Daring Her SEAL (9 page)

Her best bet—hah—was to keep teasing. She wriggled and gave a little tug. Her panties slid down her legs, the white cotton fluttering around her ankles. Not a flag of surrender, though. Nope. She preferred to think of it as throwing down the gauntlet. If she had to strip in public, Levi got to suffer, too.

She held out her hand. “Give them to me.”

“I'm not sure this is what I had in mind.”

“Too bad.” She flashed him a smile. “Because this is what you're getting.”

The pink drink was working nicely on her nerves now, the alcohol cocooning her in a warm glow. What if the casual pose wasn't actually a pose? What if Levi genuinely could care less that she'd dropped her skivvies at his command in the middle of a very public bar? Her body was tight and hot, her stomach liquid with something that was part embarrassment, part lust. Good lord, but she was turned on. She stepped out of her panties, not trusting herself to say anything.

“Ashley.” He growled her name and the temperature on her internal thermometer ratcheted up another few degrees. The man had no business being so sexy, particularly when she got the feeling it was completely unintentional on his part. Levi just exuded SEAL hotness like it was part of his job description. Maybe she'd just gone without sex for so long that she was misreading his cues.

“You gonna look at me?” The laughter in his voice had her narrowing her eyes. Darn him. But she wasn't backing down, not when she'd come this far, so she stared him square in the eye.

“What?” She'd been afraid she'd see...what? Boredom. Laughter. She honestly had no idea. But Levi simply looked riveted. His casual pose wouldn't fool anyone now. He slouched on his seat, big, brawny arms resting on his thighs, but every inch of him was focused on her.

He handed her the silk panties. Before she could react, he'd swiped up her abandoned white panties from the ground and tucked them into his pocket.

“Souvenir,” he said, and winked when she made an outraged sound. Or possibly a squeak. Because she was closer than ever to pushing the man down to the sand and having her way with him. Which was still a very, very bad idea and absolutely not happening. Plus she had other things to worry about besides getting his penis inside her and possibly sand in some uncomfortable places.

First and foremost, she wasn't letting her panties end up on eBay or some other equally embarrassing spot. Like her office door or the windshield of her car. “You're supposed to buy postcards or commemorative spoons. Maybe a T-shirt and a wind chime. Give them back.”

Naturally, he ignored the hand she held out. “I bought you new ones.”

Uh-huh. She held up his panties, before remembering that
discretion
was her plan for the night. All those sequins might blind the bartender. “I like mine better.”

The cost per inch of fabric had to rival real estate prices in New York City, because what he'd given her amounted to the world's teensiest thong.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I like those.”

She flicked the sparkly fabric.

“All it needs are feathers.”

Naturally, he sat up straighter. He was probably a fan of hooker heels, too. “Feathers are good.”

“Men.” She huffed out a sigh. Okay. If she had to do this, she'd do it right. Another quick scan of the bar promised she had time. The bartender was delivering another round to the other couple, which put at least forty feet and a five-foot bar between her and discovery.

She shimmied into the panties. Slowly. If she was showing her goods to Levi, she'd make darned sure the show was memorable. It was a curse, this need she had to be the best.

His fingers tensed on his thighs.
Gotcha.
Mr. Big Bad SEAL wasn't indifferent to her little show, after all.

The silk was a sexy tease against her skin. His eyes darkened as she inched the fabric higher, and anticipation shot through her. He couldn't touch her, couldn't come without losing their bet...but
she
could do whatever she wanted. The possibilities made her breath catch, her body tense.
Remember the
other
audience.
She shot a glance over her shoulder. Getting arrested for public indecency wouldn't help her at the DEA hearing next week. Or her job interview.

“He can't see you,” Levi gritted out. “The only one with eyes on you is me.”

And she liked the way he was looking at her. God, she liked it. His voice roughened to a sexy growl, his eyes darkening further as she slid the panties home. She could lean in and kiss him. Tease him some more. Dare her SEAL to do something completely wicked.

“Have you ever had sex in public before, Dixon?” His voice sounded strained.

She narrowed her eyes, barely biting back her own question.
Have you?

“Are we teenagers? Do you want to play
never have I ever
next? Or was that an offer and you're conceding the dare?”

* * *

“N
O
,
NO
,
AND
NO
,”
he rumbled. “Although I could be convinced to take back the second
no
.”

The bar had some kind of slow, sexy, do-me-now song playing on a loop. Or maybe that was the internal sound track in his head, because the world seemed to slow way down. Hell. For all he knew, he'd be seeing shooting stars or fireworks or whatever stuff women claimed to see when they were coming and wanted to dress the main event up in words. Because Mrs. Ashley Brandon rocked a thong and she definitely rocked his world.

Apparently their bet came with a few unexpected fringe benefits.

She kicked his legs apart as though the move was the most natural thing in the world, and he about burst out of his pants. He hadn't known he was capable of being shocked, but this was
Ashley
. Last time they'd discussed their feelings for each other, the words
hate
and
insufferable
had been bandied about. That latter one might be a fifty-cent word, but it summed up how Ashley felt about him. She couldn't stand him. She was supposed to tell him how he'd screwed up. Where he'd gone wrong and why never, ever on God's green earth did he stand a chance of fixing things.

Except she was standing between his legs.

And staring down at him like he was an extra-large display of chocolate-covered strawberries and she was simply deciding whether to start at the top or the bottom. And where to nibble.

He groaned.

She leaned forward, arching her back and pushing her butt up in the air. That's right, her
butt
. His thoughts got stuck on the curves visible through the folds of her dress. Man, she had a sweet ass, rounded and heart-shaped. Cup her, squeeze her—damn, he wanted to bite and lick whatever she'd let him. And hello...

She rested her hands on the arm of his chair, inching her breasts closer and closer to his face. He didn't say a word because he had no idea what he'd done to merit this VIP treatment. He hated himself for noticing, but Dixon had amazing breasts, too. It wasn't as if she'd dressed like a nun on their previous missions—he distinctly recalled a cocktail dress in a biker bar—but he'd made a point of not looking. As a team member, she'd been off-limits.
And now he was off duty, and so was she.
The cowboy singing on the sound track suddenly sounded a whole lot happier.

“You gonna ride me?” Because a dude could dream, and the way she was almost-but-not-quite touching him was fantasy material—and he wanted the real deal.

She shot him an incredulous look. Oh, boy. Someday he'd learn to keep his mouth shut, but it was an honest question. Her gaze dipped down to where—yup—he was still sporting visible signs of interest.

“You have no idea, sailor.” She dropped to her knees between his spread thighs and his heart stuttered. So okay, maybe she wasn't
entirely
pissed off at him. Her long, lustrous hair spread over his jeans, her dress dipped lower, and he swore to God he felt her breath on his dick. Which was wishful thinking but...

“No touching.” She flicked the hand he'd raised and he reluctantly pulled it back. Not that he had any idea where he'd planned on touching her first, but he suddenly had a list. He'd start with her creamy shoulder, nudge the strap down, and then work his way south.

“You'd like it.” That was a promise he felt comfortable making. He'd make it so good for her.

Her breath hitched and then she smiled. A slow, sensuous, man-you're-gonna-get-it smile. “We don't have that kind of relationship. We're supposed to keep things professional in the field.”

Which completely explained his blackmail, their sexy bet, one
faux
marriage, and the bed for two back at the villa. He'd believe things were strictly
professional
between them when pigs flew. He should probably be more concerned about abandoning the pretense at professionalism, but she eased back, giving him a perfect view of her face and chest. Her dress looked a whole lot better from this angle. It was freaking awesome. He could see straight down the front and she had cleavage he definitely needed to explore.

Except she wasn't waiting for him to get the party started. Nope. She ran her hands down her breasts like she was spreading lotion over her skin in a long, sweet stroke. She lingered when she reached the tips, cupping the heavy globes, teasing the nipples over the fabric. It was the kind of touch that got him going, had him imagining other possibilities. Possibilities like his mouth tasting her skin, his tongue exploring each delicious curve. If he'd wanted her before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now.

“If you see the bartender headed back our way, holler,” she said in throaty tones and his desire for an insta-divorce evaporated on the spot.

“You give me too much credit.” Right now, he didn't mind if the bartender pulled up a chair and provided color commentary.

She winked at him and damned if she didn't keep it up. She ran her hands over her full breasts, cupping and teasing, and he swore he could feel each caress. She'd handed him a cheat sheet to her body, to what she liked, and he couldn't help but take mental notes. Softer strokes followed by harder, firmer caresses.

“That how you want me to touch you?”

She gave him another slow smile, and then her left hand headed slowly toward her flat stomach, kept right on going—he was going to have a fucking heart attack at the age of thirty-one—and stopped just above her pussy.

“I'm doing just fine without you.”

“But I'm better.” If she let him touch her, he'd have his hands all over her.

With a laugh, she moved to straddle his legs. Her hair fell over her shoulders as she faced away from him, the dark, silky strands bouncing out of control. The dress bunched up around her waist and her bare legs barely skimmed his, but he could feel the sweet, hot weight of her pressed against his thighs and no lap dance had ever been sweeter.

“We're touching,” he whispered in her ear. When the bartender headed back toward the bar, Levi caught his eye and shook his head. Followed that more subtle gesture with the warning glare of death.
Nothing to see here
. But the guy's eyes widened slightly, probably because the man wasn't stupid and his Dixie hadn't been subtle. Jesus. He could only imagine what the man was thinking, but he probably wasn't too far off. Fortunately, she had her back to the bartender.

“And you're keeping your hands to yourself,” she countered.

She danced along to the song, rolling her hips, and riding his legs. To be honest, she wasn't a good dancer. She bounced with more enthusiasm than rhythm, her butt slamming into his thighs like he was her own personal saddle and she was just learning how to ride, but she didn't hold back and
that
right there was the sexiest thing he'd seen in a long time. And when she dropped her hands to her butt and
massaged
, he lost the battle to hold back his groan.

“Having a good time,
baby
?” The grin she shot him over her shoulder lit up the entire damn bar along with certain parts of his anatomy. His blood rushed south with a resounding
hell yeah
, but he knew what she was trying to do. She wanted to make him
lose
.

It was almost cute.

“You're a dangerous woman, Dixie.” He tightened his grip on the chair arms, because right now, gazing longingly at her hips, he felt like Eve faced with the apple in the Garden of Eden. One bite. One touch. Did she really have to be completely off-limits? The bet had been a stupid idea, and he could be the first to admit it. He had no idea what it would take to make her come, but damn did he want to find out.

“We'll go back to the villa.”

She stilled on his lap.
Shit
. He'd said the wrong thing. Probably should have asked, not told.

“I can make you feel even better.”
Please.

Her hair slid over her bare shoulder as she examined his face. “I'll bet you can.”

Making his prickly, stubbornly beautiful DEA agent come for him? No victory would be sweeter. It was crazy. This whole deal—being married, coming to Fantasy Island, letting Ashley dance around on his lap—was absolutely fucking crazy. He hadn't meant to let things go so far. He'd planned on handing her the panties and embarrassing her. That much was true. And after that...after that, well, he'd planned on letting her walk away. But then she'd touched him and he'd gone up in flames. Guess they had chemistry he'd been ignoring for a while.

Contrary to what Ashley believed, he wasn't a sailor with a lover in every port. He was actually pretty particular about who he went to bed with. Sure it had been a while, but his weeks-long stint in a foxhole didn't explain gyrating against Ashley.