Dare Me

Rafe Steele gazed at his two older brothers and bit back his instinct to bolt. Of course, he held his ground like he protected his unit. Another lesson he learned from the cradle. When his brothers scented weakness, they attacked accordingly.

“You want me to what?” he asked again.

Odd how all of them seemed to belong to three different families. As the oldest, Rick always dominated both the conversation and the scene, and his resemblance to Thor, as Tara, his girlfriend phrased it, didn’t hurt his image. Long golden locks, green-gold eyes, and a brutish build caused a person to think he’d stepped from a comic book. Of course, Rafe held that comment back. The last time he’d teased Rick about Thor-like powers, he almost caught a black eye. Definitely no sense of humor there.

Rome acted just as bad. He belonged in the George Clooney camp, as his girlfriend, Sloane, confided, with his buzzed prematurely gray hair, blue eyes, and a confidence and charm that made females drop their panties. As one of the best dealers in Vegas, Rome consistently threatened Rick’s command. Of course, since he’d also recently fallen into the love entrapment, his domestic bliss softened him a bit. He seemed to completely agree with his brother, and that left Rafe as the focus of this intervention.

The other men exchanged knowing glances.

“We want you to book a date through FANTA-C,” Rick said.

Rafe struggled to make sense of his words over the familiar casino noises of ringing slots, heavy drinking, and loud rivalry.

“The place you both ended up meeting the loves of your life?”

Rick nodded. Rome looked suspicious, wondering if he was poking fun at his brothers’ sudden slide into commitment. He kind of was.

Rafe gave a snort of laughter and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. “You’re fucking nuts. Both of you. I have no intention or desire to settle down.”

Rick huffed. “We’re not saying the date is going to turn into more than one night. Yeah, we got lucky, but it was coincidence. Both of us agree you’ve been a bit out of it since you moved to Vegas. You keep to yourself. Don’t date much anymore. Something’s up.”

He waved his brothers’ concern away and tossed back his shot in one stinging swallow. Surprised by their insight, he admitted he’d been restless and agitated since moving across the US to join them in their legacy of dealing cards. He’d tried living in Atlantic City when he returned from Afghanistan, but the local newshounds battered him on a daily basis. When the women started camping out to make up ruses to bed a real-time hero, he packed up his belongings and moved on. He craved a clean slate and a place where he could get back to what he loved. Dealing cards. Alone. By choice.

His brothers thought he suffered from war stress—specifically post-traumatic stress disorder. Sure, he’d experienced some wicked nightmares, but his uneasiness and secrecy had nothing to do with his military past.

If only they knew the truth.

An intriguing idea skipped through his mind with various scenarios. “Tell me again how this whole thing works.”

Rome slid a business card across the table. The card was black and gold, with FANTA-C scrawled in embossed lettering on the front. On the back, a phone number was listed. “You call that number. Use my name as your referral, because Rick already used his referral for me. Fill out your paperwork, and if they find you a match, you get to enjoy one perfect night.”

He frowned, turning the card around in his hand. A weird shiver raced down his spine. “This isn’t some sex club that’s illegal, is it? Cause I’m not into that shit.”

Rome gave a suffering sigh. “No, we’re not into that shit either, dude.”

Rick jumped in. “A friend told me about the agency. Some want sex, some don’t. It’s whatever you need. And you’re not guaranteed a match. They only fit you with a candidate that wants the same exact things you do.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

Rome elbowed him in the ribs. “Why do I think you have something wicked planned? Probably involving a pretty sub tied to the bed.”

“Like Sloane?” Rafe asked.

Immediately, Rome’s face darkened at the mention of his sex life. “Back off, bro.”

Rafe released a shout of laughter. “Priceless, man. I’m just joking around—you know I adore Sloane.” But Rome’s assumption that he practiced as a Dom punched his gut. His two older brothers were experienced in BDSM, and long-term Dominants who finally found a committed submissive. Rafe had never confessed the truth of his real desires. They’d never understand, so he continued to let them think he was also a Dominant.

“And this is completely confidential?” he asked.

“Yes. Oh, you have to burn the card after you call. It’s protocol,” Rick said.

Rafe held up the card. “Then how’d you get this?”

“Once the match is complete, they send you one card for referral.”

Rafe laughed. “Doesn’t this seem like a lot of work to get a perfect date?”

His brothers shared a meaningful glance. “It’s worth it,” they both said together.

Damn, this got more interesting by the moment. They weren’t the type to believe in mysterious hook-ups that turn into love, so maybe he’d give FANTA-C a shot. He’d get his brothers off his back, and finally be able to act out one of his secret sexual fantasies. No one ever had to know.

“You paying for it?” he asked.

Rick shook his head and took another swig of beer. “Bastard.”

“Well, are you?”

“Yeah, we’re paying for it. Consider this our housewarming present a few months late.”

Rafe grinned. “Fine, I’ll call.

***

Summer Preston ordered a second shot of tequila and watched the show on stage at Strip It. The sexy lyrics of Prince’s Get Off pounded through the air while the stripper gyrated her hips and ripped off her leather vest. Her naked breasts spilled out and the crowd screamed. Her skin glittered with silver sparkles, and she flung her whip toward her audience with a teasing flick that made them go wild. Summer narrowed her eyes thoughtfully on the instrument that provided both pleasure and pain. Hmm, would it be too much for the first night?

Yeah. She’d skip the whips and flogger. At least for tonight.

She scanned the entrance. Excitement jumped in her belly. They’d both agreed meeting in the suite would be postponed until they decided if they were compatible. When her cousin told her about FANTA-C and told her to call the number, she’d been doubtful. Summer didn’t do one night encounters, or believe in the perfect date. Over the years, her luck with finding the correct match on her own proved…difficult. Most men switched from arousal to horror when they caught a glance of her leather catsuit and domineering growl. Pete had lunged for the door so fast he’d literally tripped on the rug and fell face first.

Awkward.

She shook her head at the memory. Nope, she’d suggested meeting at the strip club first to make sure they clicked. She’d been specific in her requirements, and thought of this as her first real learning experience in the BDSM world. Hell, maybe the reality wouldn’t even come close to her fantasies and she could go back to normal vanilla sex. After all, her reputation and her image fed the girl next-door persona. Her few visits to a BDSM club scared the crap out of her, and her forays into toys and certain internet sites never snagged a willing partner. At least she learned the importance of safety and equipment, but never experienced her own personal sub for the night. She needed to face the truth: strong, dominant males attracted her in the real world, but she craved a man’s surrender in the bedroom. That combination rarely existed. The possibility of experiencing such a scene for one night tempted her. Pricey, but worth it.

So, she’d called the number and burned the card. Two weeks later, they found a match.

If he showed.

She tapped a scarlet red fingernail on the bar.

And waited.

Rafe pushed his way into the club and took stock of the surroundings. Only a few months in Vegas proved the city boasted the best strip clubs in the country. The unique mix of class, club scene, and nakedness pulled in record crowds. The three main bars were strategically placed around the room. One snaked around the perimeter of the stage, and the others huddled in dark corners, which lent to the aura of sensuality and privacy. The catwalk glittered with vivid neon colors and sparkles, and flashed in time to whatever music currently played. Skimpily dressed waiters and waitresses balanced trays of cocktails, as they shifted around onlookers watching the trio of half-clothed women doing a mock up of the Flashdance skit. When water splashed the front rows, cheers rang through the air. Two dance floors on the second level looked over the stage, and catered to the club crowd.

Damn, he loved Vegas. He headed toward the bar in the far back, where they’d agreed to meet. He’d been impressed with her rendezvous choice, agreeing the suite was too personal for an introduction. A sensual feast of visual and physical stimuli, Strip It urged sexual explorations to the fullest. He hoped the scene proved a good precursor to his evening.

He only had a general description of his date, choosing to forego the photo, as he wanted to be surprised. He relied on two factors only. She sat at the corner left barstool and had blonde hair. He expected a sexual vixen dressed in leather with a kick ass personality.

Instead, his gaze cut straight to an angel.

Crap.

She was all-wrong.

The woman sat at the bar with a shot at her elbow, her jeans and simple white T-shirt fading into the crowd of peacocks mingling around her. His heart sank. A Dominatrix? Impossible. He’d eat her up in one bite and she’d be screaming for the door. Fighting his temper, he clenched his jaw. Attractive, yes. Her shimmering white-blonde hair gleamed like a halo in a ponytail. Big, china blue eyes dominated her softly curved face. A generous bow curved her lower lip and she had a killer body, evident in the perfect hourglass waist, small, high breasts with perky nipples, and a luscious ass sitting atop the red leather barstool. He studied her white Keds and almost groaned in defeat. Not even a spiked heel in sight. He was screwed.

And not in a good way.

FANTA-C had flopped. Now what was he going to do? With a deep, resigned breath, he closed the distance between them.

“Summer?” His tongue stumbled over her name, the image of a sweet, sunny girl next door-type adding to his disgust.

She stared up at him with frank appraisal. She didn’t answer for a while. Surprise coursed through him as those baby blues started at the top of his head, lowered to his chest, and scanned his arms. Then dropped.

He hardened when her hot gaze caressed him between the legs, and he shifted uneasily. Who the hell is this woman?

Completing her inspection, she nodded her approval. “Rafe, I assume?” Her voice was cool. “You’ll do fine.”

His mouth snapped closed. “Uh, glad to hear it.” A short silence settled between them and she made no move to speak. Just lifted the shot glass and tipped it, then slid her tongue over her plump lower lip to grab the last drop of liquid. He imagined the sting of the tequila hot down her throat, chased by the tart lime she sucked on. His cock strained to full attention. God, how firm would her lips grasp it? Sexual attraction jumped between them like a live wire. He just needed to confirm she was strong enough to handle him. He motioned toward the two empty shot glasses. “Potent stuff. Wouldn’t want you drunk on our first date.”

The wicked grin she shot him transformed her face from angel to Eve. “Don’t worry, I have a high tolerance.” His gaze roamed over her petite frame and he lifted a brow. She laughed. “Let’s share a drink and decide if we want to take this to the suite. Beer?”

“Jack Daniels.”

“Nice.” She lifted her arm for the bartender. He let her order the drinks, deciding to hold back further judgment until he got a better reading. So far, the woman fascinated the hell out of him. They clinked glasses. “To a memorable night,” she toasted. The shot disappeared down her throat without a flinch and she leaned forward. “What do you think?”

His lips quirked in amusement. “About what?”

“About me. About us. About tonight.”

He studied her from over his shot glass. “You’re not what I expected when I signed on for this.”

Instead of being offended, she nodded glumly. “You expected leather and heels, huh? I’m more like the wholesome girl next door. Is it the Keds?”

He sputtered with laughter. “Yeah, the sneakers didn’t help. Look, this is new to me. I come from a background where I yell jump, and a bunch of men ask ‘how high.’ It won’t be easy for me to just snap to attention, and I don’t want to intimidate you.”

She raised her chin. Pure challenge sparked in her eyes. “I understand, and this is all new to me, too. That’s why I didn’t want to meet you at a club dressed to the nines. I can’t help that I look like this. This is who I am day to day. I like a man to buy me dinner and open the door. I love knowing he’s stronger than me, can kick some major ass, and won’t back down from a good, old-fashioned bar room fight. But in the bedroom, I want to be in charge. At least, I think I do.”

He sucked in a breath at her honesty. Hmm, a bit of a spitfire in a nice, neat package. Isn’t that what he craved? A woman who wouldn’t be afraid to tell him what she wanted, and what she wanted him to do? He was sick to death of being a leader every waking moment. Domination came easily to him, always had. In school, his classmates gravitated toward him for captain; he’d always been picked by his teachers to lead group discussions. When he joined the military, his natural confidence and quest for perfection pushed him to the head of the class. He’d risen quickly up the ranks, until he found himself in the scorching desert, leading a brigade of men in war. Every order equaled life or death, with no room for error.

His decision not to re-up changed the game. He went back to Atlantic City with an open mind, and enjoyed getting back to his main love—dealing cards. But when a long line of women with endless needs began draining his energy instead of fueling it, he knew something was wrong. His mind tired of doing all the work, and his body began to suffer. When a gorgeous woman who wanted to be subservient begged for his command and his cock never hardened, he’d gone into hibernation mode.

Maybe he needed Summer Preston.

Maybe.

He raked his gaze over her figure. Tipped back his glass and swallowed the burning liquid. “Let’s go.”

She shot to her feet and pressed a room key in his hands. “Room 310. Venetian.

Give me a fifteen-minute head start.”

He nodded and watched her disappear into the crowd.