by Frankie Love
Leaning over her, covering her body with my own flesh, I press deep, listening to her moans of desire, wanting her words to always be lost when she is filled with me.
I want her to be lost, until she is found.
She comes quickly. And when she does, she laughs, loudly, as if she is shocked by the way her body has been overcome.
I thrust myself in her, coming too. And, damn, if this woman’s been overcome, I’ve been fucking undone.
5
EMMY
Waking up, startled, I look at the clock. Fuck. It’s after ten in the morning. I’m in bed, somehow tucked in under blankets. But I don’t remember that. All I remember is a gorgeous cock and a more gorgeous orgasm and a night of fucking I’ll never forget.
Looking around, I see that Boss-man is no longer next to me.
Of course he isn’t. He was using me last night, the same way I was using him. An escape. A release. I don’t even know his name.
I get out of bed, my stomach rolling with hunger. I can’t even remember the last time I had a good meal.
I smile to myself, deliciously, thinking that my mind is way too dirty. Because honestly, I didn’t eat, but I sure as hell could have swallowed Boss-man all night. Which I basically did.
Okay, back to reality, Emmy. That was make-believe, this is real-life.
And even though the last thing I want to do is put those fishnets back on, put on the crumpled pleather leotard, slide on those stilettos … I know I must.
I need to get to my apartment, shower.
I need to visit my sister in the hospital.
I need to pretend this never happened, because Boss-man is shady in the ways I promised myself I’d never get tangled up in again. Shady in ways that make me feel like I am my mother’s daughter.
And I want to be more. The past five years, I have fought to be better, braver. Stronger. The kind of woman my mom never was.
I wrap a sheet around me and walk from the bedroom to retrieve my clothes. Stepping back into the empty suite’s living room, where the guys played poker last night, I think how much really has been a mystery.
I’ll never see Boss-man again. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll glimpse his friends around the casino.
Before I dress, I grab my purse from the closet where I stowed it last night when I got here. No missed calls on my phone, so that’s good. Though I did miss a text an hour ago from Claire asking if I wanted to meet for morning Bloody Marys.
I smile, hoping she had a good night, knowing there is no way in hell I am going to dish about mine.
I need to put that orgasmic time behind me.
It’s for the best—I certainly have enough on my plate. Determined to move forward, I walk through the living room to get last night’s uniform. Putting my sad excuse for an “outfit” back on will equal a walk of shame I’ve never experienced in Vegas.
But there are worse things than getting properly screwed.
No shame here.
A few shopping bags sit next to my rumbled uniform. Looking around the empty room, I frown, knowing they weren’t here last night.
Setting my phone down on the stack of magazines on the side table, I take a better looks at the bags around me. Designer everything. Completely above my pay grade.
I pull out a tissue-wrapped pair of Saint Laurent white skinny jeans and a black-and-white top in a size six. My size.
Well, at least on the days I don’t eat Tommy C’s pizza. Which last night I did not.
Next to it, a Jimmy Choo bag contains a box with a pair of size nine leopard print heels, that yeah, look like they might hurt to walk in, but it would be worth dying in these. A La Perla bag holds a gorgeous white medium-sized thong, and a matching white lace bra — 34DD, my size again.
A fourth bag holds a Bordeaux-colored, sleeveless bandage dress from Herve Leger that literally has me drooling. Another shoebox holds a pair of Dolce and Gabbana peep-toe booties in black. There are no underthings for this dress, and I kind of think that’s the point. This dress leaves exactly zero to the imagination.
I swallow, never actually having held such amazing pieces in my life. I empty all the tissue paper from the bags, wondering what it all means, not liking what it implies. There’s no note, no explanation. No nothing.
Standing, I bite my lip. Hesitant. Near the door, there’s a cart with a carafe of coffee and a silver lidded tray. I walk to it and lift the lid, revealing fresh fruit and a bagel with lox.
I frown; my stomach roars. I try to think. What the fuck does this all mean? Then, next to the food on the cart, I see a small vase with a single exquisite red rose. An envelope leans against it.
On the front it reads Emmy Rose in a rough scrawl.
Running my finger across the seal, I pull out a piece of Spades Royalle stationary.
Emmy,
I want to see you again.
In this dress.
Then I’m gonna tear it off of you.
And you are gonna fuck me.
I won’t take no for an answer.
Tonight. Eleven o’clock. Stacked.
— Boss-man
My heart pounds in my chest, and I don’t know what to think. I blink, trying to decide … do I put on these fucking clothes and walk out of here like I’m the property of a guy who is supposed to be a one-night stand?
The property of a guy who’s shady. Shady like the kind I have to avoid—the kind that was my father. The kind that killed my mother. The kind that nearly killed me.
I saw the way Boss-man spoke to the guy in the hallway last night. It sent a shiver down my spine … I can’t go back to a life full of loss, full of nothing. I’ve worked too hard to become something.
I can’t. I can’t get tangled up with this cocky bastard. That note alone should be reason enough to stay clear of this womanizing, no-name asshole.
He thinks he can buy me? I cannot be bought.
Grabbing my fishnets, I sit on the couch, determined to walk out of here—yeah, maybe in yesterday’s clothes, but my head will be held high.
As I start to roll the netting over my foot, I hear my cellphone ring. I grab it, wondering if it might be Boss-man.
Ugh. Like it would be. Like it matters.
I reach for my phone and a hotel magazine with the name SPADES ROYALLE splayed across the front tumbles to the floor. I grab my phone, answering it before it goes to voicemail.
“Hello?” I grab the fallen magazine, pausing on the article that it’s flipped open to.
What the fuck?
“Emmy? This is Detective Clark, down at the station.” His voice is gruff, the only way I’ve ever heard him speak.
“Detective Clark?” I ask, my voice catching. My eyes stuck on the article on the floor. Detective Clark is the last person I expected to hear from. “Is everything okay?” I pick up the article, completely distracted by the picture of Ace, the owner of Spades Royalle Casino.
Completely overwhelmed. Dizzy.
I sit down, trying to focus on the detective.
“Yeah, it’s Clark. There’s been some development on your sister’s case. You need to get down the station, stat.”
“Do you know who the driver is?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes. Finally, yes.
“Just get down here and I’ll fill you in.”
“Okay, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Finally, something about my sister. I’ve waited two months for this phone call.
I hang up the phone, my eyes absorbed with the picture of Ace.
The smoldering green eyes that had locked with mine all last night.
Ace, the man I slept with. The man who fucked me silly.
Ace is Boss-man.
I’ve been royally screwed by a bad boy.
6
ACE
Leaving Emmy in that bed this morning was one of the hardest fucking things I’ve ever done in my life. And I don't care if thinking that makes me a pussy.
Her goddamned bare skin, smooth and supple, curled against mine, tea
sed me into the early hours of the morning. And when I inhaled the scent of her citrus shampoo, I would have bought a motherfucking orange orchard so I could bottle up that goodness and smell her every day of my life.
But I didn't need any lemon trees. I could just have her. Take her. Keep her.
If I didn't have to meet with my lawyer to try and get that asshole Frank Grotto off my back, I would have stayed in that suite, in that bed, waited until she woke and then ridden her all day long.
But I don't own this casino because I sleep on Egyptian cotton until noon. I own this goddamned place because I don't let up, don't wait on people to come to me.
I come when I want it, where I want.
The same way I fuck women. However the hell I please.
And Emmy is no different. I want her, so I'll have her. That's why she's in my hotel suite, wrapped up in sheets covered with my come. Because she isn't going anywhere.
She's gonna wear those clothes I told Denise to get for her, she's gonna shave her legs and trim her pussy, and she’s gonna put lipstick on her perfect pouty lips.
And then those lips are gonna wrap around my cock, and she's gonna suck me hard until I tell her to stop.
I won't take no for an answer.
Not that I think she'll say no, not now that she's had a taste of me. That woman knows my hungry cock is the only thing she ever wants in her mouth again.
Walking into the law office of Denzel & Swopes, I pull my shoulders back, straighten my tie. I play a hard game, but fuck—I know where I come from, know these guys still think they can't entirely trust me.
But I also know my money is clean, my casino is tight. The IRS can fucking audit me everyday of the week.
I'm not my father's son.
Mark Denzel is sitting at his desk as I stride into his office. “Ace, did we have an appointment?” he asks. His secretary trails after me, but Mark knows I don't come here unless there’s a reason.
He waves her off, and I take a seat in a leather chair across from him.
“Doesn't look like you have a client, and I'll make this short,” I tell him.
I'm not gonna waste Mark's time. He's had my back since I showed up in this town with one hundred million dollars—I drained what was left in my Pop's accounts after he was killed. I fled the city and came here, started over with a new name and a new game.
And the need for some investors. Mark Denzel got me appointments with the right men, and believed in me since the day we fucking met.
Because of the sappy ass mood I’ve been in today, I can’t help think of what he’s done to help my casino grow. He’s been like a father to me.
And fuck, sappy or not, it's the truth. He is a rock-solid man who saw beyond the place my cash came from and helped me line up what I needed to become the owner of the Spades Royalle.
His belief has paid off—at least it’s beginning to. My vision for the Spades Royalle was never one of those low-end establishment. We are a boutique hotel, serving high-end clients for a reason. So what if the casino took more of an initial investment than I'd originally anticipated? After three years in business, we’re beginning to see the numbers we'd hoped for when we started.
But those investors don't know my share of the initial capital came from dirty money. Came from the Genova family—or what’s left of them. I'm the only one left standing, but I don't claim that name. Now I go by Ace Royalle. Nothing less, nothing more.
“We have a problem,” I say. “Grotto's back. He's been gone, what? Six weeks, eight weeks tops?”
“Grotto?” Mark asks, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What's he want?”
“He showed up at Spades last night, blazing. Says he has shit on me and my family.”
Mark leans in, eyes narrowed. “What sort of shit?”
“I have no fucking clue. I made a clean break, Mark, I swear it. I changed my name and never looked back. Haven't set foot in New York for five years. But Grotto knows something. I can gain thirty pounds of muscle but that isn't gonna fix my fucking face. He knows who I am.”
“So what, Ace? Even if he does know, the money has been redistributed a hundred times over. Spades is a clean establishment, unless there’s something you're doing there you aren't telling me about?”
“Fuck no, I tell you everything.”
“Then what's this about?” Mark asks. “Why is he coming after you?”
“He says he's gonna get that property off the strip. The property on the South end, you know the one I’ve had my eye on forever? Spades is legit, sure, but I want another piece of real estate, and you know as well as I do that property around here doesn't come around every year. I've already talked to the conglomerates at all the big hotels. They aren't bidding.”
“Why not?” Mark asks.
“They don't think it's a good investment. It's in old town Vegas. They want property on the strip, or nothing at all.”
“But you think this is a viable venture?” Mark asks. “For another hotel?”
“Not a hotel,” I say.
“Then what?”
“I don't want to talk about my next business. I want to talk about how we can get Grotto off my fucking nut sack.”
Mark rubs his jaw, thinking. “Look, I don't know what I can do. If you want to move forward with this property, I guess I should go out there and look at it, see what sort of investors you'll need in order to purchase it. I don't think our other guys will want back in until there’s more profit on the table with the Spades.”
“Fine, but not today,” I tell him.
“Why not?”
I shrug, not wanting to talk money right now—even though I know that is exactly what I’m going to need. I came here to deal with Grotto. Not talk shop.
“That stuff can wait. Right now I need a plan to get Grotto the fuck out of this town before he tries to ruin me.”
“Ace, you're over your head. I feel it. All the media lately, and you were on the cover of Vegas Weekly. You're the person everyone is talking about right now. That attention is good for the Spades, but it doesn’t sound like it’s good for you. The last thing you need is an enemy who knows your past showing up, dragging you through the mud.”
“Fuck, I know.” My smile disappears. I know Mark has my back, but right now it sounds like his belief in me has its limits. “I don't want to get dirty. I just want this land. And Grotto knows it.”
“As your counsel, I think you need to drop this land deal. If Grotto really wants to come after you, it's going to make the Spades Royalle look bad. You can't have that right now. The hotel just got into the black.”
“I know you've stuck your neck out for me before, but with Grotto, this isn't business. This is getting fucking personal,” I tell him, seething.
“Personal or not, Grotto's not going anywhere. He's been in Vegas for as long as me. And whether you like it or not, he's not leaving anytime soon. The cops haven't got shit on him.”
“I'm not letting him push me in a corner.”
Mark snorts. “Nobody puts baby in a corner, is that right?”
“Fuck yeah, it is.” I stand, needing a fucking drink. Needing to fucking breathe.
“Look, Ace, don't get all pissed off.” Mark opens a drawer in his desk and shuffles around papers. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “Call Trenton. He's a PI, he'll help you out. If there's dirt to be found on Grotto, he'll find it.”
“Thanks, man.” I take the card and turn to leave. I pause in the doorway. “Hey, your lady doing better?”
“Yeah, Judy's doing okay. Out of the hospital and back home. That pneumonia really got to her. But she's hanging in there.”
I see him swallow, like he has a lump in his throat; this year has been a bitch for him. Judy is the fucking light of his goddamned life, and after three rounds of chemo she's finally on the mend. Except for this latest run in the hospital.
People like Mark and Judy—good people—don't need that kind of shit, yet they're dealing with it.
; Mark comes around his desk to say good-bye, claps me on the back. “Thanks for asking, Ace. She'll like hearing that you're thinking of her and not just the twenty-somethings you meet at the casino.”
I smile, wave good-bye.
Glad to have Grotto off my fucking mind for a moment.
Instead, I walk away thinking of one twenty-something. Thinking of the ways I'd like to put her in a corner.
And knowing that tonight, I will.
EMMY
I need to get out of this hotel suite, stat. Meeting with Detective Clark can't wait. He has information about my sister's case, and I need it. Now.
Otherwise I’m never going to move on with my life.
I just can't believe my hallway lover is Ace. Ace Royalle. Ace, the fucking owner of this casino.
I'm still here—naked, wrapped up in the sheets we slept in last night. Though, to be fair, there wasn't much sleeping last night. The only sleep I had came in the early morning hours.
Because last night all we did was fuck ourselves silly. Hard. Soft. Fast. Slow. We screwed until his cock was as raw as my pussy.
Which, okay, was amazing. But also—really? I bared myself to the most sexed-up sleaze this end of the strip. And everyone knows that about him. How did I miss what this guy looks like?
Tess is going to legitimately die when she finds out. Not that I will tell her. Because … I mean, I just spent last night doing the thing I have said was a no-go since getting this job.
I had sex with the baddest of the bad boys.
And I liked it.
However, I do not like the note he left for me. The demands scrawled across it. He wants me to wear a certain dress, to a certain club, with one goal in mind. To have sex.
And while I know Ace is that guy, the guy who has sex on the dance floor—I am so not that girl.
Okay. So I have two options. 1) Put on my fishnets and blow off Ace, hotel owner extraordinaire, aka deceiving asshole. Or, 2) put on the amazing clothes provided for me and relish the luxury of being his latest conquest.