The Wingman

by Natasha Anders

  The guy was much too dangerous for her baby sister. He was also sickeningly good looking, which meant she automatically distrusted him. Guys like him toyed with women, they never settled down, and Daff was terrified that Daisy was in way over her head, that she would fall for him—if she hadn’t already—and get her heart broken.

  More and more people were starting to head to the dance floor, and a lot of the older people—her parents and aunts included—were leaving. Daff had another drink and kicked herself for not bringing a date. She hadn’t wanted to be saddled with one of her many loser guys for an entire weekend. Her options for a decent date were severely limited. Her ex-boyfriends had all been dumb, good-looking assholes—kind of like Spencer Carlisle—and any guy she carted along to the wedding would have expected more than she was willing to give. She was so sick of the lot of them, of the boring sex, the meaningless conversations, the casual disregard. She’d sworn off men for a while and she wasn’t going to break her fast just for Lia’s wedding. Especially not when her sister was marrying yet another worthless jerk.

  Daff had a reliable bullshit radar, and she was usually really good at picking the assholes apart from the good guys. It was a useful skill to have, just a shame she wasn’t ever attracted to the good guys. Clayton Edmonton III was a definite asshole. In fact, he was a rare breed, a kind of hybrid douche hole. She didn’t know why she disliked him; she only knew that she did, and her instincts were usually spot on. But talking to Lia about it was nearly impossible. She cast a discreet glare toward her middle sister, but Lia was listening to Clayton blow hard about something. She looked perfectly miserable, and Daff knew she was going to have to talk with her sister tomorrow. Try to get through to her one last time. If this was how she looked two days before her wedding, how happy could she expect to be in the years to come?

  Mason Carlisle was harder to read than most men. At times he seemed like a stand-up guy, and on other occasions he set off her asshole alert so loudly that it nearly deafened her. And Daff trusted her instincts; they hadn’t let her down yet. Daisy thought she had it all under control, but Daff knew it was a train wreck waiting to happen. The only problem was, her youngest sister had a stubborn streak a mile wide, and she only grew more intractable when she felt like she was being pushed into doing something she didn’t want to do.

  It wasn’t easy being the oldest, Daff thought, starting to wallow in a well of self-pity. She got up, swayed a bit—stupid four-inch stilettos—and wobbled toward the exit. The waitstaff was taking much too long to bring her drinks, best to find the hotel bar. Thankfully Lia didn’t notice her leave; her sister could be more preachy than Auntie Ivy sometimes, and it was tiresome.

  When she found a quiet spot, she leaned against a wall for balance—how much whiskey was in those sours anyway?—and fished her phone out of her suddenly cavernous clutch.

  She closed an eye to focus a little better before finding the number she was looking for. There it was, excellent! It rang and rang and rang and . . .

  “Hello?” The deep male voice on the other end sent a thrilling little shiver down her spine.

  “You’re such a prick, you know?”

  “Daff?”

  “You know my voice,” she purred happily.

  “Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re an a-a-asshole.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Yesh! No. Wait. Don’t change the subject.” Pesky man.

  “Okay.” He was starting to sound amused. “You were saying I’m an asshole. What did I do to earn this label?”

  “You hurt my sister.”

  “Lia?”

  “No, I have two sisters, you dick! And that’s your problem; you don’t see her or treat her with respect. I hate that about you.”

  “This is about Daisy?” His voice had gone flat, all amusement gone.

  “So you do know her name?” She was proud of the sarcasm laced through that question.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but . . .”

  “I heard . . .” She lost her balance and fought to right herself with as much dignity as she could. Thank goodness he couldn’t see her. “I heard that you thought it would be a good idea to use your jerk brother to seduce my sister while you tried to chat me up.”

  “I didn’t ask him to seduce her,” he protested indignantly. “Just distract her a little, pay her some attention. I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

  “How did you expect her to feel when she found out?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to find out,” he gritted out.

  “But she did.”

  “Yes, and she turned the tables rather nicely, don’t you think? Don’t underestimate your sister, Daff. She seems well able to take care of herself. She certainly has my brother wrapped around her little finger. In fact, I think he’s the real victim here. She blackmailed him into going to the wedding with her, and she’s performed some kind of freaky voodoo on him because he’s completely irrational when it comes to anything Daisy related. I don’t know what the fuck she’s done to him, but I don’t like it!”

  “He’s going to hurt her even more than he already has, and it’s your fault.”

  “Well, I think she’s going to wind up hurting him . . . and yeah”—he sighed deeply—“it’s my fault.”

  “As long as you recognize that.”

  “It’s your fault too, you know,” he murmured, and her brow furrowed into a scowl.

  “How? How can this possibly be my fault?”

  “If you’d even once given me the time of day, maybe I wouldn’t have had to rope Mason in to play wingman.”

  “So I’m just supposed to pay attention to every guy who tries to chat me up? How typical of a man to think that.”

  “Maybe if you weren’t constantly sending me mixed signals I’d be a little clearer about where I stand with you!”

  “Oh, please, you’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

  “Yeah? Why did you drunk dial me of all people, Daff?”

  She paused to think about that for a moment.

  “Because I’m a little too wasted to text you,” she finally decided.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Why me at all? And how do you even have my number, come to think of it? I don’t have yours.”

  “You want to know where you stand with me, Spencer? Nowhere. There has never been, nor will there ever be, anything between us. Stay away from me in future and don’t fuck with my family again!”

  “Gladly,” he seethed. “I’ve had more than enough of having to deal with manipulative, psychotic, raging bitches. Tanya was bad enough, and I’m definitely questioning what I ever saw in you.”

  Stung, she allowed him the last word and hung up before she said something she’d regret even more. She wasn’t nearly drunk enough to be immune to that scorching indictment of her character. Especially not from him. Spencer Carlisle was a dumb oaf, but he’d always been a sweet dumb oaf. That’s probably why this entire situation bothered her so much. He had disappointed her. She pushed herself away from the wall, and after fleetingly considering her original course of action to find the bar and drink herself into a stupor, she decided that she’d rather fall into bed and forget this entire day ever happened.

  It was colder than they expected, but the air was calm, the sky was clear, and a huge, creamy full moon was just rising over the ocean. It was a beautiful evening, and it seemed a waste to let the cold chase them back inside. Mason bundled Daisy into his suit jacket, and it dwarfed her, falling to just a few inches above her knees, while the sleeves ended well past her fingertips. She looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her dad’s jacket, and Mason, as usual, thought she was absolutely adorable.

  They were barefoot on the beach; Mason had his socks off and his trouser legs rolled up, and Daisy had forced him to turn around while she tugged off her pantyhose and shoved them into her bag. He had taken laughing peeks, telling her she was being ridiculous because
he already knew what she looked like naked.

  Now they were walking hand in hand, shoes dangling from their fingertips. The sand was freezing cold beneath their bare feet, but neither minded much. They were content to listen to sounds of the whispering waves, the high-pitched calls of the night birds, the distant echoing cries of the southern right whales that migrated here to calve in winter. With Daisy’s hand tucked into his, it felt like the most perfect moment of Mason’s entire life.

  “So why don’t you dance?” she asked, breaking the peaceful silence. But Mason didn’t mind, because if there were anything more beautiful than the silence, it was the sound of her husky voice.

  “Because I don’t want to embarrass everybody else on the dance floor with my awesome moves,” he said complacently and was gratified when she laughed in response.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yep. That’s it. The whole story, true as God.”

  “And this is what you would have told me on our second date, if we were, in fact, dating?”

  “It’s supposed to impress you.”

  “I am impressed,” she said, and he could hear the laughter bubbling away beneath her words. “I’m impressed by the size of your ego.”

  “You’re obsessed with size, aren’t you? I told you not to worry; everything’s well in order,” he boasted, and Daisy laughed outright at that. He let go of her hand, and she felt the loss keenly until he draped his arm over her shoulders and tugged her closer so that she was tucked beneath his armpit and sharing his body heat. She put her own arm around his trim waist for better balance.

  “You always smell so great,” she murmured.

  “So do you.” His chest rumbled beneath her cheek when he spoke, and she sighed in contentment, feeling small and safe and protected in his hold. They continued to wander slowly down the beach.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked when a sharp gust of frigid wind flirted with the hem of her skirt and sent goose bumps up her thighs.

  “Nah, I’ve been trained not to be as affected by the weather. Extreme heat and extreme cold don’t bother me too much.”

  “Did you see a lot of combat?” she asked, tentatively broaching a subject she’d been curious about for a while.

  “I saw my share,” he said after a long pause. “When I was just a kid during the Iraq War. I’d barely finished basic training before I was shipped out. Then again later, after I was more of a specialist, shall we say? We were required to do some stuff I’m not at liberty to talk about. Nothing pretty.”

  “Tell me about your scars; were you ever badly injured?” He stopped walking and turned to face her, and even in the pale light of the moon she could see his look of surprise.

  “People hardly ever ask me about that. Top three things I usually get asked: how many people I shot and/or killed, how many bombs I’ve diffused, and have I ever flown a helicopter. Some folks really seem to have a Hollywood vision of war in their heads,” he said with a wry shake of his head, before continuing. “Nobody ever asks me about injuries. They figure, I’m alive, have all my limbs, so I must have come through it all unscathed.”

  “I don’t care about the other stuff. I mean, I care about the people you may have shot and/or killed but only because I worry about how it must have affected you.”

  “It was seven years ago; I’m over the worst of it.”

  “Are you?”

  “I . . . I’ve learned how to deal. It’s no longer a problem.”

  “But it was?”

  “Daisy, everybody who has seen combat suffers from varying degrees of PTSD. I had my moments, I still have the occasional lapse—one loud, misplaced bang could see me diving for the closest cover—but they’re few and far between now. I’ve—what’s that phrase? The shrinks love it. Ah, yes, I’ve reintegrated.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she pointed out, and he sighed, linking his hands behind her back and pulling her toward him until they stood chest to torso.

  “I was shot twice and got winged by shrapnel in the IED explosion that killed Quincy. I’m afraid I have a road map of scars on my lower back; it’s not pretty.” Daisy had seen the scars on his chest and arms, but she hadn’t seen his back yet. She looked up into his beautiful face and felt sorrow at the anguish he must have felt. He claimed it was long ago and no longer affected him, but his eyes told a different story.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said.

  His lips quirked, and he bent his head to claim her lips gently. The kiss was the slow-burning kind; it started with a tiny spark and built into a small, flickering ember when his lips nudged hers apart. That ember leisurely escalated into a shy, hesitant flame when his tongue met hers. She gasped at his touch and opened up even more for him, adding fuel to the flame until it grew stronger and bolder. Her hands went up to circle his neck, and her bare toes pushed her up as far as she could go in an effort to get even closer. The flame, now blazing and building into an inferno, threatened to rage out of control when his hands found her breasts through the slippery material of her silky dress.

  “Daisy,” he groaned. “Let’s go back to our room.”

  “Yes,” she encouraged. “Please.”

  He stepped away from her and grabbed her hand.

  “How fast can you run?” he asked urgently, and she giggled.

  “Not very.”

  “Not good enough.”

  They made it back to their suite in under ten minutes, and Mason had her out of her clothes about a minute later. He swore reverently while she stood in front of him, trying not to be self-conscious about the fact that she was completely naked while he was still fully dressed.

  “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he growled, his eyes hot and intense and embarrassingly, single-mindedly focused on her breasts. He looked into her blushing face and smiled tenderly at whatever he saw there. “I’m going too fast, aren’t I?”

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, sounding unconvincing even to her own ears.

  “It’s just I’ve wanted you for so long. Come here, angel.” He held out a hand, and she took it and stepped toward him without hesitation. “I’m going to kiss you, all over. I’m going to run my hands and tongue and teeth over every single inch of your beautiful body.” The promise was shakily given but brimming with sincerity, and Daisy felt an embarrassing rush of liquid warmth between her thighs at the prospect.

  “But . . .” he qualified regretfully. “Not now. I don’t think I’ll last very long the first time, Daisy.”

  For some reason she found his words so much more flattering than the admiring looks, the touches, the kisses, even the huge, rampant erection straining against his zipper. He didn’t think he’d have much self-control around her, and that was just the sexiest thing any man could ever tell a woman. At least, that’s what Daisy thought, and that knowledge emboldened her. She took another little step closer until her hard nipples were grazing against the expensive cotton of his shirt, one of them catching against a tiny mother-of-pearl button. She moaned at the sensation; her breasts and nipples were so much more sensitive than she’d ever known, and she nearly wept in relief when one of his hands moved up to cup one of her breasts, kneading it gently before plumping it up and holding it to his mouth. This time he wasn’t playing around, he mouthed it, aureole, nipple, and all. The intense suction nearly brought her to her knees, and her legs buckled, but he caught her and carried her to the bed. The movement was so smooth and effortless she didn’t have time to automatically protest that she was too heavy. She was on her back, legs spread wantonly, while he nestled between them, still fully clothed, sans only jacket, socks, and shoes. It was crazy, hot, and sexy, and Daisy loved it! He was at her other breast now, which led to more incredible suctioning, his mouth like a scorching, delicious vacuum, his tongue teasing the aroused tip mercilessly. Daisy raised her knees and planted her feet on the bed, using them as leverage to push her aching center against his hardness. She rubbed against him, wanting him to thrust back, wanting his
heat against her wetness. His hands were everywhere and nowhere. Why weren’t they where she needed them to be? Her hands were tugging at the buttons of his shirt, wanting to rip them off in an effort to get his skin against hers. He pushed himself up, big and beautiful as he knelt between her legs, and without any consideration for the fabric or the expense of his dress shirt, he just unbuttoned the top two buttons, grabbed the back of his collar, and tugged it over his head to toss it aside.

  Finally she had access to his big, beautiful chest, and she went for one of his nipples like an aggressive cat, embarrassing even herself with her ferocity. She licked, bit, chewed, and worshipped before lavishing the same treatment on the other one. Mason allowed it, groaning appreciatively while she pleasured him. His hands had traveled down to her hips and were angling them upward to better receive his hard grinding.

  “Jesus.” He had no breath left, and the word was strained. “I’m not going to come in my pants like a kid again.”

  His hands moved down and found her hot and dripping.

  “You’re so wet,” he moaned before his index and middle fingers located her melting channel and sought entry. His hips mimicked the slow thrust of his fingers, and he groaned appreciatively.

  “Shit, you’re so tight, angel.” The pumping motion of his fingers inside her stole Daisy’s breath, and her back arched as she rode the sensation. It was unfamiliar and a little uncomfortable, but combined with his stroking thumb at her hard clit, it was unbearably pleasurable. She was still fighting to breathe, her mouth open, her eyes pleading with his as she felt herself climbing to the inevitable peak of her climax. Her chest heaved as she sucked in a tiny amount of air without releasing what she already had trapped in her lungs.

  He bent over her, his fingers still working deliciously between her thighs, and put his mouth onto hers.