Page 14 of Hot Shot

Her eyes widen and her full lips part. It’s a mistake to look at her mouth, though, because my blood runs south and my dick thickens. I drag my gaze up to meet her glare.

“Pretty little head? You are such a douche.”

I shrug. “Probably, yeah.”

She tosses her hair back, then drains her tequila. “Thanks for the drink. I’m going to find my friends.”

I watch her walk away, back toward the long purple banquette where, yes, her friend Olympia sits, having returned from the ladies’ room, now laughing with a man sitting next to her.

I drop my head and stare at my hard-on regretfully.Sorry, Mr. Big. Not happening right now.

I look up to watch other eyes follow Carrie’s progress through the club . . . both men and women. She’s sex on wheels, no doubt about it—that short, tight dress hugs her curves and leaves sleek legs bare. Her long hair is a mess, but a hot mess like she just rolled out of bed after a sexathon, hanging down her back in tousled waves.

I lean against the bar and sip my Casa Mendoza. Well, things are back to normal between us now, after a little blistering flirtation on the dance floor. If the sparks between us are that hot in public, what would they be like in bed?

Dammit, I want to find out. But I wasn’t lying when I pointed out that hooking up with her would be a mistake. Even if that’s all it could be. I know no woman is going to stick with me for the long term. And then it would be all awkward, and Beck’s fiancée would hate him.

On the other hand, Carrie is leaving for Spain in less than two months.

I make a face as I watch her join in the conversation with Olympia and the dude. Her smile makes my gut ache.

Yeah, I don’t do relationships. But a sexy fling with a hot model is sounding better and better.

No. She’s Hayden’s best friend.

We hate each other.

Hate sex can be smoking hot, though.

The internal debate bounces back and forth in my mind like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.

The waitress appears in front of Carrie and Olympia with a tray of drinks. Jesus, she ordered more tequila.

I accused her of being wasted, but I was just being an asshole. Now, however, with a few cocktails—Legspreaders, for Chrissake—cheap champagne, and a couple of tequila shots, she might in fact be riding the train to Trashed Town.

I frown when she rises to her feet and follows some dude onto the dance floor, Olympia and another guy tagging along behind. Oh hell no. She’s not dancing with anyone but me.

I know how ridiculous that is. But the burn behind my sternum can’t be ignored.

I should probably just get the hell out of here so I don’t have to watch her flirting and smiling at someone else. Watch someone else put his hands on her sweet curves. Watch her lean in closer and—yeah, I’m done.

But instead of leaving, my feet take me back onto the dance floor. I curve my hand around Carrie’s upper arm and turn her away from the dipshit she’s dancing with.

Her eyes widen.

“Sorry man,” I say to the guy. “My girl’s not dancing with anyone else.”

The guy steps back, hands in the air. Yeah, the badass SEAL commanding presence comes in handy sometimes. Also, I’m about four inches taller than this guy and a lot of pounds heavier.

Carrie glares at me. “What the hell was that?”

I grin. “Sorry, belleza. You’re dancing with me.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Right, right.” I pull her against me and sway to the slower beat. “We already established that. But admit it . . . you want me.”

She gasps in outrage, her eyes sparking. But then her lips part and her gaze drops to my mouth.

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