you, so unprepared for how wrong you were.”

Jon finished the last of his cheeseburger and licked each finger in turn.
Then
he used a napkin anyway. She was tempted to ask how he’d managed so well without utensils and a placemat but she was too busy admiring his response to her provocation. His eyes had gone sleepy, perched between intense sexual awareness and the same playful vibe they’d been riding all night.

“I was unprepared. Yes. But I returned the favor.”

“Yes. You did.” Heather rested her chin on her folded hands. “Would you answer something for me, Jon?”

“Well, now.” He pushed the empty basket away and settled back. The posture said relaxation. The sudden tension around his mouth said
bring it
. “Jon, is it? This sounds serious.”

“It is. Very. You really want to know?” she asked, echoing him on purpose.

“Oh, hell yes. Ask away.”

“What
haven’t
you done?”

“Go back to sucking while I mull it over.”

Heather lowered her mouth to the straw. This time she was rewarded with chocolate malt. She licked her lower lip. “I’m waiting.”

“I’ve never been snowboarding. It’s tacky.”

“Fascinating.”

“I’ve never been to Central America.”

“Also tacky?”

“No, just not so many excuses to fly jets down there. Well, not since the eighties.”

Although she loved flirting with him this way, almost sweetly, she had a definite angle now, ever since imagining him stripped and vulnerable. She could imagine Jon Carlisle doing almost anything sexual—except willingly giving up control.

“Have you ever played football?” she asked innocently.

“Pick-up games, sure. For some reason, the NFL never returned my calls.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Jon froze. Heather’s heart skipped. She had wanted his body stripped, not his heart. Maybe she could blame the rush of questions. She’d asked. He’d answered. Some deep part of her wanted to know.

“Have
you?
” He leaned in, elbows braced on the table. “Come on now, Ms. Morris. Fair’s fair.”

“I’ll answer if you do. Truthfully.”

“Nope. Never been.”

“Me neither.”

The world tilted at the edges as they stared each other down. Heather couldn’t breathe. She might as well have been under a dozen spotlights for how little she could hide. The scariest part was that he wasn’t holding back either. For a few seconds over red baskets of cold fries, they told the truth.

She’d never been more scared or more thrilled.

Which meant their quick snap back toward the status quo was as inevitable as it was confusing. Just what the hell did she want? Jon grinned, so filthy and ready to play again. Heather laughed under her breath and smoothed her hair. Like retreating to corners.

“Have you ever…?” She swallowed chocolate malt.

“Go for it. The last one didn’t detonate the building.”

She exhaled, shoving questions about love aside for ones about sex. Blatant, hard, uncompromising sex.

“Have you ever been on the receiving end of an anal plug?”

Jon lifted one eyebrow in a high arch. “Well, well.”

With her voice intentionally breathless with excitement, she asked, “Oooh, did I get you again?”

“You did. What brings this up?”

Heather shrugged as casually as she could manage. The interest in his eyes was chipping away at their earlier calm. She wanted this now. How kinky was he willing to play?

“Just a question, flyboy. Like all the others.”

“No,” he said at last, the word drawn out.

“Intriguing. So, does some deep, dark, unexplored part of your perverted psyche want to be explored?”

Jon patted the bench next to him. “Come here and ask me what you really want.”

Standing felt…liberating. They were going to blow each other’s minds. Again. This time it was her idea. Why was that even more important than what they eventually did?

She slid easily into the booth, then crossed her legs so that her thigh draped over his. Again, jeans rubbed against bare skin. Her wispy crepe skirt rode up. Jon wasted no time in giving it another shove. His fingers, hiding beneath the pale fabric, traced the lace of her panties.

Heather nuzzled until her lips grazed his jaw. A beautiful tension hummed from his body. She touched him behind the neck as she’d imagined. Bristling hair gave her a thrill. All this and more to come.

“I want to know if you’ve ever participated in a sexual encounter where you knew going in that you weren’t in control.” She lowered her voice. “Have you ever been dominated, flyboy?”

His fingertips dug into her ass. “No.”

“Not so coy now.” She nibbled his earlobe. “Because I would enjoy trying. I’ve never had that power before. Girls tend to be the ones with their arms tied, bent over a chair.”

“Oh, but you looked so pretty.”

“Tell me, Jon,” she whispered. “The safe word still applies. And you can dictate terms. But the question remains. Will you give me your body tonight? To do with as I please?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Since they’d both arrived separately at the diner, they met back at Heather’s house. Jon could have beaten her there. Easily. Not only did he have the faster car, he was driven by a ridiculous amount of curiosity. And nerves. He could admit to some nerves. He’d never willingly put himself at someone else’s sexual whim.

He wasn’t sure if he had it in himself to just…lie there. Seemed unlikely.

But he kept his foot chill on the gas pedal and didn’t zoom past her tin can. He even managed to keep himself in check as she opened her front door.

He thought they might chat first, maybe hang out. Have a drink. But Heather skipped right past her tidy living room and small kitchen, heading directly toward the bedroom.

He’d seen it before, but generally when it was dark and Heather had worked her hand down his pants. They hadn’t bothered with trivialities such as light switches.

The bedroom was fairly big considering her small bungalow. The furniture was all pale oak, and the bed was covered with a lace-trimmed afghan. The lack of frou-frou pillows or cutesy accessories struck a balance between feminine and comfortable.

She walked to her vanity, though she didn’t sit. A mirror with a lacquer frame reflected how she watched him while she unhooked long silver earrings. “Nervous, Captain?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. “More like wondering how you plan to do this, considering your bed has no posters.”

“Hmm. A one-piece headboard too.” Her hair was pinned at her nape. She drew long hairpins out one by one. The tiny plink of metal dropping into a glass dish was the only sound in the room. A dark fall of silk spilled over her shoulders. “You don’t think you can hold still?”

“Probably not.”

She turned and focused her gaze on him, like a pale blue laser. Her steps were slow. Luscious hips swung in a grind that reminded him of sex. Naturally. She meant it to.

On a deep breath, she grazed his T-shirt with her breasts. Her mouth hovered near his, even as she dipped her chin to look at him through her lashes. “Are you sure, Jon? If I asked you to? Without bindings or restraints. Just…wait. For me. And what I do to you.”