Seven Nights of Sin

by Lacey Alexander

And when he lifted his eyes to hers, that only made it worse. Because his expression said that if she did kiss him right now, he would respond. He was so near that she could almost feel him without touching him, and his musky masculine scent filled her senses.

  But kissing him would be stupid, stupid, stupid. You have to work with him day and night for a week—possibly longer. And you’re stealing his job. You cannot kiss him.

  “Ready for this?” he asked.

  Her pussy flooded with possibility. “For what?”

  “The world of A&R,” he said smoothly.

  “Oh, of course,” she replied with an airy quickness, at once relieved and disappointed to be pulled back from the sexual precipice she’d been hovering upon.

  “Get a good night’s sleep.”

  Fat chance of that. “All right.”

  His voice went lower. “And I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she murmured as Damon took her key card from her hand, their fingers brushing, and unlocked her door.

  “Good night,” he said softly.

  Her eyes remained glued to his. “Good night.”

  And then she was stepping inside and the door was closing and he was gone, and she had the distinct feeling that she’d ended up in the wrong room. Or he had. Either way, they should have gone into one of the two rooms together and fucked like animals.

  She let out a heavy breath and reminded herself once more why that couldn’t happen.

  Sex on the job was bad enough. Sex on the job with someone you were lying to was…freaking heinous.

  And yet as she took off her clothes and slipped into a white cotton cami and fresh panties—because her others were soaked—desire still held her in its grip. And as she stood before the wide bathroom mirror washing her face and brushing her teeth, she grew keenly aware of her nipples pointing through her top, hard and sensitive, and of her cunt, swollen with want inside her bikini panties. And as she climbed beneath the fancy bedcoverings, she found herself lost in a mishmash of images: visions of her and Damon Andros, bodies naked and intertwined.

  This was awful. There seemed no good answer. Having sex with him was a moral impossibility. But not having it, especially now that she sensed he’d be amenable to the idea, seemed insane, not to mention torturous. How had this even happened? Sure, she’d wanted to be someone new and different here—but not different like this. She could scarcely fathom the effect one mere evening in the man’s presence had had on her.

  But then Brenna remembered how you got through tough things. You didn’t let yourself obsess over the big picture—you handled one moment, one problem, at a time. And the problem right now was getting to sleep, having a peaceful night.

  So she bit her lip and let her hand ease under the covers, over her mound. She cupped herself, relieved to have any sensation there at all—finally. She wished, suddenly, that she’d been brave enough to buy a vibrator, and smart enough to travel with it. She wanted something inside her, deep.

  She swirled two fingers across the engorged nub at the front of her pussy and let the pleasure melt through her. God—it was like having walked across the hot, barren desert and finally finding sweet water. Now she wanted to gulp it, so she pressed her fingers harder, lifted her pelvis against them.

  She sighed and licked her upper lip and needed more. Yet she didn’t have more, so instead she turned to fantasy. She imagined if Damon could see her right now. She imagined him knowing he’d done this to her, gotten her this hot. She wondered if there was any way he could know just how hot she was right now, and she envisioned him lying in bed on the other side of the wall that separated them, picturing her this way.

  But, damn it, she still needed more, some other kind of stimulation. All of Las Vegas lay outside this room, sin upon sin upon sin taking place. How many people were doing something naughty right now within one short mile of her? Thousands, she would bet. So to lay in her bed rubbing herself somehow seemed…too simple, too drab, not befitting the atmosphere.

  Strangely restless, she rose from the bed without a plan. Wandering the spacious room, she found herself standing before the minibar. Normally, she never even opened the minibar, outraged by the price gouging, but that was immaterial now. Peeking inside, she spied a row of tropical-flavored wine coolers. She pulled one out and twisted off the top, then took a long swallow, letting the alcohol warm her chest. Almost any physical sensation felt good at the moment, like a step toward relief.

  Then she walked to the drapes that lined the outer wall of the room and, locating the center, opened them up. Wow! The move revealed a window wall that looked out over the Vegas Strip and its nightly show of lights. Dear God—how had she not realized this before now? She experienced it again—that sense that someone had built this city purely for people to be bad. And she wanted to be bad now, too—to somehow commune with this place.

  Setting her wine cooler on a table, she lowered her panties, letting them drop to the floor, and stepped free of them. She sat down on the carpet, facing the window, legs spread. She still yearned for Damon to be here, touching her, fucking her, but her mantras, she tried to convince herself, were true. She didn’t need a man—she could take care of her own needs.

  Looking out on the lights, she stroked her fingers through her parted slit. Wet. Soft. She shivered, then reached for the wine cooler. Still touching herself with one hand, circling her fingers over her clit, she used the other to lift the bottle to her breast—hard, cold, moist against her nipple. The bottle’s dewy sweat left her top damp, her nipple visibly darkening the white fabric, even with the lamps off. The Las Vegas Strip provided enough light in the room on its own.

  Brenna’s fingers slid down into the folds of her pussy, petting deeply, wanting to truly feel herself, all of herself, the way a man would explore her. The way Damon would surely explore her.

  She pushed first one, then two fingers inside herself, then moved them in and out of the warm tunnel. Oh God, she wanted them to be Damon’s cock—bigger, harder, sturdier, and more powerful than anything she could do to herself, even if she had brought a vibrator.

  Withdrawing her fingers a moment later, she whirled them once more around her swollen clit, then reached inside her cami to squeeze one breast full in her hand. Then she lowered her open bottle between her thighs, pressing it there.

  Mmm, God. So cool. And so wonderfully hard. Way too big, wide, but it still felt incredible as she began to move against it. She felt so dirty now. Dirty in a way she wanted to share with someone. Because she feared being this dirty by herself could also make her feel pretty damn lonely if she let it.

  But she couldn’t let it. So she looked out on the Vegas lights and imagined again that Damon was with her. Not only was he with her, he was telling her what to do. Move the bottle up and down on your pussy. That’s right. Faster. Faster. Yeah.

  Now take it away. Take it away and splash just a little wine on your cunt. To make you even wetter.

  Biting her lip, she withdrew her gaze from the neon spectacle beyond the window and glanced down, spilling just a little of the cooler over her parted slit. She gasped at the cold splatter, then imagined Damon’s deep, commanding voice again.

  Touch yourself, Brenna. Stroke your fingers through your pussy.

  She did. Extra wet now, like he’d wanted.

  Yeah, like that. From the bottom all the way to the top. Press your fingers into the moist folds. Feel yourself. Feel yourself.

  Now rub your clit for me.

  She did that, too, moving two fingers in tight, hot circles overtop the protruding little nub.

  Thrust against it.

  She obeyed.

  Rub harder, harder. Make yourself come. Look out on those lights, imagine all the dirty things people are doing out there, and make yourself come harder than you ever have before.

  “Oh!” The orgasm was brutal, causing her body to buckle, her head to drop forward as her pelvis jerked in rough response. Each sensation echoed through her like a small
explosion, ripping her apart, stealing her senses, her reason. All that mattered was pleasure, hard and consuming…until it ended.

  And then she realized she was sitting half naked before a large window and had just gotten herself off with the help of a glass bottle.

  Dear God.

  This city was stealing more than her senses. She feared, already, it was on the verge of stealing…her soul.

  Making of her something she wasn’t.

  Or…was it, more accurately, maybe just redefining her?

  Showing her parts of herself she’d never known before?

  Whatever the case, the really scary part was…she almost didn’t care about all the reasons she couldn’t have sex with Damon. She almost wanted to call him, listen to his deep-voiced hello, and say, simply, “Fuck me.”

  Setting the wine cooler aside, and not even thinking about her panties, she rose and went to the bed. Sitting down, she grabbed up the receiver. She looked at the instructions for dialing another room and keyed in the numbers.

  Then she slammed down the phone before the call could go through, her heart pounding against her chest.

  What had she been thinking?

  She’d truly been calling him? To beg for sex?

  Thank God she’d come to her senses.

  Apparently, the relief the orgasm had provided had finally sunk in.

  The relief, and the bit of shame from having to be so dirty alone. What insane behavior!

  Suddenly, she was glad she’d been alone.

  Just go to sleep. Don’t think about this anymore. It never happened.

  You don’t need a man. You don’t need a man.

  You need a fabulous job.

  Tomorrow, you will meet with Damon and you will think about the job, not sex. You will do the job, without sex. The job is what’s important here, the thing you really want.

  I don’t need a man, I don’t need a man, I don’t need a man.

  THE SECOND NIGHT

  “If it were possible to have a life absolutely free from every feeling of sin, what a terrifying vacuum it would be!”

  —Cesare Pavese

  One

  The good news was that Brenna had, surprisingly, gotten a good night’s sleep, after all. An orgasm could do that for you.

  The bad news was that she woke up horrified to remember the previous night. Again, she felt relieved that she’d been by herself. But that wasn’t stopping the horror. As she scurried to the window to snatch up her panties and put them on, then made her way to the bathroom, she thought about primal needs. And she finally understood how sex could turn people crazed and desperate sometimes. She’d never quite gotten that before now. Last night, however, sex had made her do something which, a mere day before, would have seemed unthinkable.

  But it’s your little secret. Your secret sin.

  No one will ever know. Thank God!

  She wasn’t sure whether to blame Damon Andros or this place. One minute she’d been shocked and appalled at the city’s seaminess, the next she’d been wanting to be a part of it, to somehow revel in it. Such opposing emotions made no sense to her.

  Yet, again, she had to break it down and deal with the problem at hand. Which was that she had a whole week of Damon and this city ahead, so it didn’t matter which one of them was causing her erratic reactions. She had to put last night behind her and focus on the work—nothing else.

  Of course, when she stepped into the shower, she discovered that her body still felt…overly sensitive. As she ran the soap over her skin—her breasts, her stomach, her thighs—she found herself also wanting to run it between her legs. The warm water beating down on her felt too good. Her own curves, as she washed, felt too lush.

  Shit. This was not good. But she still had to deal, and she had to get serious about it.

  So with that in mind, when she stepped out of the shower, she didn’t put on any of the new clothes she’d brought with her. In fact, she dressed as plainly as she could, in a pair of jeans and a plain pink tee she’d packed more with an eye toward sleeping in it than wearing it out. And after blow-drying her brand-new auburn hair, rather than run the flatiron through it, she instead shoved it back into a small ponytail.

  She considered not wearing makeup but decided that was going too far. She wanted to be plain, not totally unattractive—although she kept it to a minimum, applying just a little powder and lipstick and brushing on a bit of mascara.

  Leaving the bathroom, she cringed at the sight of the open wine cooler still sitting on the table across the room. Rushing over, she closed her fingertips gingerly around the narrowest part of the bottle, twisted the lid back on, and deposited it in the nearest wastebasket. Yuck.

  Then, looking to the door, she took a deep breath. Last night’s silliness is over. Done. Past. Today is about the serious business of learning your new job. So go over to Damon’s room, but do not think of him sexually anymore. He is your trainer, your teacher, that’s all. With any luck, he wouldn’t look so good in the morning, either.

  As she grabbed up the leather portfolio she’d brought for taking notes, then grabbed her room key and headed for the door, she began to murmur, “I don’t need a man. I don’t need a man. I don’t need a man.”

  Two

  Damon opened the double doors to his deluxe suite to find Brenna on the other side. She didn’t look like she had last night—but she was still damn cute in a tight little T-shirt that hugged her breasts well enough that he could see her nipples poking through. Of course, that made him wonder about her bra. Exactly what kind of bra did Brenna Cayton wear? Given that every time he saw her she looked entirely different, it was an impossible call, which made the question even more intriguing.

  “Hey,” she said, casting a small smile—and looking sheepish. He had no idea why. Just because there had been some chemistry flowing between them last night? It was undeniable, but neither had acted on it, so he didn’t see it as a big deal.

  “Hey,” he said easily. “Come on in.”

  As she stepped into the tiled foyer, her eyes widened, taking in the place. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” he asked, laughing lightly.

  She turned to look at him, a wisp of auburn hair falling free from her ponytail to frame her face. “I thought my room was great, but yours is…freaking fabulous.”

  She was right, but he’d stayed here so often that he sometimes forgot the sixteen-hundred-square-foot suite, featuring a dining table and a huge living area in addition to a bedroom and deluxe bath, wasn’t your average hotel room. “Believe it or not, I need the space. If we find any acts we want to court or sign, I need a good place to talk business with them. And besides, before today is over, we’re going to have contracts spread all over the living room.” He’d brought along a file containing every contract variance he could think of to show her.

  “Still…wow,” she said, and he couldn’t help enjoying her innocent exuberance. That bit of innocence had leaked out a little last night, too, when they’d talked about Vegas, and sex, even if she’d tried to hide it behind professional coolness. Maybe that was what he’d liked about her so much last evening—that she could be so professional and at the same time truly genuine.

  “There’s a room service menu on the table.” He pointed to the dining area. “Let me know what you want and I’ll place an order. Then we’ll get to work.”

  “Sounds fun,” she said, her expression filled with nothing but sincerity.

  “Contracts—fun?” Arching one brow, he shook his head. “Not exactly. This is the tedious, boring part. But I promise it’s the worst aspect of the job. That’s why I figured we should get it out of the way, so everything else will seem better by comparison.”

  She gave her head a playful tilt, shoving that stray lock of hair behind one ear. “I’ll have you know I’ve already read most of the contracts—just for fun, when I processed them—so this won’t all be completely new to me. Although I don’t know what it all means, I’m actually interested in
this part, which means…if the rest is even better, I’m in great shape.”

  Damon’s jaw dropped. “You read contracts for fun?”

  She nodded enthusiastically—and looked cute as hell.

  “No wonder Jenkins promoted you.”

  He kind of wanted to kiss her. Like he had last night, standing outside her door, looking into her pretty green eyes, feeling the heat moving between them. Without meaning to, he let his gaze drop to her breasts again, to the delectable sight of her nipples jutting against that pink fabric, and his dick went half hard.

  But then he pointed back to the menu. “Pick something for breakfast,” he said again to break the tension that had just grown so quick and invisible between them. Because fucking someone you worked with closely was never a good idea. That had been the only thing to keep him from inviting her back to his room last night, and it was a good enough reason this morning, too. Damn, when had Brenna the office girl turned into Brenna the hot chick? How the hell had he missed it?

  He gave his head a slight shake, trying to clear the lust out, and turned away from her to grab some files.

  The truth was, he wasn’t well-practiced at pushing down his desires. He was single, he liked to have fun, and he’d never seen any reason not to indulge in good, hot sex when he found the opportunity—which, in his world, was often. What he never understood was why such news made the damn papers. When had he become a celebrity? Why did anyone give a shit who he slept or partied with?

  Whatever the reason, though, it seemed his social life did qualify as entertainment for the masses these days, as well as good fodder for the rumor mill, and he knew his image needed an overhaul. He didn’t care what people thought of him, but he sensed Jenkins feared he was starting to give the label a bad reputation, and if there was one thing he didn’t want to risk, it was his job.

  And fucking the girl he was training probably wouldn’t do a lot to convince anyone he was a decent guy who didn’t demand sex of female performers before signing them.