Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (6 page)

“Gimme what you’ve got, showgirl.”

Her hips quivered.
Goddamn.
He flipped back and forth between wanting to close his eyes so he didn’t go too fast, and wanting to watch—just watch as she rode him. He’d waited to see what she wanted, and this seemed to be it. She bit her bottom lip as her eyes went cloudy, her body rocking in a rhythm that sped and gathered force.

“I’m not going to last long,” she breathed. She lifted her arms. Slender fingers tipped with red nails laced through her hair. The curve of her stomach… The way her breasts rose…

Good Christ.

With unadulterated determination, he held back pleasure’s grip on his balls. He’d used the same determination to keep his brains in his head moments from crashing into a flower-dusted Canadian meadow.

She was so enticing that she dragged him back from evil memories with nothing but a gasp. Eric thought he’d lose it, with the way she assessed him while working his body. Her muscles tightened beneath his grip. Short breaths fashioned into a rough panting that turned into a low moan. Her elbows boosted toward the ceiling, her face buried in her upper arm as she came.

Eric did too, because she looked like a centerfold—except better. She was enjoying herself. Pulsing feminine muscles offered him lucid, erotic proof. But as Trish slumped, her shoulders bending and her breath calming, Eric was stitching his thoughts back together. Life had handed him something astonishing for the night. Trish Monroe had more to give him and there was more he wanted to take.

They were anything but finished.

Chapter Five

Trish had barely caught her breath, draped over Eric’s
El Capitan
of a body, before her mind raced ahead.

More please. Now.

One of the benefits of winning Li’l Miss Peach at the age of seven had been a free wristband at the county fair. She’d sat on the dignitaries’ platform as the fair was opened. Keeping from fidgeting in the Georgia heat and holding in her anticipation had been almost impossible. The wristband, however, meant free rides for the whole afternoon. She only had to be a good girl, wave when everyone else waved, smile like crazy, and she would have her reward.

By the time she was free to go, Trish had only two hours remaining. She’d dodged her mother’s grasp after each ride. Straight for the next line. The next adventure. The clock was ticking. She’d known that stupendous things—the thrill of a curtain call, the sweetness of her Mama’s praise after a win—didn’t last. It was best to spin and laugh and get sick and start all over. For as long as she could.

Her wristband would expire at dawn.

She levered up until her elbows were straight. Eric slowly reached his hands above his head. The move did fantastic things to his torso, flexing and lengthening those powerful muscles. A patch of chest hair nestled between his pecs and formed a line straight down the middle of his rockin’ six-pack. She was fascinated by the hair beneath his arms, and the six inches of scarred skin that curled around his ribs. His chest was nearly free of blemish.

Only that gorgeous tattoo, which was certainly no blemish.

“What does it mean?” She traced two fingers along the whorls and dips and spikes of simple black ink. It was twice as large as her hand and edged across the upper half of his left pec. “Anything in particular?”

“The Detroit skyline in my rearview.”

Trish almost laughed, because it seemed like such an unlikely answer. Surely he was being flip. But his expression was deadly quiet. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack.”

A sheen of sweat made his skin tacky beneath her damp palms. Looking more closely, she could nearly see the concept. The spikes were the tops of skyscrapers. The whorls were almost…clouds? No, too optimistic. More like smog and wind. The dips added perspective, as if his Camaro had put ten miles between him and home.

“Did you design it?”

“No, my kid brother.”

“It’s beautiful. Artistic talent must run in the family.”

He didn’t answer. Those slate-blue eyes remained pinned to her face, roving, but always within the confines of her features. He wasn’t looking at her tits anymore.

Trish tried not to fidget. “And these?”

More tattoos, this time the ones on his shoulders and biceps.

“Military.”

“Ah. The mystery stuff. Fine.” She hopped off the bed. Knowing he had nowhere to look but at her ass and the swish of her hair made her feel…safer.

She arched languorously. Her attention was drawn back to the marvelous pictures that adorned his bedroom. Beautiful women, but framed in a way that brought out their best qualities. Fabulous bodies were a given, but he caught the sweep of a particularly graceful rib cage, or a shapely pair of symmetrically crossed ankles—the details that made a woman a woman.

“I like her best,” she said almost to herself. “What was her name?”

He propped himself on one elbow. Long legs were layered with strong quads, defined more dramatically by a shading of light brown hair. He handled himself like a caveman, but she liked that he wasn’t massively hairy. So much beautiful skin to admire. Ironic, considering the prominence of his scars.

“Dolores.”

“I was teasing you earlier. I’d have totally chosen her over me.”

“Find a new lake if you want to fish for more compliments.”

“No, I mean it. I’ve always liked women with curves. Brunettes, in particular.” She returned her attention to Dolores. “My ex, Mallory, looked a lot like her. I wouldn’t know what to do with a chick as bony as me.”

“Your…?” Eric sat up on the bed. The dark blue sheets and artful lighting did wonders for his coloring. His tan looked deeper, his hair a brighter shade of that lovely sandy brown. And whoa, his cock was getting ready to play again.

Trish was so distracted that she couldn’t recall what had prompted his return to fighting form. “Hmm?”

“Your ex?”

Oh shit. She tried to save those particular parts of her past for special occasions. Generous men became more giving when she told choice stories. Few of her stories including Mallory needed embellishment.

She shrugged and strolled back to the bed. Sitting on the edge, she kept her eyes on the black-and-white photographs. Did he take any in color? Were they for art or for his sexual enjoyment? Mementos of conquests? Maybe all three.

“I’ve always liked women too,” she said. “You gonna make a huge slobbering deal about it?”

“Most guys would.”

“Yes. They do.” She twisted at the waist and nodded toward his thickening tool. “But can we leave it at that for now, stud? Unless you wanna get cozy with the details and tell me about your scars.”

He slumped back on the bed. “Mouthy all of a sudden, showgirl.”

“I get energized, I suppose. Maybe that’s the word. After a good fuck.”

“Good?”

“Really good. Like, year-end, top-ten, best-moments good.”

She didn’t like when her real smiles showed up unannounced, but his oh-so-goddamn luscious mouth was quirking too. They both kept at it, like kids exchanging a balloon full of helium, each voice pitching higher and higher, until Trish was laughing.

Sliding alongside his supine body, then tucking against him, she spread one knee across his thighs. The echoes of a chuckle rumbled beneath her fingers. Giggles tickled like champagne bubbles under her ribs.

“This was foreplay.” He was still wearing his half-assed grin. “You know that, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

She laid an ear on his chest while he stroked her casually, caressing her spine, dipping down to her ass, as she regarded his collection of women. As much as she admired or desired them, she was envious. She wanted her turn.

“Begs the question of what next,” she said quietly.

“Your call.”

“I think I used the word
anything
. And there was a certain possibility on the table…?”

“You’ll have to say it, showgirl. Like I said—your consent. Not booze. Hell, not even afterglow talking. Sure as shit not me prodding.”

“Can we delete the ones I don’t like?”

“No.”

Wow.

He had an absolutely steadfast
no
. She’d heard them on occasion, but most men didn’t know how to conjure that particular blend of tone and firmness. With most, there was room to negotiate.

Not with Eric. Not on this score.

That didn’t put her curiosity to bed.

“Why not?”

“Part of the process. I keep all of it.”

He was hard again. Excitement shimmered all around him. Talking to him this long, holding out the possibility—she knew it was foreplay too. He’d been blunt enough to nearly fuck her in his Camaro. Now she held all the cards.

Nearly
all. She certainly didn’t like the idea of him keeping creepy, weird, bad, awkward pictures. She wanted all of them to look as beautiful as the ones on his wall. The rest—delete button. But his expression hadn’t shifted. The angry scar on his left cheek wasn’t as intimidating as his magnetic eyes. He flayed her open, looking for secrets.

“Fine,” she said. Off him. Away from him. “Let’s do it. I want to be on your wall.”

He pushed off the mattress and padded over to her. Big hands with reddened knuckles encircled her waist. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Maybe I didn’t phrase it right. I
will
be on your wall.” She stood on tiptoe and plopped an open-mouthed kiss on the underside of his chin, which was flecked with stubble. “And you know it. Now, where can I get cleaned up?”

“Not gonna tell.” He swept strands of sweat-tinged hair back from her temples then framed her face between his roughened palms. “We do this just as you are. After we fucked. Can’t get more beautiful than that.”

“C’mon, that’s not true. Let me put on a little gloss or something. A hairbrush, for Jesus’ sake.”

He leaned nearer. Kissed one cheek. The other. With far more gentleness than he should’ve possessed, he cradled the back of her head and tilted her ear to his sinful mouth. “Trust me. You’ve done that much so far, you insane woman. A little longer now. I’ll make it amazing, Trish.”

It was the first time he’d used her name. She liked it too much. Intimate, real—all those things she claimed to want but found so hard to give.

“You can promise that? Really?”

A frown twisted his brow. “No, you’re right. I can’t. But I’ll try.”

Damn it. Had Eric found some quick lie or offered more impossible assurances, she’d have balked. Maybe called it off. Her stomach was a beehive of nerves. To pose for him, to have him watch her so closely, knowing he’d keep every shot of her looking like a freshly banged stripper? It was almost too much.

I’ll try.

He’d been honest. As blunt as always. No BS.

“Okay,” she said on a shaky exhalation. “Tell me what to do.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

His smile returned. Brief. So crazy tight. Her heart whirred with a quiet, warm happiness. When was the last time she’d felt that? Actual happiness? She’d bypassed giddy a few hours ago.

Rather than shove it away out of complete terror, she let it settle in. Orgasms, check. Memories, check. That didn’t mean she needed to deny a few extra bonuses—like feeling happy rather than strung-out, fatalistic,
tired
—especially if he intended to photograph her without makeup.

“On the bed. On your knees.”

Her legs were unsteady as she made her way back to those tangled blue sheets. “Bare feet?”

“Nude photography, remember? One hundred percent you.”

She needed to change her attitude. Quick. She’d decided he wasn’t most guys. She had to stop using past experiences to anticipate what he wanted. Any other man would’ve quizzed her for girl-on-girl details, and any photographs would’ve meant full makeup, stilettos and maybe airbrushing the next day.

They’d taught her to see herself that way.

Eric wanted something deeper. She had to be brave enough to give it to him. The rewards had the potential to be spectacular. Mostly she was curious to see what all this did to him. So locked down and so shielded, when would he lose control? She knew it was possible. She wanted to be the cause. Whether or not her picture wound up on his wall, she needed to be memorable.

Even if that meant on his terms.

She knelt on the mattress and watched him work. A silk lighting screen. A pair of floor lights, one with a brighter bulb than the other. A tripod. She’d only seen equipment like that in the hands of professionals—headshots, opening-night glossies, pageant reels.

Eric had donned a silk walk-out robe, this one shiny black. His attention was centered on his work as he prepared the camera. Almost. Occasional flicks of his eyes revealed his growing excitement. The tension jacked higher each time their gazes collided. Trish’s thighs quivered. She held the pose.

A sudden flash. She blinked in surprise.

Damn it. She’d been nibbling a hangnail on her thumb.

“That wasn’t fair,” she said.

“The whole experience, Trish. I wasn’t joking. You can back out.”