Double Down (3 page)

The tension in her chest burst out in laughter to match. She collapsed against the restaurant’s stucco outer wall. “Oh, yeah. Best time I’ve had in months.”

“We’re not done yet.”

“Good.” And she meant it. She wanted more and more, like a kid at a fair gorging on cotton candy and too many rides.

He stalked closer. Hard body. Hard wall. Cass was caught in between. Only the grin clinging to his fine mouth kept the moment from becoming intimidating.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

“You just did.”

“For real this time.”

“That one cost you, didn’t it?”

“You have no idea.” Ryan ran his tongue over his lower lip, almost bashful. “Especially with those braids.”

Again she caught that intensity in his eyes—the same he’d shown when staring after her stockings. Okay, that was hot.

She touched the place where his shirt opened at the throat. The tiniest hint of chest hair brushed beneath her fingertip. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“My stockings?”

He swallowed audibly. “Yeah?”

“They’re old-fashioned,” she whispered. “Lace tops. Garters. The works.”

She shoved gently against his chest. He was built like a goddamn Mack truck, but she had a clear advantage. He staggered back just a bit, his expression slack, then followed as she walked toward her tiny Honda. She clicked her key fob and made for the driver’s side door.

“You assume I’m a magician if you think I can fit in that tin can,” he said.

“Your choice. Give it a try or don’t.” She raked a long look up and down his body. “You’re cute, but I’m not letting you drive.”

Rather than press or make another joke, he returned her deliberate perusal, inch for inch. Cass wiggled in her own skin. She’d let him kiss her, all right. If she admitted the whole truth, she was probably going to let him do a lot more. The night was young, and she hadn’t been to the Strip in ages.

It was time to play.

Chapter Three

Even with a small stack of chips sitting in front of him at the blackjack table, Ryan couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing other than Cassandra’s legs. As if the old-fashioned seamed stockings hadn’t been enough, she’d gone and told him about the garters. With lace tops. He’d like to drag them down using only his teeth.

Ever since, he’d been sporting a bit of a chubby, even when he’d needed to fold himself into her ridiculously compact car.

More proof Ashleigh had been right all those years ago. They’d dated through his entire senior year of college, long enough for him to propose when he’d started making plans to join the Air Force after graduation. Long enough that he’d risked confiding his secret wants and needs.

She’d been disgusted with his confession. He still recalled the look of pinched condescension on a face that had once shone with respect, even love. Their engagement ended the same night. He hadn’t made that mistake again, instead swearing off giving in to those urges.

It wasn’t like he’d
asked
Cassandra to wear the stockings or do her hair in pigtails. That was all her own initiative.

Tossing a chip into play, he couldn’t take his gaze off her. She deliberated carefully, worrying at her pink bottom lip, flashing a glimpse of white, even teeth.

Then she crossed her legs. Christ, he even liked her knees.

The air went thin in his lungs, as if he’d stripped his oxygen mask at thirty thousand feet. He coughed. “So,” he said, without any idea of what he would follow up with. Anything that would get his thoughts back in line.

Of course, thinking about the way she’d pulled her strawberry-blonde hair into two pigtails wasn’t much better. He could wrap them around his fists while she did delicious things with that lush mouth.

She glanced at him out the corners of her eyes. A knowing smile curved her lips. “So,” she echoed.

“Haverty. What did you say? John Patrick?”

She nodded, then tapped her cards so the dealer would hit her with another. “He’s obscure, but I like his work. He’s most known for a painting of a piper. It was one of the most famous lithographs in the eighteenth century. Morose, perhaps, but the textures and the colors are memorable.”

“You know a lot about art.”

A bright pink flush spread over her cheeks. “Sorry, I shouldn’t go on like that.”

He couldn’t help but reach for the pigtail nearest him. A lock of hair like raw silk slipped between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t mind.”

“That makes you a rare man indeed. No one’s been able to listen to me babble about paintings.”

“There aren’t many men like me, but that’s probably a good thing.”

He tapped his cards. Cassandra lifted her eyebrows as the middle-aged dealer flicked him another. Ryan made himself look down and saw why. He’d hit when he’d already been on eighteen.

An older woman, the dealer wore a red vest over the white long-sleeved shirt of the Bellagio uniform. She scooped away his chips. Her dark eyes twinkled, but all she said was, “House wins.”

A laugh burst from him. “Yeah, I should think so.”

Cassandra leaned an elbow on the padded, green table edge. “You’re not much of a gambler, are you?”

Her blouse wasn’t low cut, but her angle plumped the soft inside of her breast, bringing it barely into view. “You’re not great for my gambling,” he said.

“Ah. Your head’s not in the game.”

His gaze dropped back to her legs. He could almost swear her slow uncrossing and re-crossing was deliberate. “Can you blame me?”

Something hot and sexy flashed in her already bright eyes. She gathered up her chips, then his, and shoved them in his pocket. Her slender fingers brushed his hipbone through the thin fabric lining, sending a full-body shiver out from the base of his spine.

The mischievous look she angled at him didn’t help calm him much. Her lashes were thick but pale, almost glimmering with blonde at the tips. Absurd to think, but he’d like to feel them against his skin.

Cassandra hopped off her stool and looped her fingers beneath his black leather belt. “Come on. I’ve got an idea.”

Ryan followed her blindly as she wove through the casino floor. Banks of brightly lit slot machines chinged and dinged with electric recreations of the waterfalls of the coins they’d once spit out. Voices rose and fell, a loud cheer going up from the far side of the room. Someone must have hit a jackpot.

A virtual conga-line worth of drunk people streamed in the opposite direction. A few of them wore three-foot-tall paper hats with absurd sayings. Ryan remembered with crystal clarity why he didn’t spend too much time on the Strip, despite living a stone’s throw away. The idiot quotient was way too high.

Two brunettes wearing short-as-hell miniskirts and carrying yard-long margaritas stumbled at them, giving Ryan an excuse to fold his arm around Cassandra and pull her near. She fit there perfectly. She was neither too lush nor too skinny. Her curves pressed against his hip, and she wrapped a hand around his biceps, just as she had in the steakhouse.

Combined with how she looked up at him, her eyes shining like he was some bloody hero for pulling her away from drunks, he felt like the king of the hill.

“Over here,” she said, abruptly veering them to the right.

In only a few steps, they stood in a relatively quiet, dim corridor. Signs pointed to the elevator at the back. To their left was a bank of payphones. Vegas was probably the only place in the world where the relics could still be easily found. All for the tourists. The clang and noise of the casino floor sounded miles away.

“What are we doing back here, Miss—?” He broke off, surprised and chagrined. “I don’t even know your last name.”

Considering what he’d been imagining doing with her, he felt pretty shitty about that. She pulled away to lean against the wall—unsurprising when he’d revealed himself quite the jackass.

She only smiled. “We can’t have that, not with what I’m about to do for you, Mr. Haverty.”

The low, sultry way she used his last name sent him into overdrive. With the naughty librarian skirt, the pigtails and musical voice, he was surprised that he hadn’t all-out mauled her yet. He braced a hand against the wall beside her head. Jackass wasn’t even close. He was way worse.

“Give me your name.” He couldn’t keep the growl out of his words, even though he hoped like hell he didn’t scare her away. “I should know more about you, considering that I’m going to kiss the hell out of you.”

“My name is Cassandra Whitman.” Her eyelids drooped with desire. “I have a degree in art history, I’m twenty-six, and I’ve lived in Nevada all my life.”

“And you like old-fashioned garters.”

Her throat worked over a swallow. “I do.”

The rapid-fire flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat drew him. He bent his head, giving her plenty of time to get away, but he needed another taste of her skin. That moment in the restaurant kitchen had been for the benefit of her ex, but Ryan craved another go. Her skin had been soft, the tickle of her hair across his nose even softer.

She was everything he’d remembered. Just spicy enough. His fingers clenched against the cool wall. He brushed his lips over her neck, then forced himself to pull back. “Apparently, you like dragging men into secluded corridors too.”

“Only certain men and only for certain purposes.”

He chuckled, but it was strained by his choppy breath. “Should I be afraid?”

She pushed him back to arm’s distance with a few fingertips against his chest. “I don’t think so. This is for your benefit, after all.”

“Is that right?”

“Certainly. I’m altruistic. Practically a saint. You can’t keep your head on the cards because you keep thinking of my stockings. So…” She drew the word out. Blood surged down Ryan’s body before he even knew what she was up to.

Her hands slid down her torso. Down farther, down, from her hips to the hem of her skirt. Slim fingers curled around the dark gray material and tugged. So fucking languid.

First came inches of sheer black, made even hotter because he knew they were backed with the seams. Then came a wide band of black lace, topped by tiny silk bows with even tinier pink rosettes in the center. The skinny straps that disappeared under her skirt were pink as well.

That was as far as she went, but it was more than enough. His chest practically shook with the force of his violent breathing. His only saving grace was that she breathed just as quickly, which pressed her breasts against the plain white of her blouse.

Ryan caged her head with his hands. Either that or he’d palm the creamy length of thigh peeking out between the stockings and her skirt. If he gave in to that impulse, he’d be inside her as soon as he could kiss her into agreeing. They’d be booted out of the casino for indecent behavior—which would catch him hell from his CO.

He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip, but it didn’t do much good. His mouth had gone as dry as the desert outside. “I’m going to kiss you now. If that’s not what you want, you better duck and run. Right now.”

She tilted her head back against the wall. “This is me, not running.”

“Good.”

He forced himself to lower his head by degrees, in case she panicked. He wasn’t sure how he’d get himself under control if that happened. Thank Christ she didn’t. She even surged up on her toes, meeting him halfway.

Her mouth was ten times sweeter than her skin. She tasted like crème brûlée—candied, rich and a hint of burnt sugar. Her lips readily opened under his. He dipped his tongue inside, first to taste the plump vulnerability of her bottom lip, then to stroke over hers.

She gave a quiet moan in the back of her throat, and he hungrily drew it into his mouth. Her breath rushed hot over his cheek. Feminine hands curled into the muscles over his ribs, under his arms. He wanted to touch her but couldn’t risk removing his palms from the cool wall. If he touched her, even to cup her face, he might lose his tenuous patience.

Shit, he could be in real trouble with this woman. She had a sense of adventure that seemed woven through with naughty good humor, threatening to turn him inside out.

He tried to pull back, but even that was harder than he’d expected. He swooped back in for another kiss that was no less of a turn-on for its speed.

“Do you…?” He hesitated and tried to swallow the hot lust that hamstrung his body. He hadn’t moved this fast since he’d been an idiotic teenager living in the trailer park. He’d thought joining the Air Force and going through officer training and flight school would beat some sense into his head.

Apparently not.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked.

Pale lashes fluttered, clearing the haze from her pretty blue eyes. Her fingers trailed down his ribs then danced over his belt. Nibbling on her bottom lip, which was still wet and slick from their kiss, she stroked over his cock. He hissed in a breath, hoping that was more manly than the moan he’d needed to choke down. Her touch was a fascinating mix of bold and tentative, which did nothing to calm him.

“More than anything. But…” She shifted her hand to the pocket that held their stash of chips. “We’ve got some gambling to do.”

Chapter Four

The temptation to say “shove it” to the whole farce and just drag Ryan up to a Bellagio suite was one of the strongest Cass had ever denied. The teasing was foreplay now. She knew it. Admitted it.

So she guided him back to the blackjack table. They didn’t hold hands this time, as if they both knew that fresh contact would only strike sparks. Instead he followed, two careful paces behind. Cass felt pursued. Stalked. She couldn’t help an extra shimmy, wiggling her ass as she walked. He was sure to notice. That fact had her near to melting.

Erotic. That was the only word slamming through her mind. Every move, every look, every slight caress—all of it led back to what they hadn’t yet done. That potential.

She curled her fingers into her palm and squeezed, the nails digging deep. He had potential, all right. Huge, hot, throbbing potential, wedged firmly against the seam of his fly. It was well beyond ladylike to grope a man’s cock in a casino hallway, but curiosity had ruled the moment. Had Ryan been a in that department, she wanted to know in advance.
little
disappointing