Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “It’s better suited for a night on the town rather than an evening in a dark hotel room, don’t you think?” My hands circle her waist, and I pull her into me, letting her sweet perfume intoxicate my senses. Lifting my hand to the spot beneath her chin, I guide her mouth toward mine. Our lips graze, and I revel in their softness before crushing them.

  “Mm.” She moans into my mouth when our tongues meet.

  My fingers find her zipper in the dark, and I waste little time getting her out of that dress and onto the bed.

  I saw her in Georgetown last January, walking along a snowy sidewalk all alone. It was two weeks after the masquerade ball, and she was leaving the W Hotel where congressmen are notorious for hosting their trysts.

  Her face was fresh and clean, her dark hair draping down her shoulders from beneath a knitted beret. Jeans hugged her shapely legs, and she strutted along the sidewalk in heeled boots as if it were her own personal runway.

  The moment ended as soon as it had begun, and my driver gunned the Town Car the moment the stoplight turned green.

  But the thing I noticed most about that moment was that Camille wasn’t smiling.

  That split second encounter reinforced my decision to take her away from Senator Bancroft and make her mine. A man who doesn’t make a woman like her smile doesn’t deserve her.

  She lies back on the bed, her perfect teardrop breasts on full display as she struggles not to smile.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “I just wish I could see your face right now.” She finger combs a section of dark hair down her bare shoulder. “I feel kind of silly like this, is all.”

  I dip my hand into my pocket and grab a condom, tossing it on the bedspread before unzipping my pants.

  “Will I ever get to see your face?” she asks.

  “No.” I don’t hesitate.

  Her bottom lip pouts, and she runs a dainty fingertip down the top of a smooth thigh. “Well that’s a shame. Can you at least tell me what color your hair is? Or your eyes? Do you have dimples?”

  “Although this adorable little act of yours makes it extremely tempting to answer your questions,” I say, “it’s in your best interest to know nothing about who I am or what I look like.”

  Her knees lock together, as if that statement scares her.

  “I’m not trying to worry you,” I say. “Quite the contrary. The less you know about me, the better you’ll be able to enjoy this for what it is.”

  She’s quiet. And then she sits up, reaching for me and grabbing my tie instead. Taking a handful of the delicate fabric, she pulls me over top of her.

  “Will you at least tell me one thing?” Her breathy words send a pulse to my already throbbing cock. “I’m dying to know.”

  It’s hard to say no to her, especially when I’m hard as a fucking rock and her tongue skims along her flirty pout.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “Do you have dimples?”

  She giggles, but it’s not the annoying titter of a childish girl. It’s the sweet, endearing chuckle of a playfully sexy woman.

  My mouth dips to the pointed tips of her breasts, taking one budded nipple between my teeth and circling it with my tongue. She sighs, anchoring her thighs outside my hips. Grabbing the condom, I rip the packet and sheath myself.

  “Dimples, John.” She bites away a teasing grin, her body squirming beneath me as she waits. “Do you have them?”

  God, I love her voice. Breathless. Effervescent. Sexy.

  I trail my fingers along the length of her arm until I find her hand and lift it to my face. In the dark of the hotel room, I smile, pressing her fingertips into the deep indentation that centers my left cheek.

  Camille sucks in a surprised breath and traces her finger along my cheek as she smiles. Her other hand finds my face and her fingertips study the bends, curves and ridges she’ll never see.

  “Strong jaw,” she whispers. “Perfect nose. Nice lips.”

  Her hands fall to her chest and then she fans herself.

  “My heart is beating so hard right now.” She takes my hand and places my palm across the left side of her chest. Sure enough, it’s thrumming away.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re beautiful,” she says. “That’s all. It’s exciting.”

  “How can you know that when you haven’t seen me?”

  “I don’t have to see you, John. I feel you.” She bites her lip, though I can’t help but wonder if this is all a part of what she does. Makes her client feel like the King of the World, like she’s completely smitten.

  “Don’t lie to me, Ca—” I stop before I say her name. My fingers travel between her thighs, slipping between her folds and circling her clit. “You know how I feel about flattery.”

  I decide I don’t want to know if she’s lying or not. It doesn’t matter.

  All we’ll ever have will be right here, in this hotel room.

  Our own little dark paradise.

  “Enough talk.” I smash her lips with a game-changing kiss before gripping the base of my cock and plunging myself inside her. She sighs into my mouth as I fill her, a pulse-raising sound I never want to forget as long as I live, and her arms snake around my sides as I find my rhythm.

  Her wetness is abundant, and her hips circle and meet mine thrust-for-thrust. In this moment, I’m lost in a sea of exhilaration, disconnected from reality and happily so. I glance down at her beautiful face, masked by a satin blindfold.

  For a brief moment, I consider tugging it off just so I can stare into those gorgeous doe eyes and see that fuck-me gaze of hers all over again. But I can’t, no matter how much I want to.

  Instead, I pull out and flip her over, propping her perfect, cherry ass in the air and spreading her knees apart. Her pussy clenches and quivers when I reenter, and then it draws me in. Heat rushes to my cock, bringing with it an aching throb.

  Her hands grip the bedspread, her cheek pressed into a cool, white pillow. My hands straddle her hips, pulling her against me with each plunge. Reaching around, I tease her clit with my fingers, matching each merge and lock.

  Time stands still. Or, rather, it doesn’t exist.

  I fill her tight pussy over and over, fighting off the urge to empty myself because I’m not ready for it to end yet.

  Jagged breaths and faint sighs fall from her pretty mouth. “I’m getting close, John.”

  I pump harder, faster. My fingers against her clit coax her to a climax, and I study the way her lips purse and relax as she rides the high. The moment she’s done, I piston inside her until I give her everything I have.

  Drained and spent, I cradle her full breasts in my palms and collapse on top of her before rolling over. I’m drowning in the scent of us, and already I long for another touch.

  My hand slips between her thighs, running the length of her silken seam, and she quivers when I stroke her sensitive clit.

  Camille’s hand rests on mine. “My God.”

  She rolls to her side to face me, and I pull her into the crook of my arm. I watch her chest rise and fall as we bask in a silent euphoria.

  “I want to tell you something,” she says, hesitating. “But I don’t want you to think I’m just trying to flatter you.”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re the only man who’s ever given me an orgasm during sex,” she says, lifting her fingers to the corner of her mouth. “I . . . I didn’t think it was physically possible for me. Turns out I just needed a man who knew what he was doing.”

  “It helps when you’re turned on,” I say.

  “That’s true. And the dimples helped, so thank you for that. Dimples are my ultimate weakness,” she says with a contented sigh that makes me want to believe every word that comes out of that lush mouth of hers. “I appreciate the foreplay. Most men don’t have that kind of patience.”

  Her nails carve a light path down the center of my abs that sends goosebumps across my flesh.

  “Self-control,” I say. “Not
patience.”

  “Do you have to control yourself around me?”

  I pause. “Yes.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re more than welcome to go for the gold,” she says. “It’s what you’re paying me for. I’m yours. In this room, you own me.”

  Her hand takes mine, bringing it to the dampness between her thighs. Camille’s belly tenses and caves in as she presses my fingers against her velvet warmth.

  “Anything you want me to do,” she whispers. “All you have to do is ask.”

  “The only thing I need from you, Camille, is for you to be one hundred percent honest with me at all times.”

  She gasps, drawing away from me and reaching for her blindfold. I take her hand, preventing her from an untimely unmasking.

  “How do you know my name?” Her soft, pliable body grows rigid. “Have you known it all along? Before you met me?”

  “You have to understand,” I say. “Things, for me, are different. I can’t sleep with just anyone. And the number of people I can trust, I can count on one hand. I have to be selective.”

  Her jaw softens as she swallows. She’s coming back around.

  “I chose you, Camille,” I say. “I saw you, and I chose you.”

  “You saw me?” She moves closer. “When? Where? Have we met?”

  “Now, you know I can’t tell you any of that.”

  It’s a shame she sleeps with men for money. Slap a pedigree on her and a last name like Lindhurst or Rockmund or Harringwood, and my mother would foam at the mouth for a chance to get her into the White House.

  She presents with regal elegance, but she lives to serve.

  I need to leave before this conversation takes a dangerous detour. The last thing I need to worry about is accidentally letting my guard down around her. She makes me comfortable, her tranquil beauty instantly putting me at ease.

  “Camille, I’m going now.” I rise from the bed, turning to cup her face in my hands. I taste her lips one more time. A sweet farewell. “Thank you for a magnificent evening, and I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  She gifts me with a dispirited half-smile, and I assume her mind is preoccupied with solving the puzzle I’ve just presented.

  A woman like Camille Buchanan has surely encountered an abundance of men vying for an ounce of her attention. I’m just a man whose hidden gaze she dared to meet at a masquerade ball once upon a time. She can rack that beautiful mind of hers all she wants, but she’ll never figure it out.

  FIVE

  Camille

  “This is too depressing.” Araminta reaches for the remote to shut off the TV. The White House has interrupted our programming to bring us a special message from the POTUS himself.

  “No, no.” I take it from her. “We have to stay up on this. Being able to discuss foreign policy and the state of the union is what separates us from the herd.”

  President Harris Montgomery gives an update on a recent bombing in the Middle East. They all blend together anymore, each one seeming to be worse than the one before.

  I listen intently as he commands the airwaves, his forehead wrinkled and his lips turned down at the corners as he maintains composure. He seems annoyed, and his speech feels heartfelt this time, not written.

  Araminta pulls in a shocked breath. “Twelve hundred civilians lost their lives.”

  “Montgomery wants us to go to war,” I say as he rambles on.

  “Did he say that? I must have missed it.”

  “You can tell,” I say. “He’s leaning that way. He’s hinting. There’s always more in what they don’t say than what they do.”

  She rises, shaking her head and strutting to the kitchen. “I can’t listen to this anymore. You’re going to have to give me the Cliffs Notes.”

  Araminta pulls a pre-packaged, perfectly portioned meal from the fridge and heats it in the microwave. Two minutes later, she picks through it with a fork as she floats back down into her chair.

  Her eyes squint at the TV.

  “What are you doing?” I laugh.

  “I’m looking for his sons,” she says between bites. “I’d rather stare at those fine specimens than listen to this sad little spiel.”

  “They are beautiful.” I sigh. For the longest time I thought they were twins. Everything about them almost matches, from their lush, dark hair to their sapphire eyes. “Equally so.”

  “Oh, come on. One’s definitely hotter than the other, at least by a hair.” She sweeps her blonde waves over one shoulder, eyes wide. “Keir has that mischievous glint in his eye, like he’s full of secrets and ridiculously intelligent.”

  “But Ronan has that ultra-confident look about him. I bet he’s sex-on-fire in the bedroom,” I say. “I don’t think I could pick if I had to.”

  “I’d give up this game for a chance with one of them. I’d retire so hard.” She giggles.

  I join her in her quest to find them in the background. They’re always there, suited up and wearing stoic expressions as their father speaks. Their haircuts usually match, though they’re parted on opposite sides. One is left-handed. Both men exude darkness and mystery as if it’s coded in their DNA.

  “Ronan and Keir . . .” She exhales. “And there you are, my princes. I would give it all up for you, and I wouldn’t even be picky either. Either one of you will do, really.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so smitten.”

  Araminta grins. “I’d make a great First Lady, wouldn’t I? I was practically bred for this shit. Daddy Dearest would be so proud.”

  She walks to the TV, placing a French manicured finger on the upper corner where the blue-eyed, raven-haired, future-leaders-of-the-free-world stand side by side with stick-straight posture and hands clasped in front of their narrow hips.

  “I bet you were good at Where’s Waldo when you were a kid,” I say.

  “What’s that?” She turns toward me, her question sincere. Sometimes I forget that she grew up as one of eight Randalls in an estate fit for a king in the Connecticut countryside. Raised by a team of nannies and forced to adhere to a schedule filled with riding, tennis, and French lessons, I doubt Araminta had time for Where’s Waldo. “Is that a Tennessee thing?”

  “Never mind.”

  She takes her seat again, eyes glued. The camera pans the faces of the well-dressed men and women who stand behind the president, and then it lingers on his sons for a solid thirty seconds.

  Araminta fans herself. “Just looking at them gets me all revved up.”

  “You and every other red-blooded, American woman.” I smirk. “Or, rather, blue-blooded.”

  “I wish they’d smile. They never fucking smile.”

  “Would you if you were them? Living your life under a magnifying glass all the time? Every move you make one hundred percent public?”

  “If I were a Montgomery, I’d never stop smiling, dahhhling. That name opens doors. Moves mountains. It’s only one of the most powerful bloodlines on the planet. The entire world is at their fingertips. I mean, sure, I grew up a Randall, for Christ’s sake, but the Montgomerys are leagues above us. Tell me that isn’t something to smile about.”

  “Oh, look.” I rise up, pointing at the screen. Keir just flashed a two-second smile at someone to his left. “Did you see? He has dimples.”

  “Here we go.” Minty rolls her eyes and fights a smirk.

  “Did I tell you my John has dimples? He let me feel them last night.”

  “Maybe your John is Keir Montgomery?”

  “Doubtful. A man like him doesn’t pay for sex.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t need to. Some guys just get off on that. Kinky sons of bitches.”

  “I’m going to pretend my John is Keir from now on.” I settle into my seat and close my eyes, imagining it was Keir’s lips on my body and Keir’s fingers between my thighs last night. My chest flutters, and my lips inch up. “From now on, I’m fucking Keir Montgomery.”

  In my
head.

  “God, you know how dangerous that would be? To be involved with one of them? There’d be a price on your head so high. Ugh. I wouldn’t go anywhere alone. I guarantee you, someone somewhere would jump at the chance to set one of them up in some kind of political scandal. A dead escort tied to the Montgomery name?” Araminta shudders before smiling. “But hey, it’d be one way to guarantee that no one would ever forget your name.”

  SIX

  “John”

  “What’s it like to know you can fuck any woman who walks into this bar and have zero repercussions the next day?” I spin an empty tumbler between my thumb and middle finger as Oliver D’Orsay checks out a group of women standing around a high top table ten feet from us. The brunette in the red dress has been eye-fucking him since we got here.

  “Fucking incredible.” He grips his water glass. He’s shopping. He has that gleam in his eye. He combs his fingers through his styled blond hair. “I want her tonight. The one in the red with the fuck-me tits hanging out. They don’t make ‘em like that around here.”

  There’s a reason DC is known as the Hollywood-for-the-ugly. The overwhelming majority of women in the area are too bookish, waifish, nerdy, or socially awkward. The physically desirable ones are busy yachting in the Maldives or summering in the Hamptons, and women like those tend to be too cultured, too moneyed. Most of the ones in my family’s circle fall into the latter category.

  “She’s not from around here,” I say.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because it’s fifty degrees out and her dress barely covers her ass. My money’s on Arizona. She doesn’t own any cool weather clothes. Maybe Minnesota. They’re immune to the cold. I hear they wear shorts in January.”

  “Or she just wanted to look hot?” He takes a sip. “Ever think that maybe people aren’t as complicated as you make them out to be?”

  My jaw flexes. “Never. Everyone’s complicated. Show me someone who isn’t, and I’ll show you a liar.”