Satisfied they were sufficiently distracted, I leaned toward Bennett. “Where’s Sara?”
“Wouldn’t you love to know?”
I narrowed my eyes at him, scowling. “Arsehole.”
“Hey, you started this,” Bennett said, reaching for my drink.
I smacked his hand away. “Me? What are you on about?”
“You know: Chloe? Here? As grateful as I am, don’t try and pretend it wasn’t you who suggested the whole lap dance thing.”
“For you.”
“For me,” he said, smirking. “Right. So I’d be distracted and you could be with Sara in that club.”
Maybe he had a point.
“You can’t tell me if Sara teased you for forty-five minutes in a strip club you wouldn’t immediately go find her and . . . fix things. Even if you were meant to be hanging out with the guys.”
I laughed. “Too right.” I leaned closer, voice low. The idea of being able to slip out of here and have Sara one more time was too delicious to pass up. “This dinner is going to take at least two hours. I could be back in twenty.”
This time when he reached for my drink, I let him take it. “She’s visiting a friend,” he whispered.
I paused. “Visiting . . . what?”
“Oh, that bothers you? Leaves you feeling unresolved? I’m not so sure I should tell you,” he said, studying me. “It’s pretty clear the start of this night has gone far better for you than for me. Maybe your focus should be on my bachelor party instead of what’s in your pants.”
“Or,” I began, “I could tell Henry about that time you shagged two girls in his bed when he was stuck working at school over the uni holidays.”
That sobered him up. “She has a friend that dances in some show at Planet Hollywood. Chloe mentioned something about Sara going over there for sound check or something between performances.”
Sara, sitting in a dark theater all alone? That was all I needed to hear. Pushing away from the table, I stood. Will and Henry looked up at me from their menus. “Where are you going?” Henry asked. “They have a forty-ounce rib eye!”
“Toilet,” I said, placing a hand over my stomach. “I’m, ah . . . not feeling well.”
“You, too?” Will asked.
I nodded, hesitating for only a moment before saying, “Back in a bit.”
And I was off, sprinting from the restaurant, blood pumping hot in my legs and that untethered need to be with her buzzing steadily under my skin.
The smell of asphalt hit me in the face as I raced down to the curb, looking up the distance to Planet Hollywood on my phone as I walked. This was shite. It was several blocks away, and at this point in the night the streets were packed with slow-walking tourists looking and pointing at every possible sight between here and where I would find Sara.
Although the car traffic on Las Vegas Boulevard had cleared up significantly, the valet area was still a mess: some of the same cars were parked curbside and there wasn’t a taxi in sight. Fuck, how was I going to get there? I looked down into the car next to me: door still open, Eiffel Tower key chain hanging from the ignition.
The keys were swinging, as if they were actually trying to grab my attention.
It took me all of five seconds to decide that I’d lived my entire life without stealing a car, and how could I possibly have let that happen?
Borrowing, I thought. I was borrowing.
With a quick look ’round, I slipped in through the open door and turned the key. A dark hat sat on the leather seat next to me and I picked it up, turning it over once before placing it on my head. Oh well, when in Rome and all that.
I had no idea what in the actual hell I was doing as I raced away from the curb, but I rationed that at this point, nothing else could possibly go wrong.
* * *
It turned out that driving a stolen—borrowed—limousine was every bit as difficult as one might imagine. It was awkward and handled like shit, and wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous thing on the road. But traffic was almost nonexistent and soon I was arriving at the blazing neon casino.
With my fingers crossed I pulled into the underground parking garage, tossing my hat and the keys to the first valet attendant I saw. Borrowing a stranger’s car during a stag party in Vegas . . . another tick off the bucket list.
I was met with a bank of escalators as I stepped inside, declining the opportunity to stand still and take a breather, opting instead to race up them two at a time. Rows of purple neon were embedded into the ceiling overhead, as well as a giant sparkling chandelier. I followed the signs to the opposite end of the casino, stopping just in front of the Peepshow theater.
I was stopped by an older lady at the ticket counter, who stood up to stop me from entering, insisting access pre-show was limited to performers and crew, only.
Taking a few seconds to study her—blonde hair with solid gray roots, heavy makeup and a bright red sequined top—I decided “Marilyn,” as her name tag suggested I call her, had probably seen her share of loser men chasing after the showgirls here.
“A girl here, one of the performers, called tonight to tell me she’s pregnant with my child. She told me she’d be here.”
Marilyn’s eyes grew to roughly the size of dinner plates. “I don’t have your name on any list.”
“Because it’s personal, you see.”
She nodded, obviously wavering.
I decided to close the deal. “I’m just here to make sure she’s okay.” I had a momentary pang of guilt over the lie, but then I remembered Sara, in the dark theatre, alone. “I need to know if she needs money.”
Once inside the darkened auditorium, I looked around. The stage lights overhead washed everything in more purple—the plush carpet, the seats, even the handful of people moving about on the stage. It was quiet and obviously in between shows, and there was just enough light for me to find Sara on the second level and begin making my way toward her. I climbed down slowly, taking the time to observe her as she sat, unaware. She was watching someone and smiling. She still took my breath away, and here, painted in violet light, I wanted to memorize everything about her: the shine of her hair, the smoothness of her skin. I wanted a picture of her, just like this.
As rehearsal started, the music began to swell, the lights dimming further as I descended the final rows to take a seat next to her. I could barely see my own hand in front of my face, but as if she’d known I was there all along—or maybe hoped I would find her—she hardly reacted. A simple glance, a small smile, and the tiny gold pendant I’d given her for Christmas twisting slowly between her delicate fingertips. I placed a hand on her thigh, felt the warm, supple skin beneath my palm, and motioned silently up to the stage.
A man counted down as girls in skimpy jeweled costumes balanced on pointed toes and spun themselves around. I was dizzy just watching them. They danced, circling one another and finally stopping beneath a concentrated beam of light, to kiss.
I tightened my grip on her thigh, swiped my thumb beneath the hem of her skirt, and heard the slight hitch in her breath. There was no one but us in the darkness beyond the stage and I wondered, would Sara’s love for being watched translate into watching someone else?
My hand traveled farther up her thigh and I leaned in to kiss her ear. She sighed, tilting her head as I moved her hair, and traced my tongue down the curve of her neck.
She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, letting hers flicker quickly to the performers in wordless communication. Here? she was asking. While they dance and touch each other on stage?
Another woman spun around a gold pole, the single spotlight accentuating every acrobatic movement of her graceful arms and legs, the way her body bowed to the pulse of the music that played in the background. It was erotic, and I felt myself harden even further both from the show in front of us and Sara’s reaction to it.
I smiled, shifted in my seat to whisper against her cheek. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
“You have to ask?�
�
“Maybe I want to hear you say it,” I said.
She swallowed. “Are we going to?” There was need in her voice. The edge of that hollow little ache I’d heard earlier at the Black Heart.
“Maybe not everything, Petal,” I said, letting my fingers trail higher, pushing the lace of her pants to the side so I could run a finger along the soft folds of her pussy. “Are you still wet from me?”
She swallowed, flicked her tongue out to lick her lips. “Yes.”
I dipped my finger inside. “Do you feel like you were fucked earlier? Can you still feel me?” I pressed deeper and she hiccupped the tiniest breath; her mouth went soft and round, glistening in the dim light.
“Someone might see us,” she murmured, head falling back against the seat and eyes fluttering closed. She struggled to find words as I added a second finger, pushing them both in at once. I smiled at how breathless she was, how immediately incoherent.
“Isn’t that the point?”
“Cameras . . .”
I glanced up and shrugged. “And what would you do, sweet Sara? If someone saw you this way? Would that make it better? Would you come on my hand as soon as you heard their feet on the stairs?”
She moaned quietly and I couldn’t look away from the hint of movement between her thighs where I touched her, the way she spread her legs farther to open herself up, arching into it. I liked her pliant for me, boneless, where I could arrange her the way I wanted and just take. But I liked her like this, too, desperate and forgetting herself.
I groaned, squeezing myself through my trousers because—Christ—would it always be like this? Would I always want her in this way that made me dizzy and completely stupid?
I wanted to put her on my lap and ride up into her, hear her screams and the way she said my name over and over, hear it echo off the high ceilings, echoed above the music. It would ring around us, sound back to me, and the people still dancing on the stage would know that she was mine.
Of course we couldn’t, and when a small moan left her lips I leaned in, whispered a soft “Shhh,” against her skin. Her eyes were pinned to the stage, where a woman danced topless, and in the almost pitch-black auditorium I struggled to make out the side of Sara’s face. The rustle of fabric dragged my attention lower, to where she played with her breast, tugging on her nipple where her shirt had fallen open the tiniest bit. And the fact that she was getting off on what we were doing and where—by being watched but also watching in return—well, the thought alone was enough to get me riled up, have me almost shooting in my pants.
My heart kicked at my ribs and I palmed my cock, watching, hearing as Sara got closer and closer. In the glow of the stage lights I could see a thin sheen of sweat across her forehead, could feel her beginning to tighten around my fingers. Her sounds changed, growing longer with every circle of my thumb over her clit, every rhythmic rock of her hips.
I could feel my orgasm building in my spine. “Sara,” I said, but she leaned forward, catching my mouth in a rough kiss. I wished I had my phone out, or a camera set to record the way her teeth pulled at my lips, the way it must look when her tongue darted out to taste me.
Her breath hitched and I felt her body tense, felt her orgasm race through her, hot and wild, her sounds swallowed by the thump and bass of the music. She reached across me to fumble with my zipper and I was right behind her.
“Oh fuck yes,” I said, practically melting into my seat. My head fell back and I gave myself over to the feeling. “Fuck, Petal, pull it hard. Fast.”
Three rough strokes in and I felt the pleasure climb up my back, sparking light behind my eyelids and I came, pulsing in Sara’s hand.
The music was suddenly deafening and I opened my eyes, feeling heat slip from my cock to finally return to the rest of my body. I blinked several times and was met with Sara’s wide grin, the pleased expression she always wore when she’d proven once again how completely she owned me.
“There’s one to add to the list,” I said, focusing again on the performers still wandering around onstage. I saw her bend forward to reach for something in her purse, pulling out a tissue to wipe off her hands before dabbing at my trousers. “I suppose we’re back to the old days? Where you tell me this is where it ends and I’m to zip myself up and leave you here.”
Sara laughed. “How’d you manage to get away from them anyway?”
“Told them I was going to the toilet and left.”
Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her hair and she fell back against the seat in laughter. “And you’ve been gone all this time?”
I nodded. “Suppose they’ll try and suss out the truth of where I’ve gone. Damn them.” I finished adjusting my clothes and leaned across the chair, taking her face in my hands and dragging a finger down her nose. “I’ve got to go.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I love you, Petal.”
“Love you too, stranger.”
FIVE
Bennett Ryan
I was pretty sure I looked like an idiot. Will and Henry continued to sip their drinks and pore over the menu, oblivious to the fact that I was sitting across from them, damn near giggling and randomly breaking into the widest, goofiest grins imaginable.
Despite Max’s sudden departure, I was still on a high from how much fun it had been to follow Chloe, then spank and fuck her in a bathroom. And she was going to be my wife.
I had no idea how I’d gotten so lucky.
“Are you gentlemen ready?” the waiter asked, removing a slew of empty glasses from the table and stacking them on his tray. Will and Henry looked up for the first time in about ten minutes and blinked around the table.
“Max not back yet?” Will asked, surprised.
I shook my head, refolding my napkin in an attempt to avoid their eyes. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Should we wait for him or . . .?” Henry asked. “I could go out and kill a few minutes at one of the tables while we wait.”
I glanced down at my watch and groaned; the flimsy excuse Max had used about needing the bathroom was most definitely losing its credibility with each passing minute. And it wasn’t that I particularly cared if Max got busted—it’s possible that might actually improve my night—but if Max went down then so did I. We had the rest of the weekend with these guys, and Will would make it a living hell if he found out we’d been sneaking out to bang our girlfriends on Valentine’s Day.
And, truth be told, Will was the only single one here and was the most focused on hanging out with the guys. I felt a pang of guilt that, of the three of us who seemed to care more for women than gambling, he was the only one not getting laid this weekend.
“Sure he’ll be back any minute,” I said. “Must not have been feeling well.”
“What the hell did you two eat anyway?” Henry asked.
I tried to formulate an answer and remembered the waiter only when I heard him sigh. “I’ll give you gentlemen a few more minutes,” he said before stepping away.
Will narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, what is going on,” he said, words slurring together a little. “There’s no way a person could have this much diarrhea and survive.”
“Thank you for that very tasteful analysis.” I set my napkin on my plate and stood. “I’ll just step over there and see how much longer. You two go ahead and order for us. I’ll have the filet. Bloody.” I started to walk away and stopped, turning to face them again. “Oh, and get yourself a few more drinks,” I added with a smile. “It’s on me.”
The mood in the restaurant had changed as the night went on. Lights embedded in the ceiling and around the room had shifted from the soft white to warm gold, washing everything in rich color. The music was louder, not so loud that you couldn’t talk or make out individual conversations, but loud enough that you could feel it deep in your chest, a pounding like a second heartbeat. It felt more like a nightclub than a restaurant now and made it easier for me to step out unnoticed, to text Max.
Where the fuck are you?
I paced the glossy wood floors just outside, debating whether I could leave and get away with it. My phone vibrated with his incoming message less than a minute later.
Just pulling up. Two minutes.
We need to talk, I answered. I’ll meet you near valet.
With a glance over my shoulder to make sure Will or Henry hadn’t followed, I headed down to meet Max.
The casino floor was bustling. The sound of laughter and cheering floated up from one of the tables and a couple of police officers stood near the entrance, speaking to a group of valets.
Max stepped through the doors and stopped just in front of me, rebuttoning his suit jacket and straightening his tie. “Always so impatient,” he said, glancing twice at the police before gripping my arm. “Perhaps we could move just over here . . .” He guided us away from the area and out of their direct line of sight.
“Oh, that’s comforting. You’re dodging the police now? Jesus Christ, what is happening? I feel like an accomplice in some sort of crime spree,” I said, running a hand through my hair.
“The less you know, the better, mate. Trust me.”
“And the toilet, Max? Really? That’s the best you could come up with?”
“As if your excuse was any better? An ulcer? You’ve lost your touch, mate. The Ben I knew in uni would be ashamed. Love’s made you soft.”
I sighed, glancing behind me. “You’ve been gone for almost an hour. What the fuck took you so long?”
He gave me a wide, leering smile. He looked happy. Fuck, he looked downright giddy, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I knew that expression; I’d been wearing it less than ten minutes ago.
“Just gave the lady friend a screaming orgasm, mate.”
“Okay, right. I did not need to know that.”
“You’re one to talk.” He stretched his neck, cracking it. “So how are the boys?”
“Replacing most of their blood with vodka and discussing the beauty of aged meats.”
“Shall we head up for dinner, then?”
He went to push by me but I reached for his arm, stopping him. “Look, you know what I’ve been doing and I know what you’ve been doing, let’s cut the bullshit. Back in New York, I’m lucky to get Chloe to myself for ten full minutes. They’re only here tonight. Let’s help each other out here.”
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