by Ruby Steele
I push my lips out in what I hope is a sultry pout, but I think I may just look like I’m impersonating a fish.
“Oh my god, Olivia, if you don’t stop stressing over the way you look, I’m going to go grab the first guy I see and ask him if he’ll just do the deed and get it over with.” My best friend Becca rolls her eyes as she applies another coat of lip gloss in the bathroom mirror, smacking her lips together and pulling off the come-hither look way better than I could ever hope for.
I sigh with envy over her boobs. They’re practically spilling out of her dress. I look down at my own girls. It’s not fair. Can’t a girl enjoy training for marathons and not lose her assets in the process? Not that my assets were very substantial to begin with, daily running sessions aside.
“You look hot,” Becca says, turning to me and fluffing up my honey-blonde waves. She looks down at my chest. “I could never pull off a dress like that. Consider yourself lucky.”
The short red halter dress I’m wearing is pretty fucking awesome. Something I would never wear in my everyday life. But she’s right. The dangerously thin strips of fabric that cover my B-cups, (okay, who am I kidding? They barely qualify as Bs), would never keep anything bigger in place without a bra. Not unless they were surgically fortified to defy gravity.
I nod, more in an effort to gather my resolve than in agreement. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Becca grins. “You are crazy. You know that, right?”
Yep. Fully aware. Not only did I decide on a whim to come celebrate New Year’s Eve in Vegas, but I vowed to finally give up my v-card while here. That’s right. Who has managed to make it through almost three years of college without losing her virginity? This girl right here.
But not after tonight. Because what better place to have a random hookup than Sin City? If it ends up being horribly, painfully awkward, there is no chance in hell I’ll ever have to see the guy again. And I am the Princess of Awkward. I’m not even sure I’ll make across the casino floor without tripping in the ridiculous heels I’m wearing, much less fumble my way through my first sexual encounter without some major snafu.
“Whatever I am, there is one thing I will not be by this time tomorrow.” I grin to hide my nerves. Picking up guys is so not my thing. I can count the number of dates I’ve been on since starting college on one hand. Yep again. One hand. I’m that pathetic. The girl you see in the library on a Friday night, hunched over math books? That’s me. My favorite YouTube channel is a semi-weekly exploration of chaos theory.
So the idea of not only hitting on a guy but getting him to take me back to his room? Panic inducing.
“I still don’t get why you’re so obsessed with this.” Becca tosses her dark hair and links her arm in mine, leading me from the restroom we’re in just off the casino at the Bellagio. My stomach flutters as fast as the wheels of the spinning slots that assault my senses with their flashing lights and tinkling bells when we hit the casino floor.
“I told you,” I hiss, looking around to make sure no one can hear us as we make our way to the sleek bar. I’m definitely going to need some liquid courage. “It’s to the point now that it’s becoming embarrassing. When I go out with a guy—rare as that may be—all I can think about is what he’s going to think when he finds out I’m a virgin.”
It’s the excuse I’ve been giving her since I came up with the idea. True enough, but there’s more to it. Something I don’t feel comfortable sharing, even with my best friend. Deep down, I’m afraid that I’m turning into a boring old lady at the ripe age of twenty-one. I can see it already. Me and my YouTube videos, surrounded by a bunch of mewling cats as I solve math problems for fun, a literal forty-year-old virgin.
Maybe it’s a dumb fear. But I’ve been so focused on school for so long that I’m starting to think I’m missing out on life. I want to see what it would be like to let loose for a change. To have fun and live a little. When I ring in the new year at midnight, I’ll be a whole new woman.
Becca shrugs as she orders four shots of tequila and speaks loudly to be heard over the hypnotic sounds of gambling and music. “Whatever. I’ll just be glad to stop hearing about it. Who knows? You may find out there’s a little sex kitten that’s been hiding behind those glasses all this time.”
“Right.” I snort, glancing around to make sure no one heard her declaration. But the mention of my glasses has me blinking rapidly, reminding me just how much I hate wearing contacts. But really, if I’m on the prowl for guys, my librarian glasses would hardly reel them in.
The bartender sets out the shot glasses in a line on the bar, along with a dish of limes and some salt, and gives me a slow, sexy smile, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s checking me out.
“Remember, lick, sip, and suck,” he says with a wink. He’s totally fuckable, in my not-so-experienced opinion, so of course my instincts kick in. I blush and start to lower my head, hoping my hair will cover my face and hide my embarrassment.
“Uh-uh. No ma’am.” Becca lifts my chin forcefully and shoves a shot in my face. “That shit has to stop right this second.”
“What?” I take the shot and run my thumb nervously around the rim of the glass, cutting my eyes back to the bartender. He’s moved on.
“That right there. You had the perfect opening to flirt with that guy, and what did you do? Hid behind your hair like a twelve-year-old.” She hands me a lime and grabs the salt shaker. “Give me your hand.”
I lick the skin between my thumb and forefinger and hold it out, and Becca pours salt on it before clinking her glass to mine. “To a new year full of hot sex.”
I laugh. “Hear, hear.”
We lick the salt from our hands and throw the shots back, then suck on the limes as our faces scrunch up. The burn as the liquor makes it way down my throat brings tears to my eyes. But it also gets my blood buzzing. I feel more relaxed already and reach for the second shot glass.
Looking around the casino, I keep an eye out for some guys that might be game to take me up on my unconventional proposition. But more than that, I scan the tables. My main goal might be to hook up with someone, but it’s also my first time in a casino. I want to play blackjack first.
There are several tables nearby, but things are getting crowded. I’m not sure I want to gamble for the first time with a huge audience.
“Becca,” I say, pointing across the casino, “do you think the high limit section is as crowded as the main floor?”
She looks at me as if I’ve sprouted a third boob. “Seriously? I know you are not thinking of going in there.”
I bite my lip, and she groans. Because she knows I am. I look around again, lowering my voice even more. “I think I can do it. I’ve been watching these videos.”
“Oh my god, you and your videos.” She shakes her head, then shrugs, grabbing the salt shaker again. “Well, I guess if anyone can do it, you can.”
Here’s the thing about Becca. She’s my best friend, but she’s the absolute worst at telling me when I have a bad idea. My plot to rid myself of my pesky virginity being Exhibit A. In fact, she encourages bad behavior. Probably because it’s so out of character for me that she loves it when I actually let loose.
“I know my limit,” I tell her, holding out my hand for another shake of salt. “I’ll only play up to a certain amount, then if I lose it, I’ll walk away.”
I don’t have a choice. I’m on a ridiculously tight budget. The only reason I was even able to escape my small town in Colorado and attend Stanford is because I’m on a full scholarship. Math nerd, remember? That elusive eight hundred SAT math score? Nailed it. It should be getting a bit clearer now why I’ve only had five dates in three years and am besties with my fingertip vibrator.
I come from a modest background, and I’ve paid my own way from the time I was sixteen. I’m not afraid to work hard, and I’ve stashed enough money away to pay for this trip, including some money to lose. Call me overconfident, but that perfect SAT score and weekends watching math vi
deos have taught me a thing or two. I know enough about blackjack that I should be able to hold my own. I don’t think I’ll be losing tonight.
At least I hope.
I grab a lime. “Let’s do this.” We repeat the lick, sip, and suck, then laugh our way out of the bar, the start of a good buzz forming. I only trip over my feet once. Damn high heels.
Becca is busy scoping out the guys as we make our way toward the high limit area. It is fancy. Not gonna lie, it’s a little intimidating. Peeking past the ropes, I see that it’s definitely less crowded. I also see very few women in there. It looks a bit like an old gentlemen’s club—not that kind of gentlemen’s club—with its dark woods and deep, rich jewel tones.
When Becca looks past me, she starts shaking her head. “I don’t think I should go in there.”
I purse my lips. It might actually be better if she didn’t. I need to focus if I’m playing high stakes with the only extra money I have.
“Okay, how about this? You go find some single guys, I’ll play a few hands, then we’ll meet up.”
She nods and gives me a mischievous smile. “I’ll find you a good one that’s packing and ready to show you what you’ve been missing out on.”
Groaning, I roll my eyes. “Just text me. And no, not a dick pic,” I interject before she can say what I know she’s thinking.
Then she’s gone, and it’s me and the high rollers. I suck in a breath and square my shoulders, trying to project the confidence that I need if I’m going to stand a chance in here. No sign of weakness.
I step into the area, and a burly security guard immediately tests my resolve. “Sorry, lady. High limit players only.” He jerks his thumb back in the direction I came, apparently caveman for asking me to leave.
I stop and glance around. There aren’t many people in the room, but the asshole is just loud enough that nearly everyone turns to look at me. Perfect.
Then my eyes land on the blackjack tables. There is only one in use, and only one man sitting at it, his back to me. I focus on what I’m doing in here and give the security guard an icy glare. “Guess that’s me, then.”
Tossing my hair over my shoulder, I make a show of waltzing to the table like I do this every night, praying all the while I don’t trip in these godforsaken heels.
Miraculously, I only wobble once, and I think it’s barely noticeable. When I slide into the seat next to the man at the blackjack table, and say, “Mind if I join the next shoe?” (that’s right, I learned all the words from YouTube) the nerves I’ve been fighting all night suddenly hit me full force.
Not because of the money I’m about to lay down, though that should give me cause for concern. But because when the man turns his head toward me, he is hands down the sexiest man I have ever seen in real life.
Dress pants and jacket over a tailored button-up, tie loosened and top button undone, dark scruff covering his chiseled jaw, he exudes rich, cool confidence. But when his steel-gray eyes meet mine through dark-rimmed glasses and one corner of his lips quirk up, I feel a rush of heat shoot straight to my core.
Every nerve in my body is acutely aware of this man, all of them humming with electricity as he slowly rakes his eyes down my body, lingering on the absurdly short hemline of my dress. He takes his time bringing back up to meet mine, and I have never in my life understood what the phrase undressing someone with their eyes meant until now. Because that is exactly what it feels like he’s doing. And I fucking love it.
I don’t even know this man. But when he says, “Sure. We just reached penetration,” in a low, gravelly voice, my mind skips over the fact that it’s a blackjack term and goes straight to where any under-sexed virgin’s mind might. That if I’m dealing out my v-card, I want this man to be the one to take it.
My lips curve up, hoping he can’t see how nervous he’s making me. “Perfect,” I say, my voice breathier than normal.
“Indeed.”
Jackpot.
Get a copy of Teacher’s Bet now!
A Teaser from Her Boss’ Package
One minute, I’m taking photos in my mirror like some drunken model. Then somehow, I’ve sent them to Gabriel Carter, billionaire CEO and my total fantasy man.
Even worse? He’s my boss, and I’m his intern.
“To Kate! Happy Birthday!”
I smile as my two best friends, Tiff and Beth, toast me. It’s my twenty-first birthday, and as the youngest of my group, I feel like I’ve waited forever to be able to get drinks with them.
“And to getting that internship!” Tiff adds. With her glossy black hair and dark brown eyes, Tiff looks like some kind of super model. She’s tall and curvy, and every time we go out, guys are staring at her. I’ve known her since elementary school, though, and I haven’t been jealous of her in years. Except when we go clothes shopping together. I’m not nice enough not to feel envious when everything looks amazing on her and like crap on me.
“How’s the internship going?” Beth asks me. Tiff and I met Beth in high school, and we’ve been a trio ever since. Beth is pretty—blond hair and blue eyes—but she’s more conservative. She’s been dating her boyfriend Declan since senior year of high school and plans to marry him. As soon as he asks her, that is.
“It’s great. I’m really excited about it.” A blush climbs up my cheeks when I think about my internship.
Or more accurately, my sexy boss Gabriel Carter. I’ve had a crush on him since I walked through those office doors and saw him standing there, tall and muscular, his hair dark, his skin golden brown. With his shirt collar open, I got a peek of his skin, and I wanted to lick it. When he caught me staring, I blushed so hard that I had to go hide in my cubicle to calm down.
Too bad he would never, ever look at me like that.
I’m not ugly, but I’m not pretty like Tiff, either. I’m average. Brown hair, brown eyes, on the short side. I eat too much to be considered skinny. I have nice breasts, though, and I play those up when we go out. I get some appreciative gazes from men, but the second they see Tiff? They lose interest in me.
It’s always been that way. I’ve accepted it.
It’s also why I’m twenty-one and still a virgin.
I sip my mojito, feeling the alcohol heat my blood. I’ve never gotten drunk.
Yeah, I know, I’m boring.
Tiff is going to get me drunk tonight. She told me she wouldn’t go home until I was totally wasted.
“Hey, another round!” Tiff calls to a bartender.
The guy winks at her and brings us a tray of Jello shots—on the house. Of course. Tiff can go an entire night without paying a cent for booze. It’s actually pretty impressive.
I hesitate when I lift the shot to my lips, but Tiff eggs me on. “Shots, shots, shots!” she yells.
Beth frowns. “You don’t have to drink if you don’t want to. I’m not getting drunk tonight.”
“That’s because you’re boring,” Tiff says. “Come on, Kate, live a little! You only turn twenty-one once!” She pushes the shot closer to me, forcing me to take it before it tips over into my lap.
With a deep breath, I lift the shot glass to my lips—and drink it down in one gulp. It tastes like fruit and vodka. I cough a little at the burn.
“Hell yeah! Another one! Come on!” Tiff hoists her drink in the air as she yells.
I take another shot, and this time, it doesn’t burn. The warmth is…nice. Really nice. I find myself smiling, laughing, being more exuberant than usual. I lose track of how many shots I drink, but the alcohol feels so nice that I don’t want to stop.
I don’t know what time it is when we finally go home. Beth has to practically drag us out of the bar. Tiff is making out with some hot bartender when Beth takes her by the arm. I’m laughing and shouting.
Seeing Tiff with that guy makes me want to do something daring for once. I never make out with random guys. I’ve been kissed all of twice, and both times were terrible. I’ve barely dated. Guys my age are either looking only for a hookup or are cling
y and stupid. Who has time for a stupid boy?
I need a man.
A man who knows how to seduce a woman.
My boss Gabriel comes to mind. I close my eyes on the cab ride home. Gabriel wouldn’t do something stupid, like expect you to pay for your own dinner and then take you home to his smelly apartment to try to get into your pants before you’ve sat down. Gabriel would take his time. He’d kiss you, touch you, whisper in your ear. Make you desperate for him. He wouldn’t fumble to get your bra off, or ask to not use a condom because “they don’t make ones that are big enough.”
Ha, yeah right. My last sort-of boyfriend tried that. I decided to go home and watch House Hunters instead.
Tiff, Beth and I all live in a three-bedroom apartment, and we all go to our separate rooms. I giggle as I stumble down the hallway. Why is the floor tilting? Why is this wall so close to my nose? I giggle again when the tip of my nose brushes against a picture frame.
I realize, belatedly, that I’m really, really drunk.
“Goo’night!” I call out. I hear groans and gibberish in reply.
I collapse onto my bed. Rolling onto my back, I burst out laughing, because the world is spinning like crazy. A few weeks ago, I decided to buy a pack of those glow-in-the-dark stars—you know, the ones everybody had in their rooms when you were little?—and now I’m tracing constellations on the ceiling.
When one constellation looks like a penis, I laugh so hard I’m crying. Somewhere, in the teeny part of my mind that’s still sober, I remind myself that I should probably drink some water. Maybe take off my shoes. I glance at my feet—currently clad in heels—and decide that it would be way too much effort to take off my shoes right now.
I return to the penis constellation. What would it be like to see one? Touch one? Lick one? My blood simmers. My thoughts inevitably stray toward the man whose penis I would love to see, touch, and lick.
Gabriel.
I sigh in longing. My nipples harden, and even with him not in the room, I get turned on. I imagine him brushing his thumb across my lower lip, his eyes as dark as night. His stubble scraping my chin as he claims my mouth. His hands cupping my breasts and then delving into my panties, finding me wet and aching for him.