I swallowed, nodding.
“I used all of my moves, but nothing. Not even a twitch down there. I’m really hoping you had no idea it was me or else—I’ll be honest—I’m a little insulted.”
Shaking my head, I murmured, “No. The perfume is . . . off. You hate cinnamon gum. And I can’t see you or feel you.”
“You can now,” she said, lifting my hands to rest on her bare thighs. I ran my palms up to her hips and felt the sharp press of small stones on her underwear. What the fuck is she wearing? I was dying to take off the blindfold, but as she hadn’t done it yet, I suspected this was another thing I was meant to wait for.
I ran my hands over her thighs, down to her calves, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get laid in this room in the middle of a questionably legal Vegas club. My relief that it was Chloe in here with me, and not some stranger sitting on my lap, overwhelmed me, and a burst of adrenaline shot into my bloodstream. “You should feel free to fuck me in this room, Miss Mills.”
She leaned forward, sucked on my jaw. “Hmm . . . maybe. Want a second chance to enjoy a dance first?”
I nodded and exhaled as she slipped the blindfold off me, exposing her . . . outfit. She wore a tiny bra that tied with thin satin straps at her shoulders and appeared to be made entirely of gemstones held together with the barest scrap of silk. Her panties were similarly flimsy, and even more fascinating. The thin satin ties at the sides hinted to me that I probably shouldn’t destroy them.
Running a fingertip across her torso, she whispered, “You like my new lingerie?”
I stared at the tiny jewels decorating her skin, winking brilliant green and clear as diamonds. She looked like a fucking work of art. “They’ll do,” I mumbled, leaning forward to kiss between her breasts. “In a pinch.”
“Do you want to touch me?”
I nodded again, looking up at her face and feeling my eyes grow dark at the way she watched me with both hunger and uncertainty.
She smiled, licked her lips. “This wasn’t a test, sending you down here. But,” she said, eyes falling to my mouth, “the fact is that you did come down to this room expecting a stranger to dance for you. You put on a blindfold, and any other woman could have come in here and touched what’s mine.” She cocked her head, studied me. “I think maybe I deserve a little treat.”
Hell yes. “I can agree with that.”
“And, the rules being what they are”—she nodded to a small sign on the wall basically suggesting that men who violated dancers would be unceremoniously carried out and dropped over the Hoover Dam—“you still aren’t allowed to touch me freely.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant by “freely” and I was still mostly trapped beneath her, so I simply let my hands fall back to her thighs, waiting for instruction. My body was tightly coiled and ready for whatever she wanted to do.
She stood, walked over to the wall unit, and started the song over again.
I really was a lucky fucking bastard. I had the hottest girlfriend in the entire world. Licking my lips, I stared at her firm, perfect ass until she turned back around and, with the trademark confident sway of her hips, returned to where I sat.
Chloe climbed over me, straddling my thighs. “Take off my panties.”
I pulled at the delicate tie at each hip, and slowly dragged them away from her body, tossing them to the side somewhere.
“Now. Put the back of your hand on your thigh and hold up however many fingers you want me to fuck,” she whispered.
I blinked. “What?”
She laughed, sucking on her lip before enunciating very slowly, “Put the back of your hand on your thigh, and hold up however many fingers you want me to fuck.”
Was she serious with this shit? Without taking my eyes off of hers, I slid my hand to my leg, turned it palm up, and offered up my middle finger. “Here you go.”
She looked down and giggled. “That’s a good one, but maybe at least one more. I do need a closer approximation of your cock.”
“You’re really only going to fuck my fingers? My dick is pretty much ready to go, and you can’t pretend that isn’t the preferable option for everyone involved.”
“You were going to get a lap dance from a Vegas showgirl,” she countered, brow raised. “Your dick wasn’t even interested five minutes ago.”
With a sigh, I closed my eyes, extending three fingers.
“So generous,” she whispered, lifting her hips and gliding her sex across my rigid fingertips. “You’ll make a pretty stellar husband if you keep this sort of thing up.”
“Chlo . . .” I groaned, opening my eyes to watch her as she slowly lowered herself over my fingers. She was already wet, and I stared down at her, naked but for her skimpy bra, her smooth thighs spread over the dark fabric of my pants.
She wrapped her hands around my neck and began to move over me, lifting her body and circling her hips as she came down, rubbing her clit against the heel of my hand. Again, and again, and again. I thrust up beneath her, needing friction. I could taste her scent in the air, could hear every one of her tight little sounds. Between her breasts, sweat caused her skin to glisten. No way would I admit right now how much I loved watching her use my body to find her own pleasure.
“You’re a fucking tease,” I growled, relishing the dip and swell from the weight of her arms braced on my shoulders. The sight of her was doing savage things to my body, and I was pretty sure I could get off if she just lowered herself a bit more, rubbed her thigh against my clothed cock. “I’m going to walk out of here still hard and smelling like pussy.”
Circling her hips, she whispered, “Don’t care.”
And yet, at the sound of my voice, I’d noticed the tight press of her nipples inside her little bra. She knew how hard I was, and she cared greatly.
Chloe gasped as I curled my fingers and moved my other hand to slide over her backside and guide her hips. I pressed my thumb across her clit, feeling myself come undone just watching her. Around my fingers, her body rippled, tensing in anticipation. Even in a strange room with God-knows-what going on around us, I could make her come in minutes. She was such a fucking tangle of contradictions: generous and teasing, earnest and coy. “You fucking wreck me, Chlo.”
“Can you tell I’m close?” Our eyes never broke contact, and I slid my hand up her side, tracing the frame of her ribs with my fingertips.
“Yeah,” I whispered.
“Does that still make you wild? Knowing how fast you can do this to me?”
I nodded, and my hand slid higher, to her shoulder, her neck. My fingers flexed against her jugular, itching to feel the race of her pulse when she came. “I love knowing no one else could make you this wet.”
Her brown sugar eyes darkened, grew heavy with desire. “I need you to want me every second,” she whispered, breathless. “You’re the only one I’d ever let own me like this.”
The word—own—triggered a spark in my chest, a wild-ness I couldn’t hold back anymore. Her lips were so close to mine and the taste of cinnamon on her breath, the foreign perfume . . . the reality of how far she’d gone to fool me poured fuel on the flame and I lurched forward, disintegrating; my kiss was sharp and punishing, starving for the feel and taste of her.
She pulled back only far enough to gasp, “Do you want to hear me?”
“I want the entire club to hear you.”
Her hands sank into the hair at the nape of my neck and her hips faltered, trapping my fingers deep inside her as she rocked wildly over my palm.
“Oh God . . .” Pulling her bottom lip into her mouth, she arched away and I bent to her neck, sucking, biting, owning her fucking heartbeat.
I felt the hammering of her pulse against my lips, felt each one of her exhales as she gasped, tensing above me and around me as she came. With a hoarse cry, she said my name and her voice sent a vibration across my tongue, pressed to her throat.
Chloe stilled, her body leaning into mine, sated and boneless, and lifted both hands to my neck. Her
thumbs pressed gently into my pulse points and she leaned forward, sucking my lower lip into her mouth before biting it quickly, savagely. I let out a surprised grunt, and wasn’t sure what it said about me that for a second I thought that bite might make me come in my pants.
“That . . .” she breathed, pulling back, “was unbelievable.”
Lifting herself gingerly off my hand, she rose and stood on shaky legs. I leaned forward to kiss the damp skin between her breasts, and pulled her hand over the crown of my cock through my pants. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come, Chlo. Feel how hard you get me.”
She squeezed, stroking me slowly.
My eyes rolled closed and I begged, “I want you on your knees now. Put your mouth on me.”
But to my absolute fucking horror, she moved her hand and walked over to retrieve her panties from the corner.
“What are you doing?” I rasped.
She tied the tiny straps of satin at each hip, and pulled a robe from a hook on the wall, slipping it over her shoulders and smiling a little at me. “You good?”
I returned her level stare. “Are you serious?”
She came back to me, lifting my left hand to her mouth, sliding my bare ring finger between her teeth and deeper, wrapping it in the delicate softness of her tongue. And then she released it with a wink, whispering, “I’m serious.”
My arms shook with tension, my cock pulsing from the echo of her mouth, her too-short, gentle suction. “Then no, I am not good, Chloe. Not even a little bit.”
“I am,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I feel fantastic. I hope you enjoy the rest of your bachelor party.”
I leaned back into the wall, watching her cinch the robe around her waist. My skin felt hot, itchy, feverish and the entire time she dressed she watched me, relishing my frustrated need for her.
I struggled to hide it, deciding to pretend I was fine. Yelling would only make her more pleased with herself. Cool detachment always worked best when Chloe was being a teasing bitch. But when my brow smoothed, she laughed a little, not even a little surprised.
“What are you doing after this?” I asked. For some reason it hadn’t even occurred to me what she would do when she left. Was she flying straight home?
With a shrug, she murmured, “Don’t know. Dinner. Maybe a show.”
“Wait. Are you here with someone?”
She looked at me, pursing her lips and shrugging.
“The fuck, Chloe? Are you at least going to tell me where you’re staying?”
She looked me up and down, letting her eyes linger a little longer on the fly of my pants than the rest of me before she smiled. “At a hotel.” She straightened, arching her brow before purring, “Oh, and happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Ryan.”
And with that, she stepped out of the room and into the hallway.
Two
Max Stella
Bennett Ryan looked like he was on the verge of losing his lunch and razzing all over the table.
“I’m going to pass. Lap dances aren’t really my thing.”
His brother Henry leaned forward, horrified. “How is an unfamiliar and extremely hot woman dancing on your lap not your thing? Are you warm-blooded?”
Bennett mumbled some excuse, and I couldn’t really blame him because, fuck, I wasn’t about to have some strange bird climb on my cock. But he had no idea what was waiting on him in the back. I had to get him out of that bloody chair and into the private room so we could get this night started off right.
“Bollocks,” I told him, waving to where Johnny stood, waiting near the private hallway. “This is your bachelor party, and a lappy is a requisite.”
Johnny raised his chin in acknowledgment and finished his conversation with security before making his way through the room, taking his sweet bloody time. Every second that ticked by saw my own impatience build. The longer it took Johnny to get here, the longer it would take Ben to man up and head back, and the longer my girl waited for me.
When he finally stood in front of me, Johnny flashed me a knowing smile. “Heya, Max. How can I help you?”
“I think we’re ready to begin the festivities.”
Johnny nodded, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Chloe is in Neptune. Down the Blue Hallway, to the left of the stage.”
I nodded, waiting. Finally, when he hadn’t offered more information, I prompted, “And Sara?”
“She’s in the Green Room, down the Black Hallway. The one to the right of the stage,” Johnny said. He leaned in a little to add, “Positioned how she requested.”
I stopped short, slipping my hand into my pocket to hide the fist that had instinctively formed. “She asked you to position her?” What in the bloody hell did that even mean?
“Just a little ribbon here, a little ribbon there.” Johnny watched me, a small grin giving away how amused he was by my reaction.
I looked around the dark room, at the scattered clients sitting on black leather couches or leaning against the sleek charcoal granite bar. I could feel my pulse in my jaw from clenching my teeth together in what I knew was an uncharacteristic scowl.
I was conflicted: curious at this growth in their trust, but needing to know what he’d seen, and where he’d touched her. It was rare for Sara to be tied up at Red Moon, and each time, it had been my doing. “She let you touch her?”
Johnny looked at me, smiling wider as he rocked on his heels. “Yep.”
He didn’t shrink under my heated attention. He just let me ride over the hot flash of jealousy, knowing that more than anything I was filled with gratitude. Over the past nine months or so, Johnny had done so much for us, and even through my haze of anger, I knew it wasn’t a simple favor he was doing for me tonight, with both Chloe and Sara taking up valuable rooms in his busy club.
I looked over at him, smiled. “Right then. Thanks, mate.”
Johnny patted my shoulder, nodded at someone behind me, and murmured, “Have fun tonight, Max. You have an hour before the next show goes into the Green Room.” With that, he turned and returned to the Black Hallway, the one where I would also find Sara, in position, with ribbon.
I felt the frenetic longing grow in my chest. A tightening; the way I feel at the start of a rugby match . . . but deeper inside me, and everywhere. It spread from my thorax out to the end of every limb, pulsing hotly in each fingertip. I needed to get to her, give her what she’d begged to come to Vegas to do.
When I told Sara that the only weekend we could do Bennett’s bachelor party was Valentine’s weekend, her first reaction was to laugh and remind me that she hated Valentine’s Day. Her ex had always fucked it up, she’d said, and I was secretly pleased she didn’t want to make a thing of it anyway. We celebrated our relationship almost every fucking night in my bed, and most definitely every Wednesday night in our room at Red Moon. Valentine’s Day was an insignificant blurb on the calendar compared to all that.
But Sara’s second, lingering reaction was to step closer, run her hands up my chest, and ask if she could come, too. “I promise I won’t crash the rest of the party,” she whispered, eyes wide and mysteriously combining uncertainty and lust. “The bachelor weekend can go on as planned; I just want to play at Black Heart one time.”
Before I could even find the single word to answer her, I’d bent to kiss her, and that kiss had transformed into her hands in my hair and my mouth on her tits. And that had moved on to hard and fast sex on my kitchen counter. Afterward, I’d collapsed onto her, panting against the damp skin of her neck: “Fuck yes, you can come to Vegas.”
Rearranging my features into something calmer, I sat back down and felt Bennett’s attention on my face as I picked up my drink.
“What was all that about?” he asked, watching Johnny disappear behind the black rope.
“That,” I answered, “was about the room that is being prepared for you.”
“For me?” Bennett pressed a hand to his chest, already resisting. “Again, Max, I’m going to pass.”
I groaned,
giving him a skeptical glance. “The fuck you are.”
“You’re serious.”
We argued a bit longer, until I could see him give in. His face grew determined and he hesitated, contemplating his vodka, and then downed it.
“Fuck it.” He put his glass down, shot up from his chair, and marched determined down the hall.
It was all I could do to not similarly bolt from my seat. Sara’s name echoed in my every heartbeat. I loved her so wildly, it was a wonder this wasn’t also my stag weekend. The number of times I’d almost proposed to her was bordering on absurd. And somehow, I knew she could see it in my face: that moment when I started to beg her to leave for the weekend with me, marry me, move in with me . . . and then thought better of it. Without fail, she asked what I had meant to say, and I told her she looked beautiful instead of releasing the words, “I’m not going to feel sorted until we’re married.”
I often had to remind myself it had been a mere six months—almost nine including our initial arrangement—and Sara was skittish about all things matrimonial. She’d kept her apartment, but honestly I don’t know why she bothered. For the first month or two after we reconciled, we’d split our time at the two places, but my home was larger, better furnished, and my bedroom had better lighting for the photographs I loved to take of her. Soon she was in my bed every night of the week. She would be mine forever, but—fuck—I had to remind myself we didn’t need to rush it.
After what felt like an appropriate amount of time since Bennett left, I put my own tumbler on the table and looked up at Will and Henry.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “I’m headed down the hall to have a fabulous Vegas bird dance on my lap.”
Both barely looked away from the dancers on the stage, and I was fairly confident I could leave and they wouldn’t think to look which hall I was headed down.
The hall to the left of the stage led to private rooms named after the planets. These rooms were for lap dances mainly, much like the one Bennett was currently getting. In my opinion, the only interesting thing in those rooms tonight was the fact that he was getting his dance from Chloe.