A Match Made in Vegas Read Online Crystal Kaswell

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Crystal Kaswell Advertisement1

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"We're playing truth or dare."

"Because?"

"Because we both want to prove we're fun." That's a true answer. Not the whole answer. There's also a mutual desire to dare each other to take our clothes off. At least, I think it's a mutual desire.

No, I see the interest in his eyes. The way they dip to my chest and hips.

I just don't know where it starts and ends.

"Non-alcoholics." He shakes his head. "You're weirdos."

"Truth or dare is a normal game," I say.

"For teenagers," he says.

"I'm sorry, is Damon Webb lecturing me on maturity?"

"Sometimes, the truth is ironic." He laughs. "What have you done so far?"

"Blackjack and bodyshots."

Again, he raises a brow. "Do I need to worry about you?" Before I can react, he laughs and shifts to a teasing tone. "Stay up late with bail money?"

"Definitely," I say.

"Stay up late with extra condoms?" he offers.

"Don't." As if I would forget condoms! I'm a sex researcher. Then again, I know multiple med students who pull out as their main method of birth control. Doctors do make the worst patients.

"You're into him."

"You just said it was a bad idea." It is a bad idea. A terrible idea.

"Yeah, and in your experience, when you've told me something is a bad idea, does that encourage me or discourage me?"

What? "Is this reverse psychology?"

"No." Damon's eyes find mine. He drops the teasing tone and answers seriously. "It's… he is a good guy. If you really are looking to have a little fun, and you're both on the same page… he's a good pick. I trust him."

"Are you seriously offering your approval on the guys I screw?" I guess, from a certain angle, it's kinda sweet, but from all the other angles, he's overstepping.

He notices the furrow of my brow and backs off. "Did you not ask?" he teases.

"I do not need your help with this."

"You do, actually. Remember the last guy? What was his name?"

"He was bad in bed. Not, unsafe." Really, really bad. Beyond bad. But how in the world would my brother help with that? Do all the men I know think they know how to pick out a man who's a great fuck or just these two?

"Yeah, well, I ran into Jackson's ex at the dojo once, and she was satisfied. And you uh…" He blushes. "This is fucking weird, okay, but you left one of your books at my place, and I read it out of curiosity, and Jackson is into that kinda thing. As far as I know."

"BDSM, you mean?"

"Yeah. That's what she said." He shrugs as if he's not bothered by discussing my sex life. "He's a good Dom. A soft Dom, apparently. Whatever that is."

"You didn't look it up?"

A guilty look spreads over his face. "I looked it up."

And I know what it is. Not that it needs a lot of explaining. It is what it sounds like. A Dom who's more interested in praise than punishment.

I know everything about sex. All this intellectual knowledge. Not so much practice.

This is how I need to have fun.

Maybe Damon is right.

If I keep it casual…

Maybe it can work out.

My brother's gaze shifts to the aisle as Cassie and Jackson approach. They're trying to keep casual expressions, but they're both wearing the weight of their conversation.

Did she tell him to back off?

She tells me that sometimes.

Or did he tell her something about me? Maybe he's said hey, can you let your friend down easy.

Or hey, is your friend single?

It doesn't matter.

We're having fun. That's all.

It's just… fun sometimes includes sex.

Maybe I don't have to keep denying.

Maybe I can go for it.

Maybe I can fuck my best friend's brother and keep my friendship too.

The rest of the party arrives just in time for seating. They pre-gamed at a theme bar in the MGM Grand, and they're feeling appropriately groovy.

I move over so the grooms can sit between me and Damon, but somehow, I end up next to Jackson.

Which means he's in prime view of my blush as the curtains rise, the lights flash, a dozen Australian hunks in jeans and tank tops strut their stuff.

I try to keep my eyes on the stage.

I try to think about anything except my blush.

I try to stop picturing Jackson gyrating with the dancers.

Again and again, I fail.

The dancers run through half a dozen scenarios and outfits. They're businessmen, they're cowboys, they're firemen with hoses.

They're all handsome, well-built men. Huge biceps, perfect pecs, defined abs. A few even have soccer player thighs.

But none of them move me the way Jackson does.

I don't want a hunk in his underwear.

I want the intelligent, off-limits man next to me.

No doubt some of the dancers are smart too, but the act doesn't exactly show off their brains. And, well, women aren't socialized as sexual subjects.

We're socialized to see ourselves as objects. Many women have little sense of seeing a man and thinking I must have them. They feel desire when someone expresses a desire for them.


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