She bit her lip and did what he asked, even more vigorously, wanting to feel everything she could feel, wanting to drink in Damon and the night and all of Sin City. She leaned her head back into his chest, arched her breast deeper into his hand, took in all the pleasure he delivered—her only acquiescence to where they were being that she held in her moans and the Yes, yes, yes! she wanted to scream when her orgasm struck.
It rolled through her in delicious waves of heat, her breath coming harder, Damon’s arm anchoring her to keep her from collapsing, and only when it faded did she remember all over again that they were on top of the Las Vegas Eiffel Tower—with other people!
Letting out one last ragged breath, she rested against him and said, “Please tell me no one is staring at us.”
She sensed the turn of his head to check. “No, babe—we’re fine. And you’re fucking beautiful.”
He dropped a kiss atop her head, and the reprieve of knowing they’d not been seen compelled her to turn in his embrace, lock her arms around his neck, and pull him into a passionate kiss.
“Mmm, your hands,” she sighed, still a bit breathless.
“What about them?” he asked.
She smiled accusingly. “You already know. I know you do. They’re…incredible.”
He shrugged. “Okay, maybe I’ve heard that before.”
She lowered her chin and cast her sexiest grin. “Well, you’re hearing it again now, and…I’m going to reward you.”
Damon arched one brow, looking almost as if he were daring her. “How?”
Brenna could barely understand what had just come over her. But the fact that she’d managed to climax without being noticed, and that the night seemed to grow darker still, and that the elevator had just departed, taking some people away but from the quiet around them apparently not delivering any—it all made her bolder than she’d ever been in her life.
They weren’t totally alone—she could hear the soft echo of two people’s voices from the opposite side of the tower. But she decided they were alone enough. And like before with Damon, she found herself wanting to be wild for him, naughty for him, wanting to be what he wanted her to be—that dirty, dirty girl he’d brought out in her.
The elevator sat on the side of the tower far opposite them, and she prayed the other people would stay there, as well, and that it would take the elevator awhile to arrive again.
She pushed him back against one of the tower’s inner walls—then she dropped to her knees.
When she reached for his belt buckle, Damon gasped, “Jesus God.”
The thrill in his voice was all the encouragement she needed to deftly undo his buckle, unzip his jeans. Spreading them wide, she pressed her palm flat against his sturdy erection.
Mmm, yes—nothing had ever felt better in her hand. Then she lifted the black cotton briefs over his enormous, jutting cock. God, it looked even bigger from this angle. And though she’d never thought she cared about size, that suddenly made her want it more.
She’d never been this up-close with his penis, and despite the darkness, she was able to see the roundness of the head and the straight, bulletlike shape. On impulse, she leaned in to kiss the front of his length. A shuddering breath escaped him, and—oh God, he was so hard…and yet incredibly silky against her lips.
But she had no time for a leisurely perusal, so, grabbing back onto his shaft as the breeze lifted the hair from her neck, she lowered her mouth over the tip, then farther, letting it fill her mouth.
Above, he let out a shaky sigh that told her he was trying his damnedest to stay quiet as she adjusted to the fullness—and then began to move up and down.
She’d never been one to instigate a blow job with a guy—she’d always sort of considered it a duty, an obligation, when she was in a relationship with someone, and it often felt like an intrusion she didn’t particularly enjoy.
But somehow, after Damon had made her come, she’d needed to do this, needed to take him into her in whatever way she could, right here, right now. She’d yearned to pleasure him, deeply.
Accepting as much of his majestic cock as she could handle, she took delight in every move, every sensation. She looked up at him and hoped he could see her well enough in the dimness—even if she looked obscene right now, she wanted to, for him.
And yes, last night in the tub had been wonderful: a leisurely, expansive pleasure with no pressures or worries—she’d told him she liked it in private, and she’d meant it. But clearly he’d opened her to this new, forbidden sort of excitement, this hot thrill of taking sex out of the bedroom, out of any room at all at the moment.
Because the longer she worked over him, the more his large erection stretched her lips, the deeper he gently drove into the recesses of her mouth…the more ensconced in pure joy she became.
She wanted to do this right now more than she wanted to exist.
She didn’t care if they got caught, if anyone saw.
She wanted what she wanted, and nothing else mattered.
The heart wants what the heart wants, but the same was true of the body, and at this moment her body wanted to suck Damon’s cock, hard and deep and thorough, until he came.
That’s when she heard the elevator doors open on the other side of the tower. And then light laughter, voices—more people.
She sucked him, felt his thrust, silently willed him: come, come.
She could tell from his ragged sighs that he was getting close, and he pumped harder between her lips, but she also sensed the new visitors growing nearer, working their way around the tower.
So she released his cock from her mouth, stood up, grabbed onto it, and—in one determined move—yanked her thong aside and mounted him, for once holding in her groan, and being thankful she wore heels high enough to make the angle feasible. “If someone comes,” she breathed, her mouth swollen and stretched, close to his, “we can be still. But this way, it’ll maybe look like we’re just kissing, not fucking.”
He simply nodded, but his eyes blazed with lust as he began to vigorously plunge up into her welcoming moisture. “Jesus, won’t take long,” he murmured against her lips. Then thrust again, and again, until a soft groan escaped him and he pulled her to him tight, driving his shaft in to the hilt—and a young couple holding hands appeared at the corner nearest them.
Brenna and Damon both instinctively went still, but he was coming, and she could feel it—she could actually feel his cock throb inside her, his semen spewing onto her inner walls in three astounding little bursts.
“Oh God,” she whispered, their faces still close.
He said nothing, only angled his mouth over hers and kissed her hard.
She’d thought last night had been intimate. Hell, she’d thought everything they’d done together had been intimate. But nothing compared to this—looking into his eyes in the dark, knowing he was inside her even as other people stood near, knowing he’d just filled her with his hot fluids.
“You never cease to amaze me,” he said softly.
“I guess you just…inspire me.”
He kissed her again, and she reminded herself she wasn’t supposed to be feeling anything emotional here, so she forced herself to move onto an issue of practicality. “I’m afraid we’re…gonna have a problem. A, uh…wet problem.”
Damon, however, didn’t look worried. “Not a problem,” he corrected her.
She scrunched up her nose. “How do you figure?”
His voice dropped even lower. “When those two leave, I’m going to pull out of you. Then I’m gonna rub my come into your pussy and your thighs, and you’re going to feel a little bit sticky all night, in a way that’s gonna make you hot and ready to fuck me again later.”
“Oh.” She felt a little breathless. And like she was becoming a dirtier girl by the minute because his plan sounded so brazenly good to her. “Oh God.”
When finally the couple meandered out of view, Damon eased his cock from her, leaving her to sigh at the loss—then swiftly turned he
r so that she leaned back against the wall, and knelt before her.
As promised, he used his hands to spread his warm juices over her skin, massaging the wetness into her inner thighs, onto the already soaking wet flesh and curls of her cunt. Despite her recent orgasm, his touch made it impossible to hold in her sighs of pleasure as she gently thrust her pelvis against his palm, tingles of fresh longing trickling all through her.
He concluded the task by delivering a gentle kiss to her clit, extracting a hot gasp from her.
And when he drew the fabric of her skirt back down and rose to kiss her mouth, she was no longer sure if she tasted her pussy or his semen or just plain sex—hot, crazy sex—but she didn’t even care. It all just felt good, tasted good, mixing and melding together.
“By the way,” he whispered, “you may as well lose the panties. They’re pretty messy.”
God, she’d forgotten she was wearing panties—the silk that was meant to stretch between her thighs had obediently stayed shoved to the side throughout their naughty encounter.
She pressed on his shoulders. “Back down you go then. Take them off me.” Given that no one else had ventured to their side of the tower, she felt bolder now than was probably sane.
But Damon didn’t hesitate, dropping back to his knees and reaching smoothly up under her mini to slip his thumbs into the elastic at both her hips. Slowly, sensuously, he peeled the panties all the way to her ankles. Lifting one shoe for him, then the other, she watched as he drew them completely off, aroused still more when the warm night breeze wafted over her pussy, making it feel fluttery and ready for more fun.
When he got back to his feet, she pressed her palms to his chest and spoke low, conspiratorially. “I can’t believe I’m going to walk around all night in a skirt this short with no undies and sticky thighs.”
His naughty grin ignited still more lust in her soul. “Your second outing with no panties, and this time even starting the evening that way. I’m getting another hard-on just thinking about it.”
Her gaze dropped to the red thong dangling from his fingertips. “What’ll we do with those?”
“Were they expensive?”
“Yes, actually.” Kelly had insisted they shop at her favorite overpriced lingerie boutique.
“Well then, I’ll buy you some new ones—because I think we need to leave these behind.”
They did look pretty ruined. But…“Up here?”
“Sure,” he said, and she could only describe his expression as a laidback version of wicked. “Think how it’ll turn people on when they realize somebody fucked up here. Hell, maybe it’ll inspire somebody else to do it, too.” Only then he glanced toward the railing behind them. “Or better yet…”
Taking Brenna’s hand, he drew her to the Eiffel Tower’s edge where a break occurred in the steel net, then without hesitation let the scrap of red fabric drop, sending it wafting down toward Las Vegas Boulevard.
Shocked, Brenna gasped and smacked his chest. “You’re so bad!”
To which he replied by pulling her into his arms, leaning his forehead against hers. “Maybe you inspire me.”
Five
The night was just like the other nights she’d spent with Damon this week—an inexorable blending of work and play, music and sex. By taxi, they headed to the first of a few out-of-the-way bars on Damon’s list tonight—but even as they discussed the initial band, called Playground Bully, Damon slid his hand high onto her thigh beneath the table where they sat and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Are you wet?”
Her heart beat harder at the question. “So wet,” she told him. And it was true. Even as she tried to concentrate on listening to the rock band, she stayed aware of that stickiness between her legs, just as he’d promised she would. She felt wired for action, her breasts heavy and sensitive within her bra, her cunt tingling.
“Good,” he said with a dominant smile that made her know she belonged to him, at least for tonight, for this week—and though she’d never liked the idea of that before, of being a guy’s possession, with Damon it was just one more sexual nuance added to all the rest.
“Are you hard?” she asked then, wanting to take part in his naughty, teasing game.
He cast a wicked grin. “Find out for yourself.”
She pulled in her breath. The room was dark, and they sat close to a small round table, side by side, so touching him without being seen wouldn’t be difficult.
Biting her lip, she reached out, sliding her palm directly over the bulge in his jeans. Which was more than a bulge. It felt more like a concrete column, rock-hard against her hand. She pressed down, pleasure from the touch stretching all through her, tightening her chest with desire, and surely making her damper where her panties were supposed to be.
“How do you stand it?” she whispered. To be that hard, she meant. And it was fairly early in the evening yet.
His answer came with a sexy smile. “It’s the price of mixing work and fun.”
“You manage to do that more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
His eyes sparkled with pure lechery. “So you’ve mentioned. I guess it means one is as important to me as the other.”
It was all she could do not to throw herself on him and forget Play-gound Bully altogether, but just then the waitress came, bringing two fresh drinks—wine for her; Damon was drinking rum and Coke tonight.
So they drank and they flirted even as they talked business, ultimately deciding Playground Bully didn’t have a unique enough sound to build upon, and moved on.
The next bar was a bit more upscale, just off the Strip, with an outdoor patio featuring a young woman who played the guitar and sang. As they watched, a waitress recognized Damon and asked if she could get a picture of them together on her cell phone camera. Brenna thought he looked sheepish—and was likely remembering exactly why his face was becoming known outside L.A., due to bad press and stinging accusations—but he agreed, after which people began to look at them, clearly trying to figure out who he was, and Brenna once again felt like the girlfriend of a celebrity.
“What do you think?” he asked her about the singer.
She pondered it for a minute and concluded, “I like her. She’s like…a Juliana Hatfield of another era.”
Next to her, Damon looked impressed, yet then said, “Good comparison, but that’s just the problem—the other era. Even when she sings more recent songs, there’s something too nostalgic in her voice. Nothing about her says new or now.”
His response surprised Brenna, since until that moment, they’d pretty much agreed on everything they’d listened to together. “But she’s so good, Damon. Don’t you think so?”
Instead of answering the question, he said, “Who’s her audience? Who would you market her to?”
The crowd around them consisted strictly of mature adults with an upwardly mobile feel—in their thirties and up; in fact, Brenna felt a bit young among them in her miniskirt. “The same people who are listening to Michael Bublé and Jason Mraz,” she said.
Only Damon gently shook his head. “Bublé and Mraz do say new and now. They put a fresh twist on their music that brings it up to date, even if a little left of current pop sounds. I don’t think this girl is in their league.”
Brenna couldn’t help feeling a little deflated—as if maybe she really wasn’t a good judge of what would sell.
She found Damon flashing a slightly scolding expression. “Don’t look so depressed. Music is subjective. Even people in the biz don’t agree on everything.”
She heard the honesty leave her even before she could temper it. “Up to now, I’ve felt like I’m really getting this. But if you weren’t here, if I were on my own, I’d probably approach this girl and tell her I was very interested. And if you’re right, if she doesn’t have what it takes, then that means I’d be making a big mistake.”
Damon tilted his head. “Everybody makes a wrong decision every now and then. It wouldn’t be the end of the world—or even the end of your job
.”
“Have you ever made a mistake?”
“Claire Starr,” he reminded her frankly. “A mistake for different reasons—she turned out to be demanding and unreasonable to work with—but I still messed up. And I’m paying for it in a big way.”
Even bigger than you know, Brenna couldn’t help thinking.
Before they left the club, Damon introduced himself and Brenna to the singer and told her that if she wanted to send him something more edgy and up-to-date, he’d love to hear it.
The girl, who hadn’t had a clue she was being scouted by Blue Night, had seemed appreciative, even if a little embarrassed by Damon’s unspoken criticism. And as they left, he explained to Brenna that when someone showed promise, he’d rather risk hurting their feelings than not give them some guidance that could help them succeed. “And as much as you liked her, I’m willing to give her a chance to show me more.”
But as they climbed into a cab, setting off for their next destination, Brenna wasn’t sure she could do that—just walk up to someone and, effectively, tell them what they were doing wasn’t quite good enough, even though they’d never asked to be courted by a recording label.
Yet given other bits of growing confusion about exactly how she would pull off the one-on-one parts of this job, the parts that weren’t just about giving someone good news, Brenna decided to do what she’d gotten far too skilled at this week—she pushed her doubts aside and concentrated on the good parts of the evening: being on Damon’s arm, knowing later she would be in his bed.
Their last stop of the evening was at one of the older hotels on the north end of the Strip, in a lounge where a red-haired female singer belted out alternative hits at a piano. After about fifteen minutes, Damon leaned over to Brenna and said, “Please tell me you’re not digging this chick.”
Fortunately, she could. “She’s got a good enough voice, but…no. I’m not sure why. Because she’s trying too hard? Her stage presence is a little too harsh? Something about her feels like…it’s already been done?”
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