hand shot up. “No. I’m done negotiating with you.”
Of course he kept right on talking as if she hadn’t said anything. “For each night I go without sex, I get to choose a drink for you from Fantasy Island’s cocktail menu.”
She really, really needed to ignore the pulse of heat that suggestion generated in her belly. And lower. This was Levi. She didn’t even like him, but apparently her body thought angry sex was something she should try at least once in her life. Preferably tonight.
He watched her calmly, but there was no mistaking the tension in his big body. He had her and he knew it. The problem with having worked with Levi in the field was that he’d learned things about her, like the way she responded to a challenge. Jesus. Emotionally, it made her feel like a five-year-old—when parts of her definitely were all adult around him—but she just couldn’t walk away from a dare.
“You want to get me drunk?” Somehow, she didn’t think he was talking about alcohol.
His teeth flashed as he snagged the drinks menu from the bar and waggled it in front of her. “We both know I’m talking about the other menu, babe. The secret menu, where the drink names are code for sexy stuff. Pink Panties. Angel’s Tit. Tie Me to the Bedpost. I pick the drink. You do the deed.”
THE EXPRESSION ON Ashley’s face registered a whole lot of hell no and you’ve got to be kidding me. If he’d been any kind of gentleman, he’d have looked away. Seeing as how he’d moved into bastard territory long ago, however, he merely flipped the menu open and ran his finger ostentatiously down the list of cocktails.
Her long lashes flicked down, her brown eyes following his finger as a truly spectacular blush painted her cheeks. Special Agent Dixon wasn’t a pretty blusher. No delicate shade of pink there. Her whole face flamed as though she’d been dipped in Day-Glo red. The color was kind of cute, actually, although he’d have bet his last paycheck that nothing shocked her.
He’d have lost that bet.
The corner of his mouth quirked up. Guess that won him points in this game of one-upmanship they were playing. He was actually capable of shocking snarky, no-nonsense, I-can-beat-your-ass Ashley Dixon. Today was a red-letter day, and he’d fucking mark it in his calendar. They’d worked together for the last year, and he could count the number of times he’d seen her look out of her element or anything less than perfectly confident. The woman was a chameleon, capable of fitting in anywhere and with anyone. She thought she knew the best way to handle every step of their missions. Worse, she’d been right. She pointed out her accuracy constantly and it was not an endearing trait.
“Sex on the Beach, Screaming Orgasm, Bend Over Shirley.” He winked at her. “Or should I substitute your name for that last one?”
Her blush got deeper. Any brighter and orbiting astronauts would be able to spot her cheeks from space. Together for less than twelve hours, and already he’d pushed her to Code Red. Provided he survived, this week together was turning out to be one of his better ideas.
She sucked in a breath, which undoubtedly meant she was about to start talking or yelling, and that was his cue to keep right on going. Once Ashley got started, she didn’t stop until she’d won.
“Nothing to your liking, Dixon?” He gave her his most winning smile. “Let’s try—”
“Shut up,” she growled. He recognized the look on her face. If she’d been a fellow SEAL, they’d have been rolling around on the sand by now, trading punches. Still, her expression was priceless. He reached for his phone. A moment like this deserved to be immortalized.
“Jesus, Brandon. Have pity on the bartender. He’s gonna think we’re having marital problems already.”
He thumbed on his phone and raised it. “Say cheese.”
She slammed her hand down over his, pinning his fingers to the bar. With her other hand, she pocketed his phone.
He whistled. “Nice move.”
If he were a lucky man, she’d kill him quickly. Since, however, he was currently married to Dixon and stuck on a tropical island after taking a vow of chastity, his luck was clearly nonexistent. Too bad about the phone, though, because the pictures would have been spectacular. He wiggled his fingers beneath hers.
“We’re done talking,” she snapped. Frankly, he was surprised she got the words out, because she had her teeth gritted so tightly she might need dental work. Her chest rose and fell beneath her shirt and damn it—was that a push-up bra? He leaned forward to get a better view. Why, yes, his cranky, ass-kicking wife was indeed sporting Victoria’s Secret. His favorite kind, too, the type of bra that cupped a woman’s breasts and laid them out framed in lace. He could run a finger down the deep valley her lingerie had created. Follow the path with his tongue and then his dick if he could sweet-talk her into a better mood...
“If you don’t stop staring at my boobs, I’ll hurt you.” Her grip on his fingers tightened. Nice to know she’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat and interrogation techniques. He’d caught Mason teaching her a few new tricks, too, the last time they’d been on Fantasy Island. His fellow SEAL had claimed to be QAing the DEA’s training program, but Levi was pretty sure the guy had just been stirring up shit. Dixon was mean. She didn’t need more ways to hurt a guy.
Speaking of which...he pulled his fingers free. No point in leaving her with the opportunity, and they both knew she couldn’t hold him if he wanted out.
“Is touching allowed? Good to know.” Grabbing her hand before she could snatch it back, he turned it over and pressed a kiss into the palm. The way she dug her nails into his skin was plenty of answer. His Dixon was voting no on the touching. He wasn’t playing fair, but boredom had to be the reason he’d started fantasizing about her underwear. He also wanted to kick ass, preferably beginning with the minister who had fake-for-real married them and ending with Gray Jackson, the SEAL lieutenant commander who’d brought them on the undercover mission to Fantasy Island in the first place. Not that Jackson had had anything to do with their not-so-faux beach wedding, but it was the principle of the thing.
“This is your fault,” she huffed.
Like hell it was. He had no idea what specifically she was blaming him for now, but he’d deny everything to his last breath. That was his plan and he’d stick to it. “What’s my latest sin?”
She tugged. He held on. “Our marriage. Our being stuck here on this island together. I’m busy, Levi. I have a life and I’m supposed to be preparing for a job interview next week. Flying down to Belize to sort out your screwup wasn’t on my to-do list.”
Wait. They were back to this again? “I get it. It’s my fault.”
Never mind that two people had to say I do to get married.
“You said I do,” she bit out. “The minister asked you to say vows and you did.”
“You did, too.” He should know. He’d been there.
“You said it first. You were supposed to pretend to say the words.”
“And we were supposed to have a pretend minister. So signals got crossed somewhere. We’ll uncross them.” He leaned back in
