Taking a Shot (Montana Wolfpack) Read online

  And considering today’s lecture, a bit of a buzz was not what he should be aiming for.

  What he should do was be a good little team player, go up to his room, watch sports highlights until he fell asleep, and show up rested and ready for his first official day as part of the Wolfpack.

  Instead, Brett downed the dregs in his glass and banged it on the counter for a refill. “Busy night.”

  A bunch of people wearing suits jostled around him to catch Debbie’s eye and order drinks, but she was focused on him. Brett automatically propped his elbows wide on the bar, taking up more space, protecting his zone. Probably the defenseman in him.

  He was vindicated when the guy on his left turned as if he was going to say something about it, then sized Brett up, thought better of it, and left to find somewhere else to sit.

  “Marketing conference at the hotel this weekend,” Debbie told him. “They’ve all been cooped up in seminars for two days straight. People are ready to let loose.”

  Brett nodded at the information. It figured. He’d picked the hotel lounge because it was Friday night, and they were usually a lot quieter than a regular pub or bar. So much for wallowing in peace. He handed Debbie a twenty and waved off the change.

  Still, he hesitated after he picked up the tumbler. With a deft flick of his wrist, Brett set the amber liquid swirling in his glass and contemplated the sudden prick of his conscience.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He should go. Set the drink on the bar and head upstairs.

  But before he could take his own good advice, somebody bumped into him, and Jack Daniel’s sloshed over the rim of his glass.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

  Brett blinked at the sheer perfection of his attacker’s heart-shaped face.

  Or he could stay for a bit.

  “I was just trying to find an empty stool. Did it get on your jacket?”

  Fuck my jacket.

  She tucked a wave of golden-brown hair behind her ear and stared at his wrist, assessing the black leather of his cuff.

  His lack of response made her look up from her inspection, her skin flushed with embarrassment as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  Brett set down his glass, braced his elbow on the counter, and sucked the alcohol off his thumb.

  Then those pretty, shiny lips parted on a shaky exhalation, and his testosterone kicked up when her gaze stayed on his mouth for a beat too long.

  Take your time, gorgeous.

  Startled blue eyes flicked up to his, as if she was surprised to find herself staring.

  Then some drunk asshole in a suit intruded on the moment, pushing past her to grab the seat she still hadn’t taken.

  The shove, though incidental, knocked her into Brett’s arm again, breasts first. But thanks to the black leather, he got no sensory input from the contact.

  Fuck my jacket again.

  On the plus side, she was now invading his space in all the best ways. She smelled like strawberries, and he wondered if she tasted like them, too. Then he noticed that the deep V of her black sweater had shifted just enough to reveal a sliver of the red-lace bra hidden beneath it. Jesus. Brett shifted on the bar stool. Maybe a night of sports highlights and falling asleep wasn’t what he wanted after all.

  “You okay?” he asked, mostly so she’d look at him again.

  She raised her head, and he watched the slide of her shiny brown hair, fisting his hands against the urge to touch it.

  “I’m fine.” She realized she was still pressed against him and pulled back as if he’d burned her.

  He’d like to make her burn, all right.

  Her eyes were already darting around the bar. Looking for somewhere else to sit? Or someone else to sit with?

  Neither option sat well with Brett. He raised his voice a little to be heard over the din. “Hey, man. That seat’s taken.”

  Fear raced across her face and her eyes snapped to his. She shook her head. “You don’t have to…”

  But it was too late, because the douchebag was already turning around.

  “That’s funny, because I don’t see your name on it.”

  The smug smile died on his lips when Brett shifted on his stool to face him, making it clear which one of them outweighed the other by about thirty pounds of muscle.

  His pretty drink spiller pressed her back against the bar, as if she’d rather be anywhere else. She didn’t need to worry, though. He’d be good. He couldn’t afford to be anything but good. After that lecture, starting a bar brawl would be career suicide. And while he might be impulsive, he wasn’t stupid.

  “Well, you wouldn’t, because I already have a seat. That one’s hers.”

  The guy looked at her, did a double-take, and Brett recognized the flare of interest in the man’s eyes as they darted from her wavy brown hair to her soft lips to the creamy swell of her cleavage. Brett rested his forearm along the counter behind her, not touching her, but making his presence known, and he watched as the guy finally registered the warning sign. That’s right. Keep moving, jackass.

  “Sorry, uh…ma’am. Didn’t realize.” He looked at Brett, and his eyes were a little less glassy, as if the adrenaline had burned off some of the alcohol. He held up his hands as he stood. “Wasn’t looking to start anything.”

  Brett watched him walk away, enjoying the nervous glance the dude sent over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  He tipped his chin at the empty seat.

  “Thank you. It was completely unnecessary, but I appreciate it.”

  She settled herself on the stool far more primly than he’d expect from a woman in black stiletto knee-high boots.

  “Excuse me, can I get a…”

  The bartender breezed past her with two bottles of beer in her hands.

  “Sorry, but could I just order…”

  Debbie didn’t even break stride as she headed back to the till.

  “I’ll have…” The other bartender, an older guy, was long gone before she added, “…what he’s having.”

  With a sigh, she folded her arms on the bar and rested her chin on her hands.

  He could have rescued her. Debbie would arrive in a split-second if he crooked a finger, of that he had no doubt. But Brett found he didn’t want to help her quite as much as he wanted to help himself.

  Calling himself every kind of bastard, he slid his drink along the smooth, shiny surface of the bar until it entered her field of vision.

  She angled her face up, those clear blue eyes wide and questioning, giving her the appearance of a doll—one of those fancy ones that used to sit on a shelf at Mrs. Krakowski’s house, the old neighbor lady who used to watch him when his dad was at the bar and his mom had better stuff to do. The dolls he wasn’t supposed to touch. Wasn’t supposed to play with.

  Brett had never been too good with rules.

  “You said you wanted what I’m having.”

  She sat up, revealing an even wider swath of the bra that was affecting him far more than his whiskey. “Oh! That’s okay. I mean, it’s nothing personal, but a girl can’t be too careful when she’s alone in a bar and…”

  Brett shrugged and downed the liquor in his glass. He’d barely raised his hand before Debbie appeared to pour him a refill. She smiled at him as she tucked the twenty into her bra and disappeared. Brett pushed the new drink toward her. “For you.”

  She looked at him in awe, and he liked it. A lot.

  “How did you do that?”

  He shrugged with feigned modesty. “What can I say? I’ve got the touch.”

  Their gazes snagged for a long moment, and then she reached for the drink.

  He was impressed when she drained the glass in one gulp.

  Then she ruined the badassery with a grimace and a coughing fit that went on long enough to draw a bit of an audience.

  “Oh God, what was that?” she gasped, wiping her watering eyes.

  “Whiskey.” Brett couldn’t help his chuckle.
“Not much of a drinker, huh?”

  With a final cough, she readjusted herself on the stool and straightened her sweater. The patch of red lace that had been taunting him, tying him into knots, disappeared with a tug from her long, slim fingers.

  “Um, I usually stick to slushy drinks. Something with an umbrella, or a piece of fruit on a plastic sword. But I’m trying to be adventurous.”

  Adventurous. He liked the sound of that.

  “You here for the conference?”

  “Yes.” She frowned—fucking adorable. “I mean no. Kind of? It’s complicated.”

  “All the best stuff in life is.”

  Her look said she disagreed. “Simplicity has its charms.”

  “Let’s keep it simple then. What’s your name?”

  She opened her mouth to answer, but those expressive eyes of hers slid over the length of him and she changed her mind. “No names,” she decided, igniting fire along his nerve endings.

  He was beginning to like what that might mean for the rest of his night. “Okay, Red. No names.”

  That little frown again. “Red?” she asked, obviously confused at the nickname, completely oblivious that all he wanted in life right now was to pull that sweater off her and dissolve the scarlet lace that covered her breasts with his tongue.

  “Like Little Red Riding Hood?”

  “Kinda like that,” he averred.

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “Does that make you the big bad wolf?”

  Brett rasped a hand across his stubbly jaw in contemplation. “Depends. You looking for someone to huff…”

  She swallowed, and the delicate muscles of her neck mesmerized him.

  “…and puff…”

  She bit her lip, and his world narrowed to her mouth.

  “…and blow your house down?”

  God, she was pretty when she blushed.

  “Wrong fairy tale,” she corrected in a soft, breathy voice that made him want to knock the air out of her lungs again. And again. Until she screamed with pleasure.

  Brett leaned closer to her. “Doesn’t have to be.”

  Her exhale was shaky, and his pulse jacked up in response.

  The punch of lust was so strong, it took another moment before he realized the predicament he was in.

  He was half hard in the middle of a bar full of office drones, and using a fairy tale as a pickup line. She had him all spun around, and yeah, he liked it. And yeah, he wanted to blow off steam, especially after the mindfuck of a day he’d had.

  She was trying to be adventurous, she said, but she lived in a world where that meant chatting up dudes in suits in a hotel lounge. She was a flirting lightweight. She couldn’t handle her whiskey. She was all wrong for him.

  No, she was fucking perfect.

  But he was all wrong for her, and the fact that she didn’t even know it was proof that he should send her on her way. He had a big day tomorrow. The morning skate started at eight sharp and was followed by a meeting with the head of PR to get him presentable and interview-ready for the fancy silent auction fundraiser they were showing him off at tomorrow night. He couldn’t mess it up. He was supposed to do the right thing. Grow up. Be good.

  She set her chin with resolve, raised those blue eyes to his, so full of invitation that he had to concede he might have underestimated her flirting skills a little. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  Oh, hell yeah, he did.

  He could be good tomorrow.

  Chapter Three

  Erect nipples? Check. Shaking thighs? Check.

  And yet, somehow, she’d managed to follow the sexiest man she’d ever seen in real life across the soaring marble lobby and into the posh elevator, where they were currently standing two feet from one another, both facing forward, as the doors slid shut.

  Chelsea did her best not to fidget. She texted Shanna and made sure Find a Friend was turned on. Then she tucked her phone back in her tiny purse and sent a covert glance at the man beside her, watching as he hit the button for the top floor.

  The big, bad wolf. She’d said it as a joke, but then he’d leaned in close, looking really big and promising to be really bad, and she’d combusted. He was a wolf, all right. A wolf slumming it in a bar full of sheep in ties and loafers.

  Black leather, white T-shirt, worn jeans. His hair a brown so deep, it had passed for black in the dim lounge lighting, short on the sides, all unruly curls on top. Eyes a stormy gray-blue and dark stubble that made his angular jaw look even more wolfish.

  She’d gone shopping for a tricycle and ended up with a Harley.

  And she didn’t have a clue what to do with him.

  Her skin prickled when he turned his head. Unlike her, there was nothing covert about the way he stood there, openly assessing her. She was torn between the desire that his gaze was stoking and the fear that she’d be found wanting.

  This is why you came here tonight, she lectured herself, an attempt to slow her racing heart. Just run through the list.

  It was a trick she used before all her big fundraising events to calm herself down.

  Locate a sexy, interesting man. Check.

  Engage in an intense flirting session. Well, he’d done more of the heavy lifting on that bullet point than she had, but yes. Check.

  Acquire a hotel room. He seemed to have that under control, too. So, check.

  Which brought her to number four on her list: Commence sexy times.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  Her nerves flooded back in like the tide.

  “What?” Was he bailing on her? He couldn’t bail on her! They hadn’t completed her checklist yet.

  “Look, Red. You seem like a nice girl.”

  Nice. That was the kiss of death. I can be bad. Give me a chance.

  “And I’m flattered as hell that you want to have your way with me.”

  She did. She really did.

  “But usually in a situation like ours, there would be some foreplay by this point—your basic making out, maybe some torn clothing if things were going really well. Instead, you’re looking at me like maybe you’ve changed your mind, and I’m…”

  He sighed, then ran a hand back and forth over his hair, mussing it up in a preview of what it would look like once she got her hands all over him. Her palms prickled in anticipation.

  “Look, don’t take this wrong, because there is nothing I want more than to push you up against that wall and feel your curves all over me, but I’m in kind of a bad place right now. Cursed, some people might say. And I gotta wonder if maybe this is one of those situations that we should just chalk up to shitty timing. But honestly, what the hell kind of thing is that to be thinking when a beautiful, sexy woman wants to take you upstairs?”

  Oh geez. Even him trying to brush her off had her closer to orgasm than Dustin had ever managed.

  Dangerous men with big shoulders didn’t say sweet things like that. Didn’t put a girl at ease by confessing that he had some doubts too. Didn’t turn her on even more by not trying to play it cool.

  She’d found the ultimate prospect for her foray over to the dark side, and she was about to lose everything due to cowardice.

  So Chelsea did the only thing she could—she commenced sexy times. Reaching forward, she grabbed two fistfuls of leather and pulled him close enough to seize his lips in a kiss that spiralled out of control so quickly, his earlier talk of torn clothing was this close to becoming prophecy.

  And…check.

  God, his mouth was perfect. She was obviously acquiring a taste for whiskey, because the hint of it on his tongue was almost as delicious as the hard strength of his body.

  His hand came up to brace the back of her head, and she pressed against him as he licked into her mouth, kissing her with such raw passion that she forgot to breathe.

  It was everything she wanted, everything she’d been looking for tonight.

  He dragged his hand from her hair to her cheek, and then his touch was gone and the pressure of his lips decr
eased. She tried to follow his lead, to pull back, but despite her best intentions, she didn’t get more than an inch from his mouth. Her chest heaved as she stood there, clinging to his jacket, wondering how the night could possibly get any better.

  He licked his lips and she felt it in her gut. “So, I guess we’re doing this, then?”

  She managed some semblance of a nod. “I guess we are.”

  Then he growled low in his throat, and his big hands cupped her ass, hoisting her up his body. It was as though she weighed nothing, and it was sexy as hell as he spun and shoved her back against the elevator wall with enough force that she groaned at the contact. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he opened his mouth over hers and his tongue plunged inside. The mix of dominance and desperation turned her on so damn much. Everything about him was so much better than she’d planned.

  He pinned her to the wall with his hips, and the press of his erection against her had Chelsea writhing in an attempt to get closer.

  This. This was how he’d one-up the kissing.

  His big hands cradled her face as he claimed her mouth, his chest crushing her breasts, and she moaned as she held onto his shoulders for dear life, the only solid thing in a world spinning deliciously out of control.

  His hips bucked against her at the sound.

  Well, not the only solid thing.

  The thought made her giggle against his lips, and he pulled back, searching her eyes even as his fingers flexed deeper into her hair. “Are you sure you’re real?”

  She understood what he was asking. This giddy, lusty euphoria that made her head spin and her heart rev made everything feel like a dream. A sexy, dirty dream.

  She nodded, loving the way his eyes darkened in response, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, claiming his lips with her own.

  She groaned her disappointment when he wrestled his mouth from hers, only then surfacing enough from her hormonal haze to realize the elevator door had slid open.

  “Jesus, Red. You’re killing me,” he muttered, pulling her away from the wall. But instead of setting her down, he just strode out of the elevator, shifting her slightly so that his left arm held her while he reached into his back pocket with his right. Chelsea kissed the stubble of his jaw, licking down his neck as he wrestled the key card from his wallet and unlocked the door of his hotel room.