Big Bad Wolf: A Bad Boy Next Door Second Chance Romance

by Frankie Love

  Grabbing my fishnets, I sit on the couch, determined to walk out of here—yeah, maybe in yesterday’s clothes, but my head will be held high.

  As I start to roll the netting over my foot, I hear my cellphone ring. I grab it, wondering if it might be Boss-man.

  Ugh. Like it would be. Like it matters.

  I reach for my phone and a hotel magazine with the name SPADES ROYALLE splayed across the front tumbles to the floor. I grab my phone, answering it before it goes to voicemail.

  “Hello?” I grab the fallen magazine, pausing on the article that it’s flipped open to.

  What the fuck?

  “Emmy? This is Detective Clark, down at the station.” His voice is gruff, the only way I’ve ever heard him speak.

  “Detective Clark?” I ask, my voice catching. My eyes stuck on the article on the floor. Detective Clark is the last person I expected to hear from. “Is everything okay?” I pick up the article, completely distracted by the picture of Ace, the owner of Spades Royalle Casino.

  Completely overwhelmed. Dizzy.

  I sit down, trying to focus on the detective.

  “Yeah, it’s Clark. There’s been some development on your sister’s case. You need to get down the station, stat.”

  “Do you know who the driver is?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes. Finally, yes.

  “Just get down here and I’ll fill you in.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as possible.” Finally, something about my sister. I’ve waited two months for this phone call.

  I hang up the phone, my eyes absorbed with the picture of Ace.

  The smoldering green eyes that had locked with mine all last night.

  Ace, the man I slept with. The man who fucked me silly.

  Ace is Boss-man.

  I’ve been royally screwed by a bad boy.

  6

  ACE

  Leaving Emmy in that bed this morning was one of the hardest fucking things I’ve ever done in my life. And I don't care if thinking that makes me a pussy.

  Her goddamned bare skin, smooth and supple, curled against mine, teased me into the early hours of the morning. And when I inhaled the scent of her citrus shampoo, I would have bought a motherfucking orange orchard so I could bottle up that goodness and smell her every day of my life.

  But I didn't need any lemon trees. I could just have her. Take her. Keep her.

  If I didn't have to meet with my lawyer to try and get that asshole Frank Grotto off my back, I would have stayed in that suite, in that bed, waited until she woke and then ridden her all day long.

  But I don't own this casino because I sleep on Egyptian cotton until noon. I own this goddamned place because I don't let up, don't wait on people to come to me.

  I come when I want it, where I want.

  The same way I fuck women. However the hell I please.

  And Emmy is no different. I want her, so I'll have her. That's why she's in my hotel suite, wrapped up in sheets covered with my come. Because she isn't going anywhere.

  She's gonna wear those clothes I told Denise to get for her, she's gonna shave her legs and trim her pussy, and she’s gonna put lipstick on her perfect pouty lips.

  And then those lips are gonna wrap around my cock, and she's gonna suck me hard until I tell her to stop.

  I won't take no for an answer.

  Not that I think she'll say no, not now that she's had a taste of me. That woman knows my hungry cock is the only thing she ever wants in her mouth again.

  Walking into the law office of Denzel & Swopes, I pull my shoulders back, straighten my tie. I play a hard game, but fuck—I know where I come from, know these guys still think they can't entirely trust me.

  But I also know my money is clean, my casino is tight. The IRS can fucking audit me everyday of the week.

  I'm not my father's son.

  Mark Denzel is sitting at his desk as I stride into his office. “Ace, did we have an appointment?” he asks. His secretary trails after me, but Mark knows I don't come here unless there’s a reason.

  He waves her off, and I take a seat in a leather chair across from him.

  “Doesn't look like you have a client, and I'll make this short,” I tell him.

  I'm not gonna waste Mark's time. He's had my back since I showed up in this town with one hundred million dollars—I drained what was left in my Pop's accounts after he was killed. I fled the city and came here, started over with a new name and a new game.

  And the need for some investors. Mark Denzel got me appointments with the right men, and believed in me since the day we fucking met.

  Because of the sappy ass mood I’ve been in today, I can’t help think of what he’s done to help my casino grow. He’s been like a father to me.

  And fuck, sappy or not, it's the truth. He is a rock-solid man who saw beyond the place my cash came from and helped me line up what I needed to become the owner of the Spades Royalle.

  His belief has paid off—at least it’s beginning to. My vision for the Spades Royalle was never one of those low-end establishment. We are a boutique hotel, serving high-end clients for a reason. So what if the casino took more of an initial investment than I'd originally anticipated? After three years in business, we’re beginning to see the numbers we'd hoped for when we started.

  But those investors don't know my share of the initial capital came from dirty money. Came from the Genova family—or what’s left of them. I'm the only one left standing, but I don't claim that name. Now I go by Ace Royalle. Nothing less, nothing more.

  “We have a problem,” I say. “Grotto's back. He's been gone, what? Six weeks, eight weeks tops?”

  “Grotto?” Mark asks, his eyebrows knit in concern. “What's he want?”

  “He showed up at Spades last night, blazing. Says he has shit on me and my family.”

  Mark leans in, eyes narrowed. “What sort of shit?”

  “I have no fucking clue. I made a clean break, Mark, I swear it. I changed my name and never looked back. Haven't set foot in New York for five years. But Grotto knows something. I can gain thirty pounds of muscle but that isn't gonna fix my fucking face. He knows who I am.”

  “So what, Ace? Even if he does know, the money has been redistributed a hundred times over. Spades is a clean establishment, unless there’s something you're doing there you aren't telling me about?”

  “Fuck no, I tell you everything.”

  “Then what's this about?” Mark asks. “Why is he coming after you?”

  “He says he's gonna get that property off the strip. The property on the South end, you know the one I’ve had my eye on forever? Spades is legit, sure, but I want another piece of real estate, and you know as well as I do that property around here doesn't come around every year. I've already talked to the conglomerates at all the big hotels. They aren't bidding.”

  “Why not?” Mark asks.

  “They don't think it's a good investment. It's in old town Vegas. They want property on the strip, or nothing at all.”

  “But you think this is a viable venture?” Mark asks. “For another hotel?”

  “Not a hotel,” I say.

  “Then what?”

  “I don't want to talk about my next business. I want to talk about how we can get Grotto off my fucking nut sack.”

  Mark rubs his jaw, thinking. “Look, I don't know what I can do. If you want to move forward with this property, I guess I should go out there and look at it, see what sort of investors you'll need in order to purchase it. I don't think our other guys will want back in until there’s more profit on the table with the Spades.”

  “Fine, but not today,” I tell him.

  “Why not?”

  I shrug, not wanting to talk money right now—even though I know that is exactly what I’m going to need. I came here to deal with Grotto. Not talk shop.

  “That stuff can wait. Right now I need a plan to get Grotto the fuck out of this town before he tries to ruin me.”

  “Ace, you're over your he
ad. I feel it. All the media lately, and you were on the cover of Vegas Weekly. You're the person everyone is talking about right now. That attention is good for the Spades, but it doesn’t sound like it’s good for you. The last thing you need is an enemy who knows your past showing up, dragging you through the mud.”

  “Fuck, I know.” My smile disappears. I know Mark has my back, but right now it sounds like his belief in me has its limits. “I don't want to get dirty. I just want this land. And Grotto knows it.”

  “As your counsel, I think you need to drop this land deal. If Grotto really wants to come after you, it's going to make the Spades Royalle look bad. You can't have that right now. The hotel just got into the black.”

  “I know you've stuck your neck out for me before, but with Grotto, this isn't business. This is getting fucking personal,” I tell him, seething.

  “Personal or not, Grotto's not going anywhere. He's been in Vegas for as long as me. And whether you like it or not, he's not leaving anytime soon. The cops haven't got shit on him.”

  “I'm not letting him push me in a corner.”

  Mark snorts. “Nobody puts baby in a corner, is that right?”

  “Fuck yeah, it is.” I stand, needing a fucking drink. Needing to fucking breathe.

  “Look, Ace, don't get all pissed off.” Mark opens a drawer in his desk and shuffles around papers. He pulls out a business card and hands it to me. “Call Trenton. He's a PI, he'll help you out. If there's dirt to be found on Grotto, he'll find it.”

  “Thanks, man.” I take the card and turn to leave. I pause in the doorway. “Hey, your lady doing better?”

  “Yeah, Judy's doing okay. Out of the hospital and back home. That pneumonia really got to her. But she's hanging in there.”

  I see him swallow, like he has a lump in his throat; this year has been a bitch for him. Judy is the fucking light of his goddamned life, and after three rounds of chemo she's finally on the mend. Except for this latest run in the hospital.

  People like Mark and Judy—good people—don't need that kind of shit, yet they're dealing with it.

  Mark comes around his desk to say good-bye, claps me on the back. “Thanks for asking, Ace. She'll like hearing that you're thinking of her and not just the twenty-somethings you meet at the casino.”

  I smile, wave good-bye.

  Glad to have Grotto off my fucking mind for a moment.

  Instead, I walk away thinking of one twenty-something. Thinking of the ways I'd like to put her in a corner.

  And knowing that tonight, I will.

  EMMY

  I need to get out of this hotel suite, stat. Meeting with Detective Clark can't wait. He has information about my sister's case, and I need it. Now.

  Otherwise I’m never going to move on with my life.

  I just can't believe my hallway lover is Ace. Ace Royalle. Ace, the fucking owner of this casino.

  I'm still here—naked, wrapped up in the sheets we slept in last night. Though, to be fair, there wasn't much sleeping last night. The only sleep I had came in the early morning hours.

  Because last night all we did was fuck ourselves silly. Hard. Soft. Fast. Slow. We screwed until his cock was as raw as my pussy.

  Which, okay, was amazing. But also—really? I bared myself to the most sexed-up sleaze this end of the strip. And everyone knows that about him. How did I miss what this guy looks like?

  Tess is going to legitimately die when she finds out. Not that I will tell her. Because … I mean, I just spent last night doing the thing I have said was a no-go since getting this job.

  I had sex with the baddest of the bad boys.

  And I liked it.

  However, I do not like the note he left for me. The demands scrawled across it. He wants me to wear a certain dress, to a certain club, with one goal in mind. To have sex.

  And while I know Ace is that guy, the guy who has sex on the dance floor—I am so not that girl.

  Okay. So I have two options. 1) Put on my fishnets and blow off Ace, hotel owner extraordinaire, aka deceiving asshole. Or, 2) put on the amazing clothes provided for me and relish the luxury of being his latest conquest.

  I suppose there is an option three.

  Wear the clothes and never spread my legs for him again.

  Which, right now, sounds like the perfect plan. Because if he couldn't give me the courtesy of revealing his identity, then I don't owe him anything. I have enough on my plate. With a hospitalized sister and a detective calling me, the last thing I need is to get wrapped up in this man's drama.

  Actually, all I need at the moment is caffeine.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee, thinking. Okay, I've got this. This is not big deal. Then I remember that Ace is my boss. And that could make things awkward.

  I take the bags to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Washing last night's sex off me. It was the last sex I’ll be having for a really long time, because priorities.

  And it won't be awkward with Ace. I've had this job for two entire months and have never come across him before.

  I can continue avoiding him until I get a job that actually uses my psychology degree. Surely there will be an opening at some social work office at some point, even if I haven't gone to grad school yet. The money won't be nearly as good, but at least I’ll have my fucking dignity.

  This is going to be fine. More than fine. Maybe Detective Clark actually found the driver who left my sister for dead. Maybe my sister will wake up from her coma and everything can go back to normal.

  Or better than normal, maybe my sister and I will become close again. And be a family. Hell, I could go to grad school here in Vegas and make a life for myself with Janie.

  None of that good stuff is going to happen if I don't get my head on straight.

  I step out of the shower, and dry my skin off. I use the hotel lotion and rub the designer cream into my skin. With every stroke, it's impossible not to remember Ace's hands all over me last night.

  Hands on my waist, my breasts, my ass. He took hold of me in a way no man has ever done before.

  I mean, honestly it should be illegal to fuck that well. I shut my eyes, trying hard to press out the memories—but instead I just imagine all the places we haven't had sex. Against the wall, or in the shower. We haven't fucked on a kitchen counter or in a public place.

  Oh my god, what’s my problem? I’d have thought having an incredible night of sex would get the whole craving out of my system, instead it seems to be intensifying it. I’m getting all hot and bothered just by lotioning my own fucking skin.

  This is bad.

  If I didn't need to meet Detective Clark, I swear I would press my fingers inside my tired pussy again, just to relive the moments of last night.

  But I don't have time.

  I blow dry my hair quickly and wrap it in a bun on the base of my neck, securing it with bobby pins from my purse.

  Then I rip the price tags off the clothes and slide the designer everything on my body.

  Grinning at the way the jeans hug my ass, I can't help but indulge myself with a long look in the mirror. Even my tits look more amazing than normal in this lacy bra. I slip on the top, appreciating the flattering V-neck and loose tunic style.

  And I love the way the twelve-hundred-dollar stilettos don't make my arches ache—nothing like the way my Target heels make my feet scream while I'm at work.

  I dig in my purse for a compact and swipe powder over my nose and cheeks, lip gloss over my lips, and mascara on my lashes. Thank God for hotel toothbrushes and soap—I won't smell like casino-leftovers this morning.

  Instead, I look better than I ever have in my life.

  Stuffing my uniform in one of the bags, I grab the other ones, and head for the door. Taking one last look over the suite, I turn back to the breakfast cart.

  Snagging the card, I stuff it in my purse. Maybe for personal evidence that for one night, I was irresistible to a man more handsome than I've ever seen.

  And maybe this is cheesy, but
I take the red rose, too, and push it through the bun on the nape of my neck.

  It makes me smile, knowing that even though Ace is a player—a player who played me—he remembered my name.

  7

  ACE

  I find McQueen where he’s working out, at Kit’s Gym. He visits this place like a Catholic schoolgirl going to church. He fucking prays to that punching bag, offers Hail Marys to the practice ring.

  McQueen has a pretty face, but that doesn’t keep him from the ring. He trains here everyday.

  “Hey, man, what's up?” He pulls off his boxing gloves and gives me a once-over. “You seem way too tense for a man who had that waitress all night. She was fucking hot.”

  “She's not a waitress. Her name is Emmy.” I don't want him talking about her like she's a piece of fucking meat.

  My pocket vibrates and I pull out my phone. I recognize the number as Trenton, the PI. I left him a message on my way over, but I let it go to voicemail. Right now I need to fucking let off some steam.

  “Whoa, boss-man has his dick up somebody's ass.”

  “Fuck you, McQueen.” I run my hands through my hair. I'm in a collared shirt, slacks, dress shoes—I look like a fucking businessman. Not like myself at all.

  And right now I want to feel alive.

  I don't often have this need to remember where I come from—most of the time I want to block that shit from my mind. But the way Mark Denzel told me to stop going after what I want—that property—it has me fucking fired up.

  I want to hit something, punch something. I grew up getting in fights, pushing people around until I got what I wanted—but ever since I moved to Vegas, I’ve played by the rules of this city.

  A nice suit gets you a meeting. A pimped-out watch gets you an investor. I wanted those things more than I wanted to fight.

  So I did everything Mark Denzel told me to do—cut my hair, found a tailor. And it's worked. The only time I act like I did back when I was a Genova is when I’m with women.

  With women, I can still be the man I've always been. The man I was bred to be. In control. Dominating. Taking what I fucking want.