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her eyes twinkling. She met my move and raised the stakes, her mouth brushing my ear.
    Finally.
    â€œAren’t you guys supposed to have super-hot-shit call signs?”
    I nearly choked on my drink, convinced I’d misheard.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    Was she joking? Burn was a hot-shit call sign.
    â€œLike Iceman and Maverick. Something like that.”
    Was this girl for real? I set my drink down, taking a moment to study her.
    I was thirty-three, had been flying F-16s since I was twenty-four. I’d picked up dozens of girls in bars. I didn’t go home with all of them; I didn’t have a face like Easy’s, I struck out a fair share, but the fighter pilot card was magic.
    Apparently, she was immune.
    And just like that, I realized that what had looked like a casual hook-up just might not be so easy.
    â€œCall signs aren’t supposed to be cool,” I explained, trying to ignore the feeling that I’d just been shot down. “Most of the time they’re given to you because of something you did to look like an idiot. There’s almost always an embarrassing story behind them.”
    â€œSo how’d you get your call sign?”
    â€œThat’s a story for another day.”
    â€œDon’t want to mess up your game?” she teased.
    I shook my head, feeling like she’d batted me around. “I think I’m going to need all the tricks up my sleeve with you.”
    Jordan’s smile widened and she leaned forward again, her mouth inches from mine, the temptation nearly unbearable. One taste or two was definitely not enough with this girl.
    â€œI’m guessing this fighter pilot thing gets you laid pretty often.”
    God, I hoped it did the trick now. “It has its moments.”
    Her brow rose, her voice taking on a distinctive purr. “And you think this is going to be one of those moments?”
    I held her gaze, going for honesty when bravado failed me. “You tell me.”
    JORDAN
    The impulse to tell him that he was
definitely
getting lucky was on the tip of my tongue. We were both adults, and it didn’t need to be said that obviously we wanted each other. I could climb off his lap, hold out my hand to him, and go upstairs for what I predicted would be a pretty fucking amazing orgasm.
    He’d leave me with a hot vacation memory and a story about the time I banged the fighter pilot in Vegas. And likely, I’d be another girl he hooked up with once, maybe even a repeat performance if his body lived up to the packaging.
    It wouldn’t be a bad ending to the night. I’d had some pretty decent one-night stands, and the odds that this one would jump to the top of the list were pretty high given how turned on I was. I wasn’t looking for a relationship with a guy who lived across the country, and I definitely wasn’t looking for a relationship with a guy who probably took thrill seeking to extremes.
    But ever since I’d seen that flash of cocky, ever since the attraction between us had ratcheted up a notch, the urge to make him work for it had become undeniable.
    Because maybe, in some slightly confused part of me, I was curious to see where this was going. I hadn’t been looking for anything but fun, definitely didn’t need complicated, but . . .
    I leaned back slightly, my gaze searching his, my body and mind warring with each other until the decision was made.
    I’d had a lot of guys in my fifteen-plus years of dating. There were guys who were fun, the kind of guys who weregreat for a casual hook-up, a quick and easy orgasm. Then there were the guys who had your mother proclaiming things like,
He’s a doctor
, and
He loves kids
, and
He just bought a lovely three-bedroom house
, to all of her friends. The ones you took to your high school reunion. The guys that someone, somewhere, arbitrarily decided were a “catch.”
    And then there was the urban legend, Chupacabra-like myth of a man who would