by Angel Payne
Wasn’t going to happen.
Couldn’t happen.
Not right now, when they both laughed from a telltale ding inside her purse. Trouble was, he had to feign his mirth. This whole pulling-away-with-fake-regret thing…he’d done it so many times, except right now, it felt as comfortable as getting a prostate exam. Fortunately, as she scooted away and padded over to where she’d dropped the little bag near the door, she gave him a great excuse to cut loose a groan that sounded just as tormented.
“Sorry, gorgeous,” she teased, adding a giggle as delectable as her backside. “But I think I’m needed in good little bridesmaid mode again.”
“But you’re so much more fascinatin’ in good little subbie mode.”
“And if I’m a bad little subbie?”
He narrowed his eyes. Not that she was noticin’, with a hip cocked and her attention riveted on her phone for a second. He didn’t care. Even with her gloriously in the raw, he could envision her in naughty schoolgirl knickers, a plaid miniskirt, and a wee bra just coverin’ her assets upstairs, ready to play naughty student for him.
“Bad subbie is even better.”
“Why did I know you were going to say that?”
“Why do you ken anythin’ about me already, Jenny?” And again, it was more than he should have revealed—but since he was already committed, he rolled up and then over until he was perched up on his knees, whippin’ off the condom with one hand and reachin’ for her with the other. When she placed hers back against it, his chest swelled with warmth. When she blushed and averted her eyes, he leaned over and claimed her lips in a solid, searing kiss.
And when he flipped her over, keepin’ their lips just a breath apart and their bodies together like bangers and mash, he curled a broad, knowing grin, sure that he now knew somethin’ certain about her, as well.
“Guess I can start by being a bad bridesmaid, hmmmm?”
Sam started his answer out by sliding his lips over hers again. Then stabbing his tongue between them, giving her own no mercy with his long, merciless swoops and rolls, making sure she knew exactly what her wicked words did to him. The hunch that she likely hadn’t uttered them to any other lover before was a headier turn-on too. He knew he wasn’t her first in the most obvious of ways, but bein’ the first to take her into new realms of sensuality made it much easier to accept that she was his first in some ways too. She was bringin’ him back to some old parts of himself…parts he’d written off as incinerated in the violence-filled skies over the Middle East. Because of that, the parts he had taken home were somehow easier to face…
To accept.
Maybe, one day, to appreciate.
For that, he had no words with which to thank this woman. Yes, this miracle.
No words. So thank fuck, at least for now, he could use actions.
And set about doing exactly that.
Chapter Seven
“Wait a second,” Jen blurted. “John Franzen learned what?”
She was distracted from her bewilderment by the adorable twitch that took over Sam’s lips as he placed her newly poured glass of Cabernet in front of her, atop the counter separating the living room from the kitchen of the rustic two-bedroom house Nellis had set him up in for the duration of training. Outside, just beyond base perimeter, the last rays of the setting sun kissed the top of Sunrise Mountain, and a blessedly cool breeze ruffled the palm trees in the backyard. But the scenery was the best in here, where that arrogant smirk threatened to turn the triple flip in her stomach into a quadruple special. The man himself was rumpled and gorgeous in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, having finished several early morning hops, six grueling hours of debriefing, and then the mountain of personnel paperwork she’d thrown at him—which had been, as every other interaction they’d had in the last three days, a tantalizing mixture of function and flirtation. Every signature he’d given up had come with a price: a subtle reminder that while he was happy to do her bidding in the confines of her little office, he was damned and determined to repeat a night—or more—of her doing his bidding elsewhere.
And so, as the saying went, one thing led to another.
Especially as the man had scribbled his final signature right as the clock officially ticked over into quitting time.
And he’d looked up at her, face a mass of smoldering intention, saying he had a lonely bottle of Cab back at his place, all but screaming that it wanted to meet her.
And now he regarded her, his gaze about as Thor-meets-Loki as she’d ever seen it. Drenched with his hammer-god intensity but sparkling with his mischief-god flippancy.
Which turned her answering gape a hell of a lot more interesting. “Okay, now I just don’t know whether you’re messing with me or not.”
“Now, mouse, I mess with you about a lot of things—”
“You don’t say.” While they’d dropped a lot of innuendo on each other over the last three days, their dynamic had eased into casual ribbing that indeed included the man messing with her threshold of disbelief.
“But this is a bit different than makin’ you believe my tale about the Demon’s Penis.”
“Well, if you’d stopped after proving that the mountain exists, rather than telling me you climbed it in nothing but your kilt and a beanie, in the February…”
“We’re digressin’ from the point.”
“You mean the one where you make me believe stories that aren’t true until I hunt up real facts and discredit your ass?”
He scowled over the rim of his own wine. “You like my ass.”
“Your ass is mighty fine, Captain.” She arched a brow while taking a sip as well. He had been right about the Cab. The wine was a perfect blend of berries and spice, making it a great choice for an autumn happy hour. “But not when it’s helping your mouth as you stand there trying to tell me that Franzen found out there’s a secret kink dungeon hidden in the Scene Lounge at the Nyte Hotel and offered a hundred bucks to the first guy who goes and finds out.”
He trailed a finger along the bowl, and then the stem, of his glass. Though his expression barely changed, Jen could feel his watchful wolf prowling past Thor and Loki to lurk closer to the surface of his urbane demeanor. Holy shit. The man did attentive wolf better than anyone she knew.
Perhaps because she knew he meant it.
“Might be a pure rocket way to make a hundred spondoolies.”
She was damn glad she decided not to get in another sip of wine. “Spondoolies? Hold on. Let me get you some free shevacadoo to go with those.”
“Huh?”
She gloated without remorse. It was a rare but fun moment when she knew a meme and he didn’t. “My point exactly.”
“Which is what?
“Hmmm.” She canted her head and grinned, unable to ignore the pull of the new grin he attached to that. Regrettably, it did nothing for the Sam-the-Wolf Fan Club’s dance party in her belly—taking inspiration from the larger dance she was doing with him. “What am I saying?”
He tilted his head the same direction she had, hiking the opposite eyebrow. On any other guy, it’d be weird. On him, it was more fodder for the fan club factor. “That you’re up for the challenge of checking out Scene with me?”
And there it was, all but written in black and white—making her feel like she’d had a lot more to drink than two sips of really good Cabernet. So what now? Sam wasn’t going to kick her out if she backed up the truck and just said she was comfortable with dinner, Netflix and chilling—which was still a win-win for him, considering he’d been clear about his intent in telling her the Cabernet was “really ready to be devoured” and had “a stiff opening of berries” that promised a “robust, rousing finish.” But was comfortable what she wanted from this…from him? Nothing about Sam Mackenna, even just being in the same room as him, had ever been comfortable. He’d given her every speck of uncomfortable she’d ever craved—and because of that, she’d never felt more alive. The last two weeks had been a couple of the happiest in her life.<
br />
Who the hell was she kidding?
They’d been the best of her life.
Especially those two hours he’d given her, on the night of Tess and Dan’s party.
Would returning to the scene of the sizzle add an even better chapter to their story or just hasten the “awkward goodbye” ending that would be coming in a couple of weeks anyway? And why was she even brooding about that and not trusting that any time she spent with Sam was going to be incredible? Wouldn’t she rise to his challenge if he said he was searching for the tackiest tourist shop in Vegas? Arguably, that would take hours longer than this mission…
“Oh, mousie…”
His singsong prodding had her thoughts circling back to the moment and her backside scooting off the barstool.
“I…I…”
And her mind utterly unable to make a damn decision about this.
“I…have to pee.”
Which wasn’t a lie. And bought her the space she needed to get her damn head screwed on straight—or to twist it the way it needed to go, if that was the case. Just to get to a decision not based on how breathtaking he was, so muscled and messy-haired and stubbled, bearing wine and a smirk and a double-dog dare that terrified but thrilled her…
Okay, so not anywhere in there had the man mentioned “dares.” Not verbally, at least. If she counted the Loki-lupine tease in his eyes, however…
It was a damn good thing she’d had to pee.
Before she even shut the door, she started to make columns and comparisons in her head.
He was halfway through his time here. So if tonight went awesome? Major win. They’d have two more weeks to float through heaven. Maybe even some damn fine social time to really get to know each other. He owed the kids at VVE another visit, after all.
But if not?
How was she going to keep her disappointment and despondency off the public shelves? How would she pretend all was—how did he like saying it?—pure dead brilliant, when it really wasn’t? Worse, how would she be able to stay civil in five days, knowing Tess had openly invited Sam to join in their wedding celebration but having to watch Mattie and Viv move in all over him with their classic man-eater tricks?
Did she draw the line, or didn’t she?
Did she run with his double-dog dare or protect what was still left of her heart?
What did she continue to keep locked up in her emotional cabinets?
But the ambient lights in his bathroom, flickering to life as she entered, already shattered those cabinets to pieces.
No. Not the lights.
What they illuminated.
A set of clothes, hanging perfectly from the hook on the back of the door.
A dress blazer in dark gray. A white silk shirt to go beneath it, along with a brocade vest in hunter green. The same green was woven with red and white to form the plaid design of the pressed wool kilt. Tucked into a corner, as if freshly polished, was a pair of black leather boots with ornate silver buckles. They’d probably hit Sam at midcalf, where his well-formed muscles would push at the leather, emphasizing his physical power…
“Ohhhh, God.”
She had no idea she’d also groaned it aloud, until Sam’s urgent call came through the door. “Mouse? You sure you’re awrite?”
She yanked the door back open.
To surrender her breath to shock once again.
He’d peeled off his T-shirt. To make matters worse—or better—he’d also unhitched the top button of his sinfully fitted denims. The line of tawny hair down the center of his torso, so perfectly framed by the dual ridges of his happy V muscles, joined with a thicker, curlier patch she could just glimpse at the place where his zipper started to part.
“Damn.”
Out the word tumbled before she could help it, though the syllable was more a breath than an exclamation. She longed to repeat the word, more as a curse this time, as Sam lazed against the doorjamb, clearly and maddeningly aware of what he’d done—and pleased as a cocky knight-errant about the outcome.
“My pardons, lady.” As he drawled it, he folded his arms—once more, knowing exactly what he was doing. The new pose magnified the boulders of his biceps, the striations in his forearms, the ripples of his tightening abdomen. “I was just thinkin’, no matter what you decide, that I’d get out of these tatters, and—”
“Stop.”
Sam froze his fingers on the tongue of his zipper—though not before he got the teeth separated far enough to expose the clear fact that he was commando under the denim. “Right here?”
Jen gulped. Fought like hell to rip her gaze away from the Sam-style goodness that lay beneath his fingers. That beautiful, hard ridge, already pulsing so hard that she was certain his poor penis was gaining some interesting new indentations…
Thank God she had something else to focus on. His outfit was gorgeous, like a costume created for a Highland book boyfriend. If the vest was replaced by a sash and the kilt secured by a sword belt instead of snap closures, she could even turn that setting into something from hundreds of years ago, where he was the laird of his own clan. If they’d lived four hundred years ago, could she have been his lady? Lairds were a lot less picky in the 1600s. Curves, curls, and a talent for rocking high heels were a lot less important than leadership, business sense, and the ability to reload a spring-action stapler in less than thirty seconds. Surely a flintlock pistol wasn’t so different.
She pushed the fantasy—make that a few new fantasies—aside in order to answer his query. “Yes,” she blurted. “There.”
His gaze narrowed with fresh intensity. “Sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”
She copied his pose. Ordered her scrutiny to stay on his face, no matter how valiantly his crotch was trying to sway her determination. “Aye, Captain,” she said, though she lifted a stiff finger. “With conditions.”
His brow furrowed. “Conditions?”
She stunned him—and, frankly, herself—by managing a little laugh. “Well…one.”
He was persistent with the majority of the frown, though the silver flecks reappeared in his eyes, highlighting his flirty tease. “I like conditions.”
Her breath snatched again—especially as the man unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. Sultry intent surrounded him like the glow around a candle flame, only with bulging muscles and burnished hair…
Fire that would burn her, if she let it.
But maybe she wanted—needed—to let it.
And suddenly, the idea of actually finding that dungeon, on the arm of this beautiful flame of a man, turned her nervous system into a thousand blazing comets of arousal. What would Sam really do with her, to her, if they were alone in a play room together? If she were kneeling before him, picking out a safe word for him? If he were no longer Sam at all but purely and wholly her Sir?
One prolonged look in his eyes, and she already saw the possibilities swirling through his mind too. The promise of the new ways they could be together and open each other. The brilliance of what they could share…
Crazily—or maybe all-too-appropriately—her mind was emblazoned with a classic pilot’s inspirational quote. The sky is no longer the limit.
For too long, she’d been defined by the reaches of what she thought her sky could be. What always would be. But then she’d met this man, and he’d showed her how to fly in his sky. A sky, she sensed, that he’d forgotten how to soar in as well.
So maybe they both needed this adventure.
And maybe she had to realize that—for both of them.
With a zealous sweep, Jen whipped the clothes off the hook. As she did, Sam pushed away from the doorframe. Good thing, since she shoved them against the two main slabs of his chest. “We’re going on a dungeon hunt—but you’re going to wear this to do it.”
“All right.”
The corners of his mouth inched up along with the slow, sultry release of his drawl. Jen stood back, savoring the fact that she’d already pleased him with her decisiveness, w
atching the ease with which he pulled the shirt off its hanger and then stabbed his arms into the sleeves. The entire time, his stare didn’t leave her face. He kept watching, lips quirking, as he buttoned it. Didn’t relent as he slipped on the vest, removed his jeans, and then wrapped the kilt around his lean hips. Once the snaps were locked, he smoothed the whole outfit into place—and then swept a gallant bow toward her.
After he rose, he chuckled. Jen didn’t laugh. How could she, when her lungs desperately rationed breath? She attempted to school her features but was certain she looked ridiculous, fighting a suddenly dry throat and a womb clenching so hard she trembled.
She needed to jump at him. On him. To mold every inch of her naked body against his and beg him to slam her to the floor, hike the kilt up, and then fuck her like the self-respecting Scot he was.
Which didn’t exactly keep with the nobler plan here, did it?
“Shit. Shit.”
Once more, she let the gray matter exclamations spill over her lips. Once more, Sam was ready with a smirk that actually made smug humility a thing. “Changin’ your mind about wantin’ to claim Franz’s fortune?”
“Ssshhh.” She pushed three fingers against his lips. “With you looking like all my wet dreams, I can’t handle you sounding like them too.”
He twisted his head enough to capture her middle finger between his lips. Then slid his tongue to the crevice at its bottom. As Jen gasped, he whispered, “Did you just mention wet dreams while standin’ here in my bathroom, dressed in that bonnie fine dress, and—”
“Shit!” Her repetition was stripped of its raspy arousal, thanks to the horror that slammed her like the hull of an aircraft carrier.
“Mouse?” Sam murmured.
“My dress.” She moaned it while looking down, realizing she was still wearing her basic red shirtdress and matching pumps from the day. While the color of the dress favored her skin tone, it was still about as boring a look as they came. “This doesn’t exactly scream ‘show me the epic dungeon you’re hiding out back, guys.’”