Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 706(@200wpm)___ 565(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Brushing that raid on St. John off as a joke was hard enough.
Then again, when you’ve relived a marathon through the devil’s lair too many times to count, making a mockery of it is all you’ve got left.
The mind clings to humor because there are times when truth is fucking death.
“Oh, wow, is that it?” Delia grabs my arm as I drive, staring up in awe at the huge white Tuscan-like hotel towering over the Vegas skyline.
“The one and only,” I tell her.
I can’t help grinning like a fool.
She keeps her hand absentmindedly on my arm as I drive up the long, winding drive to the valet spaces near the entrance with its old-world columns.
I turn the keys over and then load our luggage on a cart and head inside.
Apparently, for growing up rich, the girl has never been inside a swanky casino-hotel.
I have to pull her out of the way several times to prevent her from slamming into people as we head for the check-in line.
Naturally, we’ve got a prime room, courtesy of the black Amex card from her daddy.
When the lady at the front desk smiles and says something about a free upgrade to one of the top suites—if we’ll let that second room go—I don’t even hesitate.
Yes, I tell her, handling all the arrangements except for the card.
“Look at this place!” Delia gushes, doing a slow spin when I return with our room keys. “Please tell me we’ve got an awesome view?”
“Twenty-fourth floor.” I smile and nod, waiting until we’re halfway up the elevator to drop the bomb on her. “You can thank your old man and his killer credit for the digs. Oh, there was one change of plans. That shit about separate rooms? Turns out, we’ll be sharing the same suite.”
Her heart-shaped lips fall open and the color drains from her face.
Goddamn. Does having me for company really suck that much?
“Relax. It’s a huge room, basically its own condo. Separate beds,” I say, hoping to God that’s the case.
The elevator opens and I motion, waving her down the hall.
She trails behind me and hesitates after I unlock the door. I place my hand on the small of her back, ushering her inside, and—
Oh, shit.
I actually groan.
One good look around this place tells me it’s built for every kind of debauched sex ever invented.
It’s all soaring windows and sleek edges, polished curves, a painting of a half-nude Roman woman stuffing grapes into a man’s mouth. They’re making eyes at each other and enjoying their fruit snack way more than anyone has any right to.
There are only a dozen mirrors everywhere—the better to see how I could shake her from every bleeding angle. And that’s just the main room and kitchenette.
Goddammit.
Delia coughs behind me. She’s standing straight as a board after ducking in and out of the spacious, hand-tiled spa bathroom for a quick peek.
I don’t dare turn around.
For a terrible second, I see myself sinking into her virgin pussy, a growl boiling up my throat as she grips my shoulders, wearing nothing but a sheen of sweat.
Fuck.
Keep moving, you jagoff, I tell myself. Don’t let yourself stop and think or bad, bad things will happen.
And so I do, turning my back to her and sliding open the massive black door to the bedroom.
I’m already stone before I hear her gasp.
In another life, this room would be a kiss from God with its fine gold-and-black touches.
Colorful art everywhere, more lusty Romans and pastoral landscapes that rival a photograph.
All paired with modern blues and greys pulled from a dream.
There’s even a small heated pool just outside on the balcony.
Barely one wall away from a California king bed that looks like someone trapped a cloud in this room.
Yes, bed.
Yes, singular.
Let the unhinged laughing commence.
And the worst part is, I’m already sporting a raging hard-on, despite being mortified when I look back at Delia.
She’s pinching the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting to breathe after a blow to the face, her cheeks so red they could join the fire department.
I say nothing, just turn around and march past the bed that must be a gift from Lucifer, shoving aside the mammoth wall of glass that opens to the balcony.
It’s not a gorgeous view. More like gazing into the soul of Lady Vegas with her sun and shadows and energetic, throbbing crowds that push through this city like a pulse.
If my head weren’t damn near popping right off and flying into orbit, I might enjoy it more.
I don’t turn around until I hear a door shut faintly behind me.
It’s empty in the bedroom again.
Looks like she’s escaped into the bathroom.
Who the fuck could blame her?
It’ll be night before you know it. Outside, everything will light up like a maze of palaces and fairy-tale wonders—everything I’ve seen in Baghdad and Damascus—except here there’s no tracer fire cutting through the air or far-off bursts of incendiary explosives to worry about.