Feel the Thunder Rumble...

Jon grinned.  “Is it all that bad?”

The grin spread when she nodded and whirled sharply away on her heel.  “Yes.  If I’m going to be a statistic, I prefer not to be bothered by it during the act, at least.  I can feel like shit about it tomorrow.”

He would have reached for her, but she was already well into her suite and he hesitated to barge into her domain uninvited.  Instead, he leaned a lazy shoulder against the door facing, watching her scramble toward the bar.

“There’s no obligation here, Sheridan.  I hate to think you have to be drunk to have sex with me.  My ego isn’t fragile, but… damn.”

The little bottles clattered as she reached in and grabbed a couple of them, apparently at random.  “Oh, wanting to have sex with you is not the problem.  My hormones staged a ticker-tape parade the minute you opened that door.  No, no.” A glass clunked onto the table besides the bottles she’d toppled there, and she reverted to the kitchen in search of ice.  “Having sex with Jon Bon Jovi is the catalyst to this little morality baptism by alcohol.”

Uninvited or not, he breached the threshold, planting himself between her and the booze. “Your hormones weren’t the only ones celebrating, baby.  I’m hoping that the minute my tongue slides against yours, you’re not going to care that it sings for a living.”  Jon angled his head into his shoulder and shrugged indifferently.  “If you’re brave enough to try it.”

Ice cubes slipped from her fingers with two muffled ‘plops’, bouncing on the floor.

“Is that a dare?” Her voice was breathy, with just a little catch at the end.  “Because I can’t say no to a dare.”

He couldn’t say no to that sultry vixen voice.  If this woman was half as spunky naked as she was fully dressed, there were fireworks in his future.  “Triple-dog dare you…”

Her eyes flew wide for half a second, appalled that he had the nerve to call her out like that.  But, unless he missed his guess, the ultimatum lit her fuse much as it had his own.

Bring on the fireworks…

Sheridan inhaled deeply, straightened her spine and set her jaw, taking the two baby-steps that would bring her into his personal space.  If she inhaled like that again, her breasts would now scrape against his chest.

Inhale, dammit.

Their chests maintained the illusion of propriety as impossibly soft fingertips flowed over his jugular and hooked into the fine hair at his nape.   A nearly inaudible, “Bastard,” breezed over his mouth an instant before she took seductive possession of it.

Jon couldn’t swallow the quiet groan that rumbled in the back of his throat when the cool silk of her mouth warmed itself on his.  Itchy palms roved her from thigh to waist before fusing to her bottom.  He jerked her roughly forward, bringing her hips flush against his as he pushed his tongue through the inviting portal.  He didn’t know about her, but that first slide of tongue-on-tongue rendered him give-a-shitless about his job.

God, she tasted good.  Sweet.  Seductive. 

“God, you taste as good as you look,” she breathed into his mouth before jerking her head back to glare at him in the fading light.  “I don’t do this.  Ever.  I’m not a slut.”

Talk about your U-turns…

“And I’m not a man whore.”  He lifted one corner of his mouth in a self-deprecating smile.  “In this millennium, anyway.”

A loud knock infiltrated the silence and saved Jon from further explanation.  He swept in for another taste of her mouth, and reluctantly disengaged himself to answer the door.  “Room service is here.” 

“Mm.”  Retreating, she smoothed her hands down over the clingy orange fabric of her dress, almost self-consciously. 

An inquiring eyebrow lifted, and he gestured toward the forgotten honor bar bottles.  “You gonna down those while I’m gone?”

“Guess you’ll find out when you get back.”

Hell yes, she was going to down at least one of them.  The candlelight tinted his white shirt a golden shade as he moved by the table in his living area.

Shaky fingers unscrewed the mini-bottle of vodka as he disappeared around the corner.

Jon Bon Jovi, she thought, pouring the vodka and returning to the kitchen for a second attempt at ice.   It was every fan girl’s wet dream.  Wasn’t it? 

The cubes splashed into the colorless booze, rattling against the glass as she swirled the glass and allowed the cold to seep free.  Impatient, she flicked her wrist and demolished the drink in three pathetically big gulps.

It was embarrassing.  That’s what it was.

Why are you embarrassed?  You didn’t stalk a rock star.  You had a visceral reaction to your hotel neighbor, who happens to be a rock star.

“Hey.  Wanna eat over here?” his voice projected from next door.  “Seeing as the wine and candles are here already.”

She wasn’t hungry.

Or at least she wasn’t that kind of hungry.

It was tactless to admit that, so she calmly placed her glass down and tried to play along with the illusion.  The one where they weren’t both thinking about being hot, naked and sweaty instead of what was on the damn room service cart.

“Sure.”

A cloak of contrived casualness draped over her, and she strolled through the connecting door to find the scene set.  The candles had been separated so that one was at each end of the cocktail table and their warm glow forced the gloom away from the couch.  A platter of meat, cheese, fruit and shrimp took center stage with a couple of plates, and Jon was pouring a white wine into glasses.

“You want this, or are you already liquored up?”  The quiet teasing amplified the charming quotient.  Given a chance, she might even like this guy.

One night.  One shot deal.  There’s no getting to know each other.  You both know what the agenda is.

“I just had one,” she admitted, accepting the glass.  “Couch or dining table?  I’m guessing couch since you’ve got the spread all set here?”

In his mind, the couch was more casual and casual meant comfortable.  He wanted her comfortable enough to…  Well, comfortable.  It also kept her exposed.  Her legs wouldn’t be hidden under a table and he could covertly ogle them and imagine them either spread wide or clamped around his waist.

Hell if he was saying that out loud.  The wine silently slid into a second glass, this one a little fuller than the first.  She had a head start on him, after all.

“Couch, unless you prefer something else?”

The heavy bottomed bottle met solidly with the table, any noise of it masked by the rain that had gathered momentum and was falling in sheets outside the glass door.  There was no sign of it letting up anytime soon.

 Sheridan took that as a sign.

Nostrils filling with the scent of candle smoke and the faint aroma of some kind of manly cologne, she let the smells fortify her courage and bent to put her glass beside the bottle.

“Actually…”

“Yes?”  Flames flickered in his wine as he cradled the delicate stem in his fingers, waiting for her to finish the thought. 

Fingers.  Oh God.  To feel a masculine touch against her skin…  The flesh sprang into goose pimples at the thought of those fingers tugging at her exceptionally sensitive nipples, which were already jutting into the cups of her dress. 

She’d obviously lied about being a slut.  Only a slut would do what she was about to.

“I’d really prefer the bedroom.”