Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “I used to think DC was magical. All the history and charm. So much power and prestige in sixty-eight little square miles.” I exhale a wistful sigh and rest my forehead against the cold glass of my window. “My second semester at Georgetown, I had this professor.”

  I tuck my head and look at Ronan from the corner of my eye.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” I laugh. His silence tells me he’s tuned in. “Anyway, there was this exercise we did in class sometimes. You find someone of the opposite gender and try to get them to believe you’re in love with them. One day, we were odd-numbered, so I had to partner up with him.” My fingers dance across my lips as my body tingles. “He said the most beautiful things to me, Ronan. Things no one had ever said before. He professed his love for me, and I believed it. I believed it because I felt it. It was that real. The way he touched my hair, the soft drum of his voice in my ear, the sincerity in his grey eyes.”

  My eyes water just thinking about how real that moment was for me.

  “And when it was all over, he stood up, smiled and snapped back into professor-mode,” I say with a soft chuckle. “That’s the moment the magic died, Ronan. So many people spend their lives searching for this larger-than-life love that makes you feel on top of the world, but how great can it really be if you can evoke that feeling with a few well-spoken lines? I knew then that everything could be faked, that fantasy would always be better than reality.”

  “Love is overrated,” he says.

  I nod. “You summed up my entire story with three little words.”

  “Shall we head back?” he says, pulling off onto an exit a half hour later.

  My shoulders fall. I could drive around for hours with him and talk about life. Araminta’s too busy to sit around and wax poetic, and it’s rare to find a man who actually understands the art of listening.

  “Sure,” I say, visions of drifting off to sleep filling my head.

  His hand finds my knee in the dark car, inching up until his fingers graze my inner thigh.

  “Oh,” I say with a grin. Of course that’s what he meant. The flurry in my belly rivals the snowflakes outside. As relaxing as this country drive is, going to bed with Ronan would be the perfect nightcap.

  ***

  Ronan lifts my arms above my head, pinning my wrists against the door inside my hotel room. His lips graze across mine as his free hand works the button of my jeans.

  “I’ve been waiting all day for this,” he breathes.

  Me too.

  This is will be the fourth romp of ours in less than a week, and I’m quite certain he’d meet me every day if his schedule permitted. And I’m not even sure what he does with his days, I just know he’s busy. Always coming and going, meeting people and spearheading campaigns. I think he’s the president of several different councils, but I don’t pry. The only things he’ll tell me are things I could easily find on Google anyway, and none of it matters. I’m not interested in how he spends his days, only his nights.

  Ronan releases my wrists and hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, tugging them off along with my lace thong. A moment later, his hands slick up the length of my body, burrowing beneath my shirt until my breasts fill his palms.

  We find ourselves in a blur of tangled clothes, unbuttoned shirts, and bare skin. His fingers invade my core, his touch transporting me somewhere else entirely. Fucking Ronan is meditative.

  I don’t think, I just feel, and I feel it all.

  His steady strokes between my thighs halt my breathing. My legs shake until I can no longer stand, so I fall to my knees and take his cock in my hand. Bringing his swollen erection to my mouth, I devour his length, pumping and stroking and licking until I taste a preview of his sweet and salty arousal.

  Ronan’s fingers sweep through my hair, gathering it into his fist and pulling me into a standing position. His hand on my lower back guides me into him, and our bodies press together seamlessly.

  His lips on mine are urgent, and I breathe faint moans into his mouth when he teases my clit with his hardness. Just once, I’d like to feel a man bare inside me. I imagine it would be the ultimate sinful pleasure, but it’s a rule I’ve never dared to break.

  He pulls away for a moment, and returns with a condom. Ripping the packet with his teeth, he sheaths himself and circles my waist with his needy grip. He spins me to face the wall, and I brace myself.

  A flood of wetness is the only precursor to the slow and tantalizing insertion as my body accepts his. We’re bound together, joined with a fusion of heat and lust, and every muscle in my body liquefies as my cheek presses against the smooth wall before me.

  Ronan’s hands on my hips pull me against his cock, thrust for thrust, and his hot kisses run the length of my spine. I’m covered in goosebumps, my body quivering.

  “You’re so fucking wet for me, Camille.” He groans as his fingers snake to my front and glide between my thighs. The tips of his fingers circle my clit, pressing harder as he thrusts. His other hand takes my right breast, pulling the budded nipple taut until it snaps back. “Do you have any idea how much it turns me on when I see the way your body responds to mine?”

  Arching my lower back so he can fill me to the hilt, my body tenses and relaxes as pain and pleasure wash over me in waves. His breath against my ear, the hint of a grunt, and the slapping of skin is an erotic symphony meant only for us.

  “I could do this all night.” His teeth drag across my earlobe, followed by the swirl of his tongue.

  Without warning, Ronan pulls out. Grabbing my arm, he flips me around to face him, and my heart sputters when I see the chiseled lines of his perfect face. Each time feels like the first. It’s a view of which I could never see myself growing tired. He takes my ass in his hands before hoisting me up around his waist and pinning me on the wall. Positioning his cock, he slides into me again.

  I bury my smile in the warm crook of his neck, kissing the bulging muscles that roll as Ronan Montgomery fucks the hell out of me.

  I’m getting close with each plunge. With my back straight against the wall, I stare into his beautiful blues and slip my fingers into his thick, dark hair. I want to taste his lips and look into his eyes, but I can’t do both.

  Ronan’s fingers dig into the flesh of my thighs until it hurts, and I know our bodies are syncing.

  With palms along his strong jaw, I press my mouth onto his and let go, riding the wave, feeling everything as he empties into me. I feel his mouth pull into a slight smile a moment before he relaxes his hold on me, and my thighs slide down his.

  Just when my knees threaten to give out, he pulls me into his arms, leading me to the bed where we collapse into a contented heap.

  Love. Love is for suckers and losers.

  This is the real thing. This is what makes the world go round.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Ronan

  “Can we get some shots of the Montgomery boys with Vice President Darlington’s daughter?” A photographer with the Des Moines Register lifts the camera attached to a strap around her neck and smiles. “Just a few photos to go with the interview.”

  “What interview?” I glance at Lydia.

  My mother and father stand across the small reception room in the state capitol building, shaking hands and grinning. My father places a palm on the shoulders attached to every hand he shakes, smiling more with his eyes than anything else. When he speaks, he emphasizes with a relaxed fist, a move perfected in the Clinton-era when my father was a mere New York governor.

  “The one your mother set up,” Lydia leans into me, keeping her voice low and smiling at the photographer.

  “Okay, I’d like Lydia to be front and center.” The woman with the camera points. “Keir and Ronan, if you could flank her sides, and then we’ll get one of just Ronan and Lydia.”

  My body burns. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

  Keir chuckles, his brows lifting as he refuses to meet my gaze. If this is some kind of joke, I’m
certainly not in on it.

  “Everyone’s rooting for you two.” The lady flashes a controlled smile and a wink, as if she’s referring to some secret she heard. “Don’t worry, we won’t say it’s official until it’s official.”

  “Excuse me.” I clear my throat, tugging at the knot in my tie, which has suddenly grown several centimeters too tight. Pushing past, the three of them, I make a bee line for my mother, only I’m stopped by one of my father’s Secret Service agents.

  “Sorry. Can’t interrupt. They’re finishing an interview,” he says.

  “This will only take a minute.”

  His palm on my shoulder prevents me from stepping past him, and my good manners prevent me from causing a scene.

  “Ronan, what are you doing?” Lydia taps my back, and I can hear the faux smile in her voice. She’s putting on a good face around all these reporters and local political heavyweights. “Come, let’s finish our pictures. It’ll only take a second.”

  “What exactly did you say in the interview that made them want a picture of the two of us?” My jaw tightens and my lips pull into a straight line.

  Lydia slinks a hand on her narrow hip and leans closer. “I only said what your mother told me to say.”

  I release a heavy breath, massaging my temples.

  “She said to give them hope.” Lydia shrugs. “So that’s what I did. I may have implied that you and me are trying our best to work things out and that the future’s unwritten, but we’re optimistic that love will find a way.”

  “That’s a goddamn joke.”

  She drags her hands along my lapels, the way my mother often does, and straightens my tie.

  “You’re my JFK, and I’m your Jackie O.” She sighs. “I see us having a beautiful life together, Ronan. Two perfect kids. Eight years in the White House. And at the end of the day, what we choose to do behind closed doors will be our own business.”

  “What are you saying?”

  She shrugs, glancing around the room before returning her attention to me. “I want your name, Ronan. I want your children. I want everything that goes along with that. But I’m not meant to be monogamous. I don’t think anyone is.”

  “First and foremost, Lydia, I will not ever marry you. And secondly, what little respect I have for you completely disintegrated the second you admitted you’re more than happy to let your future husband cheat on you.” I smirk. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  She sniffs. “You think your parents have a perfect, happy marriage? You think your father doesn’t have his fingers three knuckles deep inside every perky-assed college intern that so much as smiles at him?”

  “The inside of my parents’ marriage has nothing to do with me, and I will not sit here and discuss those things with you, of all people.”

  “Your parents’ marriage has everything to do with you. You’re a Montgomery. You’ve been raised to project a very specific image your entire life.” She points to my parents, who stand side by side, their body language synchronized and loving gazes on their modestly Botoxed faces. “And look at them. You’ve had thirty years to study under the best.”

  “Not interested, Lydia.” I pull in a tight breath. “Now, who do I talk to to make sure that interview goes away?”

  “Good luck.” She scoffs and struts off, cornering my brother because God forbid that Lydia Darlington goes five minutes without attention from a man.

  ***

  I’m buried deep inside Camille, my outstretched hand skimming her taut belly as it caves under my touch. Her back is arched as she straddles my cock, her lips parted just so as her hips buck and coax every last pulse from her delicious climax.

  She leans forward, keeping me sheathed inside her clenched pussy, and rests her cheek against my rising and falling chest. A satisfied sigh escapes her mouth, and the lift of her cheeks tells me she’s smiling.

  “I’ve waited all day for that.” Camille tucks a loose, dark wave behind her ear and closes her eyes.

  We linger a moment longer, both of us catching our breaths, before she carefully climbs off me and slides to her belly. With her chin resting on top of one hand, she trails her fingertips down the center of my smooth chest and back.

  “I thought we’d see a movie tonight.” My arm uncurls and she rolls to her side, scooting into it. I’ve never been one for post-coital cuddling, but it’s different with her. There’s less pressure, less wondering how long that warm burst of euphoria will last.

  “Like a date?” she asks.

  “Something like that,” I say. “Just thought it’d be nice to get out of the hotel for a little bit. Do the things we don’t get to do back home.”

  “Yeah, sure. What movie do you want to see?”

  “I don’t even know what’s out.” I laugh at the fact that I’m completely out of touch with something so quintessentially American. “We can sneak in after the lights are down, sneak out before the end-credits.”

  “Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.” She sits up, her sex hair falling in her face until she brushes it away. Camille bites her full lips and slowly slides off the bed. The sway of her ass as she walks to the bathroom is intentional, meant for my enjoyment. Before she closes the bathroom door, she turns to me and flashes a half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

  Once the door shuts, I stretch my arms above my head and roll to my side, running my hand along the imprint in her spot. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking. I can’t imagine I’ll ever find another who can take her rightful title.

  I’ll admit my original intentions with Camille were superficial, driven purely by selfish reasons. Another man had her. I wanted her for myself. The harder I worked to find her, the more I wanted her. It was basic human nature at first. But the more time I spend with her, the more I resent the fact that she can only ever be mine behind closed doors.

  The door pulls open and Camille steps out fully clothed, her hair combed into place and a slick of crimson on her bee-stung pout.

  “I’m ready.” She smiles and waves her hands in the air as if she’s embarrassed to have gotten dolled up.

  I move from the bed to her, taking her hands and placing them on my hips as I kiss her forehead.

  “You look beautiful, Camille. It’s a shame we’ll be sitting in the dark the rest of the night.” I sigh. “I’d love nothing more than to show you off, let every other man know that this is what I get to spend my cold winter nights with.”

  She lifts on her toes, kissing my lips.

  “It’s all the same just to hear you say that,” she says. “Every woman deserves to be shown off by a man who adores her. I know you can’t, but knowing you want to means just as much.”

  She slinks away, her hands dragging across my bare skin.

  ***

  It feels good to be “normal.” To do “normal” things like “normal” people. Driving a car. Going to the movies. Fucking a beautiful woman who doesn’t have a pedigree attached to her last name.

  Camille buckles her seatbelt and pulls the visor down to check her lipstick. Running the pads of her fingertips down her loose waves, she twists them into place and turns to me.

  “Ready?” I start the car. We pull out of a parking garage and head south to a little movie house known for more artistic, independent selections.

  We wait in the heat-blasting warmth of the car when we get there, watching the clock until it reads ten minutes past our show time. I keep a fedora low on my head and hand her a fifty for some tickets and concessions, and we sneak into the theater just in time for the opening credits.

  Finding a spot in the very back row, we settle in, blending with the rest of the world for two full hours.

  By the time the movie finishes, we practically run out of a side exit, laughing as if we’re being chased. Cold turns our breath into clouds as I dig for my keys, staring into her eyes as she waits patiently by the passenger door.

  For the first time all week, I allow myself to think about Camille.

  Really thi
nk about her.

  “Come on, it’s cold!” She bounces up and down, her crimson lips spread wide as puffs of fog evaporate into the frigid night air.

  A thin layer of ice covers the windshield, deposited by Mother Nature while we sat snugly inside a heated movie theater. Unlocking the car, she climbs inside and rubs her hands together, cupping them around her mouth and blowing into them.

  I start the car, crank the heat, and turn on the defrost, turning to search the back seat.

  “You’d think a rental car in Iowa would come standard with an ice scraper.” I pop the trunk, climb out and check there.

  Nothing.

  Hopping back inside, the heat coming from the top of the dash is barely putting a dent in the layer of ice outside.

  “Guess we’ll just have to wait until it all melts.” Camille shrugs, leaning back into her seat and making herself comfortable.

  “Did you enjoy the movie?” I ask.

  She nods. “I don’t think I’ve laughed so much in a long time. You?”

  I slick my hands together and bring them to my mouth. “Yes.”

  The plot of the movie escapes me. After a while, I tuned it out. For whatever reason, my mind preferred to focus on her tonight. I spent a solid fifteen minutes debating on whether or not to put my arm around her and another twenty trying to decide if holding her hand would send the wrong message. By the time I decided to play it safe and keep my hands to myself, I’d missed the first plot twist and subsequently found myself lost.

  So I opted to watch her from the corner of my eye the rest of the time. She’d take a single kernel of popcorn at a time, devour it slowly, and drag her fingers across a napkin before taking another. Her legs were crossed as she leaned toward me, and when the screen would light up at times and the rest of the audience would laugh, I’d watch for her smile.

  A thin streak of melted ice lines the bottom of the windshield. It’s going to be a while. I turn the dial on the radio, searching for something in the middle of the music spectrum because I’ve absolutely no idea what kind of music Camille likes.