by Frankie Love
But before I can ride the elevator to the suite, I need to wash the lipstick off my face.
As I step down the corridor on the way to the bathroom, I see the hallway guy from earlier, the one who made me heat up with desire.
He doesn’t notice me though; he’s talking to another man, a man even more intense than he is. And this other guy is nowhere near as put together. He looks like he stepped out of a mafia movie, all old-school gangster, like he belongs in an Italian restaurant in NYC, or at least in downtown Las Vegas, on the old strip.
Everyone knows the owner of Spades Royalle has past ties with the mafia, but I’ve never glimpsed any dark dealings here. Granted I haven’t worked here very long. And I promised myself that if Spades Royalle ended up being a seedy establishment, I’d get the hell out.
I don’t need any drama; I’ve spent my life fighting against a shady past.
Spades Royalle was the first place I was hired when I moved here, and I needed money. Bad. And since the girls who worked here were nice I figured, worst-case scenario, it would be a temporary position. Everyone says this place is more exclusive than other casinos, and it has a boutique-y feel that I like.
But while it may be smaller in size, the Spades makes up for that with the big-name guests. Spades has become the go-to swanky, sex-pot locale for the rich and famous coming to Vegas.
Still, it is Vegas. Near-naked women are everywhere—hell, I’m one of them. There are strip poles in every hotel room at the Spades, and while prostitution isn’t legal per se, there’s a phone directory beside each bed, listing women you can call if you want to be “tucked in.”
And after a childhood with a father who never put women first, I know the best thing to do is stay far away from the owner of this hotel. Keep my head down, show up to work when I’m told, and cash my paycheck.
Because even if some people say the owner has changed, that his dirty past doesn’t follow him, I know the signs of shady dealings—and from where I’m standing now, watching these two men, I don’t like the exchange I’m witnessing.
And while this guy I’m staring at may be shady —he has still gotten me downright hot. His eyes are full of suppressed emotion, his jawline square—and everything about him screams I’m a mother-fucking man.
Pausing at the doorway to the women’s break room, I can’t help but feel a shiver run down my back as I look back at that hallway stranger. His broad shoulders and strong jaw dominate the space between himself and the other man. I can tell this other guy is pissed, but I can’t hear what they’re discussing.
Whatever it is, it’s not good. There’s a hell of a lot of sneering taking place.
But hot damn, just looking at that man, I feel myself get wet down there. Which is not good in my barely-there uniform. Obviously it’s been way too long since a man has had his way with me.
Oh man, this is bad.
I head into the restroom and don’t even pause to wipe off the lipstick stain. Fuck, I just want to release some of my pent-up … everything. It’s much too easy to imagine that stranger giving me what I want, and I swear if I didn’t have this job to go to in like, ten minutes—and you know, if I wasn’t on the effing clock—I would go back out to the hallway and ask him to pleasure me the way my body craves.
But ain’t nobody got time for that, I think, laughing to myself as I shake my head. It’s not that I usually get it on with strangers, but right now, a nameless quickie feels like the gift I deserve.
Instead, I lock the stall door, pull down my leotard, my bra-less breasts tumbling out, my nipples hard just thinking about the mouth of the hallway guy.
Those lips. Just thinking about the way I want him on his knees, running his tongue over my opening, I can’t help but rub my nipples. My breath is hot in an instant.
Sure, I haven’t been with a guy in forever, but I have no problem taking care of myself. And fuck the clock—right now my clit is screaming for a steady flicking. Obviously, my first choice would have been that stranger, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
Using my finger, I rub my pussy hard, steadying myself against the door with my other hand. I know this isn’t the sexiest place in the world to rub one out, but fuck, that man made me wet.
Oh. And it feels good. I moan softly, not even caring if anyone else is here. I imagine his rough stubble pressing against my thighs, his hands grabbing my ass as he covers my opening with his mouth. My wetness seeps out, and I sigh in release.
I lean my forehead against the stall door, catching my breath.
Then I grab some tissue and wipe myself, before pulling up my stockings and my uniform. After adjusting my breasts, nipples still erect, I swing open the door.
I wash my hands and face, bite my lip, and my thoughts linger on the hallway guy. Then I hurry to work the shift Claire has gotten me.
You know, employee of the fucking month.
ACE
“Damn, Ace, the show was off the hook tonight,” McQueen says, walking into the private suite on the fortieth floor of the hotel.
I just got here myself, after having a “conversation” in the hall with the world’s biggest asshole. I fucking hate Frank Grotto. And now he thinks he’s going to buy up property off the strip—the property I’ve wanted to get my hands on for months.
Property that is going to make me even richer, make a name for myself beyond casino owner. I have plans with that property, and Grotto isn’t going to fuck with them.
Grotto thinks he can threaten me and force me to back off. He says he’s gonna use my family against me.
Little does he know family means nothing to me. Not anymore.
I’ve worked hard to keep my trail clean. I broke ties with my family and their underhanded dealings when my Pops died. More like, got shot. I skipped town, brought my money to Vegas, and worked my way to the top.
Sure, I grew up the son of a mafia boss. Money laundering was the cleanest work my father did, and he taught me his ways. For years, I went along with the family business.
But not anymore.
Now the only place I get dirty is with a woman. I tighten my jaw remembering the waitress who just fucking turned me down. Who the hell does Emmy Rose think she is? Besides being the sexiest, most unassuming piece of ass I’d seen in a long fucking time.
McQueen is still talking about his latest conquest, that son of a bitch.
“Tonight, women were basically spreading their legs every time I flexed.” He grins. Clearly he just got laid—I’m guessing more than twice. He’s a male dancer in the Spades Royalle show, Spank You, and he never has to ask to get fucked.
Unlike me, apparently. My ego is taking a fucking dive tonight.
“You ready to lose tonight?” I ask him. I notice my private dealer, Carla, is already here preparing our table for the poker game.
The suite is set up for a night with the guys—something we all make sure to add to our tight schedules because down time is not something we usually get.
This monthly meeting is untouchable. A safe zone. A paparazzi-free, girlfriend-free zone.
McQueen shakes his head, not even giving my question the dignity of a response. He wants to win as bad as any of us. Not that he’s any good, and he knows it.
Sure, we take the poker game seriously, but not as seriously as our friendship. You need to keep your friends close in this town.
I’ve known McQueen, Jack, and Landon for five years, ever since we showed up in Vegas as kids with big dreams. We were a motley crew, the four of us, and this town knew us for the bad boys we were.
Landon and I were the only ones with real money. Me, a washed-out kid from New York, with deep pockets and a chip on my shoulder. Landon, the bad seed son of a diamond tycoon, was in a whole other league than me.
McQueen and Jack had their own talents … they worked harder than Landon and I, because they started with nothing. But we all found our way, and somehow, stuck together.
Taking a swig of whiskey, I try to focus on the game ahead, knowing
I need a night off now more than ever. I still feel tense from the unprecedented rejection I just received in the hallway. And, you know, that asshole Grotto.
What the hell? I haven’t seen that SOB in a few months, and now he shows up in my casino, thinking he’s a boss? He’s a boss of nothing. He got run out of NYC the same time I left.
Our pasts are too tangled for my liking. I want him out of Vegas.
I push him from my mind. I don’t want to think about anything that will add stress tonight. Tonight is about letting loose. About taking the fucking edge off.
But damn, it’s impossible for my mind to not return to Emmy Rose. That one is something else.
First of all, she denied me my singular desire—her pussy. And two, she didn’t know who the hell I was.
Maybe I’m losing my edge?
Carla winks at me as she begins pulling chips from the drawer under the table. She’s been working my game for the past three years, ever since I bought this casino and moved in. She is solid, salt-of-the-earth, and worth her weight in gold in a town like this, where most people come to take advantage of one another.
“You doing okay, boss?” she asks. I hate that she can see that something is off with me tonight. Clearly, my game needs work if even Carla can smell the rejection from across the room.
“Aww, this boy’s good,” McQueen says, punching my arm. “He’s probably just tired from all the ass he’s been getting. Heard you were recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor in Vegas Weekly, bro. There was a photo of you half-naked, looking like a fucking king.”
I shrug off the comment, hating that kind of attention. I prefer spreads in the Las Vegas Times mentioning my real estate investments. That’s what reminds me that I’m something bigger and better than a guy with a ripped torso, from a shady family.
I’m not the son of a Kingpin anymore; I’m a businessman who knows how to fucking take care of himself.
We’re waiting for the other players to show. I only invite my closest friends to my game.
McQueen, of course. Then there’s Jack, the in-house DJ at my nightclub, Stacked, who’s already texted saying he’s running a few minutes behind. Then there’s Landon, who didn’t text, and I’m betting the lucky bastard is busy getting fucked as we speak.
I’ve seen women go wild for him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s the heir of Solitaire, the most exclusive diamond importer in the world.
Luckily for all of us there are plenty of wet lips waiting for us to part them.
A few minutes later, Landon and Jack walk in, and the game can begin. Jack immediately puts his phone in the dock and sets the tone with a playlist, dark electronic music filling the room.
He does a little dance move, cracking his neck as he exhales. Yeah, it’s obvious he needs a night away from the grind of working the club and the media asshats who’ve been following him around.
He just broke up with his on and off again girlfriend—the singer Ashley Quick—so I have no doubt he is ready to decompress.
We bump fists, and I shake Landon’s hand.
“Good to see you, man,” Landon says to me, passing around a box of fine cigars, then lighting one for himself. “And, fuck, your tables have been nice to me this weekend.”
“What are you even doing playing black jack? Don’t you get bored?” I ask him.
“I got bored years ago. I gotta fucking figure my shit out, is what I need to do.”
“You in town long?” Jack asks him. “I got a show tomorrow night that’s gonna be hot.”
“I’ll be here until Monday,” Landon says. “You know I don’t go to clubs much, but I’ll come.” Landon has a private life we don’t see much; he has a darker side that I’ve heard mention of a few times.
He usually has a woman who’s pretty devoted, but the relationships don’t last long. I’m guessing he’s into that BDSM shit, which is probably hot as hell, but I prefer to fuck without the handcuffs.
I’ve rarely had a problem getting a woman right where I want her—I don’t need a lock and key to get a pussy in place.
“I’ll get us a table.” Turning to McQueen I ask, “You working Friday’s show? Or are you free?”
“I’m working, but fuck yeah, I’m in. I’ll come when I get done, maybe midnight or one.”
“Cool, I’ll put you on the list,” I say, happy to hook up my friends. My table at Stacked is prime, and I’ll be sure to tell my personal assistant, Denise, to fill the table with plenty of hot women. Jack will appreciate my forethought when he gets off stage.
“Let’s get you boys some drinks,” I say, looking around for the cocktail waitress. Not seeing anyone, I look at Carla, who holds up one finger, signaling that she’ll go figure out where our waitress is.
I specifically only have one girl working our game, and Carla is the one who picks her out. She has a good pulse on the waitresses working, since she’s been a manager here as long as I’ve owned the place.
The last thing I need is rumors flying about any of us. Discretion is important in my private space, and Carla knows that. Which is why it pisses me off that the person she hired tonight hasn’t shown.
A minute later Carla returns. “She’ll be here in a moment. Sorry about that, boss, I guess the shift got traded.” Carla gives me an apologetic look, and I know she won’t let this happen again.
“This new girl, we can trust her?” I ask, speaking low.
“I think so. She’s new, but seems eager to please, and she’s never been late to work before.” She begins dealing the cards and we take our seats.
“Eager to please, huh?” Landon asks. “I like the sound of that.”
Carla smirks, and we all look down at our hands. We start making bets based on what we’re holding, and I smile, liking the way the deal went.
A moment later the door to the lounge opens and my eyes flick up, remembering those long fish-netted legs from earlier. Remembering the tendrils of brunette hair out of place, remembering how Emmy said she was going to be late if she didn’t hurry.
Late for this poker game.
I wouldn’t have minded her being late if it meant I could have pushed her panties aside and pressed a finger into her wetness.
Not that she’s any wearing panties, not in that skin-tight uniform, the thonged back sliding between her perfect ass cheeks. I chose those cocktail uniforms for that specific reason—I don’t want anything left to the imagination. I want to know exactly what sort of pussy is walking around my casino.
I want to know what sort of pussy is walking into my private suite. And, god—hers is exactly what I want.
She meets my eyes, and I see her take a sharp intake of breath. She wants me too. Earlier, the only reason she walked away was because she didn’t want to get fired.
In her hand, she still holds that damn cocktail tray, and I want to push it aside, wrap those legs around me, and press her into the wall, my cock leading the way.
I don’t like that she denied me, but I think it’s cute how she takes this job seriously. I like that she doesn’t know who I am, because it means she hasn’t heard the rumors that I know circulate about the size of my cock, the way I pound women until they cry out in ecstasy.
I grin, knowing she’ll find out all on her own
3
EMMY
Oh shit.
The guy from the hallway is here. I try not to look surprised, hoping my flushed cheeks don’t reveal the real reason I was late. You know, because I was busy getting off like a total horn-dog.
Oh my god, I am so over my head with my life.
Standing in the private suite, I know my eyes get wide. Because, oh my word, this place is amazeballs—the carpet is plush and black, the walls are painted a dark purple, and gorgeous sconces hug the walls of the dimly-lit room. It’s a dream in here, nothing like Janie’s crap apartment that I’m using while she’s in the ICU.
But even with all this jaw-dropping interior design work, my eyes can’t help but stay on the hallway guy, can’t help
but wonder if his dark green eyes want to undress me as much as my blue ones want to rip off his suit.
Gah. Here I am, at my biggest gig since getting this cocktail job, and I’m thinking about the cock of a legit stranger.
Get a freaking grip, Emmy!
But I have an inkling he’s thinking the exact same thing. He looks me up and down, as if swallowing me whole. Fuck, I want to swallow him whole … and I don’t even know what sort of package he delivers … not that I can’t make a guess by the large, tight bulge I saw in his pants earlier in the hallway.
He waves me over and I take a deep breath, knowing I need to serve the clients without thinking about screwing them.
Claire told me the number one thing to remember about this job tonight was to act professional. No flirting, no wagging my ass for extra tips—I’d get those just by showing up. All that’s required of me is to straight-up take the drink orders and serve the beverages for the private party.
I walk to the table where he sits with three other men, all handsome, all way out of my league. I’m small town through and through, and these boys are city slickers … I have no interest in getting greased up by them.
Well, that isn’t entirely true … the hallway dude is seriously turning me on as he rubs his hand over his jaw, as if debating the next move. I can’t tell if the move is about the poker game or me.
Knock it off, Emmy—of course he’s thinking about the game. There are easily half a million dollars worth of chips on the table. The truth of that hits me in the gut—that amount of money could change someone’s life. My life. Forever. And for these guys it’s chump change.
Still, it isn’t my business whose money is up for grabs and how often.
I am on the clock.
“What can I get you?” I ask him politely, as if we hadn’t sort-of met earlier. Discretion is important in Vegas.
“You know what I want,” he says, his voice low so only I can hear his words.
Looking down at myself, I see my nipples are standing at attention through this pleather leotard. I lick my lips cautiously, wanting to press myself against him, but also determined not to lose a grip while working tonight. If he gets me too hot and bothered, it will be obvious in this outfit. If I get wet again, like I did in the bathroom, everyone will know.