Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)

by Loren, Celia

  Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

  Also From Celia Loren:

  CRUSH (The Kelly Brothers) by Celia Loren

  The Vegas Titans Series

  Devil’s Kiss (Widowmakers Motorcycle Club) by Celia Loren

  Crushing Beauty (Harbingers of Sorrow MC) by Celia Loren

  Breaking Beauty (Devils Aces MC) by Celia Loren

  Wrecking Beauty (Devils Reapers MC) by Celia Loren

  Destroying Beauty (Hell Hounds MC) by Celia Loren

  Betraying Beauty (Sons of Lucifer MC) by Celia Loren

  The Satan’s Sons Series

  Satan’s Property (Satan’s Sons MC) by Celia Loren

  Satan’s Revenge (Satan’s Sons MC) by Celia Loren

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  HATING BEAUTY

  By Celia Loren

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Knox Cole

  New York City

  The only thing in life better than the soft, glowing oblivion of alcohol is the wet, violent oblivion of sex. I love sex. I need sex. I use sex. And I don’t give a rat’s ass about consequences.

  You might say it’s my talent, sex; I’m damn good at it, and damn good at finding partners—probably because I enjoy it, or because that part of my brain is on overdrive, looking for it all the time.

  Every room with a woman in it is a potential scoring arena, a battlefield, a proving ground for glory. Every woman is a potential fuck. Yes, every woman. I don’t care if they’re young or old. I bang anyone that gives me a boner, because sex = glory.

  Ladies, I like to think of myself as a wolf: a lone wolf constantly on the prowl, willing to chew off my own leg to get out of a trap. I’m every woman’s wet dream, and I know how to take advantage of that: I’m the bad boy who literally doesn’t give a shit about anything but one hot, wild night. I’ll sweep you off your feet and fuck you sideways and then I’m moving on. You might say it’s what I live for.

  You might say it’s the only time I feel alive.

  I love the rush when a woman’s legs are spread for me and I can do whatever the fuck I want to her. Don’t get me wrong, I always make sure she enjoys it too—but it’s not about pleasure. It’s about taking my due from the world, having a laugh and an orgasm while I have the chance.

  Because why the hell not. Life is short and fast and then you die.

  It doesn’t matter where it happens: bars, clubs, gyms, cars, alleys, or even trains. It doesn’t matter who the girl is. Most the time I don’t bother with names, I wouldn’t remember anyway. Blondes, brunettes, redheads; they’re not the point. The point is finding that sweet spot when you lose any conscious awareness of your self, your history, your name, finding something hot, wild, and animalistic. Something you can disappear into. Explosion. Oblivion. Climax.

  No rules. No strings. No regrets; just the oblivion of ecstasy, bodies lost in each other.

  Of course, that’s not what I was supposed to be thinking about tonight. I was supposed to be on duty, providing security for my boss Jasper Breslin’s schmancy to-do in his fancy Tribeca penthouse, some kind of celebration for his “business partners.”

  Who the hell knows what the occasion is. Breslin is always looking for an excuse to bust out some heroin and hire some whores. Honestly, when you’re as rich as Breslin you don’t need an excuse. We’ll just call it Tuesday, just your typical Tuesday orgy.

  Usually I can tune out the jabbering of his friends and the expensive entertainment when I’m on the clock. Breslin’s pretty good about letting us cut loose on his dime after-hours, so there’s really no incentive to bother with the exorbitant call girls and dancers he hires for these shindigs. Not until he gives me the clear.

  Being a rich prick’s bodyguard has it’s perks, I’m not gonna lie. The Christmas bonus alone makes the gig worthwhile. But in addition, those call girls and dancers sometimes need a ride home, or a shoulder to cry on. And there I am, Knox Cole, sympathetic bad-boy extraordinaire. They melt like putty in my hands, and then it’s like Christmas all over again.

  Knowing a perk is right around the bend, it’s usually pretty easy to keep a clear head and find a dark corner to stand in, arms crossed, and bide my time while I make sure that no drunk, horny billionaire guest breaks anything valuable. Honestly, it’s a job a lobotomized guerilla could do.

  But tonight just got interesting.

  “Cole, I’m taking Miss Radisson to the sky room,” Breslin whispers to me as he walks by my dark corner. His hand is on the small of a scantily clad socialite’s back. She giggles and traipses ahead of him as they step into his private elevator.

  She looks vaguely familiar, like I’ve probably seen her face splashed across gossip magazines in the stands on the street. You know the type—“Heiress’ Nude Snapchats Leaked” and “Stars Without Makeup” and “BiBo’s Meltdown in Court.” She’s probably named after a breakfast cereal.

  Breslin already looks bored with her and she looks drunk out of her mind, but that won’t stop him from banging her. Can’t blame the guy: the tits nearly hanging out of her dress look brand-new and expensive.

  “We’ll be upstairs the rest of the evening,” Breslin confides, “And we’re not to be disturbed for any reason. I’m leaving you in charge.”

  Breslin presses his keys into my palm, a sign that Elvis is leaving the building and the night is wrapping up. As soon as I can get rid of everybody in a tactful manner, I can do my own thing. Thank god. I’m getting pretty antsy.

  “Yes sir,” I say.

  Breslin steps into the elevator, smiling wryly at me. “Maybe after my guests leave you might persuade one of those delectable dancers to help you lock up.”

  “Hey, perv, I’m right here!” the woman with Breslin objects, slapping him playfully.

  “Yes, I see most of you.” He goes in for a sloppy motorboat in her giant tits as the elevator doors close on them.

  Well. I mean, I didn’t need to see that, but if he’s getting some, I’m getting some. I glance reflexively at the dancers undulating on his bar to mentally pick one out, and then feel my breath catch.

  Holy fuck, that one, the one dancing in the middle, no question about it. How did I not notice her before? Did she just appear out of the ether, an answer to my horny prayer?

  My jaw actually drops a little. Her body is simultaneously
tight and voluptuous, her hair short and black, her face young.

  She’s the one I want to fuck tonight.

  Eagerly, I give the DJ our end-of-night signal, cuing the last song. He nods, his dreadlocks bobbing, and switches tracks. Now it’s slow and sensual, and the dancers move to it in a sexy trance.

  My eyes flicker back to the girl in the middle, whose eyes somehow snap to meet mine across the room. They’re big, brown, intelligent eyes. The way her hips rock to the beat makes it easy to imagine the way she’d feel underneath me as I pounded her to the breaking point. She’s got rhythm. She doesn’t break eye contact.

  Wow. I might actually be drooling.

  “Start moving people towards the doors,” I say into my earpiece, kicking the end-of-night protocol into gear. “Get Gretchen and the goody-bags.”

  That’s a Jasper Breslin signature move: party-favors to soften the blow of being kicked out. Tonight’s parting gifts, I happen to know, each contain an ounce of cocaine.

  I turn my full attention back to the dancer I now think of as mine.

  I can’t say exactly what it is about her. She’s hot, obviously, but that’s not it. That’s not enough to explain the odd clenching of my guts and the sudden awareness of the tightness of my pants, as I watch her moving slowly to the house music. It’s lust at first sight and it’s magical.

  Shit. How am I possibly that hard up? I calculate mentally, and realize that it’s only been two days since I had sex. So it’s not that I’m hard up. I just actually can’t look away from her for some reason. I mean, the other girls are hot too, but my eyes actually won’t obey my brain’s command to look away from the hottie in the middle.

  What is it about her? Her dance moves aren’t bad, but I’ve seen better. Her outfit is fitted and sexy, but for some reason covers more skin than the others. Her face and body could be right at home in a beauty pageant, but the magnetic pull I feel toward her seems more than physical.

  Whatever. Let’s just say it’s physical.

  I’m going to make it physical.

  Wading through the room, I make sure I am standing between her and the exit when the song ends. The dancers step carefully off the bar and start to split their tip money, chatting and laughing together and saying their goodbyes to the DJ.

  “Night, Tricia,” my girl calls to someone.

  “Night, Katja.”

  Katja. Mmm. I like it: it suits her. There’s definitely something cat-like about her movements, something slinky and elusive.

  One hot pussy—for sure.

  When she turns around from her friends, I am waiting for her. She walks right into my waiting body, spilling the bills she’s just meticulously counted. Just like I planned.

  “Oh I’m sorry, excuse me,” she says, dropping down to the floor after her cash. Is it just my imagination, or do I catch a faint, round accent? If I do, I can’t seem to place it.

  “No no,” I murmur, “My fault entirely. Here, let me.”

  I sweep in to the rescue and kneel beside her on the ground, scooping up her money. Catching her eye, I give her the side-grin that never fails to get me laid.

  “This is why no one would ever pay me to dance,” I quip, winking. “Two left feet.”

  She laughs. It’s a low, husky sound that sends a tingle of heat between my legs as her eyes give me a shrewd once-over.

  “I don’t know, with that body of yours, you’d probably do alright. It’s not just about dancing, you know. It’s about using what you’ve got.”

  Heck yes, that’s what I like to hear: she’s halfway mine already.

  “Really?” I grin, rising with her to stand.

  “Sure, all you’d have to do is wiggle your hips a little. Like this.”

  She doesn’t just show me. She reaches out and grabs me, one hand on each hip, and presses herself against me. The touch of her fingers sends a scalding chill through my bones.

  I like feeling her control my movements like this. It’s like the sexiest possible version of dancing on someone’s toes—her motion moves us both, guides me through a slow, sensual circle. I swallow to keep myself from groaning and force myself to look into her eyes, not her breasts. Definitely not her breasts. Look into her eyes, dumbass—this is the tricky part. First you have to seal the deal, convince her to want you, then you can look at her breasts.

  “Do you give lessons?” My voice sounds a little strained. “Because I’m eager to learn. And willing to pay.”

  “Hmmm. But how much are you willing to pay? I’m very hard to get.”

  There’s definitely a whisper of an accent, but I have no idea which kind of accent it is beyond that it’s the sexy kind.

  I hold up the cash that I’ve just gathered off the floor - her cash—and I smile.

  “Will this do it?”

  Katja laughs again, playfully swiping her money back from me and making a show of counting it. When she comes to the fifty-dollar bill I’ve just slipped in, she regards me with a raised eyebrow.

  “What is this?”

  “Oh. Well. See, you were the only one I watched, the entire night,” I explain hastily. “So I didn’t want you to have to share my tip with the others. It’s all for you.”

  When her frown doesn’t clear, I laugh awkwardly.

  “Or, I mean, you could think if it as a down-payment. For dance lessons. You know.”

  Yeah, lessons in how not to be a dumbass, dumbass.

  This is weird. With all the girls I’ve picked up, I can’t remember the last time one’s made me nervous. Am I actually nervous? Is she actually fucking making me nervous, somehow?

  Wow. Clearly I am hard up.

  Welp, better do something funny and make her laugh again. I swivel my hips suggestively, a goofily serious expression on my face, and shrug apologetically. Sheesh.

  Somehow my self-deprecation and momentary lapse in smoothness seems to put her at ease. Katja’s eyes soften and an amused smile quirking her lips up at the corners. It’s charming. It makes her look devious, and somehow even younger. She folds the fifty in with the rest of her loot from the night.

  The crisis is past, and I’m still in the running.

  “Wow, not a bad starting rate for that little dance lesson,” she says. “Maybe I should stop performing and start teaching full time.”

  “No no no, you can’t do that!”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  She bends over to tuck her money into her shoe, giving me a prime view of her shapely ass. Sweet mother of god it’s almost too much for my now-too-tight pants to take; any minute now I’m just going to burst through my fly and embarrass myself. I’ve got to get her alone, and naked, and fast. The situation is growing urgent.

  When was the last time I got a hard-on just by looking at a woman? What is going on with me?

  Surely I just need to bang her and get her out of my system, that’s all.

  My mind clears, focusing on the hunt. Now it’s kill time, I turn on my most sincere-sounding charm and my most earnest-farm-boy dimpled grin. Women love it.

  “You’re what made this party bearable for me.” It’s actually true. “You can’t lock yourself away in a classroom. The world would be a sad, sad place without your talents. I can’t imagine how we’d all get through the day otherwise.”

  Katja rises to stand slowly, her shoulder lightly grazing my thigh as she rises. Where she brushed against me, heat blooms through my jeans. When she’s back on her feet she faces me squarely and tilts her head playfully to the side, biting her lip.

  “You mean you don’t know how you’d get through the day without me—or the night?”

  I feel a genuine shit-eating grin split my face.

  Oh yeah. She wants it too.

  Knox Cole for the win.

  Five—no, ten—minutes later, I’ve convinced her to slip away with me into Breslin’s back office. The keys he gave me jingle like Christmas bells as I unlock the door, thinking that what I’m about to get is better than anything that’s ever been wrapped in
a shiny bow under any dead tree, better than money in the bank, maybe even better than bacon. Well, maybe.

  I’m already picturing her naked, already imagining the thrill of touching her bare skin with my hands, unbuckling my jeans, opening her legs…

  “No one will bother us here,” I say.

  She trails after me into the darkened room and I can feel her presence like a soft breeze.

  “Good.”

  As soon as the door shuts behind us she’s on me like a cat in heat, her body colliding with mine and propelling me a step backward until I’m leaning up against the door, supporting our weight. Her body is soft against mine, her lips eager and tantalizing on my mouth.

  I let my hands roam around her back, holding her firmly in place so she can’t pull back when I plunge my tongue into her mouth. I’m coming on strong, I know, but I’m just so fucking turned on. Pressing my entire body into her, I kiss deep and hard. And I hold her there, making her take it, making her know how much I want her, what it’s going to be like. She can’t get away.

  She tastes like fucking honey.

  The kiss makes her moan, and I feel my dick throb in jealousy. Emboldened by the press of her flesh against me I let my hands mosey south, cupping her ass, kneading her thighs. I’d swear it on a stack of bibles—that’s the best ass I’ve ever groped. Firm in the right places and soft in the right places.

  “You feel amazing,” I murmur.

  I stick my knee through her legs, opening them, just to get her used to the idea. Is it just my imagination or do I feel her wet already, a warm glow where her hips arc over my thigh?

  “You kiss so good,” she gasps.

  She answers my question for me a split second later, jumping off the ground and twining her legs around my waist like a vine. Just like I’d imagined it. No, better. God, she is wet—I can feel her through her skirt and my shirt.

  “Oh, baby,” I moan.

  I stumble away from the door, turning us around so that she’s pinned up against it, her fingers in my hair, and her legs wrapped around me. I pull back from the kiss to fumble with the buttons of her shirt, and that’s when I feel one of her feet shift. She’s raising it behind me, squeezing. It feels pretty awesome. Her foot is somewhere near my ear now, like something from a porno film.