Dare Me
Chapter One

Rafe Steele gazed at his two older brothers and bit back his instinct to bolt. Of course, he held his ground like he protected his unit. Another lesson he learned from the cradle. When his brothers scented weakness, they attacked accordingly. "You want me to what?" he asked again.

Odd how all of them seemed to belong to three different families. As the oldest, Rick always dominated both the conversation and the scene, and his resemblance to Thor, as Tara, his girlfriend phrased it, didn't hurt his image. Long golden locks, green-gold eyes, and a brutish build caused a person to think he'd stepped from a comic book. Of course, Rafe held that comment back. The last time he'd teased Rick about Thor-like powers, he almost caught a black eye. Definitely no sense of humor there.

Rome acted just as bad. He belonged in the George Clooney camp, as his girlfriend, Sloane, confided, with his buzzed prematurely gray hair, blue eyes, and a confidence and charm that made females drop their panties. As one of the best dealers in Vegas, Rome consistently threatened Rick's command. Of course, since he'd also recently fallen into the love entrapment, his domestic bliss softened him a bit. He seemed to completely agree with his brother, and that left Rafe as the focus of this intervention.

The other men exchanged knowing glances.

"We want you to book a date through FANTA-C," Rick said.

Rafe struggled to make sense of his words over the familiar casino noises of ringing slots, heavy drinking, and loud rivalry.

"The place you both ended up meeting the loves of your life?"

Rick nodded. Rome looked suspicious, wondering if he was poking fun at his brothers' sudden slide into commitment. He kind of was.

Rafe gave a snort of laughter and ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. "You're fucking nuts. Both of you. I have no intention or desire to settle down."

Rick huffed. "We're not saying the date is going to turn into more than one night. Yeah, we got lucky, but it was coincidence. Both of us agree you've been a bit out of it since you moved to Vegas. You keep to yourself. Don't date much anymore. Something's up."

He waved his brothers' concern away and tossed back his shot in one stinging swallow. Surprised by their insight, he admitted he'd been restless and agitated since moving across the US to join them in their legacy of dealing cards. He'd tried living in Atlantic City when he returned from Afghanistan, but the local newshounds battered him on a daily basis. When the women started camping out to make up ruses to bed a real-time hero, he packed up his belongings and moved on. He craved a clean slate and a place where he could get back to what he loved. Dealing cards. Alone. By choice.

His brothers thought he suffered from war stress-specifically post-traumatic stress disorder. Sure, he'd experienced some wicked nightmares, but his uneasiness and secrecy had nothing to do with his military past. If only they knew the truth.

An intriguing idea skipped through his mind with various scenarios. "Tell me again how this whole thing works."

Rome slid a business card across the table. The card was black and gold, with FANTA-C scrawled in embossed lettering on the front. On the back, a phone number was listed. "You call that number. Use my name as your referral, because Rick already used his referral for me. Fill out your paperwork, and if they find you a match, you get to enjoy one perfect night."

He frowned, turning the card around in his hand. A weird shiver raced down his spine. "This isn't some sex club that's illegal, is it? Cause I'm not into that shit."

Rome gave a suffering sigh. "No, we're not into that shit either, dude."

Rick jumped in. "A friend told me about the agency. Some want sex, some don't. It's whatever you need. And you're not guaranteed a match. They only fit you with a candidate that wants the same exact things you do." "Hmm. Interesting."

Rome elbowed him in the ribs. "Why do I think you have something wicked planned? Probably involving a pretty sub tied to the bed." "Like Sloane?" Rafe asked.

Immediately, Rome's face darkened at the mention of his sex life. "Back off, bro."

Rafe released a shout of laughter. "Priceless, man. I'm just joking around you know I adore Sloane." But Rome's assumption that he practiced as a Dom punched his gut. His two older brothers were experienced in BDSM, and long-term Dominants who finally found a committed submissive. Rafe had never confessed the truth of his real desires. They'd never understand, so he continued to let them think he was also a Dominant.

"And this is completely confidential?" he asked.

"Yes. Oh, you have to burn the card after you call. It's protocol," Rick said.

Rafe held up the card. "Then how'd you get this?"

"Once the match is complete, they send you one card for referral."

Rafe laughed. "Doesn't this seem like a lot of work to get a perfect date?"

His brothers shared a meaningful glance. "It's worth it," they both said together.

Damn, this got more interesting by the moment. They weren't the type to believe in mysterious hook-ups that turn into love, so maybe he'd give FANTA-C a shot. He'd get his brothers off his back, and finally be able to act out one of his secret sexual fantasies. No one ever had to know.

"You paying for it?" he asked.

Rick shook his head and took another swig of beer. "Bastard."

"Well, are you?"

"Yeah, we're paying for it. Consider this our housewarming present a few months late."

Rafe grinned. "Fine, I'll call.

***

Summer Preston ordered a second shot of tequila and watched the show on stage at Strip It. The sexy lyrics of Prince's Get Off pounded through the air while the stripper gyrated her hips and ripped off her leather vest. Her naked breasts spilled out and the crowd screamed. Her skin glittered with silver sparkles, and she flung her whip toward her audience with a teasing flick that made them go wild. Summer narrowed her eyes thoughtfully on the instrument that provided both pleasure and pain. Hmm, would it be too much for the first night?

Yeah. She'd skip the whips and flogger. At least for tonight.

She scanned the entrance. Excitement jumped in her belly. They'd both agreed meeting in the suite would be postponed until they decided if they were compatible. When her cousin told her about FANTA-C and told her to call the number, she'd been doubtful. Summer didn't do one night encounters, or believe in the perfect date. Over the years, her luck with finding the correct match on her own proved...difficult. Most men switched from arousal to horror when they caught a glance of her leather catsuit and domineering growl. Pete had lunged for the door so fast he'd literally tripped on the rug and fell face first. Awkward.

She shook her head at the memory. Nope, she'd suggested meeting at the strip club first to make sure they clicked. She'd been specific in her requirements, and thought of this as her first real learning experience in the BDSM world. Hell, maybe the reality wouldn't even come close to her fantasies and she could go back to normal vanilla sex. After all, her reputation and her image fed the girl next-door persona. Her few visits to a BDSM club scared the crap out of her, and her forays into toys and certain internet sites never snagged a willing partner. At least she learned the importance of safety and equipment, but never experienced her own personal sub for the night. She needed to face the truth: strong, dominant males attracted her in the real world, but she craved a man's surrender in the bedroom. That combination rarely existed. The possibility of experiencing such a scene for one night tempted her. Pricey, but worth it.

So, she'd called the number and burned the card. Two weeks later, they found a match.

If he showed.

She tapped a scarlet red fingernail on the bar.

And waited.