by Katy Evans
“I’ll blow you,” I say.
He chokes on his drink and slams the glass down.
“Creative enough for you?” I smile and rise, deciding to let him ponder it. I want to add something like “I’m all-in” since I learned the term in last night’s poker game.
“Hey. Hey.” On his feet in a flash, he spins me around by the elbow, looming over me. “Does this mean if you win, I blow you too? I get to eat you up?”
“What?”
“Tell me.”
His stillness makes me breathless.
His eyes, still unreadable, gleaming with a new light.
“Um. Yes. I could use some of that,” I admit.
There’s no shift in movement for a moment, just that dazzling gleam in his eyes, pulsing hypnotically on mine. The power of his grip on my elbow is all that keeps me on my feet, so great is my shock over his interest.
I have doubts about my desirability, but he has eyes riveted on me like he wants to breakfast, lunch, and dine on me.
“Stop,” I gasp.
Puzzled, he stares. “Why?”
I blow an exasperated breath. “People are watching.”
I realize, all of a sudden, that everybody is watching. That, most especially, Emmett is watching me from his table, with a look of puzzled concern on his face, and a woman sitting beside him. She may not be his date, but still. It’s painful to remember that the seat beside him used to be mine.
My eyes fly to the silver ones looking down at me. “Emmett is watching.”
“Let him watch.”
“No. Okay, yes,” I relent. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance. I need a drink.” He starts to leave, but then turns back to me as if puzzled. “You want to make him realize what he’s missing? Trust me, he knows.”
I press my lips together, and nod, not knowing what to do to be sure I look unaffected. Suddenly I don’t feel unaffected.
I told myself I wasn’t going to hire some date to make him jealous. I told myself I’d act like an adult. But I feel vulnerable and unwanted, like he was right to leave me because he’s found something better.
Cullen watches me, eyebrows slanting as he raises his hand and slips it behind my hair. He bends, and sets his lips over mine.
He kisses me drunk. I have no idea of the time, only his name, the moisture, the taste, the heat, the strength of his mouth. The hunger of his mouth.
He jerks free and leaves me with a gasp, his breathing a little faster. His fingers graze my knuckles, prolonging the moment. His attention skimming over me briefly.
The hammering in my heart turns to thunder.
The fire he started impossible to soothe.
I slide a hand over his chest and feel the indentations of his ab muscles and swallow.
“What was I going to say?” I ask dazedly, shaking my head as I try to recover. “Ahh, I remember. You were going to apologize,” I lie.
“What for?”
“For not dancing.”
“I’m not sorry I don’t dance. I’m the guy at the bar, not on the dance floor.”
“Then for kissing me.”
His gaze slits as he looks down at my mouth.
“Not sorry either.”
All emotion from the kiss is gone from his face.
How easily he can hide his reactions only magnifies the urge to kiss him again, and see his eyes get all heavy like they had for a few seconds. I must distract myself or else I’ll go crazy.
“You’re putting a lot of effort into this game,” I suddenly say. “Makes me wonder if you really want my lips around you that badly. I might just like to leave you with your pants down and a lick.”
“You won’t be able to resist the taste.”
“Wow, a real playboy, aren’t you?”
“Baby, I live up to the name.”
“Well, we’ll see if you win and I’ll get to taste.”
“Wouldn’t mind you winning so I’m the one tasting you.”
A flash of surprise hits me, and a flash of warmth follows as I realize his meaning.
He gives me a smile as merry as twilight, his eyes dark with promise.
A tangible awareness of him and how large his body is compared to mine grips me, and a saturating sensation rises in me when his eyes hold mine.
I feel stirrings in all manner of places.
“Gonna pack the dress you were wearing last night?” he asks me.
“Yes.”
“And the boots?”
“Yes, they’re my fave.”
“What about those things you were wearing in your ears, the long gold ones?”
“I . . .” Does he realize he just listed everything I was wearing? Does he always notice things like that?
“Pack those too,” he says at my silent surprise.
“Wynn, do you want to dance?” I hear Valentine, one of Rachel’s friends, ask.
“She doesn’t dance,” Cullen growls.
“She loves to dance,” Valentine contradicts.
“Not anymore.”
Had the atmosphere temp dropped thirty degrees all of a sudden? It feels suddenly chilly, my nipples stiff under my strapless dress.
Cullen drags me back to the table, and I can feel Emmett watching as I mull over the situation. So Cullen and I have a stupid game where we get to rate each other’s jobs. More importantly, he gets his luck back and I get out of my rut. And I think about being around a guy I certainly don’t want to marry, and the idea is refreshing. And I think about leaving town, and the idea grows on me more and more.
“I’ll stop by at eight. You’re coming to Vegas with me. Got it?” Cullen says.
“Of course I got it, I’m all for it. But I can only spare Sunday and four weekdays, then you’re coming back to help me with my art exhibit.” I’m feeling mischievous and don’t even regret it. I’m smiling hours later, when Rachel and Saint give me a ride home.
They’re discussing the wedding, while I’m staring out the window and tugging my smiling lower lip.
Oh gosh. I just dirty talked a little with the groom’s brother. I just agreed to going on a trip with him. Worse, did I demand he help me during my prized exhibit too?
I wonder if my female hormones could have been running through my mind. Emmett had been watching me. Our breakup is still too fresh in my mind, and too painful to think about. I’ve been working nonstop, trying to stay busy, distracted, trying to not think or feel at all—and Cullen Carmichael is as good a distraction as any.
Not to mention, I may really be looking forward to winning and getting my prize. Emmett, despite being a chef who likes to savor the taste of things, never once went down on me. I should be insulted. Well. Now a man seemed to be savoring the prospect, and it makes me feel wanted again.
I like it.
I need it.
Even if I decide the prize I want is nothing at all.
THE DARE
The following day, he picks me up in a Mercedes Benz sports car, all black. I’m reluctant to meet his gaze as I step out as he takes my luggage and packs it into the trunk of the car. I let him hold the door open for me and I feel him watching as I climb into the passenger seat. His eyes run over my pink shirt dress and sandals.
He climbs behind the wheel, and his cologne blends with the nice-smelling leather of the car. I exhale and try to push his scent out of my system. But it’s not like I can live without breathing, so it annoys me that when I take another breath, he’s there again.
He’s watching me with a frown as he starts the car. I glance into his eyes and wonder what he’s thinking before he faces the street and we’re on our way.
“Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing?” I ask.
“No.”
“Just no?”
He shoots me a sidelong glance and runs his eyes over me again. “Definitely no.”
I flush.
“So we’re really heading to Vegas,” I say to break the ice.
“Looks like it.”
/> I press my lips shut and twist them to keep from saying anything else.
“Tell me how you really feel. What do you really think of me?”
His question surprises me. I don’t know how I feel about him, or why his looks hold me a little bit captive and his gaze makes me a little breathless.
People don’t really know how addictive love is until they fall. Once you’re in, you crave the feeling like a drug and you feel lost without it. It’s a feeling I have no intention of revisiting.
But this silver-eyed distraction is tempting.
“Nothing is holy or untouchable to you. You’d bet your mom if anyone would take her, I bet.”
“How much would you bet on it?”
My brows fly up in surprise. God, he’s incorrigible. I swat his arm, nearly bruising my fingers. “Stop trying to make me fall into your addiction.” I laugh. “You’re crazy. Why do you like it?”
He shrugs. “Pushes all my buttons, I guess . . . Most of them anyway.”
“And the ones it doesn’t, all those Vegas cocktail waitresses take care of?”
One eyebrow cocks, and Cullen shoots me a dubious glare. “You sure you’ve never been?”
“I know all about Vegas without ever setting a foot in Sin City.”
We head to the airport, and he parks the car in front of a massive white airplane with a black-and-silver stripe down the side. Cullen steps out of the car as a pilot walks swiftly to the passenger side and swings open the door for me.
My jaw is hanging somewhere around the floor as I gape at the gigantic plane. I force myself to snap it shut as Cullen draws me forward, slipping his hand in mine. It feels too surreal, to be this girl, to follow a guy who’s a little bit dangerous and a little bit mysterious and all too hot into his plane. The plane, the guy, that are taking me away from it all.
For once I want to have fun. Be free. Stop this ache in my chest. Fill the hole with whatever I can find. I’m not thinking about who will win our bet. I’m just glad to get out of the city. Glad to get out of my head. Glad to give my heart a breather.
“After you.” Cullen motions to the stairs as the pilots bring our suitcases to the back of the plane.
I gulp because, let’s face it, I’ve never been in one of these before. I can’t believe how comfortable it is to avoid the hassle of airport security.
I board the private jet. There are eight leather seats, all about as wide as first class seats on a commercial airline, each with a small TV and shiny mahogany table before it. I don’t know which to pick, so I plop down in a seat facing the front, while Cullen lowers himself on the seat beside mine. I strap my seatbelt and exhale, and when our eyes meet, I feel a little woozy.
He’s wearing dark jeans—and the way he sits stretches the material by the muscles of his thighs. His package is a little too large and obvious.
I drag my eyes upward, intending to look away, but my gaze is snagged by the indentations of the muscles of his abs, visible under the black long-sleeved T-shirt he wears. He’s still in black, every part of him dark and tempting and very much unlike what I’m used to.
Emmett was blond, and he was a food-loving chef who loved to experiment. This guy, on the other hand? He looks quite the opposite. Dark as the devil, and something about his apparent need for control makes me think he is very disciplined in everything. Even, crazy as it sounds, gambling.
“Nice,” I say, motioning to the plane.
“I like nice things.” His eyes roam over me.
I look away as I try to recover my breath, something he seems adept in fucking up for me. “How many times have you lost this plane?”
“This particular one?” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “None. A few like this?” His eyes narrow even more. “About six times.”
“What do you do when you lose it? Fly commercial?”
“I borrow money and win me another. A better one.”
“Is that what you do when you lose a woman too?”
“Of course.” He answers in that same mocking tone I’m not sure means he agrees or not. Then he shifts forward, his gaze unreadable as he looks deeply into me. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”
Silence. My heart drums a little faster as Cullen lifts his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the skin he grazes with his fingertip burns.
“Maybe,” I say.
“We’re taking off in two, Mr. Carmichael,” the co-pilot says.
“Good,” he answers to the co-pilot without taking his eyes off me. I meet his gaze and wonder what’s going on. He irritates and excites me at the same time—and this is a first for me.
“So what started gambling?”
Silence.
“Touchy subject?”
“Not really. I’d simply prefer to talk about you.” He eases back. “Art?”
“I grew up with it. I am drawn to it. You like nice things? I like beautiful ones.”
“You must be full of yourself.”
“Huh?” I smile and realize his meaning. Flush. “You’re suave.”
“You could say I’m honest.”
“It’s hard to take a compliment after a four-year breakup.”
“You better learn to. I don’t like my compliments landing on deaf ears.”
“I’m not deaf, just have reasons not to believe a guy with the nickname Playboy.”
“I didn’t pick it.”
“But you use it.”
“I have others.”
I shrug as if I’m not insanely curious to know them. “Good for you. Let’s talk about that. I’m enjoying talking about you and gambling more than about me.”
“You’re avoiding telling me about you. That’s all right, Red. I’m patient. That’s what makes me a good gambler. I always know when to call, and when to up the stakes with a raise.”
Whoa and damnnnnn.
I smile nervously and glance away.
He’s quiet. I wonder what he’s thinking. “What are you thinking?” I whisper.
“I’m thinking of our little dare—and how this is the first bet I’ve ever made I might deliberately lose.” He stares at me.
“You’re shameless.” And yet, I’ve been thinking the same thing. Having his lips on my . . . mine.
A silence stretches.
He reaches out and strokes my face with his thumb. I’m canting to the touch, liking it, surprised by how much I like it. I don’t want to remember him kissing me at the wedding, but I do. My taste buds tingle remembering.
“What are you wearing under that pink dress?” he asks.
My insides go wild. “Guess.”
“Why would I guess when I can know for certain?”
My lips part in shock, and suddenly I’m waiting in nervous anticipation as Cullen slips his hand under my dress, stroking the very top of my panties.
His eyes darken as he strokes downward and I feel naked, exposed.
As he inches closer, his fingers dance lower, causing a scandalous fever.
“Lace,” he whispers, his silver eyes heating as they hold mine, his touch feathery soft and investigative. “Very flimsy, a G-string. You’re definitely aiming to get laid tonight.” He shifts his hand lightly, touching the most sensitive place now. “Wet. You’re definitely getting laid tonight.”
“Is that right?” I taunt in my efforts to hide my breathlessness.
“I’d bet on it.”
My smile fades because I know how serious this man is about betting. “Really, this isn’t part of the game.”
“This is the game.”
“No, Cullen. I . . .” I shake my head, trying to get a grip. “What’s the point of betting oral if we’re giving it to each other already every night?”
“Sex isn’t oral.”
He withdraws his hand, licks his finger, and sucks it into his mouth. He releases it with a pop, says, “mmm,” and leans back in his seat, and I’m clenching my thighs together in my seat, wondering how many women have made his Mile High Club.
HIGH R
OLLER
I’m still unsettled by the time we arrive, and really very confused about Cullen Carmichael. Sometimes broody and quiet, sometimes frank and determined, flying so many hours alone in a plane next to a . . . a force like him is kind of exhausting, and yet I’m not one bit tired. I feel, more than tired, a little high. Maybe it’s Vegas.
A uniformed chauffeur greets us as we descend the plane at the airport, the Las Vegas Strip standing proudly at close distance.
“Mr. Carmichael,” his chauffeur says.
“Oliver, this is Miss Watson. She’ll be spending the week with me.”
“Pleasure, Miss Watson,” the chauffeur greets as he opens the back of a shiny black Audi for us. Once he settles our suitcases in the trunk and Cullen slides into the back seat beside me, we’re on our way.
It’s close to noon, and I drink in the Strip with growing excitement.
“Wow. The city is . . . really charming. So close to the airport too.”
“We’re in the desert,” Cullen says as he checks some messages on his phone, not bothering to glance up. “It would be unnecessary to make people drive down desert planes to leave it.”
“Where are we headed, sir? Home or . . .”
“Hotel.” He tucks his phone away. “I’ll be playing often. I want her to be able to head upstairs to rest whenever she needs a break.”
“Are we feeling lucky, Mr. Carmichael? After last month, didn’t think—”
“Very lucky, Oliver,” he cuts off his chauffeur.
“So take me to battle,” Cullen adds to his chauffeur. He stares at me with his unnerving platinum eyes as he speaks, and though the chauffeur eyes him across the rearview mirror with a smile, Cullen ignores him and keeps looking at me intensely enough to make me flush all over.
We’re taken to the hotel, and as Cullen slides out of the car and opens the door for me, I start getting excited at how beautiful and lavish the lobby looks. I glance past my shoulder—and catch his eyes hungrily raking the back of my legs.
“You did not just check me out as I got out of the car.”
“Those legs of yours were meant to be seen.” He points at his eyes with two open fingers, then we head inside.
A handsome thirty-something guy in a polo and khakis greets us. “Cullen! Good to see you.” They shake hands. Slap backs. Seem like old friends.
