by Angel Payne
Before they got back to the base on the day they spent at school with the kids, he used the word at least six or seven more times with her—each time, seeming to reach inside her brain and discern exactly what they did to her. What he did to her with them, coupling every occasion to a touch or a smile or a look that served as a wordless, flawless reminder of a new connection they shared with each other. A connection leading them to a bridge…a bridge that would be burned once they crossed it. At least for her.
But then Jen remembered the foot she’d anchored in reality.
The reality that told her a masterful god like Sam Mackenna had probably crossed the Dominant/submissive bridge a long damn time ago. And that since then, he’d probably taken a spin around the dungeon with a lot of gorgeous, willing submissives. And that in a city like Vegas, she’d just be the first of many he’d meet and fuck, even in just four weeks here.
But for her, it’d be different.
He’d be her first.
And he’d be good.
Yes, she knew that—knew that—after just one perfect neck massage in the car.
He’d be that damn good—and she’d be that damn ruined.
But after her first taste of the sexual dynamic she’d craved ever since recognizing that it had its own name and rules and practitioners, would she be able to settle for anything else again? Was she doomed to be in some BDSM book nerds’ purgatory forever, having found the only man who seemed to have brought all her fictional fantasies to life? And if so, wasn’t she doomed to be there—if that was the standard she was holding living, breathing men up to?
It was all messed up.
Which meant she likely was as well.
And ever since Sam had walked her back to the office that day, seeming to have figured that out for himself, she’d gotten in some long damn days to really hammer herself with the point. As in, a trio of twenty-four stretches in which the man didn’t insert himself into her world at all. No hunk appearing filling her doorway every morning, interrupting her routine with his insolent smirk and a dumb joke. No dust-covered pilot reappearing in the afternoon with a cute pout of befuddlement, begging her to help him enter the flight logs correctly. And damn it, no striding stud in the hallways or across the tarmac outside her window, always accompanied by the slight jog back of his head, as he knew he’d just made her stop whatever the hell she was doing just to ogle his backside in that flight gear…
It had all just come to a screeching stop.
Yeah, even the damn tarmac strut.
Which, to be fair, she had no right to play pity party about, since the two flight squads had gone up on night hops for the last two nights. But where there was a will there was a way, and Jen would’ve bet solid money on the cast-iron texture of Sam Mackenna’s will. No word from him in three days. The ghosts in the Mob Museum were seeming more real than him by the day.
Which shouldn’t have stung so damn much.
But did.
Okay, so she hadn’t expected him to drag her off to the nearest kink club, even after their potent exchange in the car. But the couple of hours before that moment—the afternoon in which she’d opened up a special part of her life to him—had earned her a kiss-off better than—well, a kiss-off. Not this kiss-off, that was for damn certain. But she wasn’t going to give the issue the benefit of her stress. In the end, she had to realize that no matter how thoroughly Sam Mackenna had already rocked her world and awakened her libido, she’d be just a blip in the narrative of his life. It was the way of things, no matter how “incensed” the whole matter seemed to make him whenever she’d touched on it. Maybe he’d just finally seen the light. Or maybe the guys had really convinced him to go have some drinks and he had gotten a chance to see what the “local selection” was like for a guy like him. Or maybe he’d thought about the long game on all this, as she already had, and confronted the realities of being with a girl at least five notches down from him on the social totem pole.
All valid recognitions.
All doing absolutely nothing to ease the sting.
She had to approach this with her big-girl panties on. Like the week after she’d gone cold turkey on peanut butter pretzels, Jen knew she just needed time to feel like herself again. She’d get there…eventually. She’d be able to look at her mortal normality and realize it wasn’t a half-bad place. She’d know again, very soon, that a girl could be happy, even if Mount Olympus and her own private god weren’t going to be waiting over the horizon. Vanilla could still be a super decent flavor…
She just had to keep reminding herself of that.
Especially tonight.
Especially during this long minute of an elevator ride up to the Nyte Hotel’s wedding level.
Okay, granted, showing up for an engagement party and “advanced wedding rehearsal” in one night, especially at the newest and hottest hotel in the city, wasn’t exactly her idea of pressure-free fun at this point—but her best friend was worth it. It seemed only yesterday that Jen was joining Tess Lesange in the play-food kitchen in preschool; now they both had real-life kitchens of their own—though she wondered how much time Tess really had for whipping up things from scratch these days. The woman was a little over a week away from marrying one of the world’s rising billionaires. Life at the side of Dan Colton, the golden-haired hunk who helmed Colton Steel and its gazillion subsidiaries, had been a whirlwind for Tess so far. Though Tess had moved to Dan’s mansion in Atlanta, where the Colton Steel headquarters were located, Vegas had won out as an easier destination to access for most of the wedding guests, including Dan’s Tacoma-based Army buddies and all of Tess’s family, who still lived here.
Which was why Jen breathed a sigh of relief with the knowledge there was a different set of elevator banks in this place. No way could she imagine some of Dan’s business associates, let alone Tess’s oddball parents, using this lift car—though no way in the world did she refuse the chance to take what the cute girl at the concierge desk called the “Anything for Love Express.” The alternate lift, the “Crystal Car,” bore a much more mother-friendly title—and decorative theme.
“Vanilla is fine. Vanilla is fine. Vanilla is great, actually,” Jen muttered as the lift doors closed, sealing her into a space that was covered in mirrors on the two longer walls, with padded leather surfaces consuming the others. She kept up the mantra while examining the rest of the car, blatantly recognizing why the Nyte was the Resort everyone talked about lately, in a city where “pushing the envelope” was what the competition was doing last year.
“Holy shit.” Not the mantra but more than fitting, now that she spotted at least six different leather cuffs attached to strategically-mounted chains in the leather wall to her left. The control panel next to the door didn’t just have options for floor numbers. There were illuminated buttons underneath the standard ones that gave options for activities like “Dim Lights,” “Fun Swing,” and “Scream Stop.”
“Scream Stop?” she rasped to herself. “The hell? How could anyone get that far during an elevator—” Good thing she finally snapped more than two brain cells together, though when she continued, it was in a nearly breathless mutter. Blushes that felt more like hot flashes could definitely do that to a girl. “And thus, the Scream Stop. Nice work, Thorny-boo.”
She saved the awful nickname only when feeling like a true doof, like all the falls she’d taken to earn the damn thing in the first place—and of course, right now. But she was still upright, which was a plus, and she was alone, another plus. If Mattie and Viv caught her gawking at the Scream Stop button, they undoubtedly would’ve found a way to turn her into “Thorny-boo” from their derision alone. Tess’s sisters took special glee in the slick torment they’d dished out over the years, capitalizing on the fact that Tess had been the “circle the one who doesn’t belong” part of the Lesange family portrait. It was why Tess and Jen had bonded into pseudo-sisters in their own right—and why, when Tess had first fallen for Dan, Jen had become her main sounding boar
d for the years-long tale of unrequited love, insane spy adventures, and finally, the shocking news that Dan was secretly the Dom who’d been making all of Tess’s D/s dreams come true.
And now, she was going to become the man’s wife as well as his submissive.
The fantasy come true.
So yes, the kinky fairy tale really did happen for some. Just not all.
Right now, while exiting the lift, Jen ordered herself to thrust back her pity party because of the latter and focus on her heartfelt joy because of the former. It was past time to become a team player for her very best friend in the world. To turn her frown upside down. Get on board the happy-la-la wedding train. And, if she wanted to get historical book nerdy about it, to saddle up and stop burning bloody daylight.
Except there was one not-so-teeny hitch in that whole plan.
Saddling up a horse and swinging into the saddle probably would’ve been a simpler task than what she tried pulling off at that moment.
Marching into the wedding salon in four-and-a-half-inch-high Louboutins.
While attempting to take in the grandeur of a room that rivaled European cathedrals for gilt and fairy tale glens for beauty.
While trying to smile at the small throng gathered near the altar, including a glowing Tess and a beaming Dan, as if she saw places like this every day. Yep, even with fiber-optic lights that were suspended to look like stars and flying buttresses that were surely a scaled-down copy of Notre Dame’s iconic architecture.
But forgetting every damn detail she’d just catalogued as soon as her gaze veered a little to the right…
And beheld the last person she expected to see here.
All six-foot-plus, gray-wolf-eyed, gloriously ginger-maned inch of him.
“Holy. Shit.”
The doors of her consciousness blew back better than a Michael Bay movie clip—taking her precarious balance right along with them.
She went down, ass over elbows, sprawling face first across the Italian marble floor. In two-point-five seconds, she found herself wondering why the hotel had ponied up for ornate carved cherubs at the base of each pew in the salon.
Before realizing she had about another two-point-five seconds to come up with the cleverest one-liner a woman could conceive after announcing her own entrance at an occasion like this.
That was how it was supposed to happen, right? Out would pop her inner Sofía Vergara, giving up the va-va-voom to make everyone dissolve into relieved laughter—especially the man who’d taken over all of her erotic fantasies within the last ten days? Yeah, the same chiseled Scot who led the pack to rush over to her…
“Holy. Shit.”
The whisper deserved repeating as she dared a fast glance up, confirming her perceptions hadn’t played tricks on her—that she hadn’t been thinking about him so much, her imagination hadn’t conveniently manifested him from thin air.
He was here. Really here.
And Sofía wasn’t coming to her rescue—though somebody sure laughed somewhere. The giggles weren’t in her head. They were as horridly real—and easy to recognize—as her fogged breath on the expensive floor.
Mattie and Viv Lesange were definitely in the house.
And ready to exploit her fall of infamy to their full advantage. And any other tangible weakness they could expose while they were at it. Which wasn’t going to be too hard, since she was certain she already wore that truth across every inch of her face.
Right now, her only real weakness was Captain Sam Mackenna.
“Mouse?”
Especially when he leaned that close over her, engulfing her in his forest and ocean scent, turning his special name for her into a velvet caress on the air. And looking that damn good in the process. She’d seen him in civvies before, but his normal jeans and T-shirt combo hadn’t prepared her for the deliciousness of what his long, lean muscles could do for a gray sport coat, white dress shirt, and black dress slacks. Business casual had met its poetic perfection.
Just like her embarrassment had met its sickening ceiling. “Sam,” she squeaked, ordering her stomach not to join her heart in doing handsprings against her ribs. “Please—”
Please, seriously, just go away. Let me deal with this like every clumsy girl attempting to acclimate to a pair of custom wedding Louboutins. Alone.
“You need a hand?”
“No.” Especially not when you look good enough to make my damn toe hairs tremble. “And don’t call me that.”
“Why the hell not?” He sounded confused, even a little hurt. Right. Like a demigod needed the validation of a paper pusher.
“You know why.”
“Because I get beautiful ‘yes, sirs’ in return when I do?” So much for his puzzlement. He was back to insolent laird mode, rededicating himself with an intensity that had her breathless—and even a little scared. “Because I’ve been dreamin’ nonstop of the next moment I’ll get one?”
“Yeah?” She pushed to a sitting position, shoving dark strings of hair from her face. She’d actually thought the sleek, sophisticated look would be cool for the party, a combination engagement party and wedding rehearsal due to it being the one night everyone was available prior to the actual wedding date, but Audrey Hepburn she’d never be. “You have a funny way of communicating that to a girl, Mackenna.”
He had the decency to purse his lips. “I know.” And to drench that in enough remorse that she believed him. “And patchin’ you was my last intention, I promise.”
“All right, all right. I…believe you.”
“Thank fuck.”
She didn’t expect the huge whoosh he used as punctuation, bringing on her rushed disclaimer. “Mind you, I don’t want to, but…” Suddenly conscious of the sea of humanity approaching them, she gritted, “How are you here? Why are you here?”
When he kicked up the corner of his mouth, she wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or unnerved. “I’m a plus-one.”
And unnerved it was. “For who?” Though the amused glints in his gaze had her tacking on a good case of incensed as well. Which was irrational, she knew—unless fate was feeling really frisky this week and had managed to introduce him to Viv or Mattie within the last three days. Both of those wenches had been known to dip their well-pedicured toes into the Nellis flyboy pond from time to time, especially if a pilot as devastating as Sam showed up at one of the regular bars.
“The best man.” Sam celebrated her confused scowl by nodding toward the half-Samoan giant standing at the altar, chatting with Dan. “John Franzen is a good mate. I think he took pity on me after calling to check in and seein’ I was mopin’ about over a certain emerald-eyed local lass.” He paused to let that sink into her, his dimples deepening with knowing meaning. “Once I started bletherin’ on about her, he told me I’d be wise to accept his invitation for this pure barry revelry.”
She blinked for two seconds before deciding to focus on what she did understand there. “You two…served together?” But really, no other explanation made sense. Franzen was a career army man and had been raised on Kaua'i. According to Sam’s file, he came from a town just outside Edinburgh.
Sam grunted and then nodded. “Camp Bastion. Never underestimate its magical brotherly bonding powers.”
The man’s sarcasm was grim on purpose. Jen knew way better than to laugh. People rarely did when Bastion was invoked. The Brits’ operating base in Afghanistan was no humorous matter. Located in the lethal Helmand Province, it was a dirty, dangerous compound sitting in the middle of nowhere, making it ideal as an airstrip and very little else. When the Americans joined the party too, the base became an even bigger play toy for the enemy—often with lethal results.
Suddenly, she found herself battling a violent urge to yank him close and not let go. Yes, right here and now. Yes, after just a glimpse at the demons he’d just exposed for her—though even that flash was likely too long a look for him. She was doing the overall math about Sam Mackenna now. The hundreds of tactical flights on his service reco
rd, spread over four deployments that had taken him to the shittiest parts of the globe. Then the sudden, seemingly inexplicable stop to it all…
That suddenly made a whole lot more sense…
But at the same time enforced why she wasn’t the woman in the room he should keep devouring with his stare like that. The man didn’t need a damn Catherine for his Heathcliff. He needed a Scarlett for his Rhett: a woman who’d force him to dance and laugh and drink sherry with her before letting him kiss her senseless while she sighed and swooned in submissive bliss.
A woman exactly like the one approaching them now.
Since hitting puberty, Mattie Lesange had elevated “blonde bombshell” into an art form. Jen should know because she had been there to witness every stage of the transformation, finely finessed from the second Mat learned she had curves and could use them to her maximum benefit. The woman was as well-schooled as a reality TV star about skating to the edge of slutty but never over it. In short, she was a perfect stateside diversion for Sam and would help him take the edge off his Dominant side with perfect, pouting skill. As she strutted closer, Jen saw the gears in the woman’s head spinning no doubt about hooking up with Sam tonight. Probably dreaming up appropriate nicknames for herself, like kitten or princess or sugar sweetness.
Not mouse.
“Well,” Sam went on then. “Looks like I’ll be owin’ Franzen a few pints for his pure magic suggestion.” Though his expression instantly grew another few shadows of sardonicism. “Though the alternative activity of choice was a guys’ trip to Disneyland tomorrow.” He chuffed and shook his head. “Fuckin’ Franz can be a glaikit bawbag when he wants to be.”
Jen’s return smile came all too easily—not great for maintaining her Catherine Earnshaw side but pretty fun for coaxing out more of his entrancing new dimple. “What? You really don’t want to get a pair of plastic mouse ears to take home and show off? They have all kinds to pick from now, you know. I think pink fuzzies with your call sign in purple bling would be perfect.”
