“Is this seat taken?” I turn my head, my mouth tipping up with a wry grin when I see the source of the inquiry.
Gilly Nelson—Jax Cook’s sister-in-law, for all intents and purposes—stands there in all her stunning glory.
She’s five foot ten, with her long blonde hair gathered in a high ponytail, sparkling dark blue eyes, and well-maintained curves for days. She’s stunning—beyond so. It’s a sight I’ve enjoyed every chance I’ve had in the past twelve hours, especially earlier tonight when she wore that clingy black dress made of a netted, sequined fabric that would’ve had any unattached red-blooded man fantasizing about all the ways they could get to what’s underneath it.
I know this to be true because that’s exactly what I’ve been doing all night. And since we’re both in Vegas for my best friend, Jamie, and his fiancée, April’s, joint bachelor/bachelorette party, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t entertained thoughts of proving the “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” adage to be true—preferably with the woman currently raking her gaze up and down my body.
I stand and pull out the barstool beside me. “A gentleman,” she murmurs. “A rare find, some might say.” Her lips twitch, her eyes dancing.
I shrug. “I’m simply the man my mama raised me to be—and my father made damn sure I became.”
Once she’s seated, I push her chair in and sit beside her, lifting my arm in the air to signal a bartender.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, tilting her body toward me, her thigh brushing against mine as she goes.
“Indeed. I thought everyone was calling it a night.”
She quirks a brow, her lips twitching. “You mean the couples who have anything but sleep on their minds?”
I groan and drop my head on the bar.
“What?” she asks with a sly smile that gets my attention below the belt.
I turn my head and meet her eyes: “I’m rooming with Cohen. Now I really don’t want this night to end.”
Gilly snorts, biting her lip as if to stop herself from laughing. I chuckle, and she loses the fight, soon joining me.
“Well, how about you let me buy you another drink . . .” She nods at the twenty-year-old malt in my hand, “. . . and I can help you avoid any awkward interruptions,” she whispers. “Because I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t matter how close you are with someone, no one wants to walk in on post-coital bliss, solo or otherwise.”
Well, damn. Now there’s only one person’s post-coital anything I’m thinking of, and it’s the woman in front of me.
This is the first time it’s been just the two of us without any of our family or friends around. So far, all I know about Gillian Nelson is that she’s Ronnie’s older sister, and she knows how to wear the hell out of a classy dress with Louboutins I want digging into my back.
Before I get to making that particular fantasy a reality, I’m going to find out more about this golden-haired goddess.
I sit up straight, catching the bartender finally moving our way out of the corner of my eye.
“How about I buy the drinks, and you find us an empty booth so you can dazzle me with your charm and undoubtedly stunning wit for the rest of the night?” I ask, quirking my brow.
Her eyes flash. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.” She leans in, resting her hand on my shoulder and bringing her mouth close to my ear. “But don’t feel you have to play it safe and only compliment my personality and intellect, Ez. I didn’t wear this dress, and these shoes not to be noticed and appreciated, and I haven’t missed your continued appreciation all night. Don’t make me miss it now.” She brushes her lips against my cheek in a barely-there kiss before succeeding in knocking me—figuratively—on my ass. She straightens, wraps her fingers around my tumbler, and meets my wide stare before lifting the glass to her lips and downing the rest of the scotch like it’s water. She winks at me. “I’ll have another one of those if you will.”
Then she’s slipping off the stool, and my head turns to watch her—and her amazing ass—walk across the room toward the black leather booths lining the front windows. Freaking gorgeous.
A tap of knuckles on the bar knocks me from my impure thoughts, and I meet the amused gaze of the bartender who’s leaning his elbows onto the bar, his eyes drifting from me to the same sight I was just enjoying.
I look back to Gilly just in time to see her slide into a booth, her dress riding up as she does, giving me a glimpse of lace-topped stockings and a garter. Damn! Just the thought that she’s been wearing that all night has me groaning under my breath. I can’t look away. “Make it two of the same.”
“Lucky bastard,” he mutters.