I want to fuck her hard and rough. I want to fuck her until she doesn’t remember who she is or where she is. I want to fuck her until she can only remember me.
Until I’m certain that no matter what, it’s a memory she can never forget, amnesia be damned.
I groan as a hot burst of cum shoots from my cock, hitting my bare stomach and leaving a trail of hot stickiness down the hairs of my abdomen.
I pull my shorts up, forcing myself to calm the hell down.
???
This morning I traveled back to Vegas. I’m back for the annual heavyweight championship fight weekend—the biggest event on the city’s calendar, and I find it prudent to be on site.
Case in point, last year, the ripples of testosterone-fueled chaos necessitated the intervention of a smallarmy of law enforcement. Give guys an excuse to cut loose in Sin City for a few days and suddenly it’s the Wild West.
Leaving New York, where Lucy is, wasn’t easy. But I have to admit, it feels good to be back on my home turf, immersed in the electric energy that only Vegas has. As much as I tell myself I need to get away, some part of me will always love this place.
I walk into the heart of the casino, my casino, the neon lights glittering like the constellations themselves. The joint’s buzzing, heartbeat matching the city’s pulse, filled with laughter, clinking glasses, the sweet hum of excitement, and the roar of a hundred conversations jostling for airtime.
The casino floor greets me with its symphony of sounds—the constant chiming of slots paying out, cheers and groans from the roulette tables, the slap of cards at blackjack tables, and the clatter of chips being stacked and sorted.
This place is all about money and oxygen—the two things I and the Quinns believe will make people happy.
Literally, there are bills sitting around everywhere like napkins and there’s oxygen pumping from the vents, making everyone feel more alive than they should be.
My manager snakes his way through the throng toward me.
“Evening, JP,” he greets me, extending a sheaf of papers. “We’re sitting at $1.5 million in gaming revenue already.”
“Not bad,” I remark, lips curling in satisfaction. It’s only 9 p.m., plenty of night left to keep those figures climbing.
“How’s the foot traffic?” I ask.
“Over 5,000 through the doors so far,” he replies. The place is packed, just how I like to see it.
“Any big winners I should know about?” I inquire, adjusting my cufflinks and glancing around at the sea of hopeful faces.
“Just one. Local guy, hit a $75,000 jackpot on the slots. We have it under control.”
“Good job.”
Cutting through the casino floor, heads turn, nods and winks thrown in my direction. The familiar hum of “Evening, JP,” and the respectful “Good to see you, sir,” form a chorus that tails me. It strokes my ego, and yeah, I won’t deny, it feels good.
Every time I walk through here, I think of the first time I ever stepped foot in a place like this.
Twenty-one years old, green as grass at a bachelor party with barely enough change for a round of drinks. I remember placing my first bet, the way my heart hammered in my chest, the heady rush of adrenaline.
I spotted him then, a whale of a player, puffing on a cigar as if he owned the joint, a model draped on each arm, stacks of chips so high they blotted out his face. I craved that—that feeling of invincibility, of ruling the world.
It’s what still draws me in, why I need to be in the thick of it. You can’t put a price on that rush.
I used to think I owned Vegas. I thought I was the fucking king of Vegas.
Nights spent living it up, under the illusion I was simply “taking care of business.”
Every pulsing, iridescent light in the city was under my control.
The casinos with their showgirls beckoning fools to come and spill their hard-earned dough on a dream; they were mine. I ran them, I dictated their odds, I reveled in their fucking riches.
The suckers at the tables? They were lining my pockets too. High-stakes players, starry-eyed tourists, doe-eyed play bunnies spending their sugar daddies’ cash, they all danced to my tune.
