by Cassia Leo
Cash takes me up to the third level of the penthouse, where there’s an empty studio space. He leads me through a set of French doors out onto a large veranda with a cozy outdoor bed clothed in sumptuous linens. And true to his word, he makes me come more times than I can count. And just when I think I’ve made it through this evening in tact, something shifts.
He flips me onto my back and looks into my eyes as he moves in and out of me. “What are you thinking?” he asks.
Such a simple question, usually uttered in the midst of complicated situations. But there’s nothing complicated about this. It’s just sex, right?
7
Cash
I lift her leg as my cock digs deeper into her and the gasp she lets out is too sexy for words. Resting my elbow on the pillow, I brush her hair out of her face, looking into her eyes as I await the response to my question. Her eyebrows knit together as she pants heavily. There’s something there in her eyes. Is it fear or something else?
“I… I’m thinking… I’m gonna come.” She closes her eyes and turns her head away.
To say I’m disappointed with this response would be putting it mildly. Not that I don’t want her to come, but she’s very obviously hiding something from me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about women it’s that they will almost never decline an opportunity to tell you how they feel, unless they’re hiding something. I’m disappointed in Kara’s lack of communication, yet intrigued by the possibility of finding out more about her.
My cock seems to like her. The angle of her pussy is perfect, clinging to my dick in all the right places. Her clit is easily identifiable and she seems to come easily, though that could be from the long hiatus since her last boyfriend. And I saw a delicious sparkle in her eyes when I rubbed the tip of my cock over her ass. She’s dirty enough to let me in the backdoor without a wedding ring. But it’s not just my cock that wants to know her.
There’s something dark behind those brown eyes, something she won’t let anyone see, probably not even her closest confidantes. I want to see it. I want to pull it out of her and lay it bare. I have a feeling whatever it is will change me.
I grind my pelvis against her clit and her eyes flick open again. Grabbing her jaw, I turn her face so she’s looking me in the eye. Her mouth hangs open, small whimpers issuing forth as her pussy clamps down on my cock.
“I’m coming,” she whispers.
I hold her gaze as we both come together. I’m breathing so hard, every time I exhale the hair around her face flutters. Something about this makes me grin and she gives me a genuine smile in return.
“How many times did you come?” I ask as my cock twitches, releasing its final spurts into the condom.
She shakes her head. “I don’t remember.”
“I told you you’d lose count.” I pinch the top of the condom tightly around the base of my cock and pull out of her slowly so it doesn’t leak, then I lean down and kiss her forehead. “Come with me.”
After a long, luxurious shower, I convince her to stay a while longer so she can eat something, since I did hear her stomach growl at least twice while we were having sex. It’s fun to see how far I can push her out of her comfort zone. She promised she wasn’t going to spend the night, but I have a feeling she won’t need much convincing to break this promise.
“What do you want?” I say, opening the refrigerator door. “I’ve got some plain yogurt, some leftover shrimp wontons, and some paleo wraps. I can make you a wrap with some shrimp wontons and yogurt.” I smile as she cocks an eyebrow. “Or we can just order pizza.”
She looks me up and down. “Are you going to put on clothes before the pizza guy gets here?”
I glance down at my naked body then I look at her body, which is clothed in a bathrobe I gave her. “We might get the pizza free if he’s gay or just plain terrified.”
She nods. “Yeah, because you totally can’t afford pizza, Mr. Three-Level Penthouse.”
I close the refrigerator door and round the kitchen island toward where she’s sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Then, you answer the door and I’ll lie on the sofa naked while you feed me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not answering your door. This isn’t my house.”
“You can’t answer my door?” I remark, spreading her knees and slipping my hand between her legs, smiling when I find she’s already slick with moisture. “But you can rub your wet pussy all over my bathrobe?”
She tries to suppress a smile when I pull my hand out from between her legs and lick it clean. “Fine. I’ll answer the door, so you don’t have to put clothes on.”
Before the pizza arrives, I get dressed in some boxers and pajama pants, rendering our argument moot. I answer the door, because I don’t want anyone other than me seeing her in my bathrobe.
This is partially because of what I know will happen if the media finds out I’ve brought yet another girl to the penthouse, just four days after the last one was taken away in an ambulance. But it’s mostly because I feel a bit protective over her. I don’t want anyone to see her in that robe and imagine what she looks like underneath.
Jesus Christ. I need to get a grip on myself.
I grab us each a beer and turn on the news on the flatscreen in the den to catch up on the day’s news while we eat. “So, how did you get the job at the club?” I ask as I set a slice of pizza on her plate. “I’ve heard you can only get a job there if you’ve worked one of the big tournaments or you’re in good with Mick. Which is it?”
She grabs her plate and sits cross-legged on the sofa next to me. “I basically begged for the job. Mick didn’t want to hire me because my dad was banned from all casinos on the Strip years ago.”
I laugh. “Whoa. You didn’t tell me this. Why was your dad banned?”
She stares at me wide-eyed as if she’s revealed too much. “He was a card counter. Not a big deal,” she replies, turning her attention back to her pizza.
“Not a big deal? That’s a pretty big deal if he’s the one who taught you how to deal. That means you probably grew up playing the game. Am I right?”
She chews her pizza slowly and looks a bit uncomfortable as she gulps it down. “I really don’t want to talk about my dad.”
I stare at the slice of pizza in my hand for a moment, then I set it down as I realize this is what she’s hiding. Her father is the key to knowing the real Kara.
I set my plate of pizza on the coffee table and turn to her. “Hey, you wanna—”
“Oh, my God. Is that you?” she interrupts me, pointing at the TV.
I whip my head around to look at the screen and, sure enough, there’s the picture of me and Rosie entering the lobby four nights ago. We both look equally blasted and she has her hand on my ass. This is embarrassing enough, until I hear the commentary from the CNBC reporter.
Is Cash Westbrook, Executive Vice President of Westbrook Oil and notorious Las Vegas party boy, being forced out of Westbrook Oil following his latest publicity gaffe? Sources close to the company tell us the board is in talks with investors, and Cash himself, to see how they can minimize the financial fallout from his latest antics. Our source claims Cash is very interested in coming to an agreement with the board and investors, even if that means he must step down from his position at the helm of the $80-billion conglomerate.
I turn off the TV and toss the remote onto the coffee table. “That’s not true,” I say, unable to look at Kara to see her reaction. “I mean, the part where they said I’m in talks with the board. That’s bullshit. They’ll do what they want, with or without me.”
She sighs as she places her plate on the table. “I should probably get going. I have to get up early to take—my friend to an appointment.”
We both stand up at the same time and I grab her wrist and gently pull her toward me. “You don’t have to leave,” I say, grabbing the waist-tie on the robe and slowly pulling it until it comes undone. Slipping my hand inside, my fingers whisper over her smooth hips as I whisper in he
r ear. “Stay the night and I’ll make you pancakes in the morning.”
She laughs. “That’s very tempting.”
“They’re my specialty. I call them the Westbrook Oil Spills.” I tilt her face up and smile as I look her in the eye. “But I can’t make them just for me. When I’m alone, they get too salty from all the tears that inevitably fall into the batter.”
She shakes her head, trying not to laugh. “Is that how you get all the girls to come up here? Promising them pancakes?”
“Those days are over.”
“Right,” she replies skeptically.
I move my hand down to her perfect ass and pull her body flush against me, so she can feel my growing erection against her bare pussy. “If you go out there right now, there will be paparazzi waiting to ambush you the moment you exit the property. They’ll follow you to your house. Just stay until morning and they’ll be gone.”
Her eyelids flutter as I slide my hand forward and down between her swollen folds. “Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into?”
I stroke her clit as I brush my lips over her jaw. “Nothing you can’t get out of if you spend the night.”
She locks her arms around my shoulders as her legs begin to twitch. “Show me the bedroom.”
I’m not at all surprised when I wake at seven in the morning to find the other side of my bed empty and cold. I’m tempted to try to go back to sleep so I can wake up again and get a do-over. Maybe next time I open my eyes Kara will still be there.
I decide to get out of bed, but just as my feet hit the floor, I notice something on the floor. A condom wrapper from last night. And not just one. There’s a trail of condom wrappers leading into the master bathroom.
The trail stops in front of the vanity. Just above the vanity, scrawled across the bathroom mirror, is a phone number written in pink lipstick. I smile as I touch the tip my finger to the kiss mark on the bottom-right side of the mirror.
I shake my head as I think of Kara’s words from last night: Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into.
I don’t know, but I can’t fucking wait to find out.
I’m showered and dressed before the cleaning lady arrives at eight. “Take the day off,” I say, grabbing Norma’s shoulders and turning her around toward the front door, where she just walked in.
“It’s Sunday, Mr. Westbrook,” she replies in her thick Spanish accent. “I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?”
I laugh. “No, no, Norma. You didn’t do anything wrong. And you’re right! It’s Sunday. I’m giving you the day off. Go spend some time with your family. Go to church, or whatever you do. Take your kids to the park. ¡Disfruta! Enjoy!”
She stops at the door and looks back at me like I’m crazy, then she slowly reaches for the front door handle. “Okay,” she says softly. “I come tomorrow?”
“Take the whole week off, totalmente pagado. Fully paid,” I declare with a flourish.
She cocks an eyebrow. “Okay,” she says, slowly turning the door handle. “See you next week.”
“Have fun!”
Just before the door closes, I see a smile forming on her lips and I chuckle to myself. Man, that felt good. I take a look around the penthouse and sigh. I’ll clean up the pizza and condom wrappers later. Right now, I have to go find Kara and ask her to be my pretend-fiancée.
8
Kara
Including Cash’s $10,000 tip, I made a total of $11,320 in tips last night. I know I won’t get $10,000 tips every night. In fact, I may never get another one again, especially now that Cash has quit gambling. But I’m confident I can pull in somewhere between $500-1,000 per night on top of my meager hourly wage. Working four nights a week, and taking taxes into account, I should be able to pay off my dad’s gambling debts in… about two years. I get a lump in my throat as I realize my dad will probably be long gone by then.
“You have to eat it, Dad,” I say for the hundredth time since I brought him a bowl of vegetable soup. “You can’t eat bologna and cheese sandwiches all day every day. You need some vitamins and minerals. I bought all these organic groceries and looked up a recipe online. And you know I don’t cook. Please just try it.” I can’t believe I’m resorting to a guilt trip, but if I’m not ready to give up, then he can’t give up either. “Dad, please, just try it. For me.”
He stares at the food tray on top of the rolling cart, looking as if I just asked him to put down his favorite pet. His face is gaunt, his skin is papery-white everywhere except for the red patches on his nose and cheeks. His mouth is set in a hard line as he reaches for the spoon on the tray. I hit the button on the side of the bed to adjust the mattress, so he’s a bit more upright.
Taking a spoon of soup, he lifts it up almost to his lips, then he looks up at me. “For you,” he whispers, in that barely audible rasp.
He takes a spoonful of broth with just one tiny piece of swiss chard. He gulps it down and presses his lips together as he cringes, then he goes in for another spoonful. And another. Until he’s eaten at least a third of the bowl. I actually start crying tears of joy, until he throws it up all over the tray and the front of his T-shirt.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I say, my tears coming fast as I help him out of his shirt. “I won’t make you eat anything else. I’m sorry.”
Jacie, my dad’s caregiver, gently eases me out of the way so she can finish cleaning up. “You go to work, honey. I’ll finish up here.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, addressing my apologies to her now. “I didn’t use any acidic vegetables and I used very little salt. I just wanted—”
She shushes me gently as she takes me by the arms and herds me toward the door. “It’s okay, Kara. This stuff happens. It’s nothing you did. Now, go on to work before you’re late. Go on.”
I wipe the last tears from my face as I walk out to my car. The scorching Vegas sun dries the remaining moisture within seconds. Touching up my makeup as I drive, I arrive at the Billionaire Club eleven minutes before my start time.
I drop my car off with the employee valet, so I don’t have to try to find a parking spot. Then, I race to the locker and change into my uniform in record time. I manage to clock in on the fingerprint time clock just one minute late for my six p.m. shift.
When I get to the table to relieve Bert, he looks annoyed that I’m five minutes late even though there’s no one at his table. But that changes very quickly when a man in a dark gray sweater that clings to his muscles spots me on his way to the craps table. He changes direction and makes a beeline for me.
I try not to look nervous, but I can see by the hungry look in his eyes that he’s not coming because he suddenly got a craving to play blackjack. He has a craving for something else, something that is decidedly off limits.
“Good evening, sir,” I say when he’s just a few feet away.
He smiles at me, but he doesn’t take a seat. “Good evening to you,” he replies, his gaze scanning down the length of my torso and slowly returning back to my face. “What is a lady as gorgeous as you doing working a blackjack table in a place like this? Surely, you should be the one being serviced.”
Oh, please. Is this guy for real?
I flash him a tight smile. “This is my second day on the job, and I love it already. I have a passion for dealing. And the tips aren’t half-bad. Do you play blackjack? I can teach you.”
He lets out an amused chuckle. “I don’t need your spiel, honey. If I wanted to talk to an automaton, I’d go to Caesar’s Palace. And no I don’t need you to teach me how to play blackjack. I need you to treat me like a fucking paying customer.”
I glance over my shoulder, but I don’t see any floormen nearby. “Sir, I apologize if I’ve offended you. I meant no disrespect.”
He glares at me as he makes his way around the table toward me. “Honey, a piece of trash like you couldn’t offend me if you tried.” He towers over me and I hold his gaze as I try to ignore his bulging muscles threatening to rip through his wool sweater. “And you can’t te
ach me anything I didn’t learn in second grade, unless you want to teach me what the back of your throat feels like on my cock.”
“I think the lady would much rather teach you what her closed fist feels like on your face.”
Muscle-man and I both whip our heads toward the seats in front of my table and I’ve never been more relieved to see a former one-night-stand in my life. Cash is standing with one hand in his pocket and a cheeky grin on his gorgeous face.
“Westbrook,” muscle-man says with utter disdain.
“Osborne,” Cash replies. “I thought you were into bullying foreigners. I really didn’t take you for the woman-hating type.”
Two floormen show up and I manage not to blurt out, It’s about time!
Osborne glances at the floormen, rolls his eyes as he turns away from me, and heads toward Cash. “I don’t hate women, just trashy skanks.” He flashes me a bright smile of pearly white veneers. “Right, sweetheart?”
Cash’s left hook comes out of nowhere and stuns Osborne. His square jaw is set as his face contorts with anger, but the floormen grab him before he can retaliate. Cash takes a seat on the stool, grinning as Osborne is hauled away.
Cash shakes his head as he watches them disappear through a door labeled Security. “He also hunts endangered species,” he says, turning to me. “In case you couldn’t tell by the word douche tattooed across his forehead.”
I nod. “I’ve heard he also sprinkles genuine Sierra Leone diamond dust on his oatmeal and will only let his girlfriend fuck him in the ass with ivory elephant tusks.”
“Well, I’ve heard you’re the smartest fucking dealer in this place,” he continues. “So, excuse me if I felt the need to destroy him for being a prick to you.”