"When can we be alone?" I whimper. "I need you, Jakob."
"What do you need, Brys?"
“You?"
“You have me right now."
"Your cock."
"What about it?"
I grind harder, faster. I feel him tense. "I need it."
"You need my cock?"
"Yes, Jakob. I need your cock." I twist on his lap and breathe my words directly into his ear. "I need it inside me."
"Where inside you?"
"Everywhere," I answer, squirming. I've forgotten that anyone else exists. "In my mouth. In my pussy. In my ass. I just need you."
"Ladies and gentlemen, we're making our approach into Las Vegas," a male voice says from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Please reorient your seats and buckle up for landing."
"Guess you'll just have to wait a bit longer then, won't you?" Jakob answers, lifting me onto the seat beside him and buckling me in. "But not for long."
25
THE NEXT ADVENTURE; JAKE
JAKOB
I have never cursed traffic as viciously as I am right now. Mostly in my head, but an occasional snarled curse of frustration shoots past my teeth.
Beside me, Brys is sitting prim and proper, one knee folded just so over the other, back straight. Her cheeks are pink, though.
Almost is as pink as her ass is about to be.
It took every ounce of restraint I possessed not to rip her clothes off and take her right then and there on the jet in front of everyone.
She has no idea who she's dealing with, presenting her bare ass to me like that. She'll find out, though.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from yelling at the bus driver—it's not his fault. Our group is big enough now that we need a full-size party van—or, as Saxon calls it, the Fun Time Party Barge. The others are having fun—booze flows, cannabis smoke swirls, bags of gummies are passed around. There are card games. Saxon, Terra, Annika, and Chance are playing something like Charades, except no one can guess what anyone is doing, there is too much hysterical laughter.
Only Nicolae, Brys, and I are tense and serious.
Even my raging arousal is dampened upon our arrival at Club Sin—I haven't been back since I left weeks ago.
Now we're back—I'm back, and I don't know how to feel.
I'm not the man I was when I left this place.
Beside me, Brys leans across me to peer out the window at the club. It's a huge black cube; the upper few stories are black glass. Club Sin is written across the top around all four sides in fifty-foot-tall letters designed to look like dripping blood.
The bus pulls alongside the private entrance around the side, parks in a hiss of brakes, and then the bi-fold doors rotate open. We all troop off, stretching and yawning—none of us has slept much in days.
Sol pays the driver with a stack of cash, and the bus trundles away in a smelly cloud of diesel exhaust, and we're standing in the parking lot in the baking Vegas sun.
I gesture at the door. "Well? Are we going in?"
