“Quit gluing your eyes to Tory,” Fin scolded without looking up from his plate. “Focus on this culinary masterpiece before I eat it all.”
Ethan said nothing—his silence as loud as any retort.
“There’s plenty of food,” I chimed in with a chuckle. “Heard they’re preparing more in the kitchen as we speak.”
That snagged Fin’s interest faster than an online sale on designer shoes. He perked up like a meerkat sensing danger—or opportunity—and declared with conviction that he was going to investigate what other delicacies awaited us.
Ethan muttered something about needing to use the restroom before slipping away into the throng of people.
Alone now, I took another sushi roll for good measure and sauntered out onto the balcony. I sank into one of the cushy chairs, savoring the cool breeze that carried a hint of desert night. The sky unfurled above me, stars peeking through the velvet darkness like shy spectators. Below, Vegas sprawled in all its neon glory—an array of light and sound that never truly slept.
I popped another piece of sushi into my mouth, the taste of the sea mingling with the crispness of the night air. Bliss. With a contented sigh, I leaned back, letting the ambiance wrap around me like a comforting blanket.
I was mid-chew when I sensed a presence—a hulking figure that blocked some of the ambient light. A man, tall and muscular, leaned his broad frame against the wall nearby, eyes fixed on me. He had that same aura Matt carried—like he could command a room with a mere glance.
“Hello,” I ventured, knowing full well he had to be one of those millionaires or billionaires. After all, this wasn’t exactly a charity event for paupers.
He flashed a smile that could have melted glaciers. “Nice choker you’ve got there.”
I touched the gold choker around my neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Thanks,” I said, my voice betraying a hint of uncertainty.
“Your man has good taste,” he remarked, his eyes twinkling with interest.
“He really does,” I admitted, feeling my cheeks warm up.
He moved closer, his presence enveloping me in an invisible embrace. His cologne wafted over me—spicy and intoxicating—and his proximity radiated warmth like a sunlamp.
“Ever considered switching sugar daddies?” His smile was sensual, dripping with confidence.
I glared at him, channeling every ounce of sass I had in me. “Maybe if you can offer something better and handle all this.” I gestured to myself dramatically. “But honestly? Doubt you have anything onmyman—especially in the bedroom.”
He burst out laughing, a deep, rich sound that resonated through the night air. “Touché,” he said, still chuckling.
The man leaned in close, so close I could count the flecks of green in his eyes. His proximity invaded my personal bubble with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. My glare sharpened, ready to skewer him on the spot.
“Mind the space, buddy. I need room to breathe,” I snapped, my voice dripping with enough frost to cool the desert heat.
He just chuckled, the sound dark and smooth like aged whiskey. “So adorable,” he murmured, almost to himself. “No wonder Matt’s smitten. You must have him wrapped around your little finger like a puppet.”
I bristled at that. “First off, nobody’s pulling strings here,” I retorted. “And second, do you even know Matt?”
His smile widened, an amused glint in his eye. “Everyone knows the King of Sin City.”
Before I could toss another barbed comment his way, a throat cleared—a sound that cut through our conversation. Matt’s voice rolled over us, calm yet edged with a note of possession that sent shivers down my spine.
“Mark, stop toying with Andy.”
I turned to see Matt striding toward us, and I heard him mutter under his breath, “And here I thought it’d be Tory I had to worry about, not you, Mark Sinclair.”
My eyebrow arched involuntarily as I took in the figure before me. Mark Sinclair. The name was synonymous with a certain mystique in Vegas, his reputation whispered like a prayer by those who wished they could rub elbows with him.And here he was, gracing the balcony with his presence, a rare sighting akin to witnessing a comet streak across the sky.
Mark Sinclair was striking in a way that seemed almost unfair to mortal men. His jawline was sharp enough to sculpt marble, his skin tanned to perfection, kissed by the sun itself. His hair, dark and thick, styled with effortless precision, framed a face that could’ve been chiseled by the hands of a passionate artist obsessed with symmetry. His eyes, emerald pools of charisma, held a spark that could ignite fires or thaw hearts. And when he smiled, it was less a grin and more a silent challenge—an invitation to either step up or step aside.
“Matt,” Mark said with a nod that was more king to king than friend to friend. “You’ve got one sassy little pet. Must be fun at home.”
The words carried a double meaning that had heat creeping up my neck.
Matt’s response was tinged with amusement. “Oh, it’s a riot, but you’ll have to find your own. Andy’s off-limits.”
