She’d teased him about not making his day—but the truth was, he’d just made the hell out of hers.

Times twenty-four.

The two dozen faces in front of her now, ranging in age from seven to nine and encompassing every color from Anna’s pale freckles to Paki’s rich mahogany, were still locked on Sam in wide-eyed wonder. Their faces hadn’t been that way when she’d first entered with Sam, about twenty minutes ago. Plenty of the guys from the base had already come with her to Vegas Valley Elementary’s afternoon story hour, where she volunteered once a week—and sometimes more than that, if the teachers and staff were having a not-enough-hours-in-the-day thing going on. Which meant she was usually here more than once a week and that the kids had definitely gotten their fill of details about the intricacies of a fighter pilot’s life.

So the fact that Sam made his living at Mach speed was as worthy as last year’s memes to these kids.

The fact that he usually did it in the skies over Scotland, however?

Now they were speeding with some new gas.

And by this point were giving Sam a thorough bath of the stuff. Then tossing matches at him too.

So far, the man was handling the blaze like an epic pro. And maybe, crazily, seemed to be enjoying the whole thing. Jen knew she was smiling in wonderment and didn’t bother hiding an inch of the expression as she looked to where the man now sat—sort of—in a yellow plastic chair, his long legs hitched so high, he looked sort of like a praying mantis perched on a small rock. But his grin was still all lion, and thoroughly entrancing, as he pointed to Lindy and the arm she patiently pointed in the air.

“If you’re really from Scotland, why aren’t you wearing a dress?” she blurted.

At once, Oliver spun toward her with rolling eyes. “Duh. It’s not a dress. It’s called a kilt, and boys in Scotland only wear them on special days now.”

Martha, practically seated in Lindy’s lap because best friends had to be that close, bared her teeth at the sneering boy. “How do you know, Ollie? You’re French and Spanish, not Scottish.”

Oliver was already prepped, narrowing his gaze and jutting his chin. The boy was strikingly handsome and already knew how to use those looks well. “My mom told me. She likes reading those same books as Miss Jen. My dad says it’s because there’s lots of kissing in ’em, and plus, the boys don’t put on underwear under their kilts.”

Lindy and Martha shrieked. “Ewwww!”

At the back of the big carpet mat, Shawn popped to his feet, rascal’s smirk already in place. “Do you put on underwear with your kilt, Captain Mackenna?”

“All right, all right.” While Jen’s shout was underlined by a new outburst from Lindy and Martha, she secretly thanked them for the extra pause to suppress her laugh. Sam was no help, openly giving in to his. “That’s enough of that subject. Shawn, have a seat, please. If nobody else has any questions for Captain Mackenna, perhaps he can continue reading for you…”

But as she spoke, at least six hands popped up across the room. Jen sighed in frustration, looking to Sam for some support of her initiative, but he was prepared with a devastating—and smoldering—glance of his own, assuring her he really was having the time of his life.

He kept things diplomatic, calling on a boy for the next official question. Taio was already a little bruiser and had a fondness for the Green Bay Packers as well as any animal bigger than a breadbox. His question came as no surprise and even earned him a bigger smile from Sam.

“Can you throw a tree?” the boy asked. “One day, when there was no football on TV, my dad was watching a show where guys in kilts were throwing trees.”

“Well, we call ’em cabers,” Sam explained. “And they are indeed made out of trees, with all the green stuff cut off. Each caber weighs close to eighty kilograms. That’s nearly two hundred pounds.”

Well, that had every head in the room snapping back around.

“Holy guacamole,” Martha finally blurted, her big brown eyes wide. “That’s heavy!”

“So are you any good?” Taio raised his chin, clearly enjoying the grown-up bro vibe he could get in. Jen’s chest swelled with emotion when Sam honored the boy by emulating the motion. Taio was being raised by a single mother, and camaraderie with a role model like Sam had probably made the boy’s week.

“I have no clue,” Sam admitted after that, spreading his hands. “Takes a mate with special talent and years of trainin’ to toss a caber with true aim. I’ve been flyin’ jets steadily for nearly ten years now, meanin’ there hasn’t been a lot of spare time for heftin’ cabers.”

The next one to be called on was Xylie, who contradicted her exotic name simply with her long blond ringlets and large green eyes. “What’s the name of the castle you live in?”

Jen bit back a chuckle—and noticed Sam having to rein back the intensity of his. “Unbelievably, lass, not everyone in my land lives in castles.”

“Well, of course not everyone,” Xylie returned. “But you do, right?”

“Pssshhh.” Martha waved a dismissive hand toward her princess-perfect classmate. “’Course he does. You ever seen Miss Jen look like that unless she’s swooning over some guy from a castle?”

Jen had made the mistake of turning to open the snack-sized bags of chocolate-chip cookies for snack time. Thanks to Martha, the bag upon which she was tugging got a Herculean effort, and the cookies turned into exploding meteors, flying out to all corners of VVE’s little library. At once, the kids burst up as well. Two dozen cries of “I’ll get them!” collided atop each other, overridden only when Jen threw some lung power into her corresponding bellow.

“If I see anyone sneaking one of those cookies down their maw, your entire snack is forfeit for today and the rest of the week!”

Thank God it was only Tuesday. Thank God, as well, for Sam, who actually caught one of the flying cookies barehanded and then scrambled another up from the floor near his foot. After the four remaining cookies were returned whole, barely fifteen minutes remained of what was supposed to be story hour.

“All right, you little goofballs.” She put her hands on her hips, resigned to chalking today up as a kitten herding day. “Why don’t you all enjoy some extra time looking for books to check out while Captain Mackenna helps me open the rest of the snack bags?”

Shawn was among the first to pop back up, his silly grin breaching even more of his face. “More explosions! More explosions!”

“Annnnd there’s a future IED man for you,” Sam muttered while she shooed the throng toward the stacks.

“Come back in fifteen minutes with books, you heathens,” Jen teased them. “And remember: your pile should have at least two from your grade’s required reading list. No loading up on manga and nature picture books. I’ll be looking for those gold ‘approved reading’ stickers, ladies and gentlemen.”

She turned back to help Sam with the rest of the cookie bags, but he’d already finished—with no more explosions—and was on to pouring cups of fruit juice and milk. “Och,” he murmured as she leaned in, transferring the cups to the end of the table where the kids would be eating. “Miss Jen, you’re pure skyrocket on the ball bustin’.”

A chuff escaped her. “Captain Mackenna, I thoroughly represent that remark.” Even though the last couple of words were the only part that made real sense. She could infer the rest, which might be a good idea at this point—because reaching in and getting that close to him again was definitely not her most fabulous move. Not already knowing what the man’s nearness did to her whole nervous system. Not after how the kids had just frayed it even more, outing her as “swoony” like that. Not with how the man cocked a sideways stare at her, obviously not about to give up on the memory so easily himself.

“Glad we’ve got that out of the way,” he stated, reprising the voice so silken, it belonged in a pinned cravat around his neck and topped with a velvet doublet—all but guaranteeing she’d tilt up a responding stare. Which at once crunched into a curious scowl.

“Which means what?” she demanded quietly, though interrupted herself the next second, calling at the two kids in her periphery, “Sheila, stop trying to kiss Anthony. And Anthony, stop trying to let her.” Without veering the angle of her stare, she cut the volume to demand from Sam again, “Which. Means. What?”

This time, he was the one to extend his arms to either side of her, two juice cups in each hand, and place them on the table behind her. The push made her scoot back a little, sandwiched between the table’s edge and all of his…edges. Which had been molded against a lot of her just an hour and a half ago, so why the hell was her body being such a rebel and forgetting all of that now? Why was she even more on fire, more out of breath, and more out-of-bounds on rational thought than she’d been when he was this close back at the base? And during a few key moments had been even closer? The only thing that had really changed was the setting—and the fact that they were now surrounded a bunch of squirrelly second, third, and fourth graders. So officially, he couldn’t really touch her. But more exigently, she couldn’t touch him in return.

She was tied back…

Held down…

And undeniably, uncontrollably wet from the mere thought of it.

And suddenly, restlessly, licking her lips because of that simple thought.

And perfectly, maddeningly, aware of how she riveted the man in front of her as well. No. Not just in front of her. Still around her, his arms bracketing her, his impossibly long fingers stroking the tabletop next to where her ass cheeks were braced. Still not touching her…but close enough that she could feel every steady, slow stroke along the fake wood surface…every caress he was thinking about delivering to her skin. And yes, she knew that too. After one glance up, letting her stare drown in the dark soot depths of his, she knew. She felt. So many perfect, bold vibrations, carrying all the way into her skin through that cheap laminate…

Until she recognized exactly why she was so sensitive to all those sensations.

The room had become so quiet, she could hear herself breathing. And her heart thudding. And perhaps even her blood rushing, having been turned into the Colorado River after the spring snowpack melt, by one dazzling male clad in a dashing flight suit and an I-rule-everything-including-you stare.

But it was never a good thing when this crowd went silent.

As she and Sam learned while turning their heads together, pushing the edge of their foreheads and then slowly rolling to the side…

Twenty-four sets of eyes. More eager than ever.

Twenty-four matching grins. Wider than ever.

And now, twenty-four raucous laughs, which got halted only because a few of the kids began a chant, which caught on through the crowd like wildfire.

“Kiss. Her! Kiss. Her! Kiss. Her!”

Oh, dear hell.

Out loud, Jen opted for the more acceptable choice—a mortified groan—just before Sam broke out in a laugh that shook his shoulders and ignited silvery glints in his eyes. His mirth was contagious, at least to the point that she didn’t argue as he scooped a hand behind her head and tucked her face close to his shoulder. Though he was far from an asshole about it, his firm grip nonetheless spoke to her with one forceful message.

Stay. Put.

And remarkably, she did. Even more amazingly, knowing that she could. That she had complete trust in Sam’s ability to handle this mini mob, even if they all decided to become real squirrels, chitter their way up his tree trunk legs, and run around both their heads in the chanting demand for their kiss.

But thank God, this was Sam Mackenna: the pilot who made her think jets were his personal livery and hardened military mechanics were his loyal horsemen. The man who could, with one swoop of his free hand, silence every one of these squirrels like a thunderstorm in their forest.

And did.

“Awright now, you wee beasties. You want to stand here and clamor about somethin’ that is not—I repeat, not—going to happen—”

“Ever?” Martha looked like the squirrel who’d just dropped all her nuts.

“—or would you like to think about gnoshin’ on some yummy snacks real quick so we have time for a quick Scottish ghost tale?”

A collective squeal pushed at the confines of the library before the kiss chant was quickly replaced by a new war cry.

“Snacks, snacks, snacks, snacks!”

It was just as good a time as any for Jen to release a relieved sigh. And to follow it with a soft laugh, mixing hers to the sound of Sam’s rich chuckle as he followed her into the stacks to help re-file books from the returns cart. It was easier to relax with him now, after an hour of seeing him acclimate on her “stomping grounds” instead of his, especially in the wake of his patience and charm with the kids she’d come to love so much. And with the cart between them, it was easier to resist the hot, heady temptation of the man’s pull on every shred of her self-composure. Not that she wasn’t still aware of it or wouldn’t be even after he flew all the way back to Scotland. How far could a giant magnet pull on helpless particles doomed to be drawn to it? Or had he bypassed the magnet and gone straight for some Gaelic gypsy spell, entrancing her forever even if oceans separated them instead of a four-foot book cart?

At this moment, she was inclined to believe the latter. The heady force of his presence had only strengthened over the last week, which had brought her to more than a few full stops of astonishment. Until now, she’d written off this kind of allure as something that only happened in fiction, but here he was between Little House Biddle Mouse and Little House in the Woods, though standing like he was about to transform those tomes into Chaucer and Shakespeare, his long legs and proud shoulders making even his puke-green flight suit look like a nobleman’s vestments. And here she was, trying not to look like she wanted to be wearing a corset and five layers of crinolines instead of slacks and heels, just so he’d shove the cart aside, pin her against the Warrior Cats shelf, and claim her mouth with a conquering lord’s groan. Then he’d slide one of his large, powerful hands up under her skirts…and he’d use the other arm to capture her sighing swoon as she turned the texture of moors mist in his arms…

“Miss Jennnnn!”

When Sam started as violently as she did from Lindy’s shriek, she bit back an instant giggle. His quirking lips warmed her heart even more—while dampening everything between her thighs. Clearly she hadn’t been the only one to fall prey to their pull. And while the anomaly couldn’t last forever, she took a second—just one—to enjoy it while it lasted.

“Lindy.” She issued the calm reprimand while rounding the corner back toward the snack table. “Unless you see fire or blood, you stick to your inside voice, please. And sit down correctly. All four legs of the chair on the floor.”

Lindy pouted. “But—”

“On. The. Floor, missy.”

“But Anthony’s about to upchuck!”

“Oh, dear freaking…” But by the time she got that far, Sam already braced his huge hands around the boy’s ribcage, hoisted him out of his chair, and got him into the bathroom. Two seconds later, the poor kid’s retching noises were overridden by a fresh wave of horrified ewwwws, as well as the boys’ celebratory shouts. “All right!” she broke into the din. “Showtime’s over, gang. Change of plans. You all now have some bonus playground time. Clean up all your trash before you leave. Remember, your cups go into the green recycle bin.”

The group wasn’t exactly ready with the gleeful cheers she expected. A sulking Martha supplied the reason why. “But Captain Mackenna promised us a ghost story.”

More warm feels across her chest. She barely knew Sam but instantly interpreted the heartfelt nod he dipped from the open doorway of the bathroom. “I think Captain Mackenna would be happy to come back again soon in order to get that ghost story in.”

“Yaaaaay!”

Just five minutes later, Anthony himself was piercing the air with the same word, having convinced Jen he only ate something weird and was feeling fine enough to go enjoy the bonus playtime. Imagine that.

Jen had just wrapped up the call she’d placed to the boy’s teacher, warning the woman that a trip to the medical office might be happening before Anthony agreed to go to after-school homework club, when Sam sidled up to her side with a paper towel still in hand. Incredible. The man had just played nurse to a vomiting kid but still smelled like a mixture of balmy sun and spicy rain. More unbelievably, he was still grinning like a laird who’d merely been out romping with his wolfhounds in the heather fields.

As Jen stared at him in unguarded amazement, he murmured, “This was a much better afternoon than I ever thought it would be.”

She couldn’t help spurting a laugh. “Remind me to send you to the medical bay when we get back to Nellis.”

He pivoted a little, regarding her with a thickening gaze and a smoldering mien. “But my aches can’t be helped by doctors, lass.”

So screw the damp panties. As Jen acknowledged the hot lump in her throat, she also accepted that the man had made her completely wet. Yes, right here in the afternoon sun. Yes, between the tetherball courts and the swing set. But the man and his inference, in that lush Highland growl and with that anticipating wolf’s intent, swept her to the middle of a sexual forest, where anything could happen in the shadows…and she prayed that it would.

Only through sheer force of will, along with the nails she jabbed into her palms and the air she ordered into her lungs, was she able to avoid looking back at him and exposing all of those illicit fantasies to him at once. Somehow, she feigned her way through a light laugh instead. Then a flippant toss of her head, freeing her hair from where sweat made her shoulder-length waves cling to the back of her neck. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Captain. You haven’t seen how cute they grow the nurses here in the great Mojave Des—”

She was cut short, in the most breath-halting way, by the invasion of a warrior-sized pilot into her personal space. Sam pushed nearly as close as he’d gotten in the conference room back on base, making damn sure she was very aware of every huge, taut muscle in his tall, tense form—and how they all seemed ready to obey the vexation in his eyes at his slightest command.

His command.

And his vexation.

What would the two be like when meted out, especially combined with the third factor about his new vibe?

His desire.

So apparent, she couldn’t even write it off as chance.

So potent, she didn’t want to.

“Jenny.”

“H-Huh?” she managed to blurt.

“Why the fuck do you keep doin’ that?”

“Keep…doing what?”

He leaned in even closer. Again, not as close as he’d compelled her before, but near enough that the sunlight sparked into his mesmerizing eyes, flaring the lightning-bright specks of silver in them. Over and over and over, he streaked that electric heat across her face until dropping right onto her lips as he drew in deep air through his flared nostrils.

“Maybe I’ll have to take you back to school, Miss Thorne.” The gruff edges of his voice spoke the truth of the words—as much an invitation to pleasure as pain. “You seem to have forgotten a few…key lessons.”

Dear God. As the outcry echoed through her senses, Jen sneaked the tip of her tongue through the seam in her lips. Sam’s fascination with that turned into a flash of boldness she’d never possessed before. “Lessons…have to come with a plan of enforcement. You do know that, don’t you, Captain?”

He gritted something in Gaelic beneath his breath. She had no idea what it was, but the emphasis alone sent a new gush of arousal through her entire core. Yep, she’d definitely be driving the man back to base with soaked panties…

A theory proved to its fullest when they left VVE in the rearview and headed back up I-15 toward the base. At once, Jen hoped to resettle her nerves by cranking on the radio and silently thanked the alt-rock gods for a well-timed block of broody tunes designed to promo the “Emo Halloween-o Weekend” that was coming up—but not even a string of AFI, The Cure, and My Chemical Romance was daunting Sam from twisting in the passenger’s seat to fully face her and then even reaching a hand over to the exquisitely sensitive spot on the back of her neck.

“S-Sam…” She fought to get it out as a request instead of a groan. His touch was pure heaven, making her want to melt and quiver instead of navigating the mix of impatient locals and lookie-loo tourists on the highway.

“Hmmm?” His voice offered an even more decadent escape, lousy with a mix of seduction and command…the perfect mix required for a Highland laird. Only this wasn’t medieval Scotland, and clan lairds were only something traipsed out at costume fairs these days. In short, no matter how heady the fantasy he offered, she had to keep one foot grounded in reality. And hopefully take all her intimate bits along with it.

“You…that…feels wonderful, but…”

“But what, little mouse?”

One foot. Reality. Intimate bits too.

Even if he had gone ahead and turned “mouse” into an entrancing version of “moose” and had found the tightest wad of tension in her entire body to start kneading on…

With gritted teeth, she pulled herself away from him by leaning toward the steering wheel. Though she now looked like a blue-hair on her way to Bingo Night, the distance served her well with delivering fortitude—at least enough to state, “You don’t have to. I’m all sweaty back there.”

But damn it, the man simply slid his wickedly long fingers up and over her headrest, as if waiting for her to resettle before continuing to have his way with her nape. “Who says I don’t want you sweaty, a leanbh?”

The man was not making this easy.

Not by one damn particle.

He did, however, provide her with a diversion—maybe something they both needed by this point. “So, what does that mean?” she queried, swiping her mind free of every torrid innuendo he’d just evoked. “Lan-uhv?”

Sam echoed her pronunciation, only finessing it with a lot more sex. At least that was what it sounded like to her, especially when he began his incredible rubbing as soon as she focused more on his voice than her Granny Thorne posture and resettled into the seat. “It’s similar to how you’d say ‘little one’ or ‘baby’ here.”

She side-eyed him with considerable snark. “Not ‘OMG, this is the sweatiest neck I’ve ever massaged in my life’?”

He stopped his hand—but only long enough to snarl, “I thought I’d made my views clear about that.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. You did.”

His grip got tighter. A gruff grunt escaped him. “Say it again.”

“You did.” Jen issued it without thinking. But the man’s beautiful brogue, layered over that leonine growl, would’ve had her agreeing to drive the car all the way to the edge of the Grand Canyon at this point. Probably right over the lip as well. “Made your views clear, I mean. I—I got it. You’re fine with sweat. We’re—We’re clear.” Only were they? Through her babbling, the man just kept clenching his grip tighter and harder.

“No,” he finally uttered. His growl was gone. In its place was a tone more dangerous, like his throat had become a cold steel pipe—matched by a cuff he locked around her throat. And her mind, because she instantly knew the words he wanted.

The words she craved to give him.

“Yes, sir.”

At once, he eased up on his hold to her nape. Dragged it up into her hair until his long, forceful fingers dug in against her scalp, kneading the back of her head. “A leanbh,” he husked. “Good girl.”

Before they got back to the base on the day they spent at school with the kids, he used the word at least six or seven more times with her—each time, seeming to reach inside her brain and discern exactly what they did to her. What he did to her with them, coupling every occasion to a touch or a smile or a look that served as a wordless, flawless reminder of a new connection they shared with each other. A connection leading them to a bridge…a bridge that would be burned once they crossed it. At least for her.

But then Jen remembered the foot she’d anchored in reality.

The reality that told her a masterful god like Sam Mackenna had probably crossed the Dominant/submissive bridge a long damn time ago. And that since then, he’d probably taken a spin around the dungeon with a lot of gorgeous, willing submissives. And that in a city like Vegas, she’d just be the first of many he’d meet and fuck, even in just four weeks here.

But for her, it’d be different.

He’d be her first.

And he’d be good.

Yes, she knew that—knew that—after just one perfect neck massage in the car.

He’d be that damn good—and she’d be that damn ruined.

But after her first taste of the sexual dynamic she’d craved ever since recognizing that it had its own name and rules and practitioners, would she be able to settle for anything else again? Was she doomed to be in some BDSM book nerds’ purgatory forever, having found the only man who seemed to have brought all her fictional fantasies to life? And if so, wasn’t she doomed to be there—if that was the standard she was holding living, breathing men up to?

It was all messed up.

Which meant she likely was as well.

And ever since Sam had walked her back to the office that day, seeming to have figured that out for himself, she’d gotten in some long damn days to really hammer herself with the point. As in, a trio of twenty-four stretches in which the man didn’t insert himself into her world at all. No hunk appearing filling her doorway every morning, interrupting her routine with his insolent smirk and a dumb joke. No dust-covered pilot reappearing in the afternoon with a cute pout of befuddlement, begging her to help him enter the flight logs correctly. And damn it, no striding stud in the hallways or across the tarmac outside her window, always accompanied by the slight jog back of his head, as he knew he’d just made her stop whatever the hell she was doing just to ogle his backside in that flight gear…

It had all just come to a screeching stop.

Yeah, even the damn tarmac strut.

Which, to be fair, she had no right to play pity party about, since the two flight squads had gone up on night hops for the last two nights. But where there was a will there was a way, and Jen would’ve bet solid money on the cast-iron texture of Sam Mackenna’s will. No word from him in three days. The ghosts in the Mob Museum were seeming more real than him by the day.

Which shouldn’t have stung so damn much.

But did.

Okay, so she hadn’t expected him to drag her off to the nearest kink club, even after their potent exchange in the car. But the couple of hours before that moment—the afternoon in which she’d opened up a special part of her life to him—had earned her a kiss-off better than—well, a kiss-off. Not this kiss-off, that was for damn certain. But she wasn’t going to give the issue the benefit of her stress. In the end, she had to realize that no matter how thoroughly Sam Mackenna had already rocked her world and awakened her libido, she’d be just a blip in the narrative of his life. It was the way of things, no matter how “incensed” the whole matter seemed to make him whenever she’d touched on it. Maybe he’d just finally seen the light. Or maybe the guys had really convinced him to go have some drinks and he had gotten a chance to see what the “local selection” was like for a guy like him. Or maybe he’d thought about the long game on all this, as she already had, and confronted the realities of being with a girl at least five notches down from him on the social totem pole.

All valid recognitions.

All doing absolutely nothing to ease the sting.

She had to approach this with her big-girl panties on. Like the week after she’d gone cold turkey on peanut butter pretzels, Jen knew she just needed time to feel like herself again. She’d get there…eventually. She’d be able to look at her mortal normality and realize it wasn’t a half-bad place. She’d know again, very soon, that a girl could be happy, even if Mount Olympus and her own private god weren’t going to be waiting over the horizon. Vanilla could still be a super decent flavor…

She just had to keep reminding herself of that.

Especially tonight.

Especially during this long minute of an elevator ride up to the Nyte Hotel’s wedding level.

Okay, granted, showing up for an engagement party and “advanced wedding rehearsal” in one night, especially at the newest and hottest hotel in the city, wasn’t exactly her idea of pressure-free fun at this point—but her best friend was worth it. It seemed only yesterday that Jen was joining Tess Lesange in the play-food kitchen in preschool; now they both had real-life kitchens of their own—though she wondered how much time Tess really had for whipping up things from scratch these days. The woman was a little over a week away from marrying one of the world’s rising billionaires. Life at the side of Dan Colton, the golden-haired hunk who helmed Colton Steel and its gazillion subsidiaries, had been a whirlwind for Tess so far. Though Tess had moved to Dan’s mansion in Atlanta, where the Colton Steel headquarters were located, Vegas had won out as an easier destination to access for most of the wedding guests, including Dan’s Tacoma-based Army buddies and all of Tess’s family, who still lived here.

Which was why Jen breathed a sigh of relief with the knowledge there was a different set of elevator banks in this place. No way could she imagine some of Dan’s business associates, let alone Tess’s oddball parents, using this lift car—though no way in the world did she refuse the chance to take what the cute girl at the concierge desk called the “Anything for Love Express.” The alternate lift, the “Crystal Car,” bore a much more mother-friendly title—and decorative theme.

“Vanilla is fine. Vanilla is fine. Vanilla is great, actually,” Jen muttered as the lift doors closed, sealing her into a space that was covered in mirrors on the two longer walls, with padded leather surfaces consuming the others. She kept up the mantra while examining the rest of the car, blatantly recognizing why the Nyte was the Resort everyone talked about lately, in a city where “pushing the envelope” was what the competition was doing last year.

“Holy shit.” Not the mantra but more than fitting, now that she spotted at least six different leather cuffs attached to strategically-mounted chains in the leather wall to her left. The control panel next to the door didn’t just have options for floor numbers. There were illuminated buttons underneath the standard ones that gave options for activities like “Dim Lights,” “Fun Swing,” and “Scream Stop.”

“Scream Stop?” she rasped to herself. “The hell? How could anyone get that far during an elevator—” Good thing she finally snapped more than two brain cells together, though when she continued, it was in a nearly breathless mutter. Blushes that felt more like hot flashes could definitely do that to a girl. “And thus, the Scream Stop. Nice work, Thorny-boo.”

She saved the awful nickname only when feeling like a true doof, like all the falls she’d taken to earn the damn thing in the first place—and of course, right now. But she was still upright, which was a plus, and she was alone, another plus. If Mattie and Viv caught her gawking at the Scream Stop button, they undoubtedly would’ve found a way to turn her into “Thorny-boo” from their derision alone. Tess’s sisters took special glee in the slick torment they’d dished out over the years, capitalizing on the fact that Tess had been the “circle the one who doesn’t belong” part of the Lesange family portrait. It was why Tess and Jen had bonded into pseudo-sisters in their own right—and why, when Tess had first fallen for Dan, Jen had become her main sounding board for the years-long tale of unrequited love, insane spy adventures, and finally, the shocking news that Dan was secretly the Dom who’d been making all of Tess’s D/s dreams come true.

And now, she was going to become the man’s wife as well as his submissive.

The fantasy come true.

So yes, the kinky fairy tale really did happen for some. Just not all.

Right now, while exiting the lift, Jen ordered herself to thrust back her pity party because of the latter and focus on her heartfelt joy because of the former. It was past time to become a team player for her very best friend in the world. To turn her frown upside down. Get on board the happy-la-la wedding train. And, if she wanted to get historical book nerdy about it, to saddle up and stop burning bloody daylight.

Except there was one not-so-teeny hitch in that whole plan.

Saddling up a horse and swinging into the saddle probably would’ve been a simpler task than what she tried pulling off at that moment.

Marching into the wedding salon in four-and-a-half-inch-high Louboutins.

While attempting to take in the grandeur of a room that rivaled European cathedrals for gilt and fairy tale glens for beauty.

While trying to smile at the small throng gathered near the altar, including a glowing Tess and a beaming Dan, as if she saw places like this every day. Yep, even with fiber-optic lights that were suspended to look like stars and flying buttresses that were surely a scaled-down copy of Notre Dame’s iconic architecture.

But forgetting every damn detail she’d just catalogued as soon as her gaze veered a little to the right…

And beheld the last person she expected to see here.

All six-foot-plus, gray-wolf-eyed, gloriously ginger-maned inch of him.

“Holy. Shit.”

The doors of her consciousness blew back better than a Michael Bay movie clip—taking her precarious balance right along with them.

She went down, ass over elbows, sprawling face first across the Italian marble floor. In two-point-five seconds, she found herself wondering why the hotel had ponied up for ornate carved cherubs at the base of each pew in the salon.

Before realizing she had about another two-point-five seconds to come up with the cleverest one-liner a woman could conceive after announcing her own entrance at an occasion like this.

That was how it was supposed to happen, right? Out would pop her inner Sofía Vergara, giving up the va-va-voom to make everyone dissolve into relieved laughter—especially the man who’d taken over all of her erotic fantasies within the last ten days? Yeah, the same chiseled Scot who led the pack to rush over to her…

“Holy. Shit.”

The whisper deserved repeating as she dared a fast glance up, confirming her perceptions hadn’t played tricks on her—that she hadn’t been thinking about him so much, her imagination hadn’t conveniently manifested him from thin air.

He was here. Really here.

And Sofía wasn’t coming to her rescue—though somebody sure laughed somewhere. The giggles weren’t in her head. They were as horridly real—and easy to recognize—as her fogged breath on the expensive floor.

Mattie and Viv Lesange were definitely in the house.

And ready to exploit her fall of infamy to their full advantage. And any other tangible weakness they could expose while they were at it. Which wasn’t going to be too hard, since she was certain she already wore that truth across every inch of her face.

Right now, her only real weakness was Captain Sam Mackenna.

“Mouse?”

Especially when he leaned that close over her, engulfing her in his forest and ocean scent, turning his special name for her into a velvet caress on the air. And looking that damn good in the process. She’d seen him in civvies before, but his normal jeans and T-shirt combo hadn’t prepared her for the deliciousness of what his long, lean muscles could do for a gray sport coat, white dress shirt, and black dress slacks. Business casual had met its poetic perfection.

Just like her embarrassment had met its sickening ceiling. “Sam,” she squeaked, ordering her stomach not to join her heart in doing handsprings against her ribs. “Please—”

Please, seriously, just go away. Let me deal with this like every clumsy girl attempting to acclimate to a pair of custom wedding Louboutins. Alone.

“You need a hand?”

“No.” Especially not when you look good enough to make my damn toe hairs tremble. “And don’t call me that.”

“Why the hell not?” He sounded confused, even a little hurt. Right. Like a demigod needed the validation of a paper pusher.

“You know why.”

“Because I get beautiful ‘yes, sirs’ in return when I do?” So much for his puzzlement. He was back to insolent laird mode, rededicating himself with an intensity that had her breathless—and even a little scared. “Because I’ve been dreamin’ nonstop of the next moment I’ll get one?”

“Yeah?” She pushed to a sitting position, shoving dark strings of hair from her face. She’d actually thought the sleek, sophisticated look would be cool for the party, a combination engagement party and wedding rehearsal due to it being the one night everyone was available prior to the actual wedding date, but Audrey Hepburn she’d never be. “You have a funny way of communicating that to a girl, Mackenna.”

He had the decency to purse his lips. “I know.” And to drench that in enough remorse that she believed him. “And patchin’ you was my last intention, I promise.”

“All right, all right. I…believe you.”

“Thank fuck.”

She didn’t expect the huge whoosh he used as punctuation, bringing on her rushed disclaimer. “Mind you, I don’t want to, but…” Suddenly conscious of the sea of humanity approaching them, she gritted, “How are you here? Why are you here?”

When he kicked up the corner of his mouth, she wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or unnerved. “I’m a plus-one.”

And unnerved it was. “For who?” Though the amused glints in his gaze had her tacking on a good case of incensed as well. Which was irrational, she knew—unless fate was feeling really frisky this week and had managed to introduce him to Viv or Mattie within the last three days. Both of those wenches had been known to dip their well-pedicured toes into the Nellis flyboy pond from time to time, especially if a pilot as devastating as Sam showed up at one of the regular bars.

“The best man.” Sam celebrated her confused scowl by nodding toward the half-Samoan giant standing at the altar, chatting with Dan. “John Franzen is a good mate. I think he took pity on me after calling to check in and seein’ I was mopin’ about over a certain emerald-eyed local lass.” He paused to let that sink into her, his dimples deepening with knowing meaning. “Once I started bletherin’ on about her, he told me I’d be wise to accept his invitation for this pure barry revelry.”

She blinked for two seconds before deciding to focus on what she did understand there. “You two…served together?” But really, no other explanation made sense. Franzen was a career army man and had been raised on Kaua'i. According to Sam’s file, he came from a town just outside Edinburgh.

Sam grunted and then nodded. “Camp Bastion. Never underestimate its magical brotherly bonding powers.”

The man’s sarcasm was grim on purpose. Jen knew way better than to laugh. People rarely did when Bastion was invoked. The Brits’ operating base in Afghanistan was no humorous matter. Located in the lethal Helmand Province, it was a dirty, dangerous compound sitting in the middle of nowhere, making it ideal as an airstrip and very little else. When the Americans joined the party too, the base became an even bigger play toy for the enemy—often with lethal results.

Suddenly, she found herself battling a violent urge to yank him close and not let go. Yes, right here and now. Yes, after just a glimpse at the demons he’d just exposed for her—though even that flash was likely too long a look for him. She was doing the overall math about Sam Mackenna now. The hundreds of tactical flights on his service record, spread over four deployments that had taken him to the shittiest parts of the globe. Then the sudden, seemingly inexplicable stop to it all…

That suddenly made a whole lot more sense…

But at the same time enforced why she wasn’t the woman in the room he should keep devouring with his stare like that. The man didn’t need a damn Catherine for his Heathcliff. He needed a Scarlett for his Rhett: a woman who’d force him to dance and laugh and drink sherry with her before letting him kiss her senseless while she sighed and swooned in submissive bliss.

A woman exactly like the one approaching them now.

Since hitting puberty, Mattie Lesange had elevated “blonde bombshell” into an art form. Jen should know because she had been there to witness every stage of the transformation, finely finessed from the second Mat learned she had curves and could use them to her maximum benefit. The woman was as well-schooled as a reality TV star about skating to the edge of slutty but never over it. In short, she was a perfect stateside diversion for Sam and would help him take the edge off his Dominant side with perfect, pouting skill. As she strutted closer, Jen saw the gears in the woman’s head spinning no doubt about hooking up with Sam tonight. Probably dreaming up appropriate nicknames for herself, like kitten or princess or sugar sweetness.

Not mouse.

“Well,” Sam went on then. “Looks like I’ll be owin’ Franzen a few pints for his pure magic suggestion.” Though his expression instantly grew another few shadows of sardonicism. “Though the alternative activity of choice was a guys’ trip to Disneyland tomorrow.” He chuffed and shook his head. “Fuckin’ Franz can be a glaikit bawbag when he wants to be.”

Jen’s return smile came all too easily—not great for maintaining her Catherine Earnshaw side but pretty fun for coaxing out more of his entrancing new dimple. “What? You really don’t want to get a pair of plastic mouse ears to take home and show off? They have all kinds to pick from now, you know. I think pink fuzzies with your call sign in purple bling would be perfect.”

Sam mock-glowered—for all of a second. As soon as the look moved into real seriousness, his eyes gained a new gleam. Jen swallowed past a sudden cotton mouth. Fought against getting sucked into that stare of his, so sizzling and brilliant…

Hopeless cause.

Especially as he leaned over, both hands raised, knuckles brushing her cheeks…

Before yanking on her earlobes and cracking a broad smirk. “Don’t think the plastic ones will compete with these beauties.”

She spurted a laugh. Good thing. It disguised the quiver conquering the rest of her body…and then the heat in the tender tissues between her thighs. Even after he lifted up, her pussy thrummed and pulsed in accentuated awareness…

Hell. He’d only indulged some playful tugs on her ears. What the hell was wrong with her? She surely wasn’t any Mattie, but she wasn’t a shivering virgin anymore either. Men had touched her before. In lots of places.

But none of them had been Sam Mackenna.

Danger zone, girl. You are way behind the boundaries of what’s good for you here. Get out now, while you can still sprint back to the border. Get out while your important parts are still safe. Parts like your heart.…

“Captain Mackenna?” she finally murmured.

He gave in to a new smile. “Yes, Miss Thorne?”

“You’re so full of shit.”

He dropped his hands. Chortled harder. Making him laugh shouldn’t have felt so damn good…

“Well played, a leanbh. Well fuckin’ played.”

But it did—in the exact same way his comeback made her belly tingle, her heart race, and her libido gallop.

A leanbh.

It didn’t mean a thing. Or so she kept ordering at herself. Sam was still an outsider in this country and simply felt comfortable enough with her to sling the casual flattery. And Jen was just an outsider, period. He’d get that point soon enough—especially as Mattie sauntered near enough to wrap a hand to Sam’s shoulder.

Her nails, painted in a trendy reverse French, tightened on his broad muscle with their shiny ebony tips. In a voice as smooth and glossy, she crooned, “Everything all right here, Thorny-boo?”

“Sure.” Except for the ride back to the worst parts of adolescence. Thanks so much, Mat.

Mattie’s laugh was as perfect—and fake—as Marilyn Monroe’s on a press junket. “Sweetie, don’t pout. It brings out yucky lines in your face. Besides, I kind of like all those cute memories.”

Jen wasn’t sure whether to drive Mat insane by pouting harder or confuse the hell out of her by giggling as Sam purposely slid away from her grip. Fortunately, the man made it possible to stay in a neutral zone between the two by rendering his own reaction, tagged with an openly curious stare. “Memories?”

And God, was she glad for that neutral zone. Poor Sam had no way of knowing that his politeness had just sent a deeper dredge into her humiliating past, but she wasn’t about to give Mattie any more fuel for her gluttonous gloat.

“We all grew up together,” the woman explained, damn near pulling off the act of an affectionate school chum recalling “the good ol’ days.” “Jen was always the most adorable thing with her pratfalls. Then when her auntie came to pick her up from school, the woman would kiss all over her ‘boos.’ After a while…”

You and Viv turned it into the nickname I hated more than any other.

“I think he probably gets the idea,” Jen blurted instead. This evening was Tess’s special time, and she wasn’t about to taint any of it by dragging either of her sisters through the mud they enjoyed slinging. Besides, it was clear Sam did get the idea, evidenced by his tightening brows and hardening jawline. At once, Jen hated his new expression. She knew the beginning of pity when she saw it, and it was awful even on his beautiful features.

And no, it wasn’t any better when he growled, sounding wrathful and protective, before uttering, “Mattie.”

“Hmmm?” The woman didn’t flinch at a note of his warning tone. She was either really clueless or had the biggest pair of girl balls Jen had ever encountered.

“Cool it.”

“Please. Jen doesn’t mind. If anything, her little stumbles made us all adore her more. She used to send us all into fits, always walking around with her nose in some book. We often joked that the aliens could fly right over from Area 51, land in the school’s quad, and Thorny-boo would barely notice—until she took a header into the bushes. Or the wall. Or down the stairs. Even the teachers excused her from being tardy all the time, because—”

“Mattie.” A heftier dose of Sam’s tone finally silenced her. Still, Jen couldn’t pick stupidity or girl balls when the woman returned Sam’s glower with a blithe little grin. With those deep furrows in his forehead and heavy breaths flaring his nostrils, the man was even a little…scary.

In all the right ways.

All the most arousing ways…

She couldn’t go there. She wouldn’t. Her racing pulse and electrified nerve endings had much different ideas.

This was insane. This was incredible.

“Honey! Is everything okay?”

Tess to the rescue. Thank God. Her friend grabbed her by both hands, a huge grin on her face as she helped Jen gain her feet once more. That was also a damn good thing, since she now had the treat of viewing Tess from head to toe.

Her friend was nothing less than stunning in a red sleeveless sheath that hugged her cute figure, as well as showing off her shoulder-to-elbow tattoos. Tess’s latest ink, a heart emblazoned on the middle of her chest with Dan’s initials in the middle, peeked from the dress’s sweetheart neckline. Everyone would be able to see the full tattoo in a couple of weeks, thanks to the breathtaking cut of the cream-colored gown Tess had selected in which to become Mrs. Daniel Colton.

Mrs. Daniel Colton.

Holy…cow.

A smile split across Jen’s face now as she reassured her friend, “I’m fine, girlie. And you are gorgeous.” An understatement. Her friend’s beauty, so similar to Mattie’s on the surface, with a button nose and heart-shaped chin, went so much deeper than the surface. Tess had a soul as vivid as the color wash that turned her hair a blazing red and a generous heart that burst through in every sparkle of her brilliant green eyes.

And oh yeah: a bullshit meter that was wickedly accurate, even before her stint with the FBI. “Why do I not believe you?” the woman accused, clearly putting the meter to good use with the force of her conviction.

“Because you’re a dork,” Jen teased. “Come on, Tess. Chill. I just need a little more practice in these heels, which was exactly why I wore them tonight.”

“Well.” Mattie’s matter-of-fact tone was likely the closest she’d come to comfort. “At least nothing valuable seems broken.”

“Of course not.” The rejoinder came from Viv Lesange, who’d slipped in next to her sister. She clearly didn’t have the same designs on Sam as Mattie, being the girl who gravitated toward pretty boys who had twelve opinions on every trending Twitter tag—with a matching number of piercings. “Our Thorny-boo is made of Teflon.”

Jen didn’t bother with a glare. Tess flung a strong glare for them both. Mattie and Viv blinked back, as clueless as sticks of chalk, before Mattie offered, “Maybe it’s best that she rests. I’m more than happy to walk the aisle again so she can get how the heels are handled.”

“No.” Jen borrowed more of Sam’s growl. Owing a “favor” to Mattie Lesange, however small, would’ve been equal to jabbing a spike into her brain. “I’ll get it right,” she insisted, pushing off the pew she’d been using for some extra support. “I just need to—”

And right on schedule, her balance protested the Louboutins again. Just two seconds, and she teetered precariously…

Directly into Sam.