Two Week Seduction (6 page)

She shot the bartender a glare. He responded with a thumbs-up. Jerk. She studiously avoided looking at John. If he wanted to fondle Tricia in full view of everyone, then she could take the step up to real alcohol. And given that she’d just challenged every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wanted to get into her pants, she ought to pay attention to the game.

Her first opponent was easy pickings. He was new to this particular bar and either hadn’t heard the stories about her skill or didn’t believe them. She finished him off, pocketed the $100, then like usual, downed another drink…which hadn’t been ginger ale either.

The fire burned down her throat and gave her an extra measure of sass. This was where she felt wholly free. And the more attitude she put into her swagger, the more the crowd loved it.

Victim Number Two stepped up and set his hundred down. Well, he set down two twenties, a ten, a layer of fives, and a huge stack of crumpled ones.

“College student?” she asked, her voice excruciatingly dry.

“Senior in business,” he returned, acting as if that meant shit. Given that her mother constantly tried to set her up with Ivy League graduates, she should have been unimpressed. She
was
unimpressed, but more by his beer-stained Greek tee, flip-flops, and the baseball cap flipped the wrong way on his head.

“Be still my heart,” she drawled. Then she gestured. He got the break…and did really well with it. Damn. He sank ball after ball while she sat back and pretended she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Walk away now.” The low voice in her ear sent a thrill all the way down her spine. It was John, his voice dark with menace. He’d voiced the very thing she was thinking, but that only stiffened her resolve to keep playing.

So she turned slowly and arched a brow at him. Not a word, but her whole demeanor said, Fuck Off. And with a glance behind him at the flouncing Tricia, her meaning was,
Go Fuck Her because I couldn’t care less.

Fratboy sank another ball, and she began to get nervous. What would she do if the guy really did beat her? She wasn’t going to sleep with him. But her image would suffer after reneging on a challenge. She might never be able to show her face here again. Shitshitshitshitshit.

Then a miracle happened. Fratboy missed. Here was her opportunity, but after two scotches, her confidence was slipping.

“Don’t miss,” John said.

Duh. She didn’t bother to give him anything but her back.

Then he added one more sentence. “You can beat this prick with your eyes closed.”

She turned, surprised by his encouragement. He looked back at her, his expression calm, his attitude supportive. Supportive? Since when? She was pissed at him. He was climbing all over Tricia, but here he was looking at her as if he wasn’t nervous at all. In her scotch-addled brain, this threw her completely.

“You gonna play or keep drooling over Thor?” fratboy taunted. And then he signed his own death warrant. “Size only means dumb. Smart boys are way more fun in bed.”

Well, actually, she knew from experience that smart boys could be equally pathetic in the sex department, but what she said was, “Size just means size. And a smart man would know that.” Then she shot John a wink. It was all part of her bad girl act, but the slow, sexy smile curve of his lips gratified her. Damn, the man was hot.

And she needed to keep her mind on the game.

So she leaned down and shot.
Thunk
. One ball down. And then the next and the next. And so on until…

“Game over.” She pocketed the thick wad of bills as she turned to the line. “Next?”

An old man stepped up. Harvey. They’d played often and, frankly, he was the only one here who could beat her. At least when she was sober. She smiled at him, knowing he was only in line to give her an out. She could lose gracefully to him—she had before—and know he wouldn’t ask to screw her. He’d force her to kiss him in public. A man had his pride after all. But that was as far as he’d take it, and she gave him a grateful nod.

Until another voice cut in. “I’m next.”

John
. She turned to him, ready to explain that he didn’t need to rescue her. She had it all under control. But then she saw his face.

Not five minutes before, he’d been the picture of support. His gaze had been steady, his body language relaxed though obviously alert. Not now. Now he glared at the line as if they were all insurgents. One by one, they wilted under his hard stare. Then he turned to Harvey.

“I’m going to take my turn now,” John said. His voice was less menacing than before—he was facing off with an octogenarian—but no less firm. But Harvey, bless his heart, didn’t step away.

“Let it go, son. Sometimes women get in a mood. You just have to ride out the storm.”

The waitress stepped up with her drink. Tricia sidled close enough to John to brush her boobs across his arm. Obvious much? Alea stepped forward to grab her drink, but was too slow. John grabbed it and threw it back. Then his eyes widened a moment before snapping back to her. Apparently, the bartender had relented and given her the usual ginger ale that time. Great. Now she was exposed in her lie that hadn’t been a lie for the last two drinks.

“John,” she began, without a clue as to what she intended to say.

“I’m next,” he said with icy calm. Then he pulled out his wallet and slowly—obviously—set down five one-hundred-dollar bills. Quite the statement, except she’d never been the kind to be impressed by money.

Harvey was still trying to help and put an arthritic hand on John’s arm. “You’re in over your head, son. Just let it go.”

John looked at her. She’d stepped closer to get her drink, so now she was within reach. He stretched out a single finger and stroked it across her cheek and jaw. A slow caress with a calloused finger. Her entire body went liquid and hot. She swallowed, feeling both wet and dry at the very same second. Then he spoke.

“I do my very best work under water.”

She snorted, scrambling to put some steel in her spine. “When did you become a Navy SEAL?”

“You’d be surprised what’s required of Air Force Security. Now am I playing? Or you too afraid to face me?”

It was a child’s ploy—challenging her ego like that. But damn, it worked. She’d beat him and take his money. And she’d do it with relish. “It’s fine, Harvey,” she said. “I need a new pair of shoes and at five hundred bucks a game, I can afford Jimmy Choos.”

She turned for the table, but he grabbed her arm. “I never agreed to five hundred a game. That money’s for five games.”

Now she understood his plan. Five games would take time. Enough time for most of the crowd to disappear or get so drunk they couldn’t hold a stick. But she’d be damned if she’d let him win like that. He thought she needed him to step in and save her. Well, this damsel didn’t need a rescuer. So she grabbed his five bills and held them up in front of his face.

“You cut in line. So it’s either five hundred bucks or you wait your turn.”

He leaned in, his face nose to nose with her, and when he spoke she tasted the ginger ale on his breath. “I’m not waiting any longer for you.”

It took her a moment to understand his words. Holy shit, was he saying what she thought he was saying? He couldn’t be…unless…

“At sixteen, your brother would’ve shot me if I so much as touched you.”

“And now?”

“Now, you’ve made it clear that no one controls you.”

She grinned. Hard not to when she’d been fighting for nearly a decade to get him to see her as a full-grown adult. “Then bring it on, airman.”

“Tech sergeant.”

“Whatever.”

Chapter Six

Whatever
? He makes tech sergeant and she gives him a whatever?

He grabbed the pool cue and tried to remember how to play. The old guy had wisely stepped back though it had taken a nod from Alea for him to give in. Another time, he’d be grateful for the guy’s level-headed advice. Right now? He was determined to beat Alea’s leather-clad, ginger ale ass.

She was a good pool player, but she’d learned most of her moves from him. Sure it had been a while since he’d held a cue stick in his hands, but this was one game that came back quickly.

“Rack ’em,” he ordered.

“Sure I’ve got enough to stack?” she taunted.

Was that a crack at his attention to the waitress? He grinned, already seeing the way to win. All he had to do was unsettle her.

So he let his gaze drop to her breasts. Alea’s were firm, the perfect size, and under his steady gaze, the nipples perked up. “Your rack is just fine,” he said slowly, letting just enough of his lust through to roughen his voice.

Then he got the pleasure of seeing her blush. Anyone else might have thought it was from the scotch, but now he knew she hadn’t been slamming back booze. That meant her reaction was all for him.

He grabbed his stick and stroked it. Not obviously. Just enough and at just the right moment. He caught her gaze, slid his thumb slowly down the pole, and then winked. She arched a brow, letting him know with a roll of her eyes that more than one man had tried that on her. But all he had to do was glance at her pert tits to know she wasn’t as blasé as she pretended. And with that thought bolstering his ego, he leaned over and shot.

Damn, he was rusty. Who screwed up a break? Him. Not a single ball dropped. Worse, he’d just given her about ten easy shots.

She chuckled as she sauntered around the table, her swagger practically screaming “sucker.” “Looks like your hype is a little overinflated.”

“Maybe. And maybe I like it slow and thorough.”

“Sometimes slow is just boring.” Then she set down her stick, leaned over enough to give him a full view of her gorgeous ass, and shot. Perfect. Her ass, not her shot. The ball actually spun a little wide, but it still made it in.

“Careful,” he said. “Looks like you’re heavy-handed on the stick.”

“Some guys like it firm,” she said as she moved around the table.

“And sometimes thrust is powerful enough.”

She shot him a surprised look. Really? If she thought to trade stick double-entendres, she was far outclassed. He worked on a military base.

“Let’s just see who comes out on top, shall we?” Then she sank another ball. And another. And another.

Fuck, this game was going to end much too fast. And while he was still trying to think of some way to throw her, she slipped behind him as she moved around the table. She didn’t exactly rub up against him, but with their overpacked audience, she had no choice but to touch him. And as her arm hit his shoulder and her hip connected with his butt, her scent slid into his soul. Hot woman, slight citrus, and the bizarre hint of lavender. God knew how he recognized that scent, but he did. And it meant
ALEA
to him in all caps. His rock-hard dick started to throb. If she touched him again, he might just explode.

“You’re not going to end up on top,” he said through a clenched jaw. “At least not the first time.”

“Counting your chickens?” she challenged.

Before they hatched? Hell no. Still, he imagined his dick playing all sorts of games with her. “You haven’t beaten me yet, Alea. I sure as hell would keep that in mind.” That was lame. He was going to have to bring out the big guns to win this verbal sex game.

She hadn’t moved far from him. Her shot was near enough that when she started to lean over, he was able to whisper in her ear.

“Every time you bend over, I see myself ramming into you from behind. Hard enough that your hips clear the table.”

She hitched and her eyes went dazed. Then her next words came out so calm, it was almost boring. “I wonder if we’re talking size or thrust.”

He grinned. She clearly could hold her own in the banter department. At least until he leaned down and murmured, “I’m gonna lay you on my hand as I finger you. Then spread your legs and bury myself so deep you’ll taste me as we come.”

She didn’t answer except to gulp. He heard it distinctly. And when she finally collected herself enough to shoot, her ball went skittering wide.

Score.

Her eyes narrowed in fury. She probably hadn’t hit that bad since she was twelve and at her father’s pool table. Then she straightened, the movement languid and slow as she leaned back against the table and set her feet slightly apart. In those stiletto boots, she was a wet dream come to life. “I’m wide open,” she said as she gestured to the table. “Are you man enough to finish me?”

“You got it, baby.” Then he set about proving it. He sunk ball after ball. She was going to be in his bed tonight. And he was going to do things—

“Goodness, it’s hot in here. I think I need to cool off.”

He looked up from the table, and his mind stuttered to a dead halt. There she was, reclining against the table as she reached into a man’s nearby drink and pulled out an ice cube. And while he and every other damned man in the bar watched, she trailed that ice cube from her luscious lips, down her chin, and all the way—so fucking slow—into her cleavage.

He heard a groan and didn’t know if he’d made the sound.

“Are you finished?” he ground out. He had a damned shot to make. The winning shot, to be exact.

“Almost,” she said. Then she popped the sliver of ice into her mouth and licked her wet fingers. One after the other, making quite a show with her pink tongue. And just when he thought the torture was done, she lowered her hand in a casual gesture only he could see. She flicked her nipple before dropping her hand to her belly.

“I’m going to tear that camisole off you with my teeth.”

“Really?” she said with a devilish smile. “Well, you might have if you hadn’t crapped up your last shot.”

“What?” He looked down and cursed loud and long. He’d been just about to shoot when she’d done her little display. And while she’d been tonguing her fingers, his stick had dropped to the table and nicked the cue ball.

“My turn,” she said in a singsong voice. Then she straightened up and shimmied her way around the table. He hadn’t left her a lot of possibilities, but she was good enough to maximize what was there.

He did his best to distract her. Every time she moved past him, he muttered something to her. Dirty somethings. He dredged up the most graphically sexual images he could think of to feed her imagination. “That’s what I’m going to do to you.”