Authors: Katie Porter
She nodded. An indulgent smile curved her mouth. “I will.”
He watched her pull away. At almost the exact moment she turned left out of the lot—in the direction of the Strip—the back door to the restaurant banged open. Cassandra’s ex charged out, head down as if he were going into battle. Ryan didn’t figure the guy would know a war zone if he were dropped in by parachute. Not to mention, it must be freaking boring to head into battle when he was the only one around.
Might as well help him out.
“Evening, sir,” he called.
The other guy drew up short. His eyes narrowed as he scanned Ryan over from head to toe. “What are you doing here?”
Ryan knew how he must appear. He deliberately scratched a hand over his chest, edging under his open collar. His nail grazed against a sore spot, sending a perverted rush of excitement through him. He grinned. “Just had to pick up my ride.”
The ex’s mouth opened and closed. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he seemed. On second thought, if the man had chosen someone else over Cassandra, he shouldn’t have been able to manage even simple breathing. He thumbed his key fob. The Beemer’s lights flashed.
“Have a nice night,” Ryan called as the manager got in the car. “I know I have.”
The guy—Tommy, if he remembered right—pulled up even behind Ryan’s Ford. “You better get out of here or I’ll call the cops on you for trespassing.”
As usual, guys with small dicks grew big balls when they were safely ensconced in their expensive cars. However, Cassandra still had to work with her manager. Ryan tipped two fingers to his brow in a mock salute. “I’ll be gone.”
The Beemer’s tires spun up a cloud of desert dust.
Smiling, Ryan jumped into his truck and debated his options. Stay put until he knew for sure? Nah, that wasn’t his style. He keyed the ignition and headed toward the Strip, determined to be optimistic.
About halfway there, he heard his phone chirp. He pulled it out at the next red light. A text message read,
The Paris, Room 1419
. He wanted to pump his fist in the air, but that meant she’d looked inside the bag. A niggling worry settled into his stomach, a heady combo of nerves and hot anticipation.
His phone went off again, but this time with a ring. He thumbed the answer button without looking at the display. If Cassandra had changed her mind, he’d…do nothing. Wish her a good night and thank his lucky stars if she agreed—possibly, maybe—to see him again.
“Hello?”
A smash of voices and music came across the line. “Yo, that you, Fang?” Jon was nearly yelling.
Ryan held the phone away from his ear. “Duh. You called me, didn’t you?”
“Smartass.” The background noise faded for a moment. “What are you doing? Or should I ask
who
?”
Keeping his gaze firmly on the traffic, he tried to figure out how to answer that one. Jon was a notorious kinkster. Knowledge of what Ryan had been up to would probably earn a few high-fives, but he wanted to keep the details private. He’d blurred the boundaries of what he’d considered acceptable for himself. Messing around with roleplaying to spice up a marriage? Fine. Maybe one day. Needing it the way he’d started to in those final weeks with Ashleigh? Not okay.
Plus part of him wanted to protect Cassandra and her infectious sense of fun.
Finally he answered, “Nothing.”
“You lucky dog.” He should have known Jon would pick up on the hesitation. “I was going to ask if you wanted to meet me at the club. Princess is too busy drinking herself into a stupor to give me the attention I so richly deserve.”
“Gee, that sounds like such a fun time. I don’t see how I can ever pass up an invitation like that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Jon laughed. “Go back to your waitress. I’ll try to keep Her Worship out of a fight.
Again
. You’ve totally got next time.”
“Agreed.”
After they signed off, Ryan tossed his phone into the center console. A dark worry chewed at the back of his brain. Jon was too fucking perceptive. He’d take one look at Ryan on Monday and know he hadn’t had a random one-night stand.
He could only imagine what hell he’d get then.
He didn’t think he was that unusual, wanting to keep his business to himself. Growing up, he hadn’t had a private inch in the world to call his own. When his mom hadn’t been passed out on the couch, she would stagger into his room, sobbing on his bed about how she was a shit mother—or pawing through his drawers in search of proof that he was up to no good.
He’d learned early that part of the simple, respectable life he wanted was privacy. Regular people didn’t sit on their trailers’ front porches and laugh about how well they’d gotten laid, at a volume loud enough for the whole park to hear. Regular people shut the doors and turned down the lights. Good, regular men didn’t ask women to dress up and play stupid sex games. He wanted to at least make the attempt, no matter what turned him on.
After this one risky night, he’d go back to being sane. Normal.
When he pulled into the parking deck behind The Paris, he shoved all the memories away. Cassandra liked funny. She liked charming. So that’s what she’d get.
Even if it killed him.
He was already asking her for a lot if she actually wore what was in the bag.
Thank God his spare dress uniform was hanging from the oh-shit handle in the back. He’d picked it up from the cleaners earlier in the afternoon. No way could he walk through a casino floor looking the way he did, even if it had been fun to rub in her ex’s face.
He grabbed his flight bag from the Ford’s backseat and fought his way into the uniform, watching out for security cameras the whole time like he was some sort of punk.
Oh wait, he was.
Getting changed in the cab wasn’t easy, but he managed with a minimum of cussing. Eventually he emerged and tugged the blue sleeves, using the silver braid band at the cuffs that marked his rank.
The entire inside of The Paris casino had been decorated to look like Parisian streets. Ceilings painted sky blue, complete with fluffy clouds, soared over white marble balustrades. He wondered for half a second what it would’ve been like to swarm through Paris as one of the WWII allied forces after the occupation.
He earned fewer looks than he might have expected as he walked through the banks of slots toward the elevators. Thank Christ for the craziness that was Vegas. He’d have to be fully decked out in Elvis regalia to garner attention.
It wasn’t until he punched the button in the elevator that his heartbeat surged to Mach one. Was he really doing this? With a woman he’d just met?
Their sex in the dressing room had been mind-blowing. Explosive. He rubbed a hand over his dress shirt, pressing carefully at the teeth marks she’d left at the edge of his pecs.
Cassandra was…amazing. He was sounding like a broken record even in his own head, but his body was so tightly wound it was hard—pun intended—to think of another word. She’d taken what she wanted of him in greedy, grasping fistfuls, but she’d given back in full measure. Watching her slight, curvy body working over his lap, wrapped in that microscopic costume, had been one of the most epic moments of his life.
And he flew fighter jets for a living.
If he’d pushed too far… Shit, he’d be pissed at himself. No two ways about it. Not everyone appreciated his hard-charging, full-throttle attitude, just like no sensible woman would appreciate his ridiculous fetish.
The elevator spit him out on the fourteenth floor. He had to force his feet to march down the thickly carpeted hallway. Eventually the moment of truth arrived. Even if backing out and leaving Cassandra hanging had been within his capacity, his cock wouldn’t have allowed it.
He raised his hand to knock.
Chapter Eight
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Cass said to Gilly for the fourth time. “Honest. I told you where we’re staying, gave you his name and cell number. If anything happens, you can play cavalry for me.” She smoothed her hands down the sides of the skimpy black skirt and its prim white lace. “You’re not going to talk me out of this. We’re having a fun time.”
Understatement of her year, by far.
Gilly made a grumbling noise, after she’d finally turned down the volume of her stereo. “Fine. Just be safe, okay?”
“Promise. I’ll call you when I’m up and about tomorrow.”
“Lucky girl. It’ll probably be noon.”
“At least,” Cass said with a grin. “Night, honey. Thanks for caring.”
“Got no choice. Nighty-night.”
Cass closed her cell phone with a smile. She’d only known Gilly for about eight months, since the other woman had moved to town to pursue her MFA. Not since her days in college had Cass found someone who appreciated her love of art.
Memories of conversation became mere background noise in her mind as she assessed her appearance in the bathroom’s full-length mirror. For the hundredth time. No change. She still looked like a naughty fantasy.
A French maid. She should’ve guessed.
Her grin took on a distinctly sexual edge, which she didn’t mind at all. The blush too felt right—a little self-conscious, a little anxious. Already the temperature in her blood upped toward scalding.
“You greedy slut,” she whispered to her reflection, the grin broadening. “One great time wasn’t enough.”
Her nerves stretched and stretched as she waited. She’d ordered room service and managed to take a quick shower. Her hair was still wet, but she’d bound it in a sleek bun at the base of her neck. A light application of the cosmetics she’d snagged during a two-minute run through a store in The Paris’s lobby had done wonders to hold back the look of fatigue.
She was tired, nearly exhausted after a long week, and yet so wonderfully charged up.
Ryan’s knock, when it came, sped her heartbeat. If she played the French maid, she wondered what he would be. A bedraggled traveler who’d had the buttons yanked off his shirt? A down-on-his-luck gambler?
And just how far would she push this? Cass had spent the last hour trying to get inside his head. There was a huge gulf between a bit of dress-up and full roleplaying. She was almost surprised at how much she wanted it to be the latter. Something that tipped over, deep inside. Something had
unlocked
. She could be anything, say anything, do anything. The right set of clothes adjusted her attitude, helping her step outside of the ordinary.
Don’t doubt it. Just do it.
The worst he would do is laugh, maybe flash that pulse-pounding smile and tell her to drop the act. He might merely be a guy after something different to look at, but that didn’t feel right, not for Ryan. She had a guess as to what he liked, and she was willing to give it a shot.
His knock was more insistent the second time. Good. She didn’t like to think that he’d give up on her.
Cass took a deep breath and opened the door.
Ryan stood at the threshold wearing a fantastic dress uniform. The dark blue did marvelous things for his healthy tan, and the braided silver trim looked impressively realistic. Navy? No, that wasn’t right. Air Force, maybe?
More than the color and the authenticity of the costume, she loved how it was exactly tailored to his body—tall and lean, long and strong. Only a slack, bewildered expression gave away his response to her maid’s outfit. Otherwise he embodied everything impressive and sexy about a man in uniform.
“Oh!
Monsieur
Haverty,” she said in her best French accent. A year spent studying art in Paris would finally prove good for something. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.
Merci
, come in.”
He hesitated for only a second. Then the reality of what she’d done and said—how she sounded—seemed to click in his brain. “Thank you. I didn’t expect to be kept waiting.”
“My apologies,
monsieur
. I was only just finishing up.”
“I don’t appreciate sloppy service.”
She nibbled her bottom lip, daring to glance up from beneath lowered lashes. He surveyed the hotel room with the air of a man who expected perfection and found it lacking. A curious heat bloomed in her stomach, reveling in his command of the moment.
She’d been right. The man wanted to play.
“Your room-service order is waiting for you in the bedroom,” she said, pitching her voice toward conciliatory. “As you requested.”
“Oh?” He lifted his brows. “I’m curious if you managed to get that right, at least.”
“This way,
s’il vous plaît
.”
She ushered him into the bedroom where a rolling silver-tone cart was topped with a plate of fresh fruit and a bottle of champagne on ice. She’d ordered the items no matter the sticker shock, figuring they’d sort out paying for it later. Tonight was about living a fantasy.
Ryan strolled to the cart. His expression verged on haughty as he surveyed the assortment. “Good enough.”
“I’m pleased,
Monsieur
Haverty.”
“It’s Major Haverty, actually.”
“Major?”
“I don’t stand on ceremony with civilians. Please, call me Ryan.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”
“Cassandra,” she said, briefly shaking hands. That same electric zap they’d shared from the first moment reappeared, only stronger. She almost dropped character. Ryan’s teasing grin made a brief reappearance, as if he too was tempted to laugh.
Then it was gone. He was Major Haverty again.
“Where are you from, Cassandra?”
“Montparnasse, in Paris.”
“Beautiful place.”
Cass tipped her head. “You’ve been there,
monsieur
?”
“A few years back, yes.”
“Oh, but of course. A man in the military. You must have seen many ports of call.”
“I have.”
Dear Lord, he was unbelievably handsome in that uniform. She wondered again where he’d picked it up. Had he returned to the sex shop? Or someplace else? He stood with his shoulders back, his posture firm and solid. The thought turned her on in funny, unpredictable ways. The roleplaying was easy to indulge when he fit the part so perfectly.
“What do you do in the military? Is it the Air Force?”
“That’s right. I fly fighter jets. F-16s.”