Betting on Wolves (Shifter Country Wolves Book 2) (7 page)

He’s kind of right,
Kirsten thought, then closed her eyes and shook her head slightly.

You have known him for five hours. He cannot be devoted to you.

“Just do me a favor and don’t imagine me throwing up,” she said. “It’s not exactly sexy.”

His green eyes glinted as he leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Who cares?” he asked. “I thought we weren’t getting any tonight.”

Kirsten laughed and felt herself go red at the same time.

The truth was, she was less certain about that with every passing hour. She wasn’t
normally
the type who could just get it on with someone she’d met that day, but she’d also never met anyone like Houston and Jack before: warm, funny, hot, and
excellent
sports about karaoke.

Houston came back with pale pink drinks and sat one in front of each of them, then slid onto a stool himself.

“You sign up to ride the bull yet?” he asked Jack.

“Nope,” said Jack. “You?”

“I wasn’t the champion,” said Houston.

“This isn’t a tequila sunrise, is it?” Jack asked.

“Greyhound,” said Houston. “I know you don’t do tequila after midnight.”

“Cheers,” said Jack, and the three of them clinked their glasses together.

“I have an idea,” said Kirsten.

Another country western song kicked on the jukebox, and the guys at the table behind them whooped and started singing along.

“Is it more karaoke?” asked Houston. “This is more my speed. I think I know the words to this one.”

She pointed at Jack.

“You ride the mechanical bull,” she said. “And if you last for less than eight seconds, you show me your scar. Eight seconds is the rodeo time, right?”

Normally she wouldn’t try to badger a man into taking his shirt off, but tonight was a special exception.

“Yes, it’s the rodeo time,” Jack said, teasing her. He looked over at the bull like he was considering it, but then looked back at Kirsten, making his face more serious.

“If I get on that, I
will
throw up,” he said. “And then they’ll kick us all out, because it’s a bitch to clean those mats, and then we’ll have to walk back past the Elvis who doesn’t know much about Elvis, and we might be drunk enough by then to make some rash decisions.”

“I don’t know,” said Kirsten. “I bet it’s pretty romantic to get married by Elvis as he sings Beatles songs with a terrible accent in the basement strip mall of a casino.”

She took a drink through the narrow cocktail straw.

“Besides, I was led here with false promises,” she teased. “What about you, Houston? If you manage it, he shows me the scar.”

“That’s the opposite of what you said before,” Jack pointed out.

“You two are
very
exacting about taking off your shirt for a drunk girl,” she said, pretending to pout. “I can’t believe I have to do more than ask.”

“Have you tried saying
please
yet?” asked Jack. He leaned back against the red vinyl booth, his plaid shirt falling against his chest, his belt buckle glinting in the soft light. For the first time, Kirsten got a good look at it: a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike.

“She’s staring at my crotch,” Jack told Houston. “I feel objectified.”

“You poor thing,” said Houston.

“I was looking at your belt buckle,” Kirsten said, defensively.

“Sure,” said Jack, winking at her.

She glanced down again, this time definitely
not
looking at his belt buckle.

“All right, fine,” she said at last. “Jack, can I
please
see your scar?”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Come on,” she said.

“It’s gonna cost you.”

“You just said—”

“I asked if you’d tried that. I didn’t say it would work.”

“This is unfair,” Kirsten said. “I protest this treatment.”

She leaned back against the booth and her left hand found Houston’s thigh. She looked down. She hadn’t realized he was so close, but she didn’t move her hand away, either. Under her hand, she felt the rock-hard muscles of his thigh stretching the denim.

It felt like a river of liquid fire — lava, was that lava? She couldn’t remember — was traveling straight down her center, from her lungs down to her core.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. Attraction, yes; this sudden, mind-melting
desire
, no. Kirsten swallowed hard and tried to maintain her composure.

“What’s on your belt buckle?” she asked Houston, her lips curving up into a smile.

He covered it with one hand.

“Guess,” he said.

Instead, Kirsten made a face and grabbed the hand, trying to peel it back from the belt buckle, working her own fingers underneath his so she could lift his hand up, brushing along the denim just below the belt buckle as she did.

She could have
sworn
that she saw something stiffen underneath, but then Houston had both of her wrists locked in one of his big hands, held in front of her, his other hand still covering the buckle.

Kirsten couldn’t stop giggling.

“Come on,” she said. “Please?”

Houston and Jack exchanged a glance, and then Houston moved his hand, revealing a shiny buckle with a turquoise mountain, green stone trees, a sliver of a moon, and in the foreground, a wolf howling.

“It’s the Cascadian flag,” Houston said. “With a wolf added.”

He let her wrists go, instead taking her left hand in his and simply leaving them entwined on the table.

Kirsten narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out how to frame the question that she had.

Can I just ask if they’re wolf shifters?
she wondered.
They have to be, right? They kind of look wolfy, and they’re partners, and Houston has a wolf on his belt...

“Are you...” she started.

“Wolves?” finished Jack. He took another sip of his drink, draining it, and sat the glass on the table.

Kirsten just nodded.

Without warning, Houston threw his head back and howled, and Jack joined in.

“AWOOOOOOO!”

Kirsten gasped, then laughed. The entire bar seemed to stop and stare, and Kirsten gave everyone a weak wave and a half shrug as if to say,
hey, gotta howl it out sometimes, right?

“Yeah,” Jack finally said.

“Grrrr,” added Houston with a wink.

“So you can shift,” she said.

“Of course,” said Jack.

“That’s the point,” said Houston.

“Can I see?”

“Not now,” Houston said, laughing. “It’s generally frowned upon to turn into a wild animal in a fine dining establishment like this one.”

“Oh, come on,” said Kirsten. “You just howled.”

“Different,” said Jack. “Besides, when you shift, you wind up naked.”

That’s fine
, Kirsten thought immediately.

“You won’t show me your scar, you won’t shift,” said Kirsten. “I must just be here for the free drinks.”

With that she grabbed her Greyhound and drained it.

“I’ll show you my scar,” said Jack. “You’re just drunk and keep getting distracted from the price negotiations.”

“I’m here now,” said Kirsten. “Glass is empty, I’m focused totally on price. I’ve got a phone and a credit card.”

“Keep your stuff,” Jack said.

He leaned forward.

“All I want is a kiss.”

Kirsten laughed.

“This whole time, that was all I had to do to see the scar?” Kirsten asked, twisting in her seat, looking up at Jack. She was pretty sloshed, though dimly aware that maybe her better judgement wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

“C’mere,” she said, and grabbed the front of his shirt in one hand, pulling his face down to hers.

She did manage to smash their noses together at first, but Jack corrected skillfully, his mouth working against hers. His hand cupped the side of her face as he kissed her hungrily. Kirsten moved both of her hands to Jack’s torso, feeling the ridges of muscle there, haphazardly grabbing his shirt and trying to bring him closer to her.

I’m in trouble
, she realized, closing her teeth around Jack’s bottom lip and biting gently.

He growled at her softly, and Kirsten obediently opened her mouth again, his tongue on her lip, then inside her mouth, then wrestling with hers.

I can’t stop myself
, she thought.
I don’t even want to.
 

Jack ended the kiss and stroked her cheek, looking down into Kirsten’s eyes.

Then he spoke.

“You’ve got lipstick everywhere,” he whispered.

“So do you,” she whispered back, feeling lost in a haze.

Then Jack’s gaze flicked to somewhere above her head, and he grinned wickedly.

“Want to lick it off?” he asked Houston.

“Gross,” said Houston, as he leaned around Kirsten and kissed Jack hard, just inches in front of her face.

Yes,
was all Kirsten could think, her hand on Houston’s thigh again. He covered it with his, holding it there with more force than necessary.

“I’ve got scars,” he offered, sitting back.

It took Kirsten a minute to remember what the hell he was talking about.

“Same price?” she finally asked.

He didn’t nod, he just kissed her, his rough stubble tickling her face. He locked one hand in her hair and put the other on her knee, his touch so hot that Kirsten thought it might burn her.

When the kiss finally ended, Kirsten felt like she didn’t know up from down anymore. The only thing she could think was: we have to go somewhere.

Now
.

Except Jack was unbuttoning his shirt.

Right here, right now?
Kirsten thought for a split second.

Then she saw the thick, pinkish-white scar that stretched the diagonal length of his torso, ending in a shiny pad about two inches below his nipple.

She gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.

“Oh my God,” she said, her eyes wide.

I want to lick it
, she thought.

Instead, she reached out one hand and ran her forefinger along the scar. She started at the circle on his chest, and let her finger trail down, until the scar ended, almost on his hip bone.

“This was all one steer?” she asked, letting her hand linger over him, running her finger up and down the end of the scar, through the light line of hair that ran down his belly and into the waistband of his jeans.

Jack nodded.

“It took about two seconds, maybe less,” he said. “It threw me, I got up, and
bam
. Unzipped me, then stuck a horn right through.”

He twisted in the booth, moving his shirt out of the way so she could see the round scar on his back, this one only the size of a quarter. Kirsten touched that one too, her fingers exploring the smooth surface, the edges.

At another table, Kirsten noticed a couple of women staring at Jack and not even being subtle about it.

Ha!
she thought.
He’s with me!

“Now I run a glorified bed and breakfast,” Jack said.

“Well, you partly run it,” said Houston. “I don’t remember the last time you opened a spreadsheet.”

He had his arm around Kirsten now, and she relaxed into him, even as her hand trailed along Jack’s torso. Jack cast a glance around the bar, then started buttoning his shirt again.

“Oh, come on,” said Kirsten. She hooked one finger under the waistband of his jeans and tugged, even though he could hardly move closer to her. “Don’t do that.”

Jack looked over Kirsten’s head at Houston.

“I swear she wants us naked in public,” he said.

“We already put on a show that she
personally
requested,” rumbled Houston. Kirsten could feel his voice vibrate through her as he spoke. “I don’t know how much raunchier we can get without getting kicked out.”

Jack put one arm under Kirsten’s feet and hoisted them onto his lap, so she was leaning against Houston on one side and Jack on the other. Her skirt had ridden up so that it was now mid-thigh, and out of habit, Kirsten tried to pull it down.

Both of them laughed at once.

“So I can be naked, but you can’t show a little thigh,” Jack said. “I get it.”

“I can show a
little
,” said Kirsten.

“But you’re not that kind of girl?” asked Houston.

Kirsten was less sure of
that
with every passing second.

“I don’t want to flash the whole bar,” she said, trying to sound reasonable.

Jack put his hands on her knees and starting tracing her kneecap with one finger, a chill running up Kirsten’s body.

“What now?” she asked, stretching her legs out. Her skirt rode up a little, now maybe six inches above her knee, and she didn’t fix it.

“I’d offer more drinks, but I’m sort of comfortable here,” Houston said. He brushed the hair off of her neck, his fingers skimming along her skin, and Kirsten closed her eyes, sighing.

“Is that room service champagne still on offer?” she asked, wiggling her toes in her shoes.

Jack and Houston looked at each other.

“She thinks we’re easy,” said Houston.

Jack drummed his fingers on her thigh, leaning back in the booth, nudging her legs closer to his torso, his metal belt buckle cool on her calf.

“You made it pretty clear that we weren’t doing that tonight,” Jack said. “Maybe we don’t feel like it now.”

“You’re impossible,” she teased. “Both of you.”

“We’re respectable,” said Houston.

“What if we stop by Elvis first,” Kirsten joked. “Will that make you feel less taken advantage of?”

She was kidding, but when she said it, Jack looked straight at her, his face totally serious for a moment, a glimmer of something deep in his green eyes. Kirsten couldn’t see Houston’s face, but he kissed the top of her head.

We seriously could
, thought Kirsten.
I know I’m drunk, but why the fuck not? Either it works out or it’s a funny story I get to tell to my grandkids someday.

“We’d all be showering the glitter off for days,” said Jack. “Did you see that jumpsuit?”

“You wouldn’t have to dress like Elvis,” Kirsten said, laughing. “I think. I’ve never gotten married in Vegas before, you know.”

“So you want your first time to be drunkenly, to two wolves you met eight hours ago?”